paid. I have jilted several women whom I have promised to marry. I
don't know whether I believe what I preach, and I know I have stolen the
very sermon over which I have been snivelling. Have they found me out?"
says he, as his head drops down on the cushion.

Then your writer, poet, historian, novelist, or what not? The Beacon
says that "Jones's work is one of the first order." The Lamp declares
that "Jones's tragedy surpasses every work since the days of Him of
Avon." The Comet asserts that "J's 'Life of Goody Twoshoes' is a
[Greek text omitted], a noble and enduring monument to the fame of that
admirable Englishwoman," and so forth. But then Jones knows that he
has lent the critic of the Beacon five pounds; that his publisher has a
half-share in the Lamp; and that the Comet comes repeatedly to dine with
him. It is all very well. Jones is immortal until he is found out; and
then down comes the extinguisher, and the immortal is dead and buried.
The idea (dies irae!) of discovery must haunt many a man, and make him
uneasy, as the trumpets are puffing in his triumph. Brown, who has a
higher place than he deserves, cowers before Smith, who has found him
out. What is a chorus of critics shouting "Bravo?"--a public clapping
hands and flinging garlands? Brown knows that Smith has found him out.
Puff, trumpets! Wave, banners! Huzza, boys, for the immortal Brown!
"This is all very well," B. thinks (bowing the while, smiling, laying
his hand to his heart); "but there stands Smith at the window: HE has
measured me; and some day the others will find me out too." It is a very
curious sensation to sit by a man who has found you out, and who, as you
know, has found you out; or, vice versa, to sit with a man whom YOU have
found out. His talent? Bah! His virtue? We know a little story or two
about his virtue, and he knows we know it. We are thinking over friend
Robinson's antecedents, as we grin, bow and talk; and we are both
humbugs together. Robinson a good fellow, is he? You know how he behaved
to Hicks? A good-natured man, is he? Pray do you remember that little
story of Mrs. Robinson's black eye? How men have to work, to talk, to
smile, to go to bed, and try and sleep, with this dread of being found
out on their consciences! Bardolph, who has robbed a church, and Nym,
who has taken a purse, go to their usual haunts, and smoke their pipes
with their companions. Mr. Detective Bullseye appeal's, and says, "Oh,
Bardolph! I want you ab