March 7,' 19 i 8 
Land & \\^ater 
1-9 
Life and Letters ^i J. C- Squire 
Masterpieces 
THE Atlantic is wide and deep. Great gales 
sweep across its surface, and its waves run moun- 
tains high. In its hither waters the sleepless 
submarine lies in wait for what it would now be 
inept to call the unwary ship. Yet the ships 
face it. With the wind screaming through the rigging and 
the white crests of the billows flashing palely out of the 
night, they plough onwards, bringing us food, munitions, 
and allies. They also provide space for mails. .-Vnd some of 
the contents of the mail-bags are such that if the sailors 
-could see them they might well treat them as their pre- 
decessors treated Jonah, and with much better reason. 
.-\mongst the literature which might well have been com- 
mitted tiTthe deep on a recent voyage is a " bunch " addressed 
to the office of a London journal. Still, had it received its 
deserts, it would not have reached me : and I should be ' 
sorry to have missed it. 
* * * ■ * * * 
The kernel of the parcel was a book of poems, from a 
publisher, located in Boylston Street, Boston, by name 
Richard G. Badger. But before this was reached, there 
■were numerous subsidiary papers' which arrested the atten- 
tion. F^irst of all, came a letter from Mr. Badger who, it 
appears from his note-paper, is publisher of Poet Lore, of 
Badger's Library of Religious Thought, of the World's Worships 
Series, and of The Journal of Abnormal Psychology— a com- 
t^rcliensive collection. The letter began: 
iGentlemen. 
At the request of Mr. Basudeb Bhattacharya, Editor of The 
Superman, we are sending you, under separate cover, to-day a 
copy of his latest book, The Denied. The author is one of the 
two Hindus who can write real metric verse in English. He 
has been editor of a number of periodicals in his native language, 
and is one of the leaders of the Young Hindus both in this 
country as well as in India. He leads the rival school of Tagore, 
and, unlike the mystic poet of India, believes in life. 
At the foot of the note-paper, 1 forgot to mention, js the 
general warning, whicli English publishers would do well to 
ponder: "All contracts subject to Strikes or Other Causes 
Beyond our Control." 
****** 
From the letter I turned to something larger : pages from 
Mr. Badger's catalogue of new books. Some of these books 
were about Nosology, Symptomatology, and Psychognosis, 
about which, until I decide to become a really modern 
novelist, I am content to remain ignorant. But in poetry 
I am more interested, and Badger's New Poetry at once 
attracted my eye. The most casual perusal of this' list 
was enough to convince me that if the poetry of Mr. Badger's 
authors is as original as Mr. Badger's advertising, they must 
be the most remarkable lot since the Elizabethans. 
I give a few extracts from this pioneer amongst catalogues : 
The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society. 
By (ieorge Reginald Margetson. 
\ ringing satire which deals with many questions of the day, 
with topical allusions to the Poetry Society of America. 
My Soldier Boy and Other Poems. 
By Mrs. John Archibald Morison. 
This collection of poems is mainly expressive of the subtle 
and bewitching voices of nature, which the author has surely 
heard and interpreted with an accuracy and sympathetic skill 
all her own. • . 
Yearnings. 
By WiUiara Estill Phipps. 
Every poem in this unique volume breathes the serene, 
inspiring ethereal touch of genuine poetry. 
WiNTBROREEN. ' 
By Marvin .Manan Sherrick. 
A breath from the norttiern forests dealing with cradle songs, 
voices of the forest, and moods of the seasons. 
At the Edge of_ the World. 
By Caroline Stern. 
These beautiful poems take us on the wings of, fancy to the 
mystical regions at the edge of the world. 
Songs ok a Golden .\ge. 
By Elizabeth F. Sturtevant. 
The first seven poems, from which the book takes its name, 
are the real foundation of the volume. The other poems treat 
a variety of subjects in a very versatile manner. 
Mystery, or The Lady of the Casino. 
By David F. Taylor. 
The object of this story is for the furtherance of peace. 
Kandom Verse. 
By F. VV. B. 
. Simple verse, putting before us thoughts that come to us in 
onr everyday life. 
Humorous Poems. 
By Ignatius Brennan. 
Do not tread this book if life to you is one dark, dismal frown. 
If, however, you see laughter lurking even amidst the crashing 
storm, then get busy. 
The Singer. 
ByJ.T. 
Mostly about three human beings : a sinner, a saint, and a 
plain ass. The first two will find considerable interest in this 
book. As for the third, he will never see this catalogue. 
These are about enough to indicate the manner. We learn 
in another that Theodore Botrel is "perhaps the most con- 
spicuous literary figure in Europe to-day," and in another 
that a poem by Mr. Arthur Ketchum "has had the unique 
distinction of being translated into Chinese." As for The 
Foaliam, by Edwin A. Watrons, it is described as 
A pentameter satire, with a punch in every line. For men only — 
and for curious women. 
"Its spicy effectiveness," adds Mr. Badger, "in no way 
makes it offensive." It is a pity that as much cannot be 
said for his advertisement of it ; which is one of the worst 
examples of what may be called the tropical allusion. 
****** 
My appetite whetted by all this luxuriant introduction, 
I arrived at last at the book itself — The Denied, by the editor 
of The Superman. The author modestly ascribes publica- 
tion to the persuasions of "the sponsors of the, Poets' Federa- 
tion movement." TTie ' movement is much to blame. It is 
not that one is surprised to find the editor of The Superman 
writing : 
I am a speck of dust at your feet, 
Clrey in insignificance of defeat ; 
Fallen and shrivelled, and upon your face 
Gaze my thirsty eyes, longing an embrace ! 
You will tread upon — no, no, not despise 
A life so low, so small. 
For no man can be expected to live up to an ideal like that. 
The trouble is that Mr. Basudeb's "real metric verse" is so 
exactly like what many Englishmen and Americans write 
themselves t*hat one feels he wasted,, in attaining his mastery, 
powers which might have been devoted to a continued 
rivalry, in the vernacular, with Sir Rabindranath Tagore. 
Tagore's position in English is scarcely likely to be shaken 
by verse like this : 
Kiss me — and I in a breath shall impart 
Ebbs and tides of entire, eternal fate ; 
The rise and fall, by drops, part by part^ 
Ceaseless onrushes of Time that ne'er abate, 
I shall give you — if you can only hold — 
Creations, destructions, trillion births. 
Multi-trillion deaths, — all that unfold 
tiniverse's mad spasms, — her secret mirths. 
This, perhaps, is a little more like the Superman ; but it is 
even less like poetrv than the other. 
* * ' * * * * 
"Basudeb," announces Mr. Badger on the cover, "believes 
in Life — enjoys it, suffers for it, is madly in love with it. 
But he, too, transcends it with a passionately devotional 
pagan attitude toward lower lives and nature" ; and he 
concludes with a reference to " the supreme message of these 
unique cadences." This brings me to the real reason why 
I have quoted so profusely from Mr. Badger's catalogue — 
why, indeed, I have referred to him at all. No publisher 
in England (and probably no other in America) as yet 
assaults the public with such intolerable bosh as Mr. Badger's 
puffs of his own wares. But there is a distinct tendency 
both here and there for publishers' advertisements to become at 
once more intimate and more fulsome. They are beginning to 
cease thinking at all ; fhey either waste their space on complete 
inanities like "treat a variety of subjects in a very versatile 
manner," or, more frequently, they copy the patent-medicine 
merchants, and announce the most worthless books as the 
greatest things on earth. But they are not catering for the 
patent-medicine public, and they should realise in time that 
though there is a good deal of room for improvement in their 
advertisements, it does not lie in the direction of increased 
brazenness. Even the most ingenuous of readers is liable 
to reflect that every book publisiied cannot be "unique" in 
any sense that matters. And it no more pays to go on 
crying "Masterpiece, masterpiece" than "Wolf, wolf." This 
))romiscuous panegyric defeats its own ends, and the public 
is ceasing to believe any statement by a publisher about his 
own books ; this, above' all, being true with books of belles- 
lettres which are natural! v intended for the most discriminating 
and intelligent public of all. A description is useful ; but 
that is all we want from this source. 
