effected a cure, but only by draining the life blood of the victim,
or by turning every better human feeling into bitterness and corroding
gall. Words of blame intended to fall upon the hearts of the young, or
of the old, should always be spoken kindly, for we can never know how
deeply they may penetrate, what tender schemes for widowed mother,
aspiring brother, portionless sister, or starving wife and children they
may shatter. The public is a pretty keen judge, and will in most cases
drop works devoid of the immortal elements of genius. The critic may
point the way, but he need add no unnecessary stab to a downfall sure
and bitter.

This digression, however, has no bearing upon the honored names heading
this table, as both now have become 'household words' in our midst. Both
are acknowledged as _real poets_, but how different are they in style,
and mode of thought! Jean Ingelow, as the more brilliant, is the more
general favorite, Adelaide Procter having as yet scarcely received her
due meed of praise. Miss Ingelow exhibits an exuberant fancy, a
luxurious wealth of diction, and a generally fine poetic sense of form;
her thoughts are sound, and their dress new and glittering; but the
volume we have read is one to please the fancy and gratify the intellect
rather than touch the heart. The style is occasionally obscure and the
thought difficult to follow. Of course one can always find a meaning,
but one is not always sure of interpreting according to the author's
intentions. This quality, found largely in the school of Robert
Browning, is one to be guarded against. Mrs. Browning sometimes deals in
such involutions, but her style is so evidently an essential part of
herself, that we rarely think of affectation in connection with it. It
is pleasanter to dream our own dreams, than to follow any author into a
tangled maze, whence we, and not he, must furnish the clew for egress.

The 'Songs of Seven' and 'The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire'
are truly fine poems, to us the most complete and sustained in the
entire collection. In 'Requiescat in Pace,' we are carried so far away
from the actualities of life that we scarcely care whether the lover be
dead or living. As in a fairy tale, we read for the sake of curiosity,
admiring sundry touches here and there, but feeling nothing. Miss
Ingelow's rhythm is good, and her language musical.

The style of Adelaide Procter is singularly lucid and direct; she has
but little c