Only the other day I was writing in these Roundabout Papers about a certain man, whom I facetiously called Baggs, and who had abused me to my friends, who of course told me.Shortly after that paper was published another friend--Sacks let us call him--scowls fiercely at me as I am sitting in perfect good humor at the club, and passes on without speaking.A cut.A quarrel.Sacks thinks it is about him that I was writing: whereas, upon my honor and conscience, I never had him once in my mind, and was pointing my moral from quite another man.But don't you see, by this wrath of the guilty-conscienced Sacks, that he had been abusing me too? He has owned himself guilty, never having been accused.He has winced when nobody thought of hitting him.I did but put the cap out, and madly butting and chafing, behold my friend rushes out to put his head into it! Never mind, Sacks, you are found out; but I bear you no malice, my man.
And yet to be found out, I know from my own experience, must be painful and odious, and cruelly mortifying to the inward vanity.
Suppose I am a poltroon, let us say.With fierce mustache, loud talk, plentiful oaths, and an immense stick, I keep up nevertheless a character for courage.I swear fearfully at cabmen and women;brandish my bludgeon, and perhaps knock down a little man or two with it: brag of the images which I break at the shooting gallery, and pass among my friends for a whiskery fire-eater, afraid of neither man nor dragon.Ah me! Suppose some brisk little chap steps up and gives me a caning in St.James's Street, with all the heads of my friends looking out of all the club windows.My reputation is gone.I frighten no man more.My nose is pulled by whipper-snappers, who jump up on a chair to reach it.I am found out.And in the days of my triumphs, when people were yet afraid of me, and were taken in by my swagger, I always knew that I was a lily liver, and expected that I should be found out some day.
That certainty of being found out must haunt and depress many a bold braggadocio spirit.Let us say it is a clergyman, who can pump copious floods of tears out of his own eyes and those of his audience.He thinks to himself, "I am but a poor swindling, chattering rogue.My bills are unpaid.I have jilted several women whom I have promised to marry.I don't know whether Ibelieve what I preach, and I know I have stolen the very sermon over which I have been sniveling.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 Cornet 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 the 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 appears, and says, "Oh, Bardolph! I want you about that there pyx business!" Mr.Bardolph knocks the ashes out of his pipe, puts out his hands to the little steel cuffs, and walks away quite meekly.He is found out.He must go."Good-by, 'Doll Tearsheet! Good-by, Mrs.Quickly, ma'am!" The other gentlemen and ladies de la societe look on and exchange mute adieux with the departing friends.And an assured time will come when the other gentlemen and ladies will be found out too.
What a wonderful and beautiful provision of nature it has been that, for the most part, our womankind are not endowed with the faculty of finding us out! THEY don't doubt, and probe, and weigh, and take your measure.Lay down this paper, my benevolent friend and reader, go into your drawing-room now, and utter a joke ever so old, and I wager sixpence the ladies there will all begin to laugh.
Go to Brown's house, and tell Mrs.Brown and the young ladies what you think of him, and see what a welcome you will get! In like manner, let him come to your house, and tell YOUR good lady his candid opinion of you, and fancy how she will receive him! Would you have your wife and children know you exactly for what you are, and esteem you precisely at your worth? If so, my friend, you will live in a dreary house, and you will have but a chilly fireside.
Do you suppose the people round it don't see your homely face as under a glamour, and, as it were, with a halo of love round it?
