sacrificing all things, the
prototype and model of a new army, in which North and South shall
march to battle side by side. ABSIT OMEN! But in whatever fashion his
own countrymen may deal with the problems of the future, the story of
Stonewall Jackson will tell them in what spirit they should be faced.
Nor has that story a message for America alone. The hero who lies
buried at Lexington, in the Valley of Virginia, belongs to a race
that is not confined to a single continent; and to those who speak
the same tongue, and in whose veins the same blood flows, his words
come home like an echo of all that is noblest in their history: "What
is life without honour? Degradation is worse than death. We must
think of the living and of those who are to come after us, and see
that by God's blessing we transmit to them the freedom we have
ourselves inherited."

NOTE 1.

Mr. W.P. St. John, President of the Mercantile Bank of New York,
relates the following incident:--A year or two ago he was in the
Shenandoah Valley with General Thomas Jordan, C.S.A., and at the
close of the day they found themselves at the foot of the mountains
in a wild and lonely place; there was no village, and no house, save
a rough shanty for the use of the "track-walker" on the railroad. It
was not an attractive place for rest, yet here they were forced to
pass the night, and to sit down to such supper as might be provided
in so desolate a spot. The unprepossessing look of everything was
completed when the host came in and took his seat at the head of the
table. A bear out of the woods could hardly have been rougher, with
his unshaven hair and unkempt beard. He answered to the type of
border ruffian, and his appearance suggested the dark deeds that
might be done here in secret, and hidden in the forest gloom. Imagine
the astonishment of the travellers when this rough backwoodsman
rapped on the table and bowed his head. And such a prayer! "Never,"
says Mr. St. John, "did I hear a petition that more evidently came
from the heart. It was so simple, so reverent, so tender, so full of
humility and penitence, as well as of thankfulness. We sat in
silence, and as soon as we recovered ourselves I whispered to General
Jordan, 'Who can he be?' To which he answered, 'I don't know, but he
must be one of Stonewall Jackson's old soldiers.' And he was. As we
walked out in the open air, I accosted our new acquaintance, and
after a few questions about the country, asked, 'W