Gentlemen, there is an old story - none the worse for being true -

regarding a fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he could

play the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn't

exactly say, for certain, because he had never tried. This is not

inapplicable to my uncle and his fencing. He had never had a sword in

his hand before, except once when he played Richard the Third at a

private theatre, upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond

that he was to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at

all. But here he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced

swordsman, thrusting, and guarding, and poking, and slicing, and

acquitting himself in the most manful and dexterous manner possible,

although up to that time he had never been aware that he had the

least notion of the science. It only shows how true the old saying is,

that a man never knows what he can do till he tries, gentlemen.

The noise of the combat was terrific; each of the three combatants

swearing like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise

as if all the knives and steels in Newport market were rattling

together, at the same time. When it was at its very height, the lady (to

encourage my uncle most probably) withdrew her hood entirely from

her face, and disclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty, that

he would have fought against fifty men, to win one smile from it and

die. He had done wonders before, but now he began to powder away

like a raving mad giant.

At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and

seeing the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation

of rage and jealousy, and, turning his weapon against her beautiful

bosom, pointed a thrust at her heart, which caused my uncle to utter

a cry of apprehension that made the building ring. The lady stepped

lightly aside, and snatching the young man's sword from his hand,

before he had recovered his balance, drove him to the wall, and

running it through him, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned

him there, hard and fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a

loud shout of triumph, and a strength that was irresistible, made his

adversary retreat in the same direction, and plunging the old rapier

into the very centre of a large red flower in the pattern of his

waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend; there they both stood,

gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs about in agony, like the toy-

shop figures that are moved by a piece of pack-thread. My uncle

always said, afterwards, that this was one of the surest means he

knew of, for disposing of an enemy; but it was liable to one objection

on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss of a sword

for every man disabled.

‘The mail, the mail!’ cried the lady, running up to my uncle and

throwing her beautiful arms round his neck; ‘we may yet escape.’

The Pickwick Papers