of fun, frolic, laughter, courage, hope, buoyancy, and a certain youthful joyousness which made his presence like the sunshine. Upon this last trait I have dwelt much-the youth, and joy, and hope, which shone in his brilliant eyes and rang in his sonorous laughter. He passed before you like an incarnate spring, all mirth and sunshine; but behind was the lightning. In those eyes as fresh and blue as the May morning, lurked the storm and the thunderbolt. Beneath the flowers was the hard steel battle-axe. With that weapon he struck like Cœur de Lion, and few adversaries stood before it. The joy, romance, and splendour of the early years of chivalry flamed in his regard, and his brave blood drove him on to combat. In the lists, at Camelot, he would have charged "before the eyes of ladies and of kings," like Arthur; on the arena of the war in Virginia he followed his instincts. Bright eyes were ever upon the daring cavalier there, and his floating plume was like Henry of Navarre's to many stout horsemen who looked to him as their chosen leader; but, better still, the eyes of Lee and Jackson were fixed on him with fullest confidence. Jackson said, when his wound. disabled him at Chancellorsville, and Stuart succeeded him: "Go back to General Stuart and tell him to act upon his own judgment, and do what he thinks best-I have implicit confidence in him." In Spotsylvania, as we have seen, General Lee "could scarcely think of him without weeping." The implicit confidence of Jackson, and the tears of Lee, are enough to fill the measure of one man's life and fame.

Such was Stuart-such the figure which moved before the eyes of the Southern people for those three years of glorious encounters, and then fell like some "monarch of the woods," which makes the whole forest resound as it crashes down. Other noble forms there were; but that "heart of oak" of the stern, hard fibre, the stubborn grain, even where it lies is mightiest. Even dead and crumbled into dust, the form of Stuart still fills the eye, and the tallest dwindle by his side-he seems BO great.

II.

JACKSON.

I.

AT five in the evening, on the 27th of June, 1862, General Stonewall Jackson made his appearance on the field of Cold Harbour. Fresh from the hot conflicts of the Valley—an athlete covered with the dust and smoke of the arena-he came now with his veteran battalions to enter upon the still more desperate conflicts of the lowland.

All

At that time many persons asked, "Who is Jackson?" we then knew of the famous leader was this-that he was born a poor boy beyond the Alleghanies; managed to get to West Point; embarked in the Mexican war as lieutenant of artillery, where he fought his guns with such obstinacy that his name soon became renowned; and then, retiring from active service, became a Professor at the Lexington Military School. Here the world knew him only as an eccentric but deeply pious man, and a somewhat commonplace lecturer. Stiff and rigid in his pew at church, striding awkwardly from his study to his lectureroom, ever serious, thoughtful, absent-minded in appearance— such was the figure of the future Lieutenant-General, the estimate of whose faculties by the gay young students may be imagined from their nickname for him, "Fool Tom Jackson."

In April, 1861, Fool Tom Jackson became Colonel of Virginia volunteers, and went to Harper's Ferry, soon afterwards fighting General Patterson at Falling Water, thence descending to Manassas. Here the small force-2,611 muskets-of BrigadierGeneral Jackson saved the day. Without them the Federal

column would have flanked and routed Beauregard. Bee, forced back, shattered and overwhelmed, galloped up to Jackson and groaned out, "General, they are beating us back!" Jackson's set face did not move. แ "6 'Sir," he said, we will give them the bayonet." Without those 2,611 muskets that morning, good-by to Beauregard ! In the next year came the Valley campaign; the desperate and most remarkable fight at Kerns. town; the defeat and retreat of Banks from Strasburg and Winchester; the retreat, in turn, of his great opponent, timed with such mathematical accuracy, that at Strasburg he strikes with his right hand and his left the columns of Fremont and Shields, closing in from east and west to destroy him—strikes them and passes through, continuing his retreat up the Valley. Then comes the last scene-finis coronat. At Port Republic his adversaries strike at him in two columns. He throws himself against Fremont at Cross Keys and checks his advance; then attacks Shields beyond the river, and after one of the hottest battles of the war, fought nearly man to man, defeats him. Troops never fought better than the Federals there, but they were defeated; and Jackson, by forced marches, hastened to fall upon McClellan's right wing on the Chickahominy.

These events had, in June, 1862, attracted all eyes to Jackson. People began to associate his name with the idea of unvarying success, and to regard him as the incarnate genius of victory. War seemed in his person to have become a splendid pageant of unceasing triumph; and from the smoke of so many battlefields rose before the imaginative public eye, the figure of a splendid soldier on his prancing steed, with his fluttering banner, preceded by bugles, and advancing in all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war. The actual man was somewhat different; and in this sketch I shall try to draw his outline as he really looked. In doing so, an apparent egotism will be necessary; but this may be pardoned as inseparable from the subject. What men see is more interesting than what they think, often; what the writer saw of this great man will here be

recorded.

It was late in the afternoon of this memorable day, and A.

Hill had just been repulsed with heavy slaughter from General McClellan's admirable works near New Cold Harbour, when the writer of this was sent by General Stuart to ascertain if Jackson's corps had gone in, and what were his dispositions for battle. A group near a log cabin, twenty paces from Old Cold Harbour House, was pointed out to me; and going there, I asked for the General. Some one pointed to a figure seated on a log -dingy, bending over, and writing on his knees. A faded, yellow cap of the cadet pattern was drawn over his eyes; his fingers, holding a pencil, trembled. His voice, in addressing me, was brief, curt, but not uncourteous; and then, his dispatch having been sent, he mounted and rode slowly alone across the field. A more curious figure I never saw. He sat his rawboned sorrel-not the "old sorrel," however-like an automaton. Knees drawn up, body leaning forward; the whole figure stiff, angular, unbending. His coat was the dingiest of the dingy; originally gray, it seemed to have brought away some of the dust and dirt of every region in which he had bivouacked. His faded cap was pulled down so low upon the forehead that he was compelled to raise his chin into the air to look from beneath the rim. Under that rim flashed two keen and piercing eyes-dark, with a strange brilliancy, and full of "fight." The nose was prominent; the moustache heavy upon the firm lip, close set beneath; the rough, brown beard did not conceal the heavy fighting jaw. All but the eye was in apparent repose; there was no longer any tremor of anxiety. The soldier seemed to have made all his arrangements, "done his best," and he evidently awaited the result with entire coolness. There was even something absent and abstracted in his manner, as he rode slowly to and fro, sucking a lemon, and looking keenly at you when you spoke, answering briefly when necessary.

Twice more I saw him that day-first in the evening, in the midst of a furious shelling, riding slowly with General Stuart among his guns; his face lit up by the burning brushwood-a face perfectly calm and unmoved. And again at midnight, when, as I slept in a fence corner, I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and a voice said, "Where is the General?" It was

Jackson, riding about by himself; and he tied his horse, lay down beside General Stuart, and began with, "Well, yesterday's was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever heard!" Words of unwonted animation coming from Jackson-that most matter-offact of speakers, and expressing much.

From this time, Jackson became the idol of his troops and the country. Wherever he moved among the camps he was met by cheers; and so unvarying was this reception of him, that a distant yell would often draw from his men the exclamation, "That's Jackson or a rabbit!" the sight of the soldier or the appearance of a hare being alone adequate to arouse this tremendous excitement. From the day of Cold Harbour, success continued to crown him-at Cedar Mountain, the second Manassas, Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, where he met the full weight of McClellan's right wing under Hooker, and repulsed it, and Chancellorsville. When he died, struck down by the hands of his own men, he was the most famous and the most beloved of Southern commanders.

II.

His popularity was great in degree, but more singular in character. No general was ever so beloved by the good and pious of the land. Old ladies received him wherever he went with a species of enthusiasm, and I think he preferred their society and that of clergymen to any other. In such society his kindly nature seemed to expand, and his countenance was charming. He would talk for hours upon religious subjects, never weary, it seemed, of such discourse, and at such moments his smile had the sweetness and simplicity of childhood. The hard intellect was resting, and the heart of the soldier spoke in this congenial converse upon themes more dear to him than all others. I have seen him look serene and perfectly happy, conversing with a venerable lady upon their relative religious experiences. Children were also great favourites with him, and he seldom failed to make them love him. When at his headquarters below Fredericksburg, in 1863, he received a splendid