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.