which reminded me of a set of savages.  But even this delicate method of consolation failed, and the wishing good-bye began.  It was altogether so melancholy an affair that Madame B. dropped a few tears, and I was very near it, particularly when the poor mother came out to see the last of her daughter, who was finally dragged off between her brother and uncle, with a last explosion of pistols.  As she lives quite near, makes an excellent match, and is one of nine children, it really was a most desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of distress.  Albert was so discomfited by it, that he forgot to kiss the bride as he had intended to do, and therefore went to call upon her yesterday, and found her very smiling in her new house, and supplied the omission.  The cook came home from the wedding, declaring she was cured of any wish to marry—­but I would not recommend any man to act upon that threat and make her an offer.  In a couple of days we had some rolls of the bride’s first baking, which they call Madonnas.  The musicians, it seems, were in the same state as the bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all fell down in the mud.  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.  Cheerfulness was habitual with her, she was very ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember well) there was an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, and sense of drollery.  She was perfectly unconstrained and unaffected:  as modestly silent about her productions, as she was generous with their pecuniary results.  She was a friend who inspired the strongest attachments; she was a finely sympathetic woman, with a great accordant heart and a sterling noble nature.  No claim can be set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the conventional poetical qualities.  She never by any means held the opinion that she was among the greatest of human beings; she never suspected the existence of a conspiracy on the part of mankind against her; she never recognised in her best friends, her worst enemies; she never cultivated the luxury of being misunderstood and unappreciated; she would far rather have died without seeing a line of her composition in print, than that I should have maundered about her, here, as “the Poet”, or “the Poetess”.

With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere child and as a woman, fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way to the close of this brief record, avoiding its end.  But, even as the close came upon her, so must it come here.