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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"


He was about sixteen, well set up, with a pleasant, merry, freckled
face, and a pair of dancing eyes. There was an air at once
deprecatory and insinuating about the rascal that I thought I
recognised. There came to me from my own boyhood memories of
certain passionate admirations long passed away, and the objects of
them long ago discredited or dead. I remembered how anxious I had
been to serve those fleeting heroes, how readily I told myself I
would have died for THEM, how much greater and handsomer than life
they had appeared. And looking in the mirror, it seemed to me that
I read the face of Rowley, like an echo or a ghost, by the light of
my own youth. I have always contended (somewhat against the
opinion of my friends) that I am first of all an economist; and the
last thing that I would care to throw away is that very valuable
piece of property--a boy's hero-worship.
'Why,' said I, 'you shave like an angel, Mr. Rowley!'
'Thank you, my lord,' says he. 'Mr. Powl had no fear of me. You
may be sure, sir, I should never 'ave had this berth if I 'adn't
'ave been up to Dick. We been expecting of you this month back.
My eye! I never see such preparations. Every day the fires has
been kep' up, the bed made, and all! As soon as it was known you
were coming, sir, I got the appointment; and I've been up and down
since then like a Jack-in-the-box.


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