intelligence of this great man's death, the strongest emotion.
“It is a national calamity,” he said, in a voice of the deepest feeling.
Our recollections of human beings generally attach to some particular locality with which we associate them, and the writer of these pages returns in memory, when thinking of Stuart
, more especially to his quarters near Fredericksburg
in the winter of 1862, which he humorously styled “Camp no camp.”
Here, with his tent pitched under shelter of a pine thicket, and his horses picketed near — for he believed that exposure hardened them — with a slender little Whitworth gun posted like a graceful watch-dog in front, and surrounded by his mirthful young staff officers, Stuart
passed the long months of the winter succeeding the hard battle.
's quarters were at “Moss
neck,” some miles down the river, and they exchanged visits often-Stuart making merry over all things, and not sparing even the grave and devout “Stonewall
,” whose eyes would twinkle at his companion's jests.
Jesting, indeed, seemed to be a necessity of Stuart
Mirth and humor burst forth from this strong nature as a flower bursts from its stalk.
At “Camp no camp” the days and nights were full of song and laughter.
's delight was to have his banjo-player, Sweeney
, in his tent; and even while busily engaged in his official correspondence, he loved to hear the gay rattle of the instrument, and the voice of Sweeney
singing “J'ine the cavalry,” “Sweet Evelina,” or some other favorite ditty.
From time to time he would lay down his pen, throw one knee over the arm of his chair, and call his two dogs--two handsome young setters, which he had brought across the Rappahannock-or falling back, or utter some jest at the expense of his staff.
As frequently he would join in the song, or volunteer one of his own-his favorite being “The bugles sang truce,” “The Dew is on the blossom,” and some comic ballads, of which the one beginning “My wife's in Castle thunder,” was a fair specimen.
These he roared out with immense glee, rising and gesticulating, slapping his staff officers on the back, and throwing back his head while he sang, and almost always ending in a burst of laughter.
These personal traits of an eminent man are recorded with the view of presenting him to the reader just as he appeared-precisely as a painter drawing his likeness would present his low, athletic figure, his heavy brown beard, his flowing mustache, his lofty forehead, finely-outlined nose, and blue eyes as penetrating and brilliant as an eagle's. This personnel
of the man was a large part of him, so to speak.
You could never dissociate the genius of the soldier from the appearance of the individual.
If ever human being looked