Last night I sat at this desk writing a letter to General
Jackson, urging him to come up and stay with us, as soon as his wound would
permit him to move. I went down stairs this morning early, with the letter in
my hand, and was met by the overwhelming news that Jackson was dead! A
telegram had been sent to Colonel Smith by a courier from Staunton. Doubt was
soon thrown upon this by the arrival of some one from Richmond, who said he had
left when the telegram did, and there was no such rumor in Richmond. So,
between alternate hope and fear, the day passed. It was saddened by the bringing
home of General Paxton's remains, and by his funeral. At five this evening the
startling confirmation comes — Jackson is indeed dead! My heart overflows with
sorrow. The grief in this community is intense; everybody is in tears. What a
release from his weary two years' warfare! To be released into the blessedness
and peace of heaven! . . . How fearful
the loss to the Confederacy! The people made an idol of him, and God has
rebuked them. No more ready soul has ascended to the throne than was his. Never
have I known a holier man. Never have I seen a human being as thoroughly
governed by duty. He lived only to please God; his daily life was a daily
offering up of himself. All his letters to Mr. F. and to me since the war
began, have breathed the spirit of a saint. In his last letter to me he spoke
of our precious Ellie, and of the blessedness of being with her in heaven. And
now he has rejoined her, and together they unite in ascribing praises to Him
who has redeemed them by his blood. Oh, the havoc death is making! The
beautiful sky and the rich, perfumed spring air seemed darkened by oppressive
sorrow. Who thinks or speaks of victory? The word is scarcely ever heard. Alas!
Alas! When is the end to be?
SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and
Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 164-5
