O cloud! press onward to the hill, He needs you for his falling streams The sun shall be my solace still And feed me with his beams. O little humpback bumble bee! O smuggler! breaking my repose, I’ll slily watch you now and see Where all the honey goes. Yes, here is room enough for two; I’d sooner be your friend than not; Forgetful of the world, as true, I would it were forgot.” MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. The poet-critic Stedman, in his book on American poetry, gives a few lines to what he terms the Irish-American school. His definition is a little misleading, as some of the poets he cites were more American than the troop of lesser bards that grace his polished pages. It is rather a strange notion of American critics that Prof. Boyesen, having cast aside the language of Norseland to sport in the larger waters of our English tongue, is metamorphosed into a true American, while the literary sons and daughters of Irish parents, born and striking root in American soil, are marked with a foreign brand. It is the old story of English literary prejudice reproduced by American critics. American _modistes_ go to Paris for their fashions, American critics to the Strand for their literary canons. It is pleasant to know that the bulk of the people stay at home. In this Irish-American school one meets with the name of Maurice Francis Egan. “A sweet and true poet” is Stedman’s criticism. Coming from a master in the art of literary interpretation, it must occupy a place in all coming estimates of Mr. Egan’s poetry. This criticism is, nevertheless, short and unsatisfactory, it gives no true idea of the poet’s place in the letters of his country. It merely, if one is inclined to agree with Stedman, establishes that Mr. Egan has a place among the bards. In the hall of Parnassus, however, there are so many stalls that the ordinary reader prefers to have the particular place assigned to each bard pointed out. The author of this sketch, while not accredited to the theatre of Parnassus, may be able to give to those who are not under the guidance of a uniformed usher some hints whereby Mr. Egan’s particular place may be discerned; that place is among the minor poets. The major stalls are all empty, waiting for the coming men, so glibly prophesied about by the little makers of our every-day literature.