Mr. Egan, as a novelist, has written many books, dealing mostly with Irish-American life. These novels are filled with strong, manly feeling, and Catholic pictures beautiful enough to arrest the attention of the most fastidious. In these days of romance readers such books must serve as an antidote to the subtle poison that permeates the fictive art. They are pleasant and instructive, and that is a high tribute in these days of dulness and spiced immorality. Take him all in all, perhaps the most acceptable tribute is, that whatever may be his gifts in the various rôles he has essayed, heavy or slight, they have been ungrudgingly used for his race and religion. JOHN B. TABB. A friend once wrote to me: “What do you know about a poet who signs his name John B. Tabb, his poems are delicious?” My answer was, that I knew nothing of his personal history, but that his poems had found their way into my aristocratic scrap-book. Here I might pause to whisper that the adjective aristocratic, in my sense, has nothing haughty about it. When joined to the noun scrap-book, a good commentator—they are scarce—would freely translate the phrase the indwelling of good poetry. Since then my personal knowledge of the poet has grown slowly, a slight stock and no leaves. Even that, like my old coat, is second-handed. Such material, no matter how highly recommended by the keepers of the golden balls, is usually found to be a poor bargain. But here it is, keeping in mind that rags are better than no clothing, and that older proverb—half a loaf is better than no bread.