The Daily Dispatch: February 27, 1865., [Electronic resource]

The sentiment of patriotism, where it is deep and earnest, never hesitates at any sacrifices. It is like the passion of love, which may prompt some foolish words and actions, but is certainly never inert nor ungenerous, nor giving much heed to dollars and cents. When the Emperor Alexander entered Moscow, the meeting between himself and the chief dignitaries and rich nobles of his empire, to whom he discoursed upon the objects of Napoleon's invasion, is said to have more resembled the conduct of "a mad rabble than that of sages or patriots. " As he told them of the loss of their independence and nationality with which they were threatened, "the long beards, glaring eyes, convulsed features, writhing arms, clenched fists, foaming lips, gnashing teeth, and ferocious curses and imprecations of the assembly, showed how deeply all were excited by the terrible pictures of foreign domination which had been presented to them."--When Alexander had finished speaking, a general exclamation arose, "Demand all! we offer all! accept all!" The nobles unanimously offered to recruit the army of the Czar with ten out of every hundred of their serfs, while some agreed to arm and equip those yielded by their estates at their own expense. The Grand Duchess Anne furnished a whole regiment. The merchants voluntarily imposed on themselves contributions, amounting, in many instances, to half their fortunes, and the inhabitants of the single city of Moscow undertook to raise and equip an army of eighty thousand men. This was the response not of a Republican Congress, but of the aristocracy of a despotism to the call of its Emperor, and the result, wild and lunatic as their passion seemed, was the deliverance of their nation.

Love of country! What a powerful and beautiful sentiment it is, implanted in every heart by the hand of the Creator, and consecrated by the lips of the God-man when he wept over the approaching destruction of his native land and uttered those plaintive words: "Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not." What is our country? The Southern Churchman finds a very beautiful and appropriate answer to this question in a book entitled An Attic Philosopher in Paris--from the French. The Attic Philosopher, in his poor and airy regions of a large house in Paris, forms the acquaintance of a disabled soldier, a noble and gallant Frenchman, to whom he propounded the question: "How came you to think of being a soldier so early?" To which the soldier made the following reply:

Every time I visited him (his Uncle, a Fontency veteran,) he said something which remained fixed in my memory. But one day I found him quite grave.

"Jerome," said he, "do you know what is going on the frontier!"

"No, Lieutenant," replied I.

"Well," resumed he, "our country is in danger."

I did not well understand him, and yet it seemed something to me.

"Perhaps you have never thought what your country means," continued he, placing his hand on my shoulder,--"it is all that surrounds you, all that has brought you up and fed you, all that you have loved! This country that you see, these houses, these trees, these girls who go along there laughing — this is your country ! The laws which protect you, the bread which pays for your work, the words you interchange with others, the joy and grief which come to you from the men and things among which you like. This is your country? The little room where you used to see your mother, the remembrances she has left you, the earth where she rests. This is your country. You see it, you breathe it everywhere! Think to yourself, my son, of your rights and duties, your affections and your wants, your past and your present blessings; write them all under a single name — and that name will be your country!"

I was trembling with emotion and great tears were in my eyes.

"Ah! I understand," cried I; "It is our home in large; it is that part of the world where God has placed our body and our soul."

"You are right, Jerome," continued the old soldier, "so you comprehend also what we owe it."

"Truly, resumed I, "we owed it all that we are; it is a question of love."

"And of honesty, my son," concluded he. "The member of a family who does not contribute his share of work and of happiness fails in his duty and is a bad kinsman...It is the same with him who enjoys the advantages of having a country and does not accept the burdens of it; he forfeits his honor, and is a bad citizen !"

"And what must one do, Lieutenant, to be a good citizen?" asked I.

"Do for your country what you would do for your father and mother," said he.

I did not answer at the moment; my heart was swelling and the blood boiling in my veins; but, in returning along the road, my uncle's words were, so to speak, written up before my eyes: "Do for your country what you would do for your father and mother." And my country is in danger; an enemy attacks it, whilst I — I turn cups and balls.

This thought tormented me so much all night that the next day I returned to Vincennes to announce to the Lieutenant that I had just enlisted, and was going off to the frontiers. The brave man pressed me upon his cross of St. Louis, and I went away as proud as an ambassador. This is how, neighbor, I became a volunteer under the Republic before I had cut my wise teeth.