around the man of Kernstown and Port Republic at that time, Ashby was perhaps the most notable and famous. As the great majority of my readers never saw the man, a personal outline of him here in the beginning may interest. Even on this soil there are many thousands who never met that model chevalier and perfect type of manhood. He lives in all memories and

hearts, but not in all eyes.

What the men of Jackson saw at the head of the Valley cavalry in the spring of 1862, was a man rather below the middle height, with an active and vigorous frame, clad in plain Confederate gray. His brown felt hat was decorated with a black feather; his uniform was almost without decorations: his cavalry boots, dusty or splashed with mud, came to the knee; and around his waist he wore a sash and plain leather belt, holding pistol and sabre. The face of this man of thirty or a little more, was noticeable. His complexion was as dark as that of an Arab; his eyes of a deep rich brown, sparkled under well formed brows; and two thirds of his face was covered by a huge black beard and moustache; the latter curling at the ends, the former reaching to his breast. There was thus in the face of the cavalier something Moorish and brigandish; but all idea of a melodramatic personage disappeared as you pressed his hand, looked into his eyes, and spoke to him. The brown eyes, which would flash superbly in battle, were the softest and most friendly imaginable; the voice, which could thrill his men as it rang like a clarion in the charge, was the perfection of mild courtesy. He was as simple and "friendly" as a child in all his words, movements, and the carriage of his person. You could see from his dress, his firm tread, his open and frank glance, that he was a thorough soldier-indeed he always "looked like work "—but under the soldier, as plainly was the gentleman. Such in his plain costume, with his simple manner and retiring modesty, was Ashby, whose name and fame, a brave comrade has truly said, will endure as long as the mountains and valleys which he defended.

II.

The achievements of Ashby can be barely touched on here— history will set them in its purest gold. The pages of the splendid record can only be glanced at now; months of fighting must here be summed up and dismissed in a few sentences.

To look back to his origin-that always counts for something -be was the son of a gentleman of Fauquier, and up to 1861 was only known as a hard rider, a gay companion, and the kindest-hearted of friends. There was absolutely nothing in the youth's character, apparently, which could detach him from the great mass of mediocrities; but under that laughing face, that simple, unassuming manner, was a soul of fire-the unbending spirit of the hero, and no less the genius of the born master of the art of war. When the revolution broke out Ashby got in the saddle, and spent most of his time therein until he fell. It was at this time-on the threshold of the war-that I saw him first. I have described his person-his bearing was full of a charming courtesy. The low, sweet voice made you his friend before you knew it; and so modest and unassuming was his demeanour that a child would instinctively have sought his side and confided in him. The wonder of wonders to me, a few months afterwards, was that this unknown youth, with the simple smile, and the retiring, almost shy demeanour, had become the right hand of Jackson, the terror of the enemy, and had fallen near the bloody ground of Port Republic, mourned by the whole nation of Virginia.

Virginia was his first and last love. When he went to Harper's Ferry in April, 1861, with his brother Richard's cavalry company, some one said: "Well, Ashby, what flag are we going to fight under the Palmetto, or what?" Ashby took off his hat, and exhibited a small square of silk upon which was painted the Virginia shield-the Virgin trampling on the tyrant. "That is the flag I intend to fight under," was his reply; and he accorded it his paramount fealty to the last. Soon after this incident active service commenced on the Upper Potomac; and

another man.

an event occurred which changed Ashby's whole character. His brother Richard, while on a scout near Romney, with a small detachment, was attacked by a strong party of the enemy, his command dispersed, and as he attempted to leap a "cattlestop" in the railroad, his horse fell with him. The enemy rushed upon him, struck him cruelly with their sabres, and killed him before he could rise. Ashby came up at the moment, and with eight men charged them, killing many of them with his own hand. But his brother was dead-the man whom he had loved more than his own life; and thereafter he seemed like Richard Ashby was buried on the banks of the Potomac-his brother nearly fainted at the grave; then he went back to his work. "Ashby is now a devoted man," said one who knew him; and his career seemed to justify the words. He took command of his company, was soon promoted to the rank of a field officer, and from that moment he was on the track of the enemy day and night. Did private vengeance actuate the man, once so kind and sweet-tempered? I know not; but something from this time forward seemed to spur him on to unflagging exertion and ceaseless activity. Day and night he was in the saddle. Mounted upon his fleet white horse, he would often ride, in twenty-four hours, along seventy miles of front, inspecting his pickets, instructing his detachments, and watching the enemy's movements at every point. Here to-day, to-morrow he would be seen nearly a hundred miles distant. The lithe figure on the white horse "came and went like a dream," said one who knew him at that time. And when he appeared it was almost always the signal for an attack, a raid, or a "scout," in

which blood would flow.

In the spring of 1862, when Jackson fell back from Winchester, Ashby, then promoted to the rank of Colonel, commanded all his cavalry. He was already famous for his wonderful activity, his heroic courage, and that utter contempt for danger which was born in his blood. On the Potomac, near Shepherdstown, he had ridden to the top of a crest, swept by the hot fire of the enemy's sharpshooters near at hand; and pacing slowly up and down on his milk-white horse, looked calmly over his

shoulder at his foes, who directed upon him a storm of bullets. He was now to give a proof more striking still of his fearless nerve. Jackson slowly retired from Winchester, the cavalry under Ashby bringing up the rear, with the enemy closely pressing them. The long column defiled through the town, and Ashby remained the last, sitting his horse in the middle of Loudoun street as the Federal forces poured in. The solitary horseman, gazing at them with so much nonchalance, was plainly seen by the Federal officers, and two mounted men were detached to make a circuit by the back streets, and cut off his retreat. Ashby either did not see this manoeuvre, or paid no attention to it. He waited until the Federal column was nearly upon him, and had opened a hot fire-then he turned his horse, waved his hat around his head, and uttering a cheer of defiance, galloped off. All at once, as he galloped down the street, he saw before him the two cavalrymen sent to cut off and capture him. To a man like Ashby, inwardly chafing at being compelled to retreat, no sight could be more agreeable. Here was an opportunity to vent his spleen; and charging the two mounted men, he was soon upon them. One fell with a bullet through his breast; and, coming opposite the other, Ashby seized him by the throat, dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore him off. This scene, which some readers may set down for romance, was witnessed by hundreds both of the Confederate and the Federal army.

During Jackson's retreat Ashby remained in command of the rear, fighting at every step with his cavalry and horse artillery, under Captain Chew. It was dangerous to press such a man. His sharp claws drew blood. As the little column retired sullenly up the valley, fighting off the heavy columns of General Banks, Ashby was in the saddle day and night, and his guns were never silent. The infantry sank to sleep with that thunder in their ears, and the same sound was their reveille at dawn. Weary at last of a proceeding so unproductive, General Banks ceased the pursuit and fell back to Winchester, when Ashby pursued in his turn, and quickly sent intelligence to Jackson, which brought him back to Kernstown. The battle there fol