's devotion and he went on with the worship of his idol.

Then I launched into a criticism of the work of this writer. I let
myself go, and eruditely held forth on the distinctive features of
lyrics and other short poems, my great advantage being that printed
matter is so unblushing, so impassively unbetraying of the writer's real
attainments. My friend turned up in a great passion and hurled at me the
threat that a B.A. was writing a reply. A B.A.! I was struck
speechless. I felt the same as in my younger days when my nephew Satya
had shouted for a policeman. I could see the triumphal pillar of
argument, erected upon my nice distinctions, crumbling before my eyes at
the merciless assaults of authoritative quotations; and the door
effectually barred against my ever showing my face to the reading public
again. Alas, my critique, under what evil star wert thou born! I spent
day after day in the direst suspense. But, like Satya's policeman, the
B.A. failed to appear.

(21) _Bhanu Singha_

As I have said I was a keen student of the series of old Vaishnava poems
which were being collected and published by Babus Akshay Sarkar and
Saroda Mitter. Their language, largely mixed with Maithili, I found
difficult to understand; but for that very reason I took all the more
pains to get at their meaning. My feeling towards them was that same
eager curiosity with which I regarded the ungerminated sprout within
the seed, or the undiscovered mystery under the dust covering of the
earth. My enthusiasm was kept up with the hope of bringing to light some
unknown poetical gems as I went deeper and deeper into the unexplored
darkness of this treasure-house.

While I was so engaged, the idea got hold of me of enfolding my own
writings in just such a wrapping of mystery. I had heard from Akshay
Chowdhury the story of the English boy-poet Chatterton. What his poetry
was like I had no idea, nor perhaps had Akshay Babu himself. Had we
known, the story might have lost its charm. As it happened the
melodramatic element in it fired my imagination; for had not so many
been deceived by his successful imitation of the classics? And at last
the unfortunate youth had died by his own hand. Leaving aside the
suicide part I girded up my loins to emulate young Chatterton's
exploits.

One noon the clouds had gathered thickly. Rejoicing in the grateful
shade of the cloudy midday rest-hour, I lay prone on the bed in my inner
room and wrote on a sla