“In a party fight, a prophetic sense of danger, hangs, as it were, over the crowd—­the very air is loaded with apprehension; and the vengeance burst is proceeded by a close, thick darkness, almost sulphury, that is more terrifical than the conflict itself, though dearly less dangerous and fatal.  The scowl of the opposing parties, the blanched cheeks, the knit brows, and the grinding teeth, not pretermitting the deadly gleams that shoot from their kindled eyes, are ornaments which a plain battle between factions cannot boast, but which, notwithstanding, are very suitable to the fierce and gloomy silence of that premeditated vengeance which burns with such intensity in the heart, and scorches up the vitals into such a thirst for blood.  Not but that they come by different means to the same conclusion; because it is the feeling, and not altogether the manner of operation, that is different.

“Now a faction fight doesn’t resemble this at all at all.  Paddy’s at home here; all song, dance, good-humor, and affection.  His cheek is flushed with delight, which, indeed, may derive assistance from the consciousness of having no bayonets or loaded carabines to contend with; but anyhow, he’s at home—­his eye is lit with real glee—­he tosses his hat in the air, in the height of mirth—­and leaps, like a mounteback, two yards from the ground.  Then, with what a gracious dexterity he brandishes his cudgel! what a joyous spirit is heard in his shout at the face of a friend from another faction!  His very ‘who!’ is contagious, and would make a man, that had settled on running away, return and join the sport with an appetite truly Irish.  He is, in fact, while under the influence of this heavenly afflatus, in love with every one, man, woman, and child.  If he meet his sweetheart, he will give her a kiss and a hug, and that with double kindness, because he is on his way to thrash her father or brother.  It is the acumen of his enjoyment; and woe be to him who will adventure to go between him and his amusements.  To be sure, skulls and bones are broken, and lives lost; but they are lost in pleasant fighting—­they are the consequences of the sport, the beauty of which consists in breaking as many heads and necks as you can; and certainly when a man enters into the spirit of any exercise, there is nothing like elevating himself to the point of excellence.  Then a man ought never to be disheartened.  If you lose this game, or get your head good-humoredly beaten to pieces, why you may win another, or your friends may mollify two or three skulls as a set-off to yours; but that is nothing.

“When the evening became more advanced, maybe, considering the poor look up there was for anything like decent sport—­maybe, in the early part of the day, it wasn’t the delightful sight to see the boys on each side of the two great factions beginning to get frolicsome.  Maybe the songs and the shouting, when they began, hadn’t melody and music in them, any how!  People may talk about