as in the whole carriage of his person, there was something calm,
august and imposing. This man, it was plain, was not only great, but
good;--the true type of the race of gentlemen of other times.

Stuart, the chief of cavalry of the army, was altogether different in
appearance. Young, ardent, full of life and abandon, he was the true
reproduction of Rupert, said to be his ancestor. The dark cavalry
feather; the lofty forehead, and dazzling blue eyes; his little
"fighting jacket," as he called it, bright with braid and buttons, made
a picture. His boots reached to the knee; a yellow silk sash was about
his waist; his spurs, of solid gold, were the present of some ladies of
Maryland; and with saber at tierce point, extended over his horse's
head, he led the charge with his staff, in front of the column, and
laughing, as though the notes of the bugle drove him forward.

In every movement of that stalwart figure, as in the glance of the blue
eyes, and the laughter curling the huge mustache, could be read youth
and joy, and a courage which nothing could bend. He was called a "boy"
by some, as Coriolanus was before him. But his Federal adversaries did
not laugh at him; they had felt his blows too often. Nor did the
soldiers of the army. He had breasted bullets in front of infantry, as
well as the sabre in front of cavalry. The civilians might laugh at
him--the old soldiers found no fault in him for humming his songs in
battle. They knew the man, and felt that he was a good soldier, as well
as a great general. He would have made an excellent private, and did
not feel "above" being one. Never was human being braver, if he did
laugh and sing. Was he not brave? Answer, old sabreurs, whom he led in
a hundred charges! old followers of Jackson, with whom he went over the
breastworks at Chancellorsville!