“Or a learned prelate either,” said I.

When you have gained the top of Mount Taurira, you run presently down to Lyons.  Adieu then to all rapid movements!  It is a journey of caution, and it fares better with sentiments not to be in a hurry with them, so I contracted with a volturin to take his time with a couple of mules and convey me in my own chaise safe to Turin through Savoy.

Poor, patient, quiet, honest people, fear not!  Your poverty, the treasury of your simple virtues, will not be envied you by the world, nor will your values be invaded by it.  Nature, in the midst of thy disorders, thou art still friendly to the scantiness thou hast created; with all thy great works about thee little hast thou left to give, either to the scythe or to the sickle, but to that little thou grantest safety and protection, and sweet are the dwellings which stand so sheltered!

William Makepeace Thackeray

On Being Found Out

At the close (let us say) of Queen Anne’s reign, when I was a boy at a private and preparatory school for young gentlemen, I remember the wiseacre of a master ordering us all, one night, to march into a little garden at the back of the house, and thence to proceed one by one into a tool or hen house (I was but a tender little thing just put into short clothes, and can’t exactly say whether the house was for tools or hens), and in that house to put our hands into a sack which stood on a bench, a candle burning beside it.  I put my hand into the sack.  My hand came out quite black.  I went and joined the other boys in the schoolroom; and all their hands were black too.

By reason of my tender age (and there are some critics who, I hope, will be satisfied by my acknowledging that I am a hundred and fifty-six next birthday) I could not understand what was the meaning of this night excursion—­this candle, this tool house, this bag of soot.  I think we little boys were taken out of our sleep to be brought to the ordeal.  We came, then, and showed our little hands to the master; washed them or not—­most probably, I should say, not—­and so went bewildered back to bed.

Something had been stolen in the school that day; and Mr. Wiseacre having read in a book of an ingenious method of finding out a thief by making him put his hand into a sack (which, if guilty, the rogue would shirk from doing), all we boys were subjected to the trial.  Goodness knows what the lost object was, or who stole it.  We all had black hands to show the master.  And the thief, whoever he was, was not Found Out that time.

I wonder if the rascal is alive—­an elderly scoundrel he must be by this time; and a hoary old hypocrite, to whom an old schoolfellow presents his kindest regards—­parenthetically remarking what a dreadful place that private school was; cold, chilblains, bad dinners, not enough victuals, and caning awful!—­Are you alive still, I say, you nameless villain, who escaped discovery on that day of crime?  I hope you have escaped often since, old sinner.  Ah, what a lucky thing it is, for you and me, my man, that we are not found out in all our peccadilloes; and that our backs can slip away from the master and the cane!