are always entertaining, whether they manifest themselves in a great bound into distinction or in a horrible plunge to obscurity, and so even the deadly dull life of General Jackson as a boy absorbs us; his youthful trials and reverses, the counterpart of which are to be seen every day, nevertheless hold our attention, and with the brilliant contrast of his later life, lead us through pages of commonplace experience with undiminished interest.
Perhaps at no time in General Jackson's life was his obscurity more complete than during the few years immediately preceding the Civil War. The opportunity, even to those gifted with greater personal attractions, to win distinction was very narrow. Lexington depended for its redemption upon the intelligence and hospitality of its citizens and the beauty of its surroundings. Its remoteness from what we know now as the active world, its inaccessibility to anything cheering but the sun, its peculiar fitness for the life of a student, barely gave it a claim to a name upon the map of the country. General Jackson in this quiet village walked upon a very tread-mill. He had for ten years moved, but not advanced an inch. In 1861, to all appearances, a blank wall rose before him. His pleasure consisted in his wife, his quiet home, his Presbyterian Church and his Sunday-school classes (one colored), and possibly the belief that he had the respect of the little community in which he lived. He certainly did not have their admiration. His personal qualities furnished nothing specially attractive or particularly unattractive. He was a neutral. He gave no offence, and except to his immediate and very small family (he had then no children) he gave no pleasure. As we recall him, morning after morning, not varying a moment from week's end to week's end, striding down from the village to the barracks of the Virginia Military Institute, where the writer was a cadet in i86o-'6i, we feel the depressing sensations of a succession of cold, gray, cheerless November mornings. His action during the day when at the barracks was absolutely mechanical. He had little talent for teaching. He was quite deaf, and in movement and figure ungainly. His countenance was noble, and his features were good. Put his singularity of life and manner brought upon him more than the usual jests and tricks of the cadets. Pie was called "Hickory," "Old Jack." and "Square box," from the unusual size of his feet. Not infre-
