He was clad in a gray uniform, almost without
mark of rank. Cavalry boots reached nearly to his knees; as usual he
wore no sword; over his broad brow drooped a plain brown felt hat,
without tassel or decoration. Beneath, you saw a pair of frank and
benignant, but penetrating eyes, ruddy cheeks, and an iron gray
mustache and beard, both cut close. In the poise of the stately head,
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.
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