the road a patriarchal figure,
whitebearded and sturdy, on his way home from the polls. It was old
Talley, whose log-house, in 1862, was the point from which Stonewall
Jackson began his sudden rush upon Hooker's right. Talley, then a
young farmer, had walked at the General's stirrup pointing out the
way. He had interesting things to tell of Stonewall Jackson at that
moment when his career culminated. "What did he seem like?" I queried.
"He was as cool and business-like as an old farmer looking after
his fences." On an old battle-field which had been illustrated by an
achievement of the Stonewall division especially brilliant, I chanced
to meet a grey veteran who had taken part in it, a North Carolinian
who had come back to review the scene. We fraternised, of course.
"What did Stonewall Jackson look like?" I said. Stepping close to
me, the "Tarheel" extended his two gnarled forefingers, and pressed
between the tips my cheek-bones on either side. "He had the broadest
face across here I ever saw," he said. Such a physiognomical trait is
perhaps indicative of power of brain and will, but I do not recall it
among the usual descriptions of Jackson.

Naturally, after surveying much Virginia country once war-swept, as I
came to the head of the Shenandoah Valley, I could not miss a visit
to Lexington, where repose in honoured graves two such protagonists as
Lee and Stonewall Jackson. It is a beautiful town among low mountains
green to the summit, and in the streets not a few lovely homes of the
Virginia colonial type, draped with ivy and wisteria. There stand the
buildings of Washington and Lee University, in the chapel of which
lies buried Robert E. Lee, and a short mile beyond is the Virginia
Military Institute, from which Stonewall Jackson went forth to his
fame. The memorial at Jackson's grave is appropriate, a figure in
bronze, rugged as he was in face and attire, the image of him as he
fought and fell. Different, but more impressive is the memorial of
Lee. You enter through the chapel where the students gather daily,
then passing the chancel, stand in a mausoleum, where nobly conceived
in marble the soldier lies as if asleep. He bears his symbols as
champion in chief of the "Lost Cause," but the light on his face is
not that of battle. It is serene, benignant, at peace. I was deeply
moved as I stood before it, but soon after I was to experience a
deeper thrill. The afternoon was waning when I walked on to the
Military In