nor profundity of thought, nor variety of knowledge, all of
which had been his in ample measure. He had been a favourite pupil of
Richardson and brought up in an atmosphere of English learning,
nevertheless he flung aside all obstacles due to his early habit and
gave himself up lovingly and devotedly to Bengali literature. Though the
meekest of men, he was full of fire which flamed its fiercest in his
patriotism, as though to burn to ashes the shortcomings and destitution
of his country. The memory of this smile-sweetened fervour-illumined
lifelong-youthful saint is one that is worth cherishing by our
countrymen.

(23) _The Bharati_

On the whole the period of which I am writing was for me one of ecstatic
excitement. Many a night have I spent without sleep, not for any
particular reason but from a mere desire to do the reverse of the
obvious. I would keep up reading in the dim light of our school room all
alone; the distant church clock would chime every quarter as if each
passing hour was being put up to auction; and the loud _Haribols_ of the
bearers of the dead, passing along Chitpore Road on their way to the
Nimtollah cremation ground, would now and then resound. Through some
summer moonlight nights I would be wandering about like an unquiet
spirit among the lights and shadows of the tubs and pots on the garden
of the roof-terrace.

Those who would dismiss this as sheer poetising would be wrong. The very
earth in spite of its having aged considerably surprises us occasionally
by its departure from sober stability; in the days of its youth, when
it had not become hardened and crusty, it was effusively volcanic and
indulged in many a wild escapade. In the days of man's first youth the
same sort of thing happens. So long as the materials which go to form
his life have not taken on their final shape they are apt to be
turbulent in the process of their formation.

This was the time when my brother Jyotirindra decided to start the
_Bharati_ with our eldest brother as editor, giving us fresh food for
enthusiasm. I was then just sixteen, but I was not left out of the
editorial staff. A short time before, in all the insolence of my
youthful vanity, I had written a criticism of the _Meghanadabadha_. As
acidity is characteristic of the unripe mango so is abuse of the
immature critic. When other powers are lacking, the power of pricking
seems to be at its sharpest. I had thus sought immortality by leaving my
scratc