Disinterested patriotism.
The patriotism which some able-bodied citizens manifest in these times is unsurpassed in the history of the human race.--Patriotism begins at home, and their devotion to their homes is beyond all precedent.
In peaceful times they may not have been exceedingly fond of the quiet enjoyments of the fireside.
They may have considered them somewhat insipid, and varied the monotony of domestic joys by occasional raids into foreign regions.
But now, when the security of the fireside demands a protector "there's no place like home." The perishable glories of the battle-field fade into insignificance compared with the calm fire-light of the hearth.
The roar of a cannon has no such attraction for them as the music of the cricket in the corner, and even the midnight wallings of a disconsolate child are sweet music to the unearthly scream of a Hotchkiss or
Parrott.
They would not give the contents of one oyster shell for all the shells that the army have opened since the beginning of the war. They would rather go to bed rosy and reeling from a hard hit of
Bacchus than lose a drop of their sacred claret under the malign influence of
Mars.
Their patriotism is very much akin to that of an old English preacher for his native island.--In his last moments, his faithful servant, John, endeavored to console him by saying: "Be comforted, my good master, you are going to a better place." "Ah, John," said the departing worthy, "there's no place like Old England."
There's no place, in the estimation of some of our most muscular patriots, like their dear native sod. They have no idea of leaving it under any consideration.
If they once listen to the syren voice of Glory, who knows where they will bring up?
Camp Lee is only the beginning of a journey which may end at
Gettysburg.
That wild fellow, Robert E., may drag them away from their native country and cause them to end their days in the most detestable of foreign lands.
Patriotism dictates that they should incur no such hazard.
They intend to stick to
Virginia like a brother, or, what is better and closer, like a leech; to live by her and die in her.
In general these devoted patriots are huge feeders and drinkers.
Men in the prime and vigor of life, and heavily working on important contracts for the
Government, they require a vast amount of animal, vegetable, and alcoholic fuel to keep them in operation.
They are necessary, however, to the production of supplies for the army.
If, from producers, they were converted into consumers, they would use up
Gen. Lee's supplies in two days and reduce the
Commissary General to a state of total despair.
A good many of them are gigantic drinking men, equal to those burly emperors of the
Middle Ages, who would swill strong liquors till nearly apoplectic, and, when recommended to swallow a medicinal draught for the safety of their lives, replied that if they had room for medicine they would have swallowed more liquor.
It is a fortunate thing, therefore, that producers, who consume as much as they produce, are not put into the army, where they would produce nothing, not even themselves in the day of battle.
Every man in his place, and their place is the town or neighborhood where they were born; the roof tree that sheltered their infant heads; the odoriferous mint bed suggestive of happier days and of a consolatory future.
If a man loves not these home scenes, how can he be expected to love that part of his country which he has never seen?
Those who prefer dying for their country to living in it are entitled to the enjoyment of their peculiar tastes; but that true patriotism which clings to the hearthstone shows its love for its country by living in it as long as possible.
It is unable to appreciate the exquisite sensations of a bayonet through the abdomen, or a leg sawed off by a Confederate surgeon.
If such a patriot saves his country in any field, it must be the cornfield; and if, when he becomes a grandfather, posterity asks whether he was in the war, he can reply with pride and satisfaction that he lived through it all, and made more out of it than
Davis Lee,
Stonewall Jackson,
Longstreet,
Beauregard, and all the rank and file put together.
Happy and glorious the evening of a life so rigidly devoted to the domestic virtues!--Bear him gently, oh Posterity, to his resting place in the soil he loved so well, and bury him beneath his own dunghill — the fitting monument of his tenacious and productive qualities.
