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[153] Jackson, with his giant will, his unblenching faith, his heroic devotion, face to face, after all, with the lost cause! What would he have done? This question has been often asked me, and, my answer has always been: In no event could Jackson have survived to see the cause lost. What, you say: would he have been guilty of suicide? Would he, in the last-lost-battle, have sacrificed himself upon his country's funeral pyre? No. But I believe that as his clear eye saw the approaching catastrophe, his faithful zeal would have spurred him to strive so devotedly to avert it that he would either have overwrought his powers or met his death in generous forgetfulness (not in intentional desperation) on the foremost edge of battle. For him there was destined to be no subjugation! The God whom he served so well was too gracious to his favorite son. Less faithful servants, like us, may need this bitter scourge. He was meeter for his reward.

Yes, there is solid consolation in the thought: Jackson is dead. Does it seem sometimes as we stand beside the little green mound at the Lexington graveyard, a right pitiful thing, that here, beneath these few feet of turf, garnished with no memorial but a faded wreath (faded like the cause he loved) and the modest little stone placed there by the trembling hand of a weeping woman (only hand generous and brave enough even to rear a stone to Jackson in all the broad land baptized by his heart's blood), that there lies all this world contains of that great glory. That this pure devotion, this matchless courage, this towering genius are all clean gone forever out of this earth; gone amidst the utter wreck of the beloved cause which inspired them. Ah, but it was more pitiful to see a Lee bearing his proud, sad head above that sod, surrounded by the skeleton of that wreck, head stately as of old, yet bleached prematurely by irremediable sorrow, with that eye revealing its measureless depths of grief even beneath its patient smile. More pitiful to see the great heart break with an anguish which it would not stoop to utter, because it must behold its country's death, and was forbidden of God to die before it. But pitifulest of all is the sight of those former comrades of Jackson and Lee, who are willing to live and to be basely consoled with the lures of the oppressor, and who thus survive not only their country, but their own manhood. Yes, beside that sight the grave of Jackson is luminous with joy.

I well remember the only time when I saw him admit a prognostic of final defeat. It was a Sabbath day of May, 1862, as bright and calm as that which ushered in the battle of Port Republic. We were riding alone, slowly, to a religious service in a distant camp, and communing

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