cigar.  The cavalry were on the right and left of the infantry, prepared to act in pontoon, in echelon, or in ricochet, as occasion might demand.  The Prince rode behind, supported by his Staff, who were almost all of them bishops, archdeacons, or abbes; and the body of ecclesiastics followed, singing to the sound, or rather howl, of serpents and trombones, the Latin canticles of the Reverend Franciscus O’Mahony, lately canonized under the name of Saint Francis of Cork.

The advanced lines of the two contending armies were now in presence—­the National Guard of Orleans and the Irish Brigade.  The white belts and fat paunches of the Guard presented a terrific appearance; but it might have been remarked by the close observer, that their faces were as white as their belts, and the long line of their bayonets might be seen to quiver.  General Odillon Barrot, with a cockade as large as a pancake, endeavored to make a speech:  the words honneur, patrie, Francais, champ de bataille might be distinguished; but the General was dreadfully flustered, and was evidently more at home in the Chamber of Deputies than in the field of war.

The Prince of Ballybunion, for a wonder, did not make a speech.  “Boys,” said he, “we’ve enough talking at the Corn Exchange; bating’s the word now.”  The Green-Islanders replied with a tremendous hurroo, which sent terror into the fat bosoms of the French.

“Gentlemen of the National Guard,” said the Prince, taking off his hat and bowing to Odillon Barrot, “will ye be so igsthramely obleeging as to fire first.”  This he said because it had been said at Fontenoy, but chiefly because his own men were only armed with shillelaghs, and therefore could not fire.

But this proposal was very unpalatable to the National Guardsmen:  for though they understood the musket-exercise pretty well, firing was the thing of all others they detested—­the noise, and the kick of the gun, and the smell of the powder being very unpleasant to them.  “We won’t fire,” said Odillon Barrot, turning round to Colonel Saugrenue and his regiment of the line—­which, it may be remembered, was formed behind the National Guard.

“Then give them the bayonet,” said the Colonel, with a terrific oath.  “Charge, corbleu!”

At this moment, and with the most dreadful howl that ever was heard, the National Guard was seen to rush forwards wildly, and with immense velocity, towards the foe.  The fact is, that the line regiment behind them, each selecting his man, gave a poke with his bayonet between the coat-tails of the Nationals, and those troops bounded forward with an irresistible swiftness.