[Plymouth—Sunday, 28 June 1868]

Sunday. Have passed the morning on the piazza of a deserted house upon the hill-top, the whole Franconia Range in view. Whittier was our companion (in pocket-form, this time). It was a heavenly season.

Jamie told me he dreamed last night of Longfellow who had returned to pass a few hours with him. They talked very fast, there was so much to be said and yet when J. asked about the honors conferred at Cambridge, or the public demonstrations in his honor, Longfellow would laugh violently with a slap of his hand upon his knee, which he has a way of doing, but would say nothing. He talked incessantly of the loveliness of England, of the Lake district in particular, while he hummed from time to time the refrain of a poem. I know you have written something to show me said J. you would never have come without that; then L. took out a short poem,—but they soon fell again into talk, this time about C.D.’s house where L. is now—Gad’s Hill is perfect in its appointments, said L. you cannot hear the wheels go round. Such a vivid dream it was that J. awaked happy, most happy, like a child.

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