LEXINGTON. 1851–1861
1848 Of Jackson’s life at Fort Hamilton there is little to tell. His
friend and mentor, Colonel Taylor, was in command. The chaplain, once
an officer of dragoons, was a man of persuasive eloquence and earnest
zeal; and surrounded by influences which had now become congenial, the
young major of artillery pursued the religious studies he had begun in
Mexico. There was some doubt whether he had been baptised as a child.
He was anxious that no uncertainty should exist as to his adhesion to
Christianity, but he was unwilling that the sacrament should bind him
to any particular sect.
1849 On the understanding that no surrender of judgment would be
involved, he was baptised and received his first communion in the
Episcopal Church.
Two years passed without incident, and then Jackson was transferred to
Florida. In his new quarters his stay was brief.
1851 In March 1851 he was appointed Professor of Artillery Tactics and
Natural Philosophy at the Virginia Military Institute. His success, for
such he deemed it, was due to his own merit. One of his Mexican
comrades, Major D. H. Hill, afterwards his brother-in-law, was a
professor in a neighbouring institution, Washington College, and had
been consulted by the Superintendent of the Institute as to the filling
of the vacant chair.
Hill remembered what had been said of Jackson at West Point: “If the
course had been one year longer he would have graduated at the head of
his class.” This voluntary testimonial of his brother cadets had not
passed
unheeded. It had weight, as the best evidence of his thoroughness and
application, with the Board of Visitors, and Jackson was unanimously
elected.
The Military Institute, founded twelve years previously on the model of
West Point, was attended by several hundred youths from Virginia and
other Southern States. At Lexington, in the county of Rockbridge, a
hundred miles west of Richmond, stand the castellated buildings and the
wide parade ground which formed the nursery of so many Confederate
soldiers. To the east rise the lofty masses of the Blue Ridge. To the
north successive ranges of rolling hills, green with copse and
woodland, fall gently to the lower levels; and stretching far away at
their feet, watered by that lovely river which the Indians in melodious
syllables called Shenandoah, “bright daughter of the Stars,” the great
Valley of Virginia,
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows,
lies embosomed within its mountain walls. Of all its pleasant market
towns, Lexington is not the least attractive; and in this pastoral
region, where the great forests stand round about the corn-fields, and
the breezes blow untainted from the uplands, had been built the College
which Washington, greatest of Virginians and greatest of American
soldiers, had endowed. Under the shadow of its towers the State had
found an appropriate site for her military school.
The cadets of the Institute, although they wore a uniform, were taught
by officers of the regular army, were disciplined as soldiers, and
spent some months of their course in camp, were not destined for a
military career. All aspirants for commissions in the United States
army had to pass through West Point; and the training of the State
colleges—for Virginia was not solitary in the possession of such an
institution—however much it may have benefited both the minds and
bodies of the rising generation, was of immediate value only to those
who became officers of the State militia. Still in all essential
respects the Military Institute was
little behind West Point. The discipline was as strict, the drill but
little less precise. The cadets had their own officers and their own
sergeants, and the whole establishment was administered on a military
footing. No pains were spared either by the State or the faculty to
maintain the peculiar character of the school; and the little
battalion, although the members were hardly likely to see service, was
as carefully trained as if each private in the ranks might one day
become a general officer. It was fortunate indeed for Virginia, when
she submitted her destinies to the arbitrament of war, that some
amongst her statesmen had been firm to the conviction that to defend
one’s country is a task not a whit less honourable than to serve her in
the ways of peace. She was unable to avert defeat. But she more than
redeemed her honour; and the efficiency of her troops was in no small
degree due to the training so many of her officers had received at the
Military Institute.
Still, notwithstanding its practical use to the State, the offer of a
chair at Lexington would probably have attracted but few of Jackson’s
contemporaries. But while campaigning was entirely to his taste, life
in barracks was the reverse. In those unenlightened days to be known as
an able and zealous soldier was no passport to preferment. So long as
an officer escaped censure his promotion was sure; he might reach
without further effort the highest prizes the service offered, and the
chances of the dull and indolent were quite as good as those of the
capable and energetic. The one had no need for, the other no incentive
to, self-improvement, and it was very generally neglected. Unless war
intervened—and nothing seemed more improbable than another
campaign—even a Napoleon would have had to submit to the inevitable.
Jackson caught eagerly at the opportunity of freeing himself from an
unprofitable groove.
“He believed,” he said, “that a man who had turned, with a good
military reputation, to pursuits of a semi-civilian character, and had
vigorously prosecuted his mental improvement, would have more chance of
success
in war than those who had remained in the treadmill of the garrison.”
It was with a view, then, of fitting himself for command that Jackson
broke away from the restraints of regimental life; not because those
restraints were burdensome or distasteful in themselves, but because he
felt that whilst making the machine they might destroy the man. Those
responsible for the efficiency of the United States army had not yet
learned that the mind must be trained as well as the body, that drill
is not the beginning and the end of the soldier’s education, that
unless an officer is trusted with responsibility in peace he is but too
apt to lose all power of initiative in war. That Jackson’s ideas were
sound may be inferred from the fact that many of the most distinguished
generals in the Civil War were men whose previous career had been
analogous to his own.[1]
His duties at Lexington were peculiar. As Professor of Artillery he was
responsible for little more than the drill of the cadets and their
instruction in the theory of gunnery. The tactics of artillery, as the
word is understood in Europe, he was not called upon to impart. Optics,
mechanics, and astronomy were his special subjects, and he seems
strangely out of place in expounding their dry formulas.
In the well-stocked library of the Institute he found every opportunity
of increasing his professional knowledge. He was an untiring reader,
and he read to learn. The wars of Napoleon were his constant study. He
was an enthusiastic admirer of his genius; the swiftness, the daring,
and the energy of his movements appealed to his every instinct.
Unfortunately, both for the Institute and his popularity, it was not
his business to lecture on military history. We can well imagine him,
as a teacher of the art of war, describing to the impressionable youths
around
him the dramatic incidents of some famous campaign, following step by
step the skilful strategy that brought about such victories as
Austerlitz and Jena. The advantage would then have been with his
pupils; in the work assigned to him it was the teacher that benefited.
He was by no means successful as an instructor of the higher
mathematics. Although the theories of light and motion were doubtless a
branch of learning which the cadets particularly detested, his methods
of teaching made it even more repellent. A thorough master of his
subject, he lacked altogether the power of aiding others to master it.
No flashes of humour relieved the tedium of his long and
closely-reasoned demonstrations. He never descended to the level of his
pupils’ understanding, nor did he appreciate their difficulties. Facts
presented themselves to his intellect in few lights. As one of his
chief characteristics as a commander was the clearness with which he
perceived the end to be aimed at and the shortest way of reaching it,
so, in his explanations to his stumbling class, he could only repeat
the process by which he himself had solved the problem at issue. We may
well believe that his self-reliant nature, trained to intense
application, overlooked the fact that others, weaker and less gifted,
could not surmount unaided the obstacles which only aroused his own
masterful instincts. Nevertheless, his conscientious industry was not
entirely thrown away. To the brighter intellects in his class he
communicated accurate scholarship; and although the majority lagged far
behind, the thoroughness of his mental drill was most useful, to
himself perhaps even more than to the cadets.
1854–57 The death of his first wife, daughter of the reverend Dr.
Junkin, President of Washington College, after they had been married
but fourteen months, the solution of his religious difficulties, and
his reception into the Presbyterian Church; a five months’ tour in
Europe, through Scotland, England, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy; his
marriage to Miss Morrison, daughter of a North Carolina clergyman: such
were the chief landmarks of his life at Lexington. Ten years,
with their burden of joy and sorrow, passed away, of intense interest
to the individual, but to the world a story dull and commonplace.
Jackson was by no means a man of mark in Rockbridge county. Although
his early shyness had somewhat worn off, he was still as reserved as he
had been at West Point. His confidence was rarely given outside his own
home. Intimates he had few, either at the Institute or elsewhere. Still
he was not in the least unsociable, and there were many houses where he
was always welcome. The academic atmosphere of Lexington did not
preclude a certain amount of gaiety. The presence of Washington College
and the Military Institute drew together a large number of families
during the summer, and fair visitors thronged the leafy avenues of the
little town. During these pleasant months the officers and cadets, as
became their cloth, were always well to the fore. Recreation was the
order of the day, and a round of entertainments enlivened the
“Commencements.” Major Jackson attended these gatherings with unfailing
regularity, but soon after his arrival he drew the line at dancing, and
musical parties became the limit of his dissipation. He was anything
but a convivial companion. He never smoked, he was a strict
teetotaller, and he never touched a card. His diet, for reasons of
health, was of a most sparing kind; nothing could tempt him to partake
of food between his regular hours, and for many years he abstained from
both tea and coffee. In those peaceful times, moreover, there was
nothing either commanding or captivating about the Professor of
Artillery. His little romance in Mexico had given him no taste for
trivial pleasures; and his somewhat formal manner was not redeemed by
any special charm of feature. The brow and jaw were undoubtedly
powerful; but the eyes were gentle, and the voice so mild and soft as
to belie altogether the set determination of the thin straight lips.
Yet, at the same time, if Jackson was not formed for general society,
he was none the less capable of making himself exceedingly agreeable in
a restricted and congenial circle. Young and old, when once they had
gained his confidence, came under
the spell of his noble nature; and if his friends were few they were
very firm.
Why Jackson should have preferred the Presbyterian denomination to all
others we are nowhere told. But whatever his reasons may have been, he
was a most zealous and hardworking member of his church. He was not
content with perfunctory attendances at the services. He became a
deacon, and a large portion of his leisure time was devoted to the work
which thus devolved on him. His duties were to collect alms and to
distribute to the destitute, and nothing was permitted to interfere
with their exact performance. He was exceedingly charitable himself—one
tenth of his income was laid aside for the church, and he gave freely
to all causes of benevolence and public enterprise. At the church
meetings, whether for business or prayer, he was a regular attendant,
and between himself and his pastor existed the most confidential
relations. Nor did he consider that this was all that was demanded of
him. In Lexington, as in other Southern towns, there were many poor
negroes, and the condition of these ignorant and helpless creatures,
especially of the children, excited his compassion. Out of his own
means he established a Sunday school, in which he and his wife were the
principal teachers. His friends were asked to send their slaves, and
the experiment was successful. The benches were always crowded, and the
rows of black, bright-eyed faces were a source of as much pride to him
as the martial appearance of the cadet battalion.
Jackson’s religion entered into every action of his life. No duty,
however trivial, was begun without asking a blessing, or ended without
returning thanks. “He had long cultivated,” he said, “the habit of
connecting the most trivial and customary acts of life with a silent
prayer.” He took the Bible as his guide, and it is possible that his
literal interpretation of its precepts caused many to regard him as a
fanatic. His observance of the Sabbath was hardly in accordance with
ordinary usage. He never read a letter on that day, nor posted one; he
believed that the Government in carrying the mails were violating a
divine
law, and he considered the suppression of such traffic one of the most
important duties of the legislature. Such opinions were uncommon, even
amongst the Presbyterians, and his rigid respect for truth served to
strengthen the impression that he was morbidly scrupulous. If he
unintentionally made a misstatement—even about some trifling matter—as
soon as he discovered his mistake he would lose no time and spare no
trouble in hastening to correct it. “Why, in the name of reason,” he
was asked, “do you walk a mile in the rain for a perfectly unimportant
thing?” “Simply because I have discovered that it was a misstatement,
and I could not sleep comfortably unless I put it right.”
He had occasion to censure a cadet who had given, as Jackson believed,
the wrong solution of a problem. On thinking the matter over at home he
found that the pupil was right and the teacher wrong. It was late at
night and in the depth of winter, but he immediately started off to the
Institute, some distance from his quarters, and sent for the cadet. The
delinquent, answering with much trepidation the untimely summons, found
himself to his astonishment the recipient of a frank apology. Jackson’s
scruples carried him even further. Persons who interlarded their
conversation with the unmeaning phrase “you know” were often astonished
by the blunt interruption that he did _not_ know; and when he was
entreated at parties or receptions to break through his dietary rules,
and for courtesy’s sake to accept some delicacy, he would always refuse
with the reply that he had “no genius for seeming.” But if he carried
his conscientiousness to extremes, if he laid down stringent rules for
his own governance, he neither set himself up for a model nor did he
attempt to force his convictions upon others. He was always tolerant;
he knew his own faults, and his own temptations, and if he could say
nothing good of a man he would not speak of him at all. But he was by
no means disposed to overlook conduct of which he disapproved, and
undue leniency was a weakness to which he never yielded. If he once
lost confidence or discovered deception on the
part of one he trusted, he withdrew himself as far as possible from any
further dealings with him; and whether with the cadets, or with his
brother-officers, if an offence had been committed of which he was
called upon to take notice, he was absolutely inflexible. Punishment or
report inevitably followed. No excuses, no personal feelings, no
appeals to the suffering which might be brought upon the innocent, were
permitted to interfere with the execution of his duty.
Such were the chief characteristics of the great Confederate as he
appeared to the little world of Lexington. The tall figure, clad in the
blue uniform of the United States army, always scrupulously neat,
striding to and from the Institute, or standing in the centre of the
parade-ground, while the cadet battalion wheeled and deployed at his
command, was familiar to the whole community. But Jackson’s heart was
not worn on his sleeve. Shy and silent as he was, the knowledge that
even his closest acquaintances had of him was hardly more than
superficial. A man who was always chary of expressing his opinions,
unless they were asked for, who declined argument, and used as few
words as possible, attracted but little notice. A few recognised his
clear good sense; the majority considered that if he said little it was
because he had nothing worth saying. Because he went his own way and
lived by his own rules he was considered eccentric; because he was
sometimes absent-minded, and apt to become absorbed in his own
thoughts, he was set down as unpractical; his literal accuracy of
statement was construed as the mark of a narrow intellect, and his
exceeding modesty served to keep him in the background.
At the Institute, despite his reputation for courage, he was no
favourite even with the cadets. He was hardly in sympathy with them.
His temper was always equable. Whatever he may have felt he never
betrayed irritation, and in the lecture-room or elsewhere he was
kindness itself; but his own life had been filled from boyhood with
earnest purpose and high ambition. Hard work was more to his taste than
amusement. Time, to his mind, was far
too valuable to be wasted, and he made few allowances for the
thoughtlessness and indolence of irresponsible youth. As a relief
possibly to the educational treadmill, his class delighted in listening
to the story of Contreras and Chapultepec; but there was nothing about
Jackson which corresponded with a boy’s idea of a hero. His aggressive
punctuality, his strict observance of military etiquette, his precise
interpretation of orders, seemed to have as little in common with the
fierce excitement of battle as the uninteresting occupations of the
Presbyterian deacon, who kept a Sunday school for negroes, had with the
reckless gaiety of the traditional _sabreur._
“And yet,” says one who know him, “they imbibed the principles he
taught. Slowly and certainly were they trained in the direction which
the teacher wished. Jackson justly believed that the chief value of the
Institute consisted in the habits of system and obedience which it
impressed on the ductile characters of the cadets, and regarded any
relaxation of the rules as tending to destroy its usefulness. His
conscientiousness seemed absurd to the young gentlemen who had no idea
of the importance of military orders or of the implicit obedience which
a good soldier deems it his duty to pay to them. But which was
right—the laughing young cadet or the grave major of artillery? Let the
thousands who in the bitter and arduous struggle of the Civil War were
taught by stern experience the necessity of strict compliance with all
orders, to the very letter, answer the question.”[2]
[Illustration: Stonewall Jackson]
“As exact as the multiplication table, and as full of things military
as an arsenal,” was the verdict passed on Jackson by one of his
townsmen, and it appears to have been the opinion of the community at
large.
Jackson, indeed, was as inarticulate as Cromwell. Like the great
Protector he “lived silent,” and like him he was often misunderstood.
Stories which have been repeated by writer after writer attribute to
him the most grotesque eccentricities of manner, and exhibit his lofty
piety as the harsh intolerance of a fanatic. He has been
represented as the narrowest of Calvinists; and so general was the
belief in his stern and merciless nature that a great poet did not
scruple to link his name with a deed which, had it actually occurred,
would have been one of almost unexampled cruelty. Such calumnies as
Whittier’s “Barbara Frichtie” may possibly have found their source in
the impression made upon some of Jackson’s acquaintances at Lexington,
who, out of all sympathy with his high ideal of life and duty, regarded
him as morose and morbid; and when in after years the fierce and
relentless pursuit of the Confederate general piled the dead high upon
the battle-field, this conception of his character was readily
accepted. As he rose to fame, men listened greedily to those who could
speak of him from personal knowledge; the anecdotes which they related
were quickly distorted; the slightest peculiarities of walk, speech, or
gesture were greatly exaggerated; and even Virginians seemed to vie
with one another in representing the humble and kind-hearted soldier as
the most bigoted of Christians and the most pitiless of men.
But just as the majority of ridiculous stories which cluster round his
name rest on the very flimsiest foundation, so the popular conception
of his character during his life at Lexington was absolutely erroneous.
It was only within the portals of his home that his real nature
disclosed itself. The simple and pathetic pages in which his widow has
recorded the story of their married life unfold an almost ideal picture
of domestic happiness, unchequered by the faintest glimpse of austerity
or gloom. That quiet home was the abode of much content; the sunshine
of sweet temper flooded every nook and corner; and although the
pervading atmosphere was essentially religious, mirth and laughter were
familiar guests.
“Those who knew General Jackson only as they saw him in public would
have found it hard to believe that there could be such a transformation
as he exhibited in his domestic life. He luxuriated in the freedom and
liberty of his home, and his buoyancy and joyousness often ran into a
playfulness and abandon that would have been
incredible to those who saw him only when he put on his official
dignity.”[3] It was seldom, indeed, except under his own roof, or in
the company of his intimates, that his reserve was broken through; in
society he was always on his guard, fearful lest any chance word might
be misconstrued or give offence. It is no wonder, then, that Lexington
misjudged him. Nor were those who knew him only when he was absorbed in
the cares of command before the enemy likely to see far below the
surface. The dominant trait in Jackson’s character was his intense
earnestness, and when work was doing, every faculty of his nature was
engrossed in the accomplishment of the task on hand. But precise,
methodical, and matter-of-fact as he appeared, his was no commonplace
and prosaic nature. He had “the delicacy and the tenderness which are
the rarest and most beautiful ornament of the strong.”[4] Beneath his
habitual gravity a vivid imagination, restrained indeed by strong sense
and indulging in no vain visions, was ever at work; and a lofty
enthusiasm, which seldom betrayed itself in words, inspired his whole
being. He was essentially chivalrous. His deference to woman, even in a
land where such deference was still the fashion, was remarkable, and
his sympathy with the oppressed was as deep as his loyalty to Virginia.
He was an ardent lover of nature. The autumnal glories of the forest,
the songs of the birds, the splendours of the sunset, were sources of
unfailing pleasure. More than all, the strength of his imagination
carried him further than the confines of the material world, and he saw
with unclouded vision the radiant heights that lie beyond.
Jackson, then, was something more than a man of virile temperament; he
was gifted with other qualities than energy, determination, and common
sense. He was not witty. He had no talent for repartee, and the most
industrious collector of anecdotes will find few good things attributed
to him. But he possessed a kindly humour which found vent in playful
expressions of endearment, or in practical jokes of the most innocent
description; and if these outbursts of high spirits were confined to
the
precincts of his own home, they proved at least that neither by
temperament nor principle was he inclined to look upon the darker side.
His eye for a ludicrous situation was very quick, and a joke which told
against himself always caused him the most intense amusement. It is
impossible to read the letters which Mrs. Jackson has published and to
entertain the belief that his temper was ever in the least degree
morose. To use her own words, “they are the overflow of a heart full of
tenderness;” it is true that they seldom omit some reference to that
higher life which both husband and wife were striving hand in hand to
lead, but they are instinct from first to last with the serene
happiness of a contented mind.
Even more marked than his habitual cheerfulness was his almost feminine
sympathy with the poor and feeble. His servants, as was the universal
rule in Virginia, were his slaves; but his relations with his black
dependents were of almost a paternal character, and his kindness was
repaid by that childlike devotion peculiar to the negro race. More than
one of these servants—so great was his reputation for kindness—had
begged him to buy them from their former owners. Their interests were
his special care; in sickness they received all the attention and
comfort that the house afforded; to his favourite virtues, politeness
and punctuality, they were trained by their master himself, and their
moral education was a task he cheerfully undertook. “There was one
little servant in the family,” says Mrs. Jackson, “whom my husband took
under his sheltering roof at the solicitations of an aged lady; to whom
the child became a care after having been left an orphan. She was not
bright, but he persevered in drilling her into memorising a child’s
catechism, and it was a most amusing picture to see her standing before
him with fixed attention, as if she were straining every nerve, and
reciting her answers with the drop of a curtsey at each word. She had
not been taught to do this, but it was such an effort for her to learn
that she assumed the motion involuntarily.”
Jackson’s home was childless. A little daughter, born at Lexington,
lived only for a few weeks, and her place
remained unfilled. His sorrow, although he submitted uncomplainingly,
was very bitter, for his love for children was very great. “A
gentleman,” says Mrs. Jackson, “who spent the night with us was
accompanied by his daughter, but four years of age. It was the first
time the child had been separated from her mother, and my husband
suggested that she should be committed to my care during the night, but
she clung to her father. After our guests had both sunk in slumber, the
father was aroused by someone leaning over his little girl and drawing
the covering more closely round her. It was only his thoughtful host,
who felt anxious lest his little guest should miss her mother’s
guardian care under his roof, and could not go to sleep himself until
he was satisfied that all was well with the child.”
These incidents are little more than trivial. The attributes they
reveal seem of small import. They are not such as go towards building
up a successful career either in war or politics. And yet to arrive at
a true conception of Jackson’s character it is necessary that such
incidents should be recorded. That character will not appear the less
admirable because its strength and energy were tempered by softer
virtues; and when we remember the great soldier teaching a negro child,
or ministering to the comfort of a sick slave, it becomes easy to
understand the feelings with which his veterans regarded him. The quiet
home at Lexington reveals more of the real man than the camps and
conflicts of the Civil War, and no picture of Stonewall Jackson would
be complete without some reference to his domestic life.
“His life at home,” says his wife, “was perfectly regular and
systematic. He arose about six o’clock, and first knelt in secret
prayer; then he took a cold bath, which was never omitted even in the
coldest days of winter. This was followed by a brisk walk, in rain or
shine.
“Seven o’clock was the hour for family prayers, which he required all
his servants to attend promptly and regularly. He never waited for
anyone, not even his wife. Breakfast followed prayers, after which he
left immediately for the Institute, his classes opening at eight
o’clock and continuing to eleven. Upon his return home at eleven
o’clock he devoted himself to study until one. The first book he took
up daily was his Bible, which he read with a commentary, and the many
pencil marks upon it showed with what care he bent over its pages. From
his Bible lesson he turned to his text-books. During those hours of
study he would permit no interruption, and stood all the time in front
of a high desk. After dinner he gave himself up for half an hour or
more to leisure and conversation, and this was one of the brightest
periods in his home life. He then went into his garden, or out to his
farm to superintend his servants, and frequently joined them in manual
labour. He would often drive me to the farm, and find a shady spot for
me under the trees, while he attended to the work of the field. When
this was not the case, he always returned in time to take me, if the
weather permitted, for an evening walk or drive. In summer we often
took our drives by moonlight, and in the beautiful Valley of Virginia
the queen of night seemed to shine with more brightness than elsewhere.
When at home he would indulge himself in a season of rest and
recreation after supper, thinking it was injurious to health to go to
work immediately. As it was a rule with him never to use his eyes by
artificial light, he formed the habit of studying mentally for an hour
or so without a book. After going over his lessons in the morning, he
thus reviewed them at night, and in order to abstract his thoughts from
surrounding objects—a habit which he had cultivated to a remarkable
degree—he would, if alone with his wife, ask that he might not be
disturbed by any conversation; he would then take his seat with his
face to the wall, and remain in perfect abstraction until he finished
his mental task. He was very fond of being read to, and much of our
time in the evening was passed in my ministering to him in this way. He
had a library, which, though small, was select, composed chiefly of
scientific, historical, and religious books, with some of a lighter
character, and some in Spanish and French. Nearly all of them were full
of his pencil marks, made with a view to future reference.” Next to the
Bible, history, both ancient
and modern, was his favourite study. Plutarch, Josephus, Rollin,
Robertson, Hallam, Macaulay, and Bancroft were his constant companions.
Shakespeare held an honoured place upon his shelves; and when a novel
fell into his hands he became so absorbed in the story that he
eventually avoided such literature as a waste of time. “I am anxious,”
he wrote to a relative, “to devote myself to study until I shall become
master of my profession.”
The Jacksons were far from affluent. The professor had nothing but his
salary, and his wife, one of a large family, brought no increase to
their income. But the traditional hospitality of Virginia was a virtue
by no means neglected. He was generous but unostentatious in his mode
of living, and nothing gave him more pleasure than to bid his friends
welcome to his own home.
His outdoor recreations were healthful but not exciting. The hills
round Lexington teemed with game, the rivers with fish, and shooting
and fishing were the favourite amusements of his colleagues. But
Jackson found no pleasure in rod or gun; and although fond of riding
and a good horseman, he never appears to have joined in any of those
equestrian sports to which the Virginians were much addicted. He
neither followed the hunt nor tilted at the ring. His exercise was
taken after more utilitarian fashion, in the garden or the farm.
It need hardly be said that such a lover of order and method was
strictly economical, and the wise administration of the farm and
household permitted an annual expenditure on travel. Many of the most
beautiful localities and famous cities of the east and north were
visited in these excursions. Sometimes he wandered with his wife in
search of health; more often the object of their journey was to see
with their own eyes the splendid scenery of their native land. The
associations which were ever connected in Jackson’s mind with his tour
through Europe show how intensely he appreciated the marvels both of
nature and of art.
“I would advise you,” he wrote to a friend, “never to name my European
trip to me unless you are blest with a superabundance of patience, as
its very mention is calculated
to bring up with it an almost inexhaustible assemblage of grand and
beautiful associations. Passing over the works of the Creator, which
are far the most impressive, it is difficult to conceive of the
influences which even the works of His creatures exercise over the mind
of one who lingers amidst their master productions. Well do I remember
the influence of sculpture upon me during my short stay in Florence,
and how there I began to realise the sentiment of the Florentine: ‘Take
from me my liberty, take what you will, but leave me my statuary, leave
me these entrancing productions of art.’ And similar to this is the
influence of painting.”
But delightful as were these holiday expeditions, the day of Jackson’s
return to Lexington and his duties never came too soon. In the quiet
routine of his home life, in his work at the Institute, in the
supervision of his farm and garden, in his evenings with his books, and
in the services of his church, he was more than contented. Whatever
remained of soldierly ambition had long been eradicated. Man of action
as he essentially was, he evinced no longing for a wider sphere of
intellectual activity or for a more active existence. Under his own
roof-tree he found all that he desired. “There,” says his wife, “all
that was best in his nature shone forth;” and that temper was surely of
the sweetest which could utter no sterner rebuke than “Ah! that is not
the way to be happy!”
Nor was it merely his own gentleness of disposition and the many graces
of his charming helpmate that secured so large a degree of peace and
happiness. Jackson’s religion played even a greater part. It was not of
the kind which is more concerned with the terrors of hell than the
glories of paradise. The world to him was no place of woe and
lamentation, its beauties vanity, and its affections a snare. As he
gazed with delight on the gorgeous tints of the autumnal forests, and
the lovely landscapes of his mountain home, so he enjoyed to the utmost
the life and love which had fallen to his lot, and thanked God for that
capacity for happiness with which his nature was so largely gifted. Yet
it cannot be said that he practised no self-denial. His life, in many
respects, was one of constant self-discipline, and
when his time came to sacrifice himself, he submitted without a murmur.
But in his creed fear had no place. His faith was great. It was not,
however, a mere belief in God’s omnipotence and God’s justice, but a
deep and abiding confidence in His infinite compassion and infinite
love; and it created in him an almost startling consciousness of the
nearness and reality of the invisible world. In a letter to his wife it
is revealed in all its strength:
“You must not be discouraged at the slowness of recovery. Look up to
Him who giveth liberally for faith to be resigned to His divine will,
and trust Him for that measure of health which will most glorify Him,
and advance to the greatest extent your own real happiness. We are
sometimes suffered to be in a state of perplexity that our faith may be
tried and grow stronger. See if you cannot spend a short time after
dark in looking out of your window into space, and meditating upon
heaven, with all its joys unspeakable and full of glory. . . . ‘All
things work together for good’ to God’s children. Try to look up and be
cheerful, and not desponding. Trust our kind Heavenly Father, and by
the eye of faith see that all things are right and for your best
interests. The clouds come, pass over us, and are followed by bright
sunshine; so in God’s moral dealings with us, He permits to have
trouble awhile. But let us, even in the most trying dispensations of
His Providence, be cheered by the brightness which is a little ahead.”
It would serve no useful purpose to discuss Jackson’s views on
controversial questions. It may be well, however, to correct a common
error. It has been asserted that he was a fatalist, and therefore
careless of a future over which he believed he had no control. Not a
word, however, either in his letters or in his recorded conversations
warrants the assumption. It is true that his favourite maxim was “Duty
is ours, consequences are God’s,” and that knowing “all things work
together for good,” he looked forward to the future without misgiving
or apprehension.
But none the less he believed implicitly that the destiny of men and of
nations is in their own hands. His faith
was as sane as it was humble, without a touch of that presumptuous
fanaticism which stains the memory of Cromwell, to whom he has been so
often compared. He never imagined, even at the height of his renown,
when victory on victory crowned his banners, that he was “the scourge
of God,” the chosen instrument of His vengeance. He prayed without
ceasing, under fire as in the camp; but he never mistook his own
impulse for a revelation of the divine will. He prayed for help to do
his duty, and he prayed for success. He knew that:
“More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of;”
but he knew, also, that prayer is not always answered in the way which
man would have it. He went into battle with supreme confidence, not, as
has been alleged, that the Lord had delivered the enemy into his hands,
but that whatever happened would be the best that could happen. And he
was as free from cant as from self-deception. It may be said of
Jackson, as has been said so eloquently of the men whom, in some
respects, he closely resembled, that “his Bible was literally food to
his understanding and a guide to his conduct. He saw the visible finger
of God in every incident of life. . . . That which in our day devout
men and women feel in their earnest moments of prayer, the devout
Puritan felt, as a second nature, in his rising up and in his lying
down; in the market-place and in the home; in society and in business;
in Parliament, in Council, and on the field of battle. And feeling
this, the Puritan had no shame in uttering the very words of the Bible
wherein he had learned so to feel; nay, he would have burned with shame
had he faltered in using the words. It is very hard for us now to grasp
what this implies. . . . But there was a generation in which this
phraseology was the natural speech of men.”[5] Of this generation,
although later in time, was Stonewall Jackson. To him such language as
he used in his letters to his wife, in conversation with his intimates,
and not rarely in his official
correspondence, was “the literal assertion of truths which he felt to
the roots of his being,” which absorbed his thoughts, which coloured
every action of his life, and which, from the abundance of his heart,
rose most naturally to his lips.
There is no need for further allusion to his domestic or religious
life. If in general society Jackson was wanting in geniality; if he was
so little a man of the world that his example lost much of the
influence which, had he stood less aloof from others, it must have
exercised, it was the fruit of his early training, his natural reserve,
and his extreme humility. It is impossible, however, that so pure a
life should have been altogether without reflex upon others. If the
cadets profited but indirectly, the slaves had cause to bless his
practical Christianity; the poor and the widow knew him as a friend,
and his neighbours looked up to him as the soul of sincerity, the enemy
of all that was false and vile. And for himself—what share had those
years of quiet study, of self-communing, and of self-discipline, in
shaping the triumphs of the Confederate arms? The story of his military
career is the reply.
Men of action have before now deplored the incessant press of business
which leaves them no leisure to think out the problems which may
confront them in the future. Experience is of little value without
reflection, and leisure has its disadvantages. “One can comprehend,”
says Dabney, referring to Jackson’s peculiar form of mental exercise,
“how valuable was the training which his mind received for his work as
a soldier. Command over his attention was formed into a habit which no
tempest of confusion could disturb. His power of abstraction became
unrivalled. His imagination was trained and invigorated until it became
capable of grouping the most extensive and complex considerations. The
power of his mind was drilled like the strength of an athlete, and his
self-concentration became unsurpassed.”
Such training was undoubtedly the very best foundation for the
intellectual side of a general’s business. War presents a constant
succession of problems to be solved by
mental processes. For some experience and resource supply a ready
solution. Others, involving the movements of large bodies,
considerations of time and space, and the thousand and one
circumstances, such as food, weather, roads, topography, and morale,
which a general must always bear in mind, are composed of so many
factors, that only a brain accustomed to hard thinking can deal with
them successfully. Of this nature are the problems of strategy—those
which confront a general in command of an army or of a detached portion
of an army, and which are worked out on the map. The problems of the
battle-field are of a different order. The natural characteristics
which, when fortified by experience, carry men through any dangerous
enterprise, win the majority of victories. But men may win battles and
be very poor generals. They may be born leaders of men, and yet
absolutely unfitted for independent command. Their courage, coolness,
and common sense may accomplish the enemy’s overthrow on the field, but
with strategical considerations their intellects may be absolutely
incapable of grappling. In the great wars of the early part of the
century Ney and Blucher were probably the best fighting generals of
France and Prussia. But neither could be trusted to conduct a campaign.
Blucher, pre-eminent on the battle-field, knew nothing of the grand
combinations which prepare and complete success. If he was the strong
right hand of the Prussian army, his chief of staff was the brain.
“Gneisenau,” said the old Marshal, “makes the pills which I
administer.” “Ney’s best qualities,” says Jomini, who served long on
his staff, “his heroic valour, his quick _coup d’œil,_ and his energy,
diminished in the same proportion that the extent of his command
increased his responsibility. Admirable on the field of battle, he
displayed less assurance, not only in council, but whenever he was not
actually face to face with the enemy.” It is not of such material as
Ney and Blucher, mistrustful of their own ability, that great captains
are made. Marked intellectual capacity is the chief characteristic of
the most famous soldiers. Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar, Marlborough,
Washington, Frederick, Napoleon, Wellington, and Nelson were each and
all of
them something more than mere fighting men. Few of their age rivalled
them in strength of intellect. It was this, combined with the best
qualities of Ney and Blucher, that made them masters of strategy, and
lifted them high above those who were tacticians and nothing more; and
it was strength of intellect that Jackson cultivated at Lexington.
So, in that quiet home amidst the Virginian mountains, the years sped
by, peaceful and uneventful, varied only by the holiday excursions of
successive summers. By day, the lecture at the Institute, the drill of
the cadet battery, the work of the church, the pleasant toil of the
farm and garden. When night fell, and the curtains were drawn across
the windows that looked upon the quiet street, there in that home where
order reigned supreme, where, as the master wished, “each door turned
softly on a golden hinge,” came those hours of thought and analysis
which were to fit him for great deeds.
The even tenor of this calm existence was broken, however, by an
incident which intensified the bitter feeling which already divided the
Northern and Southern sections of the United States. During the month
of January, 1859, Jackson had marched with the cadet battalion to
Harper’s Ferry, where, on the northern frontier of Virginia, the
fanatic, John Brown, had attempted to raise an insurrection amongst the
negroes, and had been hung after trial in presence of the troops. By
the South Brown was regarded as a madman and a murderer; by many in the
North he was glorified as a martyr; and so acute was the tension that
early in 1860, during a short absence from Lexington, Jackson wrote in
a letter to his wife, “What do you think about the state of the
country? Viewing things at Washington from human appearances, I think
we have great reason for alarm.” A great crisis was indeed at hand. But
if to her who was ever beside him, while the storm clouds were rising
dark and terrible over the fair skies of the prosperous Republic, the
Christian soldier seemed the man best fitted to lead the people, it was
not so outside. None doubted his sincerity or questioned his
resolution, but few had penetrated his reserve. As the playful
tenderness he displayed at home
was never suspected, so the consuming earnestness, the absolute
fearlessness, whether of danger or of responsibility, the utter
disregard of man, and the unquestioning faith in the Almighty, which
made up the individuality which men called Stonewall Jackson, remained
hidden from all but one.
To his wife his inward graces idealised his outward seeming; but
others, noting his peculiarities, and deceived by his modesty, saw
little that was remarkable and much that was singular in the staid
professor. Few detected, beneath that quiet demeanour and absent
manner, the existence of energy incarnate and an iron will; and still
fewer beheld, in the plain figure of the Presbyterian deacon, the
potential leader of great armies, inspiring the devotion of his
soldiers, and riding in the forefront of victorious battle.
[1] Amongst these may be mentioned Grant, Sherman, and McClellan. Lee
himself, as an engineer, had but small acquaintance with regimental
life. The men who saved India for England in the Great mutiny were of
the same type.
[2] Cooke, p. 28.
[3] _Memoirs of Stonewall Jackson,_ p. 108.
[4] Marion Crawford.
[5] _Oliver Cromwell,_ by Frederic Harrison, p. 29.