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As Maizie finished the last dish, the door bell rang. Suzanna ran to the foot of the stairs. "Oh, mother, shall I answer?" she cried. "I wish you would," Mrs. Procter called down. "Peter has a stone bruise and I'm using liniment." So Suzanna went to the front door. She opened it to Mr. Bartlett. "Good evening, Suzanna," he said in a friendly voice. "Is your father at home?"
Procter, "that used to be a pleasant outing. The last time I went I drove down with Lord Byron and Dr. Parr, who had been breakfasting with my father." Mrs. Procter died in 1888. Among the remarkable women of our time, if merely in respect of longevity, must be reckoned Lady Louisa Stuart, sister and heir of the last Earl of Traquair.
That self-hire may often have led to self-purchase is suggested by an illuminating letter of Billy Procter, a slave at Americus, Georgia, in 1854 to Colonel John B. Lamar of whom something has been seen in a foregoing chapter. The letter, presumably in the slave's own hand, runs as follows: "As my owner, Mr.
"Romance of color, you mean," returned John Massey harshly, "for so far as I can gain, there is no science about it. I deal in facts, Mr. Procter, not in air castles. Does the machine do anything, but stand there a silent monument to your dreams?" Mr. Procter hesitated but a moment, then, "Come, Mr. Massey," he said, "take your place. Let us see what the machine says of you.
Procter, and I have heard enthusiastic descriptions, with which later my mother amused our quiet days in Concord, of the intellectual pleasures that such friendships brought, and of the sounding titles and their magnificent accessories, with human beings involved, against whom my parents were now sometimes thrust by the rapid tide of celebrity.
The last seven words are a summary of anguish, horror, and despair, such as Webster himself might have been proud to write. The Brides' Tragedy was well received by critics; and a laudatory notice of Beddoes in the Edinburgh, written by Bryan Waller Procter better known then than now under his pseudonym of Barry Cornwall led to a lasting friendship between the two poets.
I've had enough of stray animals to last me for quite awhile." Peter stood holding the rope and still looking at his mother. But his hopeful expression, brought on by Maizie's words, was fast ebbing. "Hurry up," said Mrs. Procter. "Take him away." "Can't he stay for one night, mother?" Suzanna, silent during the colloquy, now spoke. "Maybe we can find another home for him, Peter.
Procter answered slowly. "Really, you remember I'd had so much trouble that summer with stray dogs of Peter's that my patience was at an end." Maizie was forming another question when she was interrupted by a hearty knock at the door. "Come in," Suzanna cried. She was testing the oven as her mother had taught her and she turned a very important, if badly flushed, face to the visitor.
On his return he read for the Chancery Bar along with his friend Eliot Warburton, under Bryan Procter, a Commissioner of Lunacy, better known by his poet-name, Barry Cornwall; his acquaintance with both husband and wife ripening into life-long friendship. Mrs. Procter is the "Lady of Bitterness," cited in the "Eothen" Preface.
Procter attempted to rise. "Stay where you are, madam," said the Eagle Man. Mrs. Procter sank back against the tree. "You sit down, too, Eagle Man," said Suzanna cordially. "We've got another shawl. Here it is." She spread it down on the ground and the Eagle Man quite gladly accepted the invitation, though his face whitened in the downward process of reaching the shawl.
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