Laudator Temporis Acti

Anthony Hope, The Prisoner of Zenda, Chapter I:

I had picked up a good deal of pleasure and a good deal of knowledge. I had been to a German school and a German university, and spoke German as readily and perfectly as English; I was thoroughly at home in French; I had a smattering of Italian and enough Spanish to swear by. I was, I believe, a strong, though hardly fine swordsman and a good shot. I could ride anything that had a back to sit on; and my head was as cool a one as you could find, for all its flaming cover.

The Memoirs of Alexandre Dumas (Père), Vol. II, tr. A.F. Davidson (London: W.H. Allen Co. Limited, 1891), pp. 26-27:

"I must first know what you can do."

"Oh, nothing very great."

"Come, come! you know something of Mathematics?"

"No, General."

"You have, at any rate, some ideas of Algebra—Geometry—Physics?"

He paused between each word, and at each word I felt a fresh blush rising to my face, and the perspiration trickling faster and faster from my forehead. It was the first time that I had been brought thus face to face with my own ignorance.

"No, General," I stammered out, "I know nothing of any of those."

"Do you know Latin or Greek?"

"Latin—a little; Greek—not at all."

"Can you speak any living language?"

"Italian."

"Do you understand the keeping of accounts?"

"Not in the least."

I was on the rack, and he himself was visibly suffering for me.

"Oh, General!" I cried, in tones which seemed to make a strong impression on him, "my education is utterly deficient, and—shame on me for it—it is to-day and from this moment that I see it for the first time. Ah, but I will make it up, I give you my word, I will and some day—some day—I will answer 'Yes' to all the questions which I have now answered with 'No.'"

"But meanwhile, my friend, have you anything to live on?"

"Nothing—nothing! General," I replied, overwhelmed by the consciousness of my helplessness.

The General looked at me with profound commiseration.

"And yet," he said, "I do not like to abandon you."

"No, General; for you would not be abandoning me only! I am a dunce and an idler, it is true; but my mother who counts on me—my mother whom I promised to get myself a post—my mother should not be punished for my ignorance and idleness."

"Give me your address," he said; "I will think over what can be done for you. There, write it at this desk."

He handed me the pen he had just been using. I took the pen, looked at it—the ink was not yet dry upon it—and then, shaking my head, I gave it back to him.

"No," I said, "I will not write with your pen; it would be a profanation."

"What a child you are!" he said, with a smile; "stay, here is an unused one."

I began to write, the General looking on at me. Barely had I written my name when he clapped his hands together, and exclaimed:

"We are saved!"

"Saved! Why? how?"

"You write a capital hand."

I dropped my head. I could no longer bear the load of my shame. "A capital handwriting"—that was all I possessed! This hall-mark of incapacity—how exactly it suited me! "A capital handwriting!" So one day I might succeed in becoming a copying-clerk; this was my future! Gladly would I have cut off my right arm.