Chapter 32 - Page 2

at the very moment he leaped into the Battle
of Life; as we mortals ourselves spring all naked and scabbardless
into the world. Yet, rather, are we scabbards to our souls. And the
drawn soul of genius is more glittering than the drawn cimeter of
Saladin. But how many let their steel sleep, till it eat up the
scabbard itself, and both corrode to rust-chips. Saw you ever the
hillocks of old Spanish anchors, and anchor-stocks of ancient
galleons, at the bottom of Callao Bay? The world is full of old Tower
armories, and dilapidated Venetian arsenals, and rusty old rapiers.
But true warriors polish their good blades by the bright beams of the
morning; and gird them on to their brave sirloins; and watch for rust
spots as for foes; and by many stout thrusts and stoccadoes
keep their metal lustrous and keen, as the spears of the
Northern Lights charging over Greenland.

Fire from the flint is our Chevalier enraged. He takes umbrage at the
cut of some ship's keel crossing his road; and straightway runs a
tilt at it; with one mad lounge thrusting his Andrea Ferrara clean
through and through; not seldom breaking it short off at the haft,
like a bravo leaving his poignard in the vitals of his foe.

In the case of the English ship Foxhound, the blade penetrated
through the most solid part of her hull, the bow; going completely
through the copper plates and timbers, and showing for several inches
in the hold. On the return of the ship to London, it was carefully
sawn out; and, imbedded in the original wood, like a fossil, is still
preserved. But this was a comparatively harmless onslaught of the
valiant Chevalier. With the Rousseau, of Nantucket, it fared worse.
She was almost mortally stabbed; her assailant withdrawing his blade.
And it was only by keeping the pumps clanging, that she managed to
swim into a Tahitian harbor, "heave down," and have her wound dressed
by a ship-surgeon with tar and oakum. This ship I met with at sea,
shortly after the disaster.

At what armory our Chevalier equips himself after one of his spiteful
tilting-matches, it would not be easy to say. But very hard for him,
if ever after he goes about in the lists, swordless and disarmed, at
the mercy of any caitiff shark he may meet.

Now, seeing that our fellow-voyagers, the little fish along-side,
were sorely tormented and thinned out by the incursions of a
pertinacious Chevalier, bent upon making a hearty breakfast out of
them, I determined to interfere in their behalf, and capture the
enemy.

With shark-hook and line I succeeded, and brought my brave gentleman
to the deck. He made an emphatic landing; lashing the planks with his
sinewy tail; while a yard and a half in advance of his eyes, reached