Not only with the army, but with the people of the South, his influence while he lived was very great.  From him thousands and ten thousands of Confederate soldiers learned the self-denial which is the root of all religion, the self-control which is the root of all manliness.* (* See Note at end of volume.) Beyond the confines of the camps he was personally unknown.  In the social and political circles of Richmond his figure was unfamiliar.  When his body lay in state the majority of those who passed through the Hall of Representatives looked upon his features for the first time.  He had never been called to council by the President, and the members of the Legislature, with but few exceptions, had no acquaintance with the man who acted while they deliberated.  But his fame had spread far and wide, and not merely the fame of his victories, but of his Christian character.  The rare union of strength and simplicity, of child-like faith and the most fiery energy, had attracted the sympathy of the whole country, of the North as well as of the South; and beyond the Atlantic, where with breathless interest the parent islands were watching the issue of the mighty conflict, it seemed that another Cromwell without Cromwell’s ambition, or that another Wolfe with more than Wolfe’s ability, had arisen among the soldiers of the youngest of nations.  And this interest was intensified by his untimely end.  When it was reported that Jackson had fallen, men murmured in their dismay against the fiat of the Almighty.  “Why,” they asked, “had one so pure and so upright been suddenly cut down?” Yet a sufficient answer was not far to seek.  To the English race, in whatever quarter of the globe it holds dominion, to the race of Alfred and De Montfort, of Bruce and Hampden, of Washington and Gordon, the ideal of manhood has ever been a high one.  Self-sacrifice and the single heart are the attributes which it most delights to honour; and chief amongst its accepted heroes are those soldier-saints who, sealing their devotion with their lives, have won

Death’s royal purple in the foeman’s lines.

So, from his narrow grave on the green hillside at Lexington, Jackson speaks with voice more powerful than if, passing peacefully away, in the fulness of years and honours, he had found a resting-place in some proud sepulchre, erected by a victorious and grateful commonwealth.  And who is there who can refuse to listen?  His creed may not be ours; but in whom shall we find a firmer faith, a mind more humble, a sincerity more absolute?  He had his temptations like the rest of us.  His passions were strong; his temper was hot; forgiveness never came easily to him, and he loved power.  He dreaded strong liquor because he liked it; and if in his nature there were great capacities for good, there were none the less, had it been once perverted, great capacities for evil.  Fearless and strong, self-dependent and ambitious, he had within him the making of a Napoleon, and yet his name is without spot or blemish.  From his boyhood onward, until he died on the Rappahannock, he was the very model of a Christian gentleman:—­