That most delightful of all French critics, M. Edmond Scherer, has
recently stated in an article on Wordsworth that the English read far
more poetry than any other European nation. We sincerely hope this may
be true, not merely for the sake of the public but for the sake of the
poets also. It would be sad indeed if the many volumes of poems that are
every year published in London found no readers but the authors
themselves and the authors' relations; and the real philanthropist should
recognise it as part of his duties to buy every new book of verse that
appears. Sometimes, we acknowledge, he will be disappointed, often he
will be bored; still now and then he will be amply rewarded for his
reckless benevolence.

Mr. George Francis Armstrong's Stories of Wicklow, for instance, is most
pleasant reading. Mr. Armstrong is already well known as the author of
Ugone, King Saul and other dramas, and his latest volume shows that the
power and passion of his early work has not deserted him. Most modern
Irish poetry is purely political and deals with the wickedness of the
landlords and the Tories; but Mr. Armstrong sings of the picturesqueness
of Erin, not of its politics. He tells us very charmingly of the magic
of its mists and the melody of its colour, and draws a most captivating
picture of the peasants of the county Wicklow, whom he describes as

A kindly folk in vale and moor,
Unvexed with rancours, frank and free
In mood and manners--rich with poor
Attuned in happiest amity:
Where still the cottage door is wide,
The stranger welcomed at the hearth,
And pleased the humbler hearts confide