his severity, and when they looked upon that kindly face, grave and determined as it was, they realised how closely his firmness was allied to tenderness.  They had learned how highly he esteemed them.  Once, in his twelve months of command, he had spoken from his heart.  When, on the heights near Centreville, he bade farewell to his old brigade, his pride in their achievements had broken through the barriers of his reserve, and his ringing words had not yet been forgotten.  If he was swift to blame, his general orders and official dispatches gave full credit to every gallant action, and each man felt himself a hero because his general so regarded him.

They had learned, too, that Jackson’s commendation was worth having.  They had seen him in action, the coolest of them all, riding along the line of battle with as much composure as if the hail of bullets was no more than summer rain.  They had seen him far in advance of the charging lines, cheering them to the pursuit; and they knew the tremendous vigour of his flank attacks.

But it was not only confidence in the skill of their commander that inspired the troops.  It was impossible not to admire the man who, after a sleepless night, a long march, and hard fighting, would say to his officers, “We must push on—­we must push on!” as unconcernedly as if his muscles were of steel and hunger an unknown sensation.  Such fortitude was contagious.  The men caught something of his resolution, of his untiring energy, and his unhesitating audacity.  The regiments which drove Banks to the Potomac were very different from those that crawled to Romney through the blinding sleet, or that fell back with the loss of one-sixth their number from the Kernstown Ridge.  It has been related of Jackson that when he had once made up his mind, “he seemed to discard all idea of defeat, and to regard the issue as assured.  A man less open to the conviction that he was beaten could not be imagined.”  To this frame of mind he brought his soldiers.  Jackson’s brigade at Bull Run, Jackson’s division in the Valley, Jackson’s army corps later in the war, were all imbued with the characteristics of their leader.  The exertions that he demanded of them seemed beyond the powers of mortal men, but with Jackson leading them the troops felt themselves able to accomplish impossibilities.  “I never saw one of Jackson’s couriers approach,” said Ewell, “without expecting an order to assault the North Pole!” But had the order been given neither Ewell nor the Valley troops would have questioned it.

With the senior officers of his little army Jackson’s relations were in some instances less cordial than with the men.  His staff was devoted to him, for they had learned to know him.  At the beginning of the Valley campaign some of them thought him mad; before it was over they believed him to be a genius.  He lived with his military family on the most intimate terms, and his unfailing courtesy, his utter absence of self-assertion, his sweet temper, and his tactful