I jumped
from the wagon, and, tying my handkerchief to the ferule of my umbrella,
advanced, waving it and shouting, "A flag of truce!" The General ordered a
halt and despatched himself to the flag. As he approached I beheld a stout,
middle-aged, good natured looking man, dressed in the graceless costume of
Uncle Sam's army; but I must say that he wore it with more grace than most
of the Regulars I have seen. Our soldiers look unbecomingly in their
clothes,--there is no denying it,--a good deal like _sups_ in a procession
at the Bowery. A New-York policeman sports pretty much the same dress in
much better style. You hardly ever see an officer or private, least of all
the officer, with the _air militaire_. I also noticed with pleasure that
the General had not on his head that melodramatic black felt,
feather-bedecked hat, which some fantastic Secretary of War must have
imagined in a dream, after seeing "Fra Diavolo" at the opera, or Wallack in
Massaroni. In place of this abomination, a cap covered with glazed leather
surmounted his martial brow. When we met, I lowered my umbrella and offered
my card, with the office pasteboard. He took them with great gravity, read
the names, and requested me to fall back to the rear and await orders. Then
rejoining his gun, he was driven slowly towards the house,--my peaceful
_ambulance_ following at a respectful distance. When I reached the door,
the six-pounder had disappeared behind a clump of evergreens, and the
General stood waiting to receive me.
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