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Leigh Hunt, in one of his letters to Procter in 1831, says: "As to Pasta, I love her, for she makes the ground firm under my feet, and the sky blue over my head." I cannot remember all the good things I heard that day, but some of them live in my recollection still. Hunt quoted Hartley Coleridge, who said, "No boy ever imagined himself a poet while he was reading Shakespeare or Milton."
He ordered his redcoats to carry Fort Stephenson. Again and again they marched forward until all the officers had been shot down and a fifth of the force was dead or wounded. American valor and marksmanship had proved themselves in the face of heavy odds. At sunset the beaten British were flocking into their boats, and Procter was again on his way to Amherstburg.
Her death was signalized by the appearance this time, I am told, unexpected of another brilliant comet, which passed so near the earth as to come into contact with it. Miss Blagden Letters from Mr. Browning to Miss Haworth and Mr. Procter. The friend who was nearest, at all events most helpful, to Mr.
He envied the Procter children, since there grew in his imagination the treasure a grandmother could be. She probably knew "bully" stories of long-ago days. Certainly as she stood, crowned, she seemed the best sort of a playfellow, since she could pretend as well as any child. His mother drove him home and then went to pay a call in a near town. He had gone directly to his own room.
She knew instinctively that the Eagle Man had no need to worry about rent day, and the many other similar things she felt harassed her father, and over and over again she pondered on this seemingly unjust state of affairs. It would have been so much better, she thought, if the Eagle Man occupied with his one daughter just a little cottage while the large Procter family had the bigger house.
Procter sprang from her seat, and, hobbling across the room with extended forefinger, cried to Venables, in tones of dramatic intensity, "Does that noble lord still live?" It was from Venables that I heard a delightful story about our host which, years afterwards, I repeated in writing Lord Houghton's life.
During the last eighteen years of Lamb's life Procter knew him most intimately, and his chronicles of visits to the little gamboge-colored house in Enfield are charming pencillings of memory.
Not so her mother who asked anxiously: "What in the world is he crying so for, Suzanna? Is he hurt? Will he let you look him over?" "No, he's not hurt," returned Suzanna. "He is crying because never in all his life will he be able to see his ears." Mrs. Procter stared dumbfounded. But she soon recovered. She was accustomed to originalities of this sort in her family. "So!
"Well, Maizie, you can't see anything unless it's there," deplored Suzanna. "You mean, Suzanna," put in Mrs. Procter as she covered the dough with a snowy cloth, "that you have more imagination than Maizie." "Well, anyway, Maizie," said Suzanna after a time, "I'm going to try and make you a better girl." "Make her stop saying that, mother," said Maizie, "I'm good enough as it is."
"Well, then, Suzanna, such a person is called a little strange." "Then I'm a little strange, too," said Suzanna. "But you're a child, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter, "and Mrs. Bartlett is a very old lady." "Does that make the difference?" asked Suzanna. "If it does, I can't understand why.
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