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.