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Crowe for the authenticity of Howitt's version. Procter's contemporary journal. A man, a woman, and a monkey were the chief apparitions. There were noises, lights, beds were heaved about: nothing was omitted. A clairvoyante was turned on, but could only say that the spectral figures, which she described, "had no brains". After the Quakers left the house there seems to have been no more trouble.
My wrath against the bridegroom is somewhat calmed by finding that it is considered bad luck if he does not get tipsy at his wedding." Those readers of Miss Procter's poems who should suppose from their tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent cast, would be curiously mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, and had a great delight in humour.
Brock listened closely to Procter's argument by this time he knew, of course, that Hull's own line of communication with his reserves had been cut then rising, when all who cared to speak had finished, he said: "Gentlemen, I have definitely decided on crossing the river and attacking Fort Detroit. Instead of further advice I must beg of you to give me your hearty support.
"Mother," began Suzanna, "this is the gentleman I told you about. He's John Massey; you've seen him on Main Street. He loves to be comfortable. And he doesn't work during the day, either, but he sits in a chair and shouts at a little man, and the little man hops mighty quick, I can tell you." Mrs. Procter's face went crimson. "How do you do?" she said. She did not meet his keen eyes.
"Blackwood" and the "Quarterly Review" railed at Procter and his author friends for a long period; but how true is the saying of Macaulay, "that the place of books in the public estimation is fixed, not by what is written about them, but by what is written in them!" No man was more decried in his day than Procter's friend, William Hazlitt.
We've not proud nor soaring wings: Our ambition, our content, Lie in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime: Touch us gently, gentle Time!" Adelaide Procter's name will always be sweet in the annals of English poetry.
Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam both "made offer to strike at Elizabeth Procter; but when Abigail's hand came near, it opened, whereas it was made up into a fist before, and came down exceedingly lightly as it drew near to said Procter, and at length, with open and extended fingers, touched Procter's hood very lightly; and immediately Abigail cries out, 'My fingers, my fingers, my fingers burn! and Ann Putnam takes on most grievously of her head, and sinks down."
Or like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back Its figure and its heat. We had a pleasant party one evening at Procter's. A young literary bookseller who was present went away delighted with the elegance of the repast, and spoke in raptures of a servant in green livery and a patent lamp.
Ibid. Life of Brock, p. 293. In the Canadian Archives frequent mention is made of expeditions by Procter's forces about the American lines, as of the British shipping on the Lake front during the autumn of 1812. Elliott to Chauncey, Sept. 14, 1812. Captains' Letters, Navy Department. Chauncey to the Secretary, Oct. 22, 1812. Captains' Letters, Navy Department.
And then she blushed furiously and glanced half apologetically at Mrs. Procter. For what, indeed, was Mrs. Procter's work? With superb defiance toward mathematical rules, she was daily engaged in proving that though those rules contended that two and two make four, if you have backbone and ingenuity two and two make five, and could by stretching be compelled to make six.