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The history of the Sword is the history of humanity. The ‘White Arm’ means something more than the ‘oldest, the most universal, the most varied of weapons, the only one which has lived through all time.’

He, she, or it—for the gender of the Sword varies—has been worshipped with priestly sacrifices as a present god. Hebrew revelation represents the sharp and two-edged Sword going out of the mouth of the King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. We read of a ‘Sword of God, a holy Sword,’ the ‘Sword of the Lord and of Gideon’; and ‘I came not to send peace but a Sword,’ meaning the warfare and martyrdom of man.

On a lower plane the Sword became the invention and the favourite arm of the gods and the demi-gods: a gift of magic, one of the treasures sent down from Heaven, which made Mulciber (‘Malik Kabír,’ the great king) divine, and Voelunder, Quida, Galant, or Wayland Smith a hero. It was consecrated to the deities, and was stored in the Temple and in the Church. It was the ‘key of heaven and hell’: the saying is, ‘If there were no Sword, there would be no law of Mohammed’; and the Moslem brave’s highest title was ‘Sayf Ullah’—Sword of Allah.

Uniformly and persistently personal, the Sword became no longer an abstraction but a Personage, endowed with human as well as superhuman qualities. He was a sentient being who spoke, and sang, and joyed, and grieved. Identified with his wearer he was an object of affection, and was pompously named as a well-beloved son and heir. To surrender the Sword was submission; to break the Sword was degradation. To kiss the Sword was, and in places still is, the highest form of oath and homage.

Lay on our royal Sword your banished hands

says King Richard II. So Walther of Aquitaine:—

Contra Orientalem prostratus corpore partem

Ac nudum retinens ensem hac cum voce precatur.

The Sword killed and cured; the hero when hopeless fell upon his Sword; and the heroine, like Lucretia and Calphurnia, used the blade standing. The Sword cut the Gordian knot of every difficulty. The Sword was the symbol of justice and of martyrdom, and accompanied the wearer to the tomb as well as to the feast and the fight. ‘Lay on my coffin a Sword,’ said dying Heinrich Heine, ‘for I have warred doughtily to win freedom for mankind.’

From days immemorial the Queen of Weapons, a creator as well as a destroyer, ‘carved out history, formed the nations, and shaped the world.’ She decided the Alexandrine and the Cæsarian victories which opened new prospects to human ken. She diffused everywhere the bright lights and splendid benefits of war and conquest, whose functions are all important in the formative and progressive processes. It is no paradox to assert La guerre a enfanté le droit: without War there would be no Right. The cost of life, says Emerson, the dreary havoc of comfort and time, are overpaid by the vistas it opens of Eternal Law reconstructing and uplifting society; it breaks up the old horizon, and we see through the rifts a wider view.

War, again, benefits society by raising its tone above the ineffable littleness and meanness which characterise the every-day life of the many. In the presence of the Great Destroyer, petty feuds and miserable envy, hatred, and malice stand hushed and awe-struck. Very hollow in these days sounds Voltaire’s banter on War when he says that a king picks up a parcel of men who have nothing to do, dresses them in blue cloth at two shillings a yard, binds their hats with coarse white worsted, turns them to the right and left, and marches them away to glory.

The Sword and only the Sword raised the worthier race to power upon the ruins of impotent savagery; and she carried in her train, from time immemorial, throughout the civilised world, Asiatic Africa, Asia, and Europe, the arts and the sciences which humanise mankind. In fact, whatever apparent evil the Sword may have done, she worked for the highest ultimate good. With the Arabs the Sword was a type of individuality. Thus Shanfara, the fleet-foot, sings in his Lamiyyah, (L-poem):—

Three friends: the Heart no fear shall know,

The sharp white Sword, the yellow Bow.

Zayd bin Ali boasts, like El-Mutanabbi:—

The wielded Sword-blade knows my hand,

The Spear obeys my lusty arm.

And Ziyád El-Ajam thus writes the epitaph of El-Mughayrah: ‘So died he, after having sought death between the spear-point and the Sword-edge.’

This ‘Pundonor’ presently extended westward. During the knightly ages the ‘good Sword’ of the Paladin and the Chevalier embodied a new faith—the Religion of Honour, the first step towards the religion of humanity. These men once more taught the sublime truth, the splendid doctrine known to the Stoics and the Pharisees, but unaccountably neglected in later creeds:—

Do good, for Good is good to do.

Their recklessness of all consequences soared worlds-high above the various egotistic systems which bribe man to do good for a personal and private consideration, to win the world, or to save his soul. Hence Aristotle blamed his contemporaries, the Spartans: ‘They are indeed good men, but they have not the supreme consummate excellence of loving all things worthy, decent and laudable, purely as such and for their own sakes; nor of practising virtue for no other motive but the sole love of her own innate beauty.’ The ‘everlasting Law of Honour binding on all and peculiar to each,’ would have thoroughly satisfied the Stagirite’s highest aspirations.

In knightly hands the Sword acknowledged no Fate but that of freedom and free-will; and it bred the very spirit of chivalry, a keen personal sentiment of self-respect, of dignity, and of loyalty, with the noble desire to protect weakness against the abuse of strength. The knightly Sword was ever the representative idea, the present and eternal symbol of all that man most prized—courage and freedom. The names describe her quality: she is Joyeuse, and La Tisona; he is Zú ’l-Fikár (sire of splitting) and Quersteinbeis, biter of the mill-stone. The weapon was everywhere held to be the best friend of bravery, and the worst foe of perfidy; the companion of authority, and the token of commandment; the outward and visible sign of force and fidelity, of conquest and dominion, of all that Humanity wants to have and wants to be.

The Sword was carried by and before kings; and the brand, not the sceptre, noted their seals of state. As the firm friend of the crown and of the ermine robe, it became the second fountain of honour. Amongst the ancient Germans even the judges sat armed on the judgment-seat; and at marriages it represented the bridegroom in his absence. Noble and ennobling, its touch upon the shoulder conferred the prize of knighthood. As ‘bakhshish’ it was, and still is, the highest testimony to the soldier’s character; a proof that he is ‘brave as his sword-blade.’ Its presence was a moral lesson; unlike the Greeks, the Romans, and the Hebrews, Western and Southern Europe, during its chivalrous ages, appeared nowhere and on no occasion without the Sword. It was ever ready to leap from its sheath in the cause of weakness and at the call of Honour. Hence, with its arrogant individuality, the Sword still remained the ‘all-sufficient type and token of the higher sentiments and the higher tendencies of human nature.’

In society the position of the Sword was remarkable. ‘Its aspect was brilliant; its manners were courtly; its habits were punctilious, and its connections were patrician.’ Its very vices were glittering; for most of them were the abuses which could not but accompany its uses. It bore itself haughtily as a victor, an arbitrator; and necessarily there were times when its superlative qualities showed corresponding defects. Handled by the vile it too often became, in the ‘syllogism of violence,’ an incubus, a blusterer, a bully, a tyrant, a murderer, an assassin, in fact ‘death’s stamp’; and under such conditions it was a ‘corruption of the best.’ But its lapses were individual and transient; its benefits to Humanity were general and ever-enduring.

The highest period of the Sword was the early sixteenth century, that mighty landmark separating the dark Past from the brilliant Present of Europe. The sudden awaking and excitement of man’s mind, produced by the revival of learning and the marriage-union of the West with the East; by the discovering of a new hemisphere, the doubling of the world; by the so-called Reformation, a northern protest against the slavery of the soul; by the wide spread of the printing-press, which meant knowledge; and, simultaneously, by the illumination of that electric spark generated from the contact of human thought, suddenly changed the status of the Sword. It was no longer an assailant, a slaughterer: it became a defender, a preserver. It learned to be shield as well as Sword. And now arose swordsmanship proper, when the ‘Art of Arms’ meant, amongst the old masters, the Art of Fence. The sixteenth century was its Golden Age.

At this time the Sword was not only the Queen of Weapons, but the weapon paramount between man and man. Then, advancing by slow, stealthy, and stumbling steps, the age of gunpowder, of ‘villanous saltpetre,’ appeared upon the scene of life. Gradually the bayonet, a modern modification of the pike, which again derives from the savage spear, one of the earliest forms of the arme blanche, ousted the Sword amongst infantry because the former could be combined with the fire-piece. A century afterwards cavalrymen learned, in the Federal-Confederate war, to prefer the revolver and repeater, the breech-loader and the reservoir-gun, to the sabre of past generations. It became an axiom that in a cavalry charge the spur, not the Sword, gains the day. By no means a unique, nor even a singular process of progress, is this return towards the past, this falling back upon the instincts of primitive invention, this recurrence to childhood: when the science of war reverted to ballistics it practically revived the practice of the first ages, and the characteristic attack of the savage and the barbarian who, as a rule, throw their weapons. The cannon is the ballista, and the arblast, the mangonel, and the trebuchet, worked not by muscular but by chemical forces. The torpedo is still the old, old petard; the spur of the ironclad is the long-disused embolon, rostrum, or beak; and steam-power is a rough, cheap substitute for man-power, for the banks of oarsmen, whose work had a delicacy of manipulation unknown to machinery, however ingenious. The armed nations, which in Europe are again becoming the substitutes for standing armies, represent the savage and barbarous stages of society, the proto-historic races, amongst which every man between the ages of fifteen and fifty is a man-at-arms. It is the same in moral matters; the general spread of the revolutionary spirit, of republicanism, of democratic ideas, of communistic, socialistic, and nihilistic rights and claims now acting so powerfully upon society and upon the brotherhood of nations, is a re-dawning of that early day when the peoples ruled themselves, and were not yet governed by priestly and soldier kings. It is the same even in the ‘immaterials.’ The Swedenborgian school, popularly known by the trivial name Spiritualism, has revived magic, and this ‘new motor force,’ for such I call it, has resurrected the Ghost, which many a wise head supposed to have been laid for ever.

The death-song of the Sword has been sung, and we are told that ‘Steel has ceased to be a gentleman.’[1] Not so! and by no means so. These are mere insular and insulated views, and England, though a grand figure, the mother of nations, the modern Rome, is yet but a fraction of the world. The Englishman and, for that matter, the German and the Scandinavian, adopted with a protest, and right unwillingly, swordsmanship proper—that is, rapier and point, the peculiar and especial weapon, offensive and defensive, of Southern Europe, Spain, Italy, and France. During the most flourishing age of the Sword it is rare to find a blade bearing the name of an English maker, and English inscriptions seldom date earlier than the eighteenth century. The reason is evident. The Northerners hacked with hangers, they hewed with hatchets, and they cut with cutlasses because the arm suited their bulk and stature, weight and strength. But such weapons are the brutality of the Sword. In England swordsmanship is, and ever was, an exotic; like the sentiment, as opposed to the knowledge, of Art, it is the property of the few, not of the many; and, being rare, it is somewhat ‘un-English.’

But the case is different on the continent of Europe. Probably at no period during the last four centuries has the Sword been so ardently studied as it is now by the Latin race in France and Italy. At no time have the schools been so distinguished for intellectual as well as for moral proficiency. The use of the foil ‘bated’ and ‘unbated’ has once more become quasi-universal. A duello, in the most approved fashion of our ancestors, was lately proposed (September 1882) by ten journalists of a Parisian paper, to as many on the staff of a rival publication. Even the softer sex in France and Italy has become cunning of fence; and women are among the most prosperous pupils of the salles d’armes. Witness, for instance, the ill-fated Mdlle. Feyghine of the Théâtre Français, so celebrated for her skill in ‘the carte and the tierce and the reason demonstrative.’

Nor is the cause of this wider diffusion far to seek. In the presence of arms of precision, the Sword, as a means of offence and defence, may practically fall for a time into disuse. It may no longer be the arm paramount or represent an idea. It may have come down from its high estate as tutor to the noble and the great. Yet not the less it has, and will ever have, its work to do. The Ex-Queen now appears as instructress-general in the art of arms. As the mathematic is the basis of all exact science, so Sword-play teaches the soldier to handle every other weapon. This is well known to Continental armies, in which each regiment has its own fencing establishment and its salle d’armes.

Again, men of thought cannot ignore the intrinsic value of the Sword for stimulating physical qualities. Ce n’est pas assez de roidir l’âme, il faut aussi roidir les muscles, says Montaigne, who also remarks of fencing that it is the only exercise wherein l’esprit s’en exerce. The best of callisthenics, this energetic educator teaches the man to carry himself like a soldier. A compendium of gymnastics, it increases strength and activity, dexterity and rapidity of movement. Professors calculate that one hour of hard fencing wastes forty ounces by perspiration and respiration. The foil is still the best training tool for the consensus of eye and hand; for the judgment of distance and opportunity; and, in fact, for the practice of combat. And thus swordsmanship engenders moral confidence and self-reliance while it stimulates a habit of resource; and it is not without suggesting, even in the schools, that ‘curious, fantastic, very noble generosity proper to itself alone.’

And now when the vain glory of violence has passed away from the Sword with the customs of a past age, we can hardly ignore the fact that the manners of nations have changed, not for the best. As soon as the Sword ceased to be worn in France, a Frenchman said of his compatriots that the ‘politest people in Europe had suddenly become the rudest.’ That gallant and courteous bearing, which in England during the early nineteenth century so charmed the ‘fiery and fastidious Alfieri’ lingers only amongst a few. True the swash-buckler, the professional duellist, has disappeared. But courtesy and punctiliousness, the politeness of man to man, and respect and deference of man to woman—that Frauencultus, the very conception of the knightly character—have to a great extent been ‘improved off.’ The latter condition of society, indeed, seems to survive only in the most cultivated classes of Europe; and, popularly, amongst the citizens of the United States, a curious oasis of chivalry in a waste of bald utilitarianism—preserved not by the Sword but by the revolver. Our England has abolished the duello without substituting aught better for it: she has stopped the effect and left the cause.

So far I have written concerning the Sword simply to show that my work does not come out ‘a day after the fair’; and that there is still a powerful vitality in the heroic Weapon. The details of such general statements will be established and developed in the following pages. It is now advisable to introduce this volume to the reader.

During the ‘seventies’ I began, with a light heart, my Book of the Sword, expecting to finish it within a few months. It has occupied me as many years. Not only study and thought, but travel and inspection, were found indispensable; a monograph on the Sword and its literature involved visiting almost all the great armouries of continental Europe, and a journey to India in 1875–6. The short period of months served only to show that a memoir of the Sword embraces the annals of the world. The long term of years has convinced me that to treat the subject in its totality is impossible within reasonable limits.

It will hardly be said that a monograph of the Sword is not wanted. Students who would learn her origin, genealogy, and history, find no single publication ready to hand. They must ransack catalogues and books on ‘arms and armour’ that are numbered by the score. They must hunt up fugitive pamphlets; papers consigned to the literary store-rooms called magazines; and stray notices deep buried in the ponderous tomes of Recueils and general works on Hoplology. They must wade through volume after volume of histories and travels, to pick up a few stray sentences. And they will too often find that the index of an English book which gives copious references to glass or sugar utterly ignores the Sword. At times they must labour in the dark, for men who write seem wholly unconscious of the subject’s importance. For instance, much has been said about art in Japan; but our knowledge of her metallurgy especially of her iron and steel works, is elementary, while that of her peculiar and admirable cutlery is strangely superficial. And travellers and collectors treat the Sword much as they do objects of natural history. They regard only the rare, the forms which they ignore, or which strike the eye, and the unique specimens which may have no comparative value. Thus they neglect articles of far more interest and of higher importance to the student, and they bring home, often at great expense, mere lumber for curiosity shops.

The difficulty of treating the Sword is enhanced by the peculiar individuality which characterises it, evidenced by an immense variety of physique, and resulting as much from unconscious selection as from deep design. One of the characteristics of indigenous art is that no two articles, especially no two weapons, are exactly alike; and yet they vary only within narrow and measurable limits. The minute differentiæ of the Sword are endless. Even in the present day, swordsmen will order some shape, size, or weight which they hold—often unwisely enough—to be improvements on the general. One man, wishing to strengthen his arm, devises a weapon fit for a Titan and finds it worse than useless. A tale is told of a Sheffield cutler who, having received from Maroccan Mogador a wooden model to be copied in steel, made several hundred blades on the same pattern and failed to find a single purchaser. Their general resemblance to the prevailing type was marred by peculiarities which unsuited them for general use; they were adapted only to individual requirement, each man priding himself upon his own pattern having some almost imperceptible difference. Such variations are intelligible enough in the Sword, which must be modified for every personality, because it becomes to the swordsman a prolongation of his own person, a lengthening of the arm. The natural results are the protean shapes of the weapon and the difficulty of reducing these shapes to orderly description. I cannot, therefore, agree with a President of the Anthropological Institute (‘Journal,’ October 1876) when he states: ‘Certainly the same forms of Sword might be found in different countries, but not of so peculiar a nature (as the Gaboon weapon) unless the form had been communicated.’ Shapes apparently identical start up spontaneously, because types are limited and man’s preferences easily traverse the whole range of his invention.

Thus the stumbling-block which met me on the threshold was to introduce sequence, system, and lucid order into a chaos of details. It was necessary to discover some unity, some starting-place for evolution and development, without which all treatment would be vague and inconsequent. But where find the clue which makes straight the labyrinthine paths; the point de mire which enables us to command the whole prospect; the coign of vantage which displays the disposition of details, together with the nexus, the intercommunication, and the progress of the parts and the whole?

Two different systems of that ‘classification, which defines the margin of our ignorance,’ are adopted by museums; and, consequently, by the catalogues describing them. I shall here quote only English collections, leaving to the Continental reader the task of applying the two main principles locally and generally. These are, first, the Topical or Geographical (e.g. Christy collection), which, as the words denote, examines the article itself mainly with reference to its media, nature and culture, place and date; and which considers man and his works as the expression of the soil that bears him. The second is the Material and purely Formal (General A. Pitt-Rivers’ collection), which regards only the objects or specimens themselves, without respect to their makers or their media; and which, by investigating the rival laws of continuity and of incessant variation, aims at extending our knowledge of mankind. Both plans have their merits and their demerits. The Topical is the more strictly anthropologico-ethnological, because it makes the general racial culture its prominent feature; but it fails to illustrate, by juxtaposition, the origin, the life, and the death of a special article. The Formal proposes to itself the study of specific ideas; it describes their transmissions and their migrations; and it displays their connection and sequence, their development and degradation. It exemplifies the law of unconscious selection, as opposed to premeditation and design. Thus it claims superior sociological interest, while it somewhat separates and isolates the article from its surroundings—mankind.

Again, it would be unadvisable to neglect the chronological and synchronological order (Demmin’s). This assists us in tracing with a surer hand the origin and derivation; the annals, the adventures, and the accidents of an almost universal weapon, whose marvellously chequered career excels in dignity, in poetry, and in romance, anything and everything the world has yet seen. And here I have not been unmindful of Dr. Arthur Mitchell’s sensible warning that ‘the rude form of an implement may follow as well as precede the more finished forms.’[2] Due regard to dates enables us to avoid the scandalous confusion of the vulgar museum. Demmin found a large number of swords catalogued as dating with the time of Charles the Bold, when the shapes proved that they belonged to the late sixteenth and even to the early seventeenth centuries. I was shown, in the museum of Aquileja, a ‘Roman sword’ which was a basket-hilted Venetian, hardly two hundred years old. It is only an exact chronology, made to frame the Geographical and the Formal pictures of the weapon, that can secure scientific distribution.

In dealing with a subject which, like the Sword, ranges through the world-history, and which concerns the human race in general, it would, I venture to opine, be unwise to adopt a single system. As clearness can be obtained only by methodical distribution of matter, all the several processes must be combined with what art the artificer may. The Formal, which includes the Material, as well as the shape of the weapon, affords one fair basis for classification. The substance, for instance, ranges from wood to steel, and the profile from the straight line to the segment of a circle. The Topical, beginning (as far as we know) in the Nile Valley, and thence in ancient days overspreading Africa, Asia, Europe, and America, determines the distribution and shows the general continuity of the noble arm. It also readily associates itself with the chronologico-historical order, which begins ab initio, furnishes a proof of general progress, interrupted only by fitful stages of retrogression, and, finally, dwells upon the epochs of the highest interest.

After not a little study I resolved to distribute the ‘Book of the Sword’ into three parts.

Part I. treats of the birth, parentage, and early career of the Sword. It begins with the very beginning, in prehistoric times and amongst proto-historic peoples; and it ends with the full growth of the Sword at the epoch of the early Roman Empire.

Part II. treats of the Sword fully grown. It opens with the rising civilisation of the Northern Barbarians and with the decline of Rome under Constantine (a.d. 313–324), who combined Christianity with Mithraism; when the world-capital was transferred to Byzantium, and when an imitation of Orientalism, specially of ‘Persic apparatus,’ led to the art decay which we denote by the term ‘Lower Empire.’ It proceeds to the rise of El-Islam; the origin of ordered chivalry and knighthood; the succession of the Crusades and the wars of arms and armour before the gunpowder age, when the general use of ballistics by means of explosives became the marking feature of battle. This was the palmy period of the Sword. It became a beautiful work of art; and the highest genius did not disdain to chase and gem the handle and sheath. And its career culminates with the early sixteenth century, when the weapon of offence assumed its defensive phase and rose to a height of splendour that prognosticated downfall, as surely as the bursting of a rocket precedes its extinction.

Part III. continues the memoirs of the Sword, which, after long declining, revives once more in our day. This portion embraces descriptions of the modern blade, notices of collections, public and private, notes on manufactures; and, lastly, the bibliography and the literature connected with the Heroic Weapon.

Part I., contained in this volume, numbers thirteen chapters, of which a bird’s-eye view is given by the List of Contents. The first seven are formally and chronologically arranged. Thus we have the Origin of Weapons (Chapter I.) showing that while the arm is common to man and beast, the weapon, as a rule, belongs to our kind. Chapter II. treats of the first weapon proper, the Stone, which gave rise to ballistics as well as to implements of percussion. Follows (Chapter III.) the blade of base materials, wood, stone and bone, materials still used by races which can procure nothing better. From this point a step leads to the metal blade, in its origin evidently a copy of preceding types. The first, (Chapter IV.) is of pure copper, in our translations generally rendered by ‘brass’ or ‘bronze.’ The intermediate substances (Chapter V.) are represented by alloys, a variety of mixed metals; and they naturally end with the so-called ‘age’ of early iron, which prevailed throughout Europe at a time when the valleys of the Nile and the Tigris-Euphrates wrought blades of the finest steel. This division concludes with a formal and technical Chapter (VII.) on the shape of the Sword and a description of its several parts. Here the subject does not readily lend itself to lively description; but, if I have been compelled to be dull, I have done my best to avoid being tedious.

The arrangement then becomes geographical and chronological. My next five chapters are devoted to the Sword in its topical distribution and connection. The first (No. VIII.) begins with the various blade-forms in ancient Egypt, which extended throughout the then civilised world; it ends with showing that the Nile valley gave their present shapes to the ‘white arm’ of the Dark Continent even in its modern day, and applied to the Sword the name which it still bears in Europe. The second (No. IX.) passes to Palestine, Syria, and Asia Minor, lands which manifestly borrowed the weapon from the Egyptians, and handed it on to Assyria, Persia, and India. The arms and armour of the ‘great Interamnian Plain’ afford material for a third (Chapter X.). Thence, retracing our steps and passing further westwards, we find manifest derivation and immense improvement of the Egyptian weapon in Greece (Chapter XI.), from which Mycenæ has lately supplied bronze rapiers perfectly formed as the steels of Bilboa and Toledo. The fifth Chapter (No. XII.) continues the ancient history of the Sword by describing the various blades of progressive Rome, whose wise choice and change of arms enabled her to gain the greatest battles with the least amount of loss. To this I have appended, for geographical and chronological symmetry, in a sixth and last chapter (No. XIII.), a sketch of the Sword among the contemporary Barbarians of the Roman Empire, Dacians, Italians, Iberians, Gauls, Germans, and the British Islands. This portion of the Sword history, however, especially the Scandinavian and the Irish, will be treated at full length in Part II.

Here, then, ends the First Part, which Messrs. Chatto and Windus have kindly consented to publish, whilst my large collection of notes, the labour of years, is being ordered and digested for the other two. I may fairly hope, if all go well, to see both in print before the end of 1884.

In the following pages I have confined myself, as much as was possible, to the Sword; a theme which, indeed, offers an embarras de richesses. But weapons cannot be wholly isolated, especially when discussing origins: one naturally derives from and connects with the other; and these relations may hardly be passed over without notice. I have, therefore, indulged in an occasional divagation, especially concerning the axe and the spear; but the main line has never been deserted.

Nor need I offer an excuse for the amount of philological discussion which the nomenclature of the Sword has rendered necessary. If I have opposed the Past Masters of the art, my opposition has been honest, and I am ever open to refutation. Travellers refuse to believe that ‘Aryanism’ was born on the bald, bleak highlands of Central Asia, or that ‘Semitism’ derives from the dreary, fiery deserts of Arabia. We do not believe India to be ‘the country which even more than Greece or Rome was the cradle of grammar and philology.’ I cannot but hold that England has, of late years, been greatly misled by the ‘Aryan heresy’; and I look forward to the study being set upon a sounder base.

The illustrations, numbering 293, have been entrusted to the artistic hands of Mr. Joseph Grego, who has taken a friendly interest in the work. But too much must not be expected from them in a book which intends to be popular, and which is, therefore, limited in the matter of expense. Hence they are fewer than I should have desired. The libraries of Europe contain many catalogues of weapons printed in folio with highly finished and coloured plates which here would be out of place. That such a work upon the subject of the Sword will presently appear I have no doubt; and my only hope is that this volume will prove an efficient introduction.

To conclude. I return grateful thanks to the many mitwerkers who have assisted me in preparing this monograph; no more need be said, as all names will be mentioned in the course of the work. A journey to the Gold Coast and its results, in two volumes, which describe its wealth, must plead my excuse for the delay in bringing out the book. The manuscript was sent home from Lisbon in December 1881, but the ‘tyranny of circumstance’ has withheld it for nearly two years.

RICHARD F. BURTON.

Postscript. An afterthought suggests that it is only fair, both for readers and for myself, to own that sundry quotations have been borrowed at second-hand and that the work of verification, so rightly enjoined upon writers, has not always been possible. These blemishes are hardly to be avoided in a first edition. At Trieste, and other places distant from the great seats of civilisation, libraries of reference are unknown; and it is vain to seek for the original source. Indeed, Mr. James Fergusson once wrote to me that it was an overbold thing to undertake a History of the Sword under such circumstances. However, I made the best use of sundry visits to London and Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and other capitals, and did what I could to remedy defects. Lastly, the illustrations have not always, as they ought, been drawn to scale, they were borrowed from a number of volumes which paid scant attention to this requisite.