ng sympathy, his modesty and his truth,
produced in the end the same result as the personal charm of
Napoleon, of Nelson, and of Lee. His hold on the devotion of his
troops was very sure: "God knows," said his adjutant-general, weeping
the tears of a brave man, "I would have died for him!" and few
commanders have been followed with more implicit confidence or have
inspired a deeper and more abiding affection. Long years after the
war a bronze statue, in his habit as he lived, was erected on his
grave at Lexington. Thither, when the figure was unveiled, came the
survivors of the Second Army Corps, the men of Manassas and of
Sharpsburg, of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and of many
another hard-fought field; and the younger generation looked on the
relics of an army whose peer the world has seldom seen. When the guns
had fired a salute, the wild rebel yell, the music which the great
Virginian had loved so well, rang loud above his grave, and as the
last reverberations died away across the hill, the grey-haired ranks
stood still and silent. "See how they loved him!" said one, and it
was spoken with deepest reverence. Two well-known officers, who had
served under Jackson, were sitting near each other on their horses.
Each remarked the silence of the other, and each saw that the other
was in tears. "I'm not ashamed of it, Snowden!" "Nor I, old boy,"
replied the other, as he tried to smile.

When, after the unveiling, the columns marched past the monument, the
old fellows looked up, and then bowed their uncovered heads and
passed on. But one tall, gaunt soldier of the Stonewall Brigade, as
he passed out of the cemetery, looked back for a moment at the
life-like figure of his general, and waving his old grey hat towards
it, cried out, "Good-bye, old man, good-bye; we've done all we could
for you; good-bye!"

It is not always easy to discern why one general is worshipped, even
by men who have never seen him, while another, of equal or even
superior capacity, fails to awaken the least spark of affection,
except in his chosen friends. Grant was undoubtedly a greater soldier
than McClellan, and the genius of Wellington was not less than that
of Nelson. And yet, while Nelson and McClellan won all hearts, not
one single private had either for Wellington or Grant any warmer
sentiment than respect. It would be as unfair, however, to attribute
selfishness or want of sympathy to either Wellington or Grant, as to
insinuate that