nsamples to the world.

Now, the fish here treated of is a very different creature from the
Sword fish frequenting the Northern Atlantic; being much larger every
way, and a more dashing varlet to boot. Furthermore, he is
denominated the Indian Sword fish, in contradistinction from his
namesake above mentioned. But by seamen in the Pacific, he is more
commonly known as the Bill fish; while for those who love science and
hard names, be it known, that among the erudite naturalists he goeth
by the outlandish appellation of "_Xiphius Platypterus_."

But I waive for my hero all these his cognomens, and substitute a
much better one of my own: namely, the Chevalier. And a Chevalier he
is, by good right and title. A true gentleman of Black Prince
Edward's bright day, when all gentlemen were known by their swords;
whereas, in times present, the Sword fish excepted, they are mostly
known by their high polished boots and rattans.

A right valiant and jaunty Chevalier is our hero; going about with
his long Toledo perpetually drawn. Rely upon it, he will fight you to
the hilt, for his bony blade has never a scabbard. He himself sprang
from it at birth; yea, 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 par