rehead of a poet!-the statement is almost a jest.
Jackson the stern, intensely matter-of-fact mathematician, a man of fancy!
Never did forehead so contradict phrenology before.
A man more guiltless of poetry in thought or deed, I suppose never lived.
His poetry was the cannon's flash, the rattle of musketry, and the lurid cloud of battle.
Then, it is true, his language, ordinarily so curt and cold, grew eloquent, almost tragic and heroic at times, from the deep feeling of the man. At Malvern Hill, General -- received an order from Jackson to advance and attack the Federal forces in their fortified position, for which purpose he must move across an open field swept by their artillery.
General — was always impracticable, though thoroughly brave, and galloping up to Jackson said, almost rudely, Did you send me an order to advance over that field?
I did, sir, was the cold reply of Jackson, in whose eyes began to glow the light of a coming storm.
e safely declared that they are magnificent illustrations of the mathematics of war; that the brain which conceived and executed designs so bold and splendid, must have possessed a sanity for all practical purposes difficult to dispute.
Jackson's religious opinions are unknown to the present writer.
He has been called a fatalist.
All sensible men are fatalists in one sense, in possessing a strong conviction that what will be, will be.
But men of deep piety like Jackson, are not Oriental in their views.
Fate was a mere word with Jackson, with no meaning; his star was Providence.
Love for and trust in that Providence dwelt and beat in every vein and pulse of his nature.
His whole soul was absorbed in his religion — as much as a merchant's is in his business, or a statesman's in public affairs.
He believed that life meant intensely, and meant good.
To find its meaning was his meat and drink.
His religion was his life, and the real world a mere phantasmagoria.