Romescos’ sudden appearance, and the bold stand he takes against Mr. M’Fadden and his candidate, produce the utmost confusion; he being unpopular with the saw-pit men, with whom he once exhibited considerable dexterity in carrying off one of their number and putting the seal of slavery on him, they take sides against him.  It is the Saw-pitters against Romescos and the Crackers.  The spirits have flowed, and now the gods of our political power sway to and fro under most violent shocks.  Many, being unable to keep a perpendicular, are accusing each other of all sorts of misdeeds-of the misdeeds of their ancestors-of the specific crimes they committed-the punishments they suffered.  From personalities of their own time they descend forth into jeering each other on matters of family frailty, setting what their just deserts would have entitled them to receive.  They continue in this strain of jargon for some time, until at length it becomes evident the storm of war is fast approaching a crisis.  Mr. M’Fadden is mentally unprepared to meet this crisis, which Romescos will make to suit himself; and to this end the comical and somewhat tragical finale seems pretty well understood by the candidates and a few of the “swell-ocracy,” who have assembled more to see the grand representation of physical power on the part of these free and enlightened citizens, than to partake of the feast or listen to the rhetoric of the speeches.  In order to get a good view of the scene they have ascended trees, where, perched among their branches like so many jackals, they cheer and urge on the sport, as the nobility of Spain applaud a favourite champion of the ring.  At length the opposing parties doff their hats and coats, draw knives, make threatening grimaces, and twirl their steel in the air:  their desperation is earnest; they make an onset, charging with the bravado of men determined to sacrifice life.  The very air resounds with their shouts of blasphemy; blood flows from deep incisions of bowie-knives, garments are rent into shreds; and men seem to have betaken themselves to personating the demons.

Would that they were rational beings! would that they were men capable of constituting a power to protect the liberty of principle and the justice of law!  Shout after shout goes up; tumult is triumphant.  Two fatal rencontres are announced, and Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden is dangerously wounded; he has a cut in the abdomen.  The poor victims attract but little attention; such little trifling affairs are very common, scarcely worth a word of commiseration.  One gentleman insinuates that the affair has been a desperately amusing one; another very coolly adds, that this political feed has had much more interest in it than any preceding one.