of the ornaments of the institution. He was more popular with the college students, who did not have the same reasons for fearing the austerity of his manner, but who knew him as the son-in-law of their college president, Rev. George Junkin.
My first meeting with General Jackson in the social circle was one evening, when he called to see a friend at our boarding-house. I shall never forget the impression his manner and appearance made upon me. Boy as I was, I looked upon him with a reverential awe. I had heard the stories of his struggles in early life; of how he had walked from his house in Lewis county to Washington to receive his appointment as a cadet to West Point; of his being ill prepared, and the difficulty he had in keeping up with his classes; and then I had heard of his brilliant career in Mexico, of his mounting the walls of Cherubusco with the American flag in his hands; and here now was the hero of my youthful enthusiasm before me. He was so different from what I thought a hero ought to be! There was so little animation, no grace, no enthusiasm. All was stiffness and awkwardness. He sat perfectly erect, his back touching the back of the chair nowhere; the large hands were spread out, one on each knee, while the large feet, sticking out at an exact right angle to the leg (the angle seeming to have been determined with mathematical precision), occupied an unwarranted space. The figure recalled to my boyish mind what I had once seen—a rude Egyptian-carved figure intended to represent one of the Pharoahs.
But when the conversation commenced I lost sight of the awkward-looking figure. I even lost the reverential awe which had so deeply impressed me at first. I only saw the mild eyes emitting gentle beams, and only heard a soft, melodious voice—speaking, it is true, in short, crisp sentences—but withal as mild and winning as a woman's. I then understood why it was that Major Jackson could be a hero. Underlying that rough, uncomely exterior, was a vein of the most exquisite sentiment. In the soul of the man was that magnetism which attracted that power which controlled and made him the master of his fellow-men. In after days, when I saw the uplifting of his dusty cap excite the wildest enthusiasm among his veteran legions, I knew whence the power emanated.
The next time I heard Jackson talk was in a political meeting one night in the town of Lexington. It was during the memorable presidential canvas of 1860. Rockbridge county was a staid old Whig community. The majority of Democrats, under the leadership of Governor Letcher, supported Douglass. The Breckinridge men had a small force. The leading spirits of this faction called a meeting one evening
