Clear, and temperate, and lively as they were, however, there was no mincing of matters; even to the pointing out to Lord Sidmouth, at last, that he was the real revolutionist,[5] and that all his efforts were “unavailing as to the work of stifling.” “NOTHING WILL, CAN, OR SHALL KEEP MY WRITINGS FROM THE EYES OF MY SUFFERING AND FAITHFUL COUNTRYMEN!” But, if this was resolution and not mere swagger, how was it to be done? Any one of his neighbours, maliciously disposed, could have Mr. Cobbett brought before a magistrate, and thrown into jail without warning, for any word with a tendency. What is more, they meant to do so. There was only one way:-- “A few years ago, being at Barnet Fair, I saw a battle going on, arising out of some sudden quarrel, between a butcher and the servant of a West-country grazier. The butcher, though vastly superior in point of size, finding that he was getting the worst of it, recoiled a step or two, and drew out his knife. Upon the sight of this weapon, the grazier turned about and ran off, till he came up to a Scotchman who was guarding his herd, and out of whose hand the former snatched a good ash-stick, about four feet long. Having thus got what he called _a long arm_, he returned to the combat, and, in a very short time, he gave the butcher a blow upon the wrist, which brought his knife to the ground. The grazier then fell to work with his stick in such a style as I never before witnessed. The butcher fell down, and rolled and kicked; but he seemed only to change his position in order to insure to every part of his carcase a due share of the penalty of his baseness. After the grazier had, apparently, tired himself, he was coming away, when, happening to cast his eye upon the _knife_, he ran back and renewed the basting, exclaiming every now and then, as he caught his breath: ‘_Dra’ thy knife, wo’t?_’ He came away a second time, and a second time returned, and set on upon the caitiff again; and this he repeated several times, exclaiming always when he recommenced the drubbing: ‘Dra’ thy knife, wo’t?’--till, at last, the butcher was so bruised, that he was actually unable to stand or even to get up; and yet, such, amongst Englishmen, is the abhorrence of foul fighting, that not a soul attempted to interfere, and nobody seemed to pity a man thus unmercifully beaten.