One evening--I quite forget how it came about--we found ourselves
talking about fencing. Some one's casual remark, as erratic as the blue
wreaths of smoke that floated vaguely towards the ceiling, was taken up
by some one else, and led to other remarks, which gradually became more
definite and finally solidified into a conversation.
One can always talk, and one enjoys talking about a subject in which
one is interested. That is one of the general truths. And as I have
always been devoted to the practice of arms, I found myself talking at
some length and expounding some views of my own, which I have tested
by practical experience and observation till they have established
themselves in my mind as axioms.
I was listened to with attention, though there were few fencers
present. And after all the art of fence does furnish a most interesting
fund of conversation--the art of skilful fighting at close quarters,
which implies a knowledge of theory combined with a trained power of
execution, which taxes eye and hand, vigour and judgment, and brings
into play every faculty of mind and body, each doing its part, and
each in turn supplementing and reinforcing the other.