“King of the Irelands.” New York Times, November 21, 1903, p. BR8

A romance galloping splendidly on its headlong way, and looking back now and again to smile gayly and wink at the reader and to jeer at itself, that's “The O'Ruddy.” As a story it begins well and ends well. As a rhodomontade it goes with a whoop and a shower of sparks from the hoofs of speeding horses, high words and jests of the riders flung behind. As a sly satire upon other rhodomontades it is magnificent. You can, if you choose, however, forget the satire utterly in the pounding of horses, the clash of swords, and the resounding hubbub caused by the O'Ruddy “figuring the use of boots” by “kicking a blackguard into the inn yard adjacent,” or be swept along by the whirlwind raised by the same O'Ruddy revolving eagerly about a table in the inn while the Countess of Westport with equal eagerness revolves after him. And you can also, if you are so minded, forget the world and the “commercialism of the age” while you watch the Irish hero run the first swordsman in England harmlessly through the body, or, backed up against a friendly wall, contrive so to pink in the knuckles nine hired ruffians that their nine swords fall clattering all at once to the pavement in a shower of clanging steel, while nine bleeding right fists fly to the nine mouths of the owners.