te the imitation _Maithili_ poem _Gahana kusuma
kunja majhe_. I was greatly pleased with it and lost no time in reading
it out to the first one I came across; of whose understanding a word of
it there happened to be not the slightest danger, and who consequently
could not but gravely nod and say, "Good, very good indeed!"

To my friend mentioned a while ago I said one day: "A tattered old
manuscript has been discovered while rummaging in the _Adi Brahma Samaj_
library and from this I have copied some poems by an old Vaishnava Poet
named Bhanu Singha;"[39] with which I read some of my imitation poems to
him. He was profoundly stirred. "These could not have been written even
by _Vidyapati_ or _Chandidas_!" he rapturously exclaimed. "I really must
have that MS. to make over to Akshay Babu for publication."

Then I showed him my manuscript book and conclusively proved that the
poems could not have been written by either _Vidyapati_ or _Chandidas_
because the author happened to be myself. My friend's face fell as he
muttered, "Yes, yes, they're not half bad."

When these Bhanu Singha poems were coming out in the _Bharati_, Dr.
Nishikanta Chatterjee was in Germany. He wrote a thesis on the lyric
poetry of our country comparing it with that of Europe. Bhanu Singha was
given a place of honour as one of the old poets such as no modern writer
could have aspired to. This was the thesis on which Nishikanta
Chatterjee got his Ph. D.!

Whoever Bhanu Singha might have been, had his writings fallen into the
hands of latter-day me, I swear I would not have been deceived. The
language might have passed muster; for that which the old poets wrote in
was not their mother tongue, but an artificial language varying in the
hands of different poets. But there was nothing artificial about their
sentiments. Any attempt to test Bhanu Singha's poetry by its ring would
have shown up the base metal. It had none of the ravishing melody of our
ancient pipes, but only the tinkle of a modern, foreign barrel organ.

(22) _Patriotism_

From an outside point of view many a foreign custom would appear to have
gained entry into our family, but at its heart flames a national pride
which has never flickered. The genuine regard which my father had for
his country never forsook him through all the revolutionary vicissitudes
of his life, and this in his descendants has taken shape as a strong
patriotic feeling. Love of country was, however, by no mean