s achievement perhaps above the more useful
success at Williamsburg.

Then came the news from the Valley.

That wonderful campaign--which far exceeds in strategic power,
brilliant dash and great results any other combination of the war--had
been fought and won! It has been justly compared, by a competent and
eloquent critic, to Napoleon's campaign in Italy; and--paling all his
other deeds--it clearly spoke Stonewall Jackson the Napoleon of the
South.

Coolly looking back at its details, the thinker even now is struck with
respectful wonder.

Hurling his little force against Front Royal; flashing to Winchester
and routing Banks; slipping between the close converging lines of
Fremont and Shields--just in time to avoid being crushed between
them--and bearing with him miles of wagon train and spoils; turning on
the pursuing columns of Fremont, driving him back, and then sweeping
Shields from his path like chaff--Jackson clears his way and marches on
for Richmond!

Still onward, scarcely halting for food or rest--ever on to strike new
terror when thought far away; weary, footsore--with scarcely one-half
its former number, but flushed with victory and panting for further
fame--the little band toils on, passes around Richmond and, just as the
opposing cannon begin their last grim argument for her possession, hurl
themselves like an Alpine torrent on the flank of the enemy!

The loss in this wonderful campaign was comparatively small, when we
consider the rapidity of the movements; the terrible marches and the
stubborn fighting against overwhelming numbers.

But there was one place vacant that none could fill. There was one name
that brought the cloud to the brow of the giddiest youth, or the tear
to the eye of the toughest veteran in those sturdy ranks; one name that
stilled the song on the march and hushed the rough gossip of the
bivouac to a saddened whisper. Turner Ashby was dead!

True knight--doughty leader--high-hearted gentleman--he had fallen when
the fighting was well-nigh over--his _devoir_ nobly done and his name
as stainless as the bright blade he ever flashed foremost in the fight!

Chivalric--lion-hearted--strong armed--

"Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,
Braver, knightlier foe
Never fought 'gainst Moor or Paynim--
Rode at Templestowe!"

All the country missed Ashby. But Virginia mourned him most; and among
her stricken sons, those hard-handed, ragged heroes of Jac