The second incident is less amusing, but was not less appreciated by the rank and file.  Riding one morning near Front Royal, accompanied by his staff, Jackson was stopped by a countrywoman, with a chubby child on either side, who inquired anxiously for her son Johnnie, serving, she said, “in Captain Jackson’s company.”  The general, with the deferential courtesy he never laid aside, introduced himself as her son’s commanding officer, but begged for further information as to his regiment.  The good dame, however, whose interest in the war centred on one individual, appeared astonished that Captain Jackson “did not know her particular Johnnie,” and repeated her inquiries with such tearful emphasis that the young staff officers began to smile.  Unfortunately for themselves, Jackson heard a titter, and turning on them with a scathing rebuke for their want of manners, he sent them off in different directions to discover Johnnie, giving them no rest until mother and son were brought together.

But if the soldiers loved Jackson for his simplicity, and respected him for his honesty, beyond and above was the sense of his strength and power, of his indomitable will, of the inflexibility of his justice, and of the unmeasured resources of his vigorous intellect.  It is curious even after the long lapse of years to hear his veterans speak of their commander.  Laughter mingles with tears; each has some droll anecdote to relate, each some instance of thoughtful sympathy or kindly deed; but it is still plain to be seen how they feared his displeasure, how hard they found his discipline, how conscious they were of their own mental inferiority.  The mighty phantom of their lost leader still dominates their thoughts; just as in the battles of the Confederacy his earthly presentment dominated the will of the Second Army Corps.  In the campaign which had driven the invaders from Virginia, and carried the Confederate colours to within sight of Washington, his men had found their master.  They had forgotten how to criticise.  His generals had learned to trust him.  Success and adulation had not indeed made him more expansive.  He was as reticent as ever, and his troops—­the foot-cavalry as they were now called—­were still marched to and fro without knowing why or whither.  But men and officers, instead of grumbling when they were roused at untimely hours, or when their marches were prolonged, without apparent necessity, obeyed with alacrity, and amused themselves by wondering what new surprise the general was preparing.  “Where are you going?” they were asked as they were turned out for an unexpected march:  “We don’t know, but Old Jack does,” was the laughing reply.  And they had learned something of his methods.  They had discovered the value of time, of activity, of mystery, of resolution.  They discussed his stratagems, gradually evolving, for they were by no means apparent at the time, the object and aim of his manoeuvres; and the stirring verses, sung round every camp-fire, show that the soldiers not only grasped his principles of warfare, but that they knew right well to whom their victories were to be attributed.