denizen of the deep that may have the temerity to attack their owner, may be imagined. Singly, unless it be the sea-serpent—for whose existence there is a large and ever-increasing body of evidence—there is no fish or aquatic mammal that has the least chance with him, but as a sword-fish and two killers were observed, on one occasion, to unite their efforts for his destruction, it is possible that the principle of combination may be sometimes more largely, and, perhaps, successfully employed. On the occasion in question it was certainly not successful. The sword-fish struck first, aiming for the heart, but, with a quick movement, the whale interposed his head, striking the weapon sideways, and then, rolling over and sinking himself beneath the aggressor, ere the latter had recovered from the shock of the impact, gaped upwards with distended jaws, which, closing like a scissors, on either side of the long, thin body, cut it completely in half. Meanwhile the two killers had dashed in on either flank, but sweeping suddenly, amidst cataracts of foam, his enormous tail into the air, the mighty cachalot delivered with it a blow that stretched one of them dead on the sea, and then turning like a mountain in the water, pursued the other, now flying for its life. Here against three lesser giants—the sword-fish alone was some sixteen feet long—the issue of the combat was soon decided, but how many mighty strokes must be delivered, how often, yet unavailingly, must the vast jaws open and the huge teeth tear and rend, before one of two well-matched cachalots has defeated the other. Not infrequently, the under jaw of sperm whales that have been harpooned is found wrenched and twisted out of the straight line—sometimes to a remarkable degree. Such injuries can only have been received in fighting, and they are a proof of the fury with which such combats are waged.