of success owing to the shortcomings of others; and these shortcomings, such as Loring’s insubordination at Romney, Steuart’s refusal to pursue Banks after Winchester, Garnett’s retreat at Kernstown, A.P.  Hill’s tardiness at Cedar Run, might all be traced to the same cause—­disdain of his capacity, and a misconception of their own position.  In such circumstances it is hardly to be wondered at if his wrath blazed to a white heat.  He was not of a forgiving nature.  Once roused, resentment took possession of his whole being, and it may be questioned whether it was ever really appeased.  At the same time, the fact that Jackson lacked the fascination which, allied to lofty intellect, wins the hearts of men most readily, and is pre-eminently the characteristic of the very greatest warriors, can hardly be denied.  His influence with men was a plant of slow growth.  Yet the glamour of his great deeds, the gradual recognition of his unfailing sympathy, his modesty and his truth, produced in the end the same result as the personal charm of Napoleon, of Nelson, and of Lee.  His hold on the devotion of his troops was very sure:  “God knows,” said his adjutant-general, weeping the tears of a brave man, “I would have died for him!” and few commanders have been followed with more implicit confidence or have inspired a deeper and more abiding affection.  Long years after the war a bronze statue, in his habit as he lived, was erected on his grave at Lexington.  Thither, when the figure was unveiled, came the survivors of the Second Army Corps, the men of Manassas and of Sharpsburg, of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and of many another hard-fought field; and the younger generation looked on the relics of an army whose peer the world has seldom seen.  When the guns had fired a salute, the wild rebel yell, the music which the great Virginian had loved so well, rang loud above his grave, and as the last reverberations died away across the hill, the grey-haired ranks stood still and silent.  “See how they loved him!” said one, and it was spoken with deepest reverence.  Two well-known officers, who had served under Jackson, were sitting near each other on their horses.  Each remarked the silence of the other, and each saw that the other was in tears.  “I’m not ashamed of it, Snowden!” “Nor I, old boy,” replied the other, as he tried to smile.

When, after the unveiling, the columns marched past the monument, the old fellows looked up, and then bowed their uncovered heads and passed on.  But one tall, gaunt soldier of the Stonewall Brigade, as he passed out of the cemetery, looked back for a moment at the life-like figure of his general, and waving his old grey hat towards it, cried out, “Good-bye, old man, good-bye; we’ve done all we could for you; good-bye!”