For Love Of Country

If Seymour Could Have Voiced His Thought, He Would Have Said That The Earth Itself Did Not Afford A Fairer Picture Than That Which Lay Within The Level Radius Of His Vision, And Which Had Imprinted Itself So Powerfully Upon His Impressionable And Youthful Heart. It Was Not The Scenery Of Virginia Either, The Landscape On The Potomac, Of Which He Would Have Spoken So Enthusiastically, Though Even That Were A Thing Not To Be Disdained By Such A Lover Of The Beautiful As Seymour Had Shown Himself To Be,-the Dry Brown Hills Rising In Swelling Slopes From The Edge Of The Wide Quiet River; The Bare And Leafless Trees Upon Their Crests, Now Scarce Veiling The Comfortable Old White House, Which In The Summer They Quite Concealed Beneath Their Masses Of Foliage; And All The World Lying Dreamy And Calm And Still, In The Motionless Haze Of One Of Those Rare Seasons In November Which So Suggests Departed Days That Men Name It Summer Again.