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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

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

I should bring a link-boy to table with me; and I
would too, if the little brutes were only washed! I intend to
found a Philanthropical Society for Washing the Deserving Poor and
Shaving Soldiers. I am pleased to observe that, although not of an
unmilitary bearing, you are apparently shaved. In my calendar of
the virtues shaving comes next to drinking. A gentleman may be a
low-minded ruffian without sixpence, but he will always be close
shaved. See me, with the eye of fancy, in the chill hours of the
morning, say about a quarter to twelve, noon--see me awake! First
thing of all, without one thought of the plausible but
unsatisfactory small beer, or the healthful though insipid soda-
water, I take the deadly razor in my vacillating grasp; I proceed
to skate upon the margin of eternity. Stimulating thought! I
bleed, perhaps, but with medicable wounds. The stubble reaped, I
pass out of my chamber, calm but triumphant. To employ a hackneyed
phrase, I would not call Lord Wellington my uncle! I, too, have
dared, perhaps bled, before the imminent deadly shaving-table.'
In this manner the bombastic fellow continued to entertain me all
through dinner, and by a common error of drunkards, because he had
been extremely talkative himself, leaped to the conclusion that he
had chanced on very genial company.


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