The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 233: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The clerical looking old gentleman sat down to read the Courant, while Todd commenced the operation of shaving his first customer. When that operation was half completed, he said— “They report, sir, that St. Dunstan’s is giving way.” “Giving way,” said the clerical looking gentleman. “How do you mean about giving way?” “Why, sir,” said Todd, with an air quite of reverential respect, “they say that the old church has a leaning towards Temple Bar, and that, if you stand at the opposite side of the way, you may just see it. I can’t, but they do say so.” “Bless me,” said the clerical looking gentleman. “That is a very sad things indeed, and nobody can be more sorry than I am to hear such a tale of the old church.” “Well sir, it may not be true.” “T hope not, indeed. Nothing would give me greater pain than to be assured it was true. The stench in the body of the church that so much has been said about in the parish is nothing to what you say, for who ought to put his nose into competition with his eternal welfare.” “Who, indeed, sir! What is your opinion of that alarming stench in old St. Dunstan’s?” “T am quite at a loss to make it out.” “And so am I, sir—so am I. But begging your pardon, sir, if I am not making too free, I thought as you were probably a clergyman, sir, you might have heard something more about it than we common folks.” “No—no. Not a word. But what you say of the church having a leaning to Temple Bar is grievous.” “Well, sir, if you were to go and look, you might find out that it was no such thing, and by the time you return I shall have completely finished off this gentleman.” “No—no. I make no sort of doubt in the world but that you would by that time have finished off the gentleman, but as for my going to look at the old church with any idea that it had a leaning to anything but itself, I can only say that my feelings as a man and a member of the glorious establishment, will not permit me.” “But, my dear sir, you might satisfy yourself that such was really not the case.” “No—no. Imagination would make me think that the church had a leaning in all sorts of directions, until at last fancy might cheat me into a belief that it actually tottered.” The clerical-looking gentleman pronounced these words with so much feeling, that the person who was being shaved nearly got cut by twisting his head round in order to see him. “True, sir,” said Todd. “Very true—very true indeed, and very just; imagination does indeed play strange freaks with us at times, I well know.” The horrible face that Todd made as he spoke ought to have opened the eyes of any one to the fact that he was saying anything but what he thought, but no one saw it. When he pleased, Todd generally took care to keep his faces to himself. “T don’t wonder, Rev. sir,” he said, “that your feelings prompt you to say what you do. I’m afraid I have taken off a little too much whisker, sir.” “Oh, never mind. It will grow again.” said the person who was being shaved. Todd suddenly struck his own head with the flat of his hand, as a man will do to whose mind some sudden thought has made itself apparent, and in a voice of doubt and some alarm, he pronounced the one word— “Powder!” “What’s the matter? You are a long time shaving me.” “Powder!” said Todd again. “Gunpowder!” said the three-quarter shaved man, while the clerical-looking personage entirely hid his face with the Courant. “No,” said Todd. “Hair powder. I told this gentleman, whose feelings regarding the church do him so much honour, that I had hair powder in the house, and it has just come over me like a wet blanket that I have not a particle.” The clerical-looking gentleman quickly laid down the Courant, and said wildly— “Are you sure you have none?” “Quite sure, sir.” “Then I won’t occupy your shop and read your Courant for nothing, and as I am here I will have a shave.” “That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Todd. “Very kind.” “Not at all,” said the gentleman, taking up the paper again with all the coolness in the world. “Not at all. Don’t mention it, I always like to carry out the moral maxim of—Do unto others as you would that others should do unto you.” “How charming!” exclaimed Todd, lifting up his hands, in one of which was the razor. “How charming it is in this indifferent and selfish age to meet with any one who is so charitable as to do more than merely speak of such a sentiment as a curiosity in morals.” “You are above your condition as regards education,” said the clerical looking gentleman. “Why, to tell the truth, sir—” “Psha!” said he who was being or rather not being shaved—“psha! And all this while the very soap is drying upon my face.” “A thousand pardons,” said Todd. “Many apologies,” said the clerical gentleman, hastily resuming the perusal of the Courant. CORniclooo S CO)