enemy had escaped.  If his men were capable of further efforts on the night of May 5, they were capable of them the next day; and it was neither the ravages of battle nor the disorganisation of the army that held the Confederates fast, but the deficiency of supplies, the damage done to the railways by Stoneman’s horsemen, the weakness of the cavalry, and, principally, the hesitation of the Government.  After the victory of Chancellorsville, strong hopes of peace were entertained in the South.  Before Hooker advanced, a large section of the Northern Democrats, despairing of ultimate success, had once more raised the cry that immediate separation was better, than a hopeless contest, involving such awful sacrifices, and it needed all Lincoln’s strength to stem the tide of disaffection.

The existence of this despondent feeling was well known to the Southern statesmen; and to such an extent did they count upon its growth and increase that they had overlooked altogether the importance of improving a victory, should the army be successful; so now, when the chance had come, they were neither ready to forward such an enterprise, nor could they make up their minds to depart from their passive attitude.  But to postpone all idea of counterstroke until some indefinite period is as fatal in strategy as in tactics.  By no means an uncommon policy, it has been responsible for the loss of a thousand opportunities.

Had not politics intervened, a vigorous pursuit—­not necessarily involving an immediate attack, but drawing Hooker, as Pope had been drawn in the preceding August, into an unfavourable situation, before his army had had time to recover—­would have probably been initiated.  It may be questioned, however, whether General Lee, even when Longstreet and his divisions joined him, would have been so strong as he had been at the end of April.  None felt more deeply than the Commander-in-Chief that the absence of Jackson was an irreparable misfortune.  “Give him my affectionate regards,” he said to an aide-de-camp who was riding to the hospital; “tell him to make haste and get well, and come back to me as soon as he can.  He has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right.”  “Any victory,” he wrote privately, “would be dear at such a price.  I know not how to replace him.”

His words were prophetic.  Exactly two months after Chancellorsville the armies met once more in the clash of battle.  During the first two days, on the rolling plain round Gettysburg, a village of Pennsylvania, four Federal army corps were beaten in succession, but ere the sun set on the third Lee had to admit defeat.

And yet his soldiers had displayed the same fiery courage and stubborn persistence which had carried them victorious through the Wilderness.  But his “right arm” had not yet been replaced.  “If,” he said after the war, with unaccustomed emphasis, “I had had Jackson at Gettysburg I should have won the battle, and a complete victory there would have resulted in the establishment of Southern independence.”