entirely from the shock. More than a year later
he writes: "It is remarkable that my watch (a special chronometer) has
never gone quite correctly since, and to this day there sometimes comes
over me, on a railway and in a hansom-cab, or any sort of conveyance, for
a few seconds, a vague sense of dread that I have no power to check. It
comes and passes, but I cannot prevent its coming."

I have often seen this dread come upon him, and on one occasion, which I
especially recall, while we were on our way from London to our little
country station "Higham," where the carriage was to meet us, my father
suddenly clutched the arms of the railway carriage seat, while his face
grew ashy pale, and great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead,
and though he tried hard to master the dread, it was so strong that he
had to leave the train at the next station. The accident had left its
impression upon the memory, and it was destined never to be effaced. The
hours spent upon railroads were thereafter often hours of pain to him. I
realized this often while travelling with him, and no amount of assurance
could dispel the feeling.

Early in May of 1868, we had him safely back with us, greatly
strengthened and invigorated by his ocean journey home, and I think he
was never happier at "Gad's Hill" than during his last two years there.

During that time he had a succession of guests, and none were more
honored, nor more heartily welcomed, than his American friends. The
first of these to come, if I remember rightly, was Mr. Longfellow, with
his daughters. My father writes describing a picnic which he gave them;
"I turned out a couple of postilions in the old red jacket of the old
Royal red for our ride, and it was like a holiday ride in England fifty
years ago. Of course we went to look at the old houses in Rochester, and
the old Cathedral, and the old castle, and the house for the six poor
travellers.

"Nothing can surpass the respect paid to Longfellow here, from the Queen
downward. He is everywhere received and courted, and finds the working
men at least as well acquainted with his books as the classes socially
above them."

Between the comings and goings of visitors there were delightfully quiet
evenings at home, spent during the summer in our lovely porch, or walking
about the garden, until "tray time," ten o'clock. When the cooler nights
came we had music in the drawing-room, and it is my happiness now to
remember