August 30th.—The prevailing thoughts and feelings of my mind and heart this morning, traceable to visions of the night, may be best expressed, perhaps, by the familiar quotation—
“Who has not felt how sadly sweet
The dream of home—the dream of home
Steals o’er the heart too soon—too fleet,
When far o’er sea, or land we roam!
Sunlight more soft may o’er us fall,
To greener shores our bark may come,
But far more bright, more dear than all,
That dream of home—that dream of home!”
Little as I may have confessed it, “Riverside!”—“Riverside!” is the constant echoing of my heart, and my home is ever in bright vision before me. I breakfast with you every morning, sit by moonlight with you in the verandah every evening: walk with you every day to “Prospect Rock”—to “Gortlee”—to the upper fields beneath the mountain, and drive with you, if at no other time, at least every Sunday to your little church, along the magnificent terrace of the river-road.