ens and garrets of the buildings. The Irish Brigade, accustomed
to lie abroad, were quartered in some potato fields, where they sang
Moore's melodies all night. There were, besides the troops regular and
irregular, about three thousand priests and abbes with the army, armed
with scourging-whips, and chanting the most lugubrious canticles: these
reverend men were found to be a hindrance rather than otherwise to the
operations of the regular forces.

It was a touching sight, on the morning before the battle, to see the
alacrity with which Jenkins's regiment sprung up at the FIRST reveille
of the bell, and engaged (the honest fellows!) in offices almost
menial for the benefit of their French allies. The Duke himself set the
example, and blacked to a nicety the boots of Henri. At half-past ten,
after coffee, the brilliant warriors of the cavalry were ready; their
clarions rung to horse, their banners were given to the wind, their
shirt-collars were exquisitely starched, and the whole air was scented
with the odors of their pomatums and pocket-handkerchiefs.

Jenkins had the honor of holding the stirrup for Henri. "My faithful
Duke!" said the Prince, pulling him by the shoulder-knot, "thou art
always at THY POST." "Here, as in Wellington Street, sire," said
the hero, blushing. And the Prince made an appropriate speech to his
chivalry, in which allusions to the lilies, Saint Louis, Bayard
and Henri Quatre, were, as may be imagined, not spared. "Ho!
standard-bearer!" the Prince concluded, "fling out my oriflamme. Noble
gents of France, your King is among you to-day!"

Then turning to the Prince of Ballybunion, who had been drinking
whiskey-punch all night with the Princes of Donegal and Connemara,
"Prince," he said, "the Irish Brigade has won every battle in the French
history--we will not deprive you of the honor of winning this. You will
please to commence the attack with your brigade." Bending his head until
the green plumes of his beaver mingled with the mane of the Shetland
pony which he rode, the Prince of Ireland trotted off with his
aides-de-camp; who rode the same horses, powerful grays, with which a
dealer at Nantz had supplied them on their and the Prince's joint bill
at three months.

The gallant sons of Erin had wisely slept until the last minute in
their potato-trenches, but rose at once at the summons of their beloved
Prince. Their toilet was the work of a moment--a single shake and it
was done. Rapidly form