e, stiff, dried up man, in a large blue sack, with straggling hair, about the color of a rotten rope, and eyes about the color of spoilt oysters, was General White, the same who surrendered Harper's Ferry to us on a certain occasion — so the Yankees told me. To his right stood, looking as though it was the occasion of one of his famous matinee entertainment, the former dancing master, now General Ferrero.
His fondness for dress has not forsaken him, for he looked as nice as a frizzly-headed Bowery boy. The time is not far distant, I hope, when he may be called upon to "trip it on the light fantastic toe" to the rear, to the music of our guns.
Next him stood a tall, lean, endeavors man, who resembled an ostentatious tombstone, set up by some afflicted wife six weeks before her second marriage in memory of her departed first.
He wore his whiskers a lamilitaire, cut close, as was his hair.
His eyes were of that peculiar color which it is impossible to describe.
But I once saw a valua