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T. and H. were Taylor & Hessey, the owners of the London Magazine. Janus was Janus Weathercock, Thomas Griffiths Wainewright; P r was Bryan Waller Procter, or Barry Cornwall, who afterwards wrote Lamb's life, and Allan C was Allan Cunningham, who called himself "Nalla" in the London Magazine. "The Twelve Tales of Lyddal Cross" ran serially in the magazine in 1822. A former Essay.
Sullivan for prompter, and when that was over everybody went out walking; but I was too tired with my morning's tramp, and sat under a tree on the lawn reading a very good little book on the sacrament, which went over the ground of my late discussion with Mrs. Montagu and Mrs. Procter on the subject of "preparation" for taking it.
"He's not very old," whispered Suzanna to her host; "and he doesn't know he must be truly thankful to you." "Well, let him rest comfortably," said the Eagle Man, and he moved in such a way that the baby's head rested against his knee. "There, that's better," he said to Mrs. Procter. "I didn't suppose you wanted its neck to be broken," he ended gruffly.
It is pleasant to think, however, that it was the means of restoring the old intimacy between Southey and Lamb, and also of strengthening the friendship between Lamb and Hazlitt, which some misunderstanding, at that time, had a little loosened. "MY DEAR PROCTER: I do agnize a shame in not having been to pay my congratulations to Mrs. "But indeed I am ill at these ceremonious inductions.
How often have I seen Kenyon and Procter chirping together over an old quarto that had floated down from an early century, or rejoicing together over a well-worn letter in a family portfolio of treasures! They were a pair of veteran brothers, and there was never a flaw in their long and loving intercourse.
The brutal Procter, aware that the Indians would commit hideous outrages if left unrestrained, nevertheless returned to Amherstburg with his troops and his prisoners, leaving the American wounded to their fate. That night the savages came back to Frenchtown and massacred those hurt and helpless men, thirty in number.
"There's no opportunity to say that chemical changes in the circulation are the cause of the color produced. Now please watch the glass plate." Mr. Bartlett did as directed. For some moments the plate remained clear, then rays of color played upon it. "Green, a rare, soft green," said Mr. Procter. He went on slowly but without hesitation. "The color of poetry.
Some distance back of the arm, and extending about a foot above the cabinet, were two tubes connected by a glass plate; and beneath the plate, a telescope arrangement into which was set a gleaming lens. Mr. Procter opened a door at the side of the cabinet. The children, peering in, beheld interesting looking springs, coils, and batteries.
Procter always seemed to be astounded at the travelling spirit of Americans, and in his letters he makes frequent reference to our "national propensity," as he calls it. "Half an hour ago," he writes in. July, 1853, "we had three of your countrymen here to lunch, countrymen I mean, Hibernically, for two of them wore petticoats. They are all going to Switzerland, France, Italy, Egypt, and Syria.
Open, dark grave, and take her: Though we have loved her so, Yet we must now forsake her: Love will no more awake her: Oh bitter woe! Open thine arms and take her To rest below! A. Procter. So Vera was at peace at last. The troubled life was over; the vexed question of her fate was settled for her.
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