It seems to me that it was whispered to me once, but the internal evidence shows that it was invented by a Virginian.

Haven't I come up here and shed some of my blood and more of my perspiration to save the sacred soil of the Mother of Presidents from invasion?
And didn't I bring with me Arthur St.Clair, the best dressed man in Charleston, for the Yankees to shoot at?
Hello, what's that?
This is a day of events!" Hoots, cat-calls, and derisive yells arose along a long line.

A trim young officer on a fine bay horse was riding down a path beside the Opequon.

He was as beautifully dressed as St.Clair at his best.
His hands were encased in long white buckskin gloves, and long brown mustaches curled beautifully up until they touched either cheek.
It was he, this Beau Brummel of the Southern army, who had attracted the attention of irreverent youth.

From the shelter of trees and bushes came a chorus of cries: "Take them mice out o' your mouth! I know they're there, 'cause I see their tails stickin' out!" "What kind o' hair oil do you use?
I know your head's oiled, or it wouldn't shine so." "Be sure you keep your gloves on or the sun'll tan your hands!" "Oh, my, it's mother's pretty boy, goin' to see his best girl!" The young officer flushed crimson through his brown, but he knew it was no use to resent the words of his tormentors, and he rode steadily on, looking straight before him.
"That's Caswell, a Georgian, of Longstreet's corps," said Sherburne; "a good soldier and one of the bravest men I ever saw." "Which proves," said St.Clair, in a tone of conviction, "that clothes do help make the man." Caswell passed out of sight, pursued by derisive comment, but his place was taken quickly by a new victim.