In his more limited way, he had the spirit of
"Stonewall" Jackson. It was impossible for a man with his nature and with
his memories to argue the whole matter over coolly and recognize
misleading errors. During his youth and early manhood his feelings had
been so intense as to be volcanic, and that feeling, like lava, had cooled
of into its present unchangeable forms and sombre hues. What was
bitterness and almost spite in Mrs. Hunter was a deep, abiding sorrow in
his heart, a great dream unfulfilled, a cause lofty because so idealized,
in support of which he often saw in fancy, when alone, spectral thousands
in gray, marching as he once had seen them in actual life. That all had
been in vain, was to him one of those mysterious providences to which he
could only bow his head in mournful resignation, in patient endurance. He
had no hate for the North, for he was broad enough in mind to recognize
that it saw the question from its own point of view, and, as a soldier, he
knew that its men had fought gallantly. But the North's side of the
question was not his side. He had been conquered in arms but not convinced
in spirit. While he had respect and even admiration for many of his old
foes, and malice toward none, he still felt that there was a bridgeless
chasm between them, and, by the instincts of his nature, he kept himself
aloof. If he could perform an act of kindness to a Northerner he would do
so unhesitatingly; then he would turn away with the impulse of an alien.
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