ommand of poetic ornament, and we rarely think of her choice
of words. _Pathos_, and _a close, keen representation of human
experience_, are her distinguishing characteristics. She is a poet to
read when the soul is wrung, and longs for the solace of communion with
a noble, tender, sympathetic human heart. The very absence of ornament
brings the thoughts and feelings nearer to our needs. Her poems are
evidently pictures of real human souls, and not poetic imaginings of
what human beings might feel under such and such circumstances. There
are many of Miss Procter's tales and shorter poems which bring tears to
the eyes of all who have really lived and sorrowed, and the more we read
them, the more do they come home to us. We feel as if we could take
their author into our heart of hearts, and make all the world love her
as do we. With her, brilliancy of imagery and description are replaced
by a sententiousness and concentration of expression that suddenly
strike home some truth perhaps well known, but little dwelt on. For
instance, in 'A Legend of Provence,' we find:

'Kind hearts are here; yet would the tenderest one
Have limits to its mercy: God has none.
And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet,
But yet he stoops to give it. More complete
Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet,
And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven
Means _crowned_, not _vanquished_, when it says, 'Forgiven!''

Again, in 'The Present:'

'Noble things the great Past promised,
Holy dreams, both strange and new;
But the Present shall fulfil them,
What he promised she shall do.

* * * * *

'She is wise with all his wisdom,
Living on his grave she stands,
On her brow she bears his laurels,
And _his harvest in her hands_.'

'Links with Heaven' is a continued series of tender, original thoughts,
expressed in the same terse and striking, but simple manner. 'Homeless,'
'Treasures,' 'Incompleteness,' 'Light and Shade,' are, among the smaller
poems, fine specimens of her distinguishing merits; while of the
longer, 'Three Evenings in a Life,' 'Philip and Mildred,' and 'Homeward
Bound' cannot fall to charm all who love to read a real page from the
experience of humanity.

Both Jean Ingelow and Adelaide Procter are thoroughly penetrated by
profound religious convictions, the faith and charity of the latter
being especially vivid and pervading. The one has a preponderance of the
b