E’en as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth, In simpleness, and gentleness, and honour, and clean mirth.

Paradox as it may sound, the great rebel was the most loyal of men.  His devotion to Virginia was hardly surpassed by his devotion to his wife.  And he made no secret of his absolute dependence on a higher power.  Every action was a prayer, for every action was begun and ended in the name of the Almighty.  Consciously and unconsciously, in deed as in word, in the quiet of his home and in the tumult of battle, he fastened to his soul those golden chains “that bind the whole round earth about the feet of God.”  Nor was their burden heavy.  “He was the happiest man,” says one of his friends, “I ever knew,” and he was wont to express his surprise that others were less happy than himself.

But there are few with Jackson’s power of concentration.  He fought evil with the same untiring energy that he fought the North.  His relations to his moral duties were governed by the same strong purpose, the same clear perception of the aim to be achieved, and of the means whereby it was to be achieved, as his manoeuvres on the field of battle.  He was always thorough.  And it was because he was thorough—­true, steadfast, and consistent, that he reached the heroic standard.  His attainments were not varied.  His interests, so far as his life’s work was concerned, were few and narrow.  Beyond his religion and the army he seldom permitted his thoughts to stray.  His acquaintance with art was small.  He meddled little with politics.  His scholarship was not profound, and he was neither sportsman nor naturalist.  Compared with many of the prominent figures of history the range of his capacity was limited.

And yet Jackson’s success in his own sphere was phenomenal, while others, perhaps of more pronounced ability, seeking success in many different directions, have failed to find it in a single one.  Even when we contrast his recorded words with the sayings of those whom the world calls great—­statesmen, orators, authors—­his inferiority is hardly apparent.  He saw into the heart of things, both human and divine, far deeper than most men.  He had an extraordinary facility for grasping the essential and discarding the extraneous.  His language was simple and direct, without elegance or embellishment, and yet no one has excelled him in crystallising great principles in a single phrase.  The few maxims which fell from his lips are almost a complete summary of the art of war.  Neither Frederick, nor Wellington, nor Napoleon realised more deeply the simple truths which ever since men first took up arms have been the elements of success; and not Hampden himself beheld with clearer insight the duties and obligations which devolve on those who love their country well, but freedom more.