hich
very reason, perhaps, they so dominate their literature, making its
characteristic to be the working out of extravagantly vehement feelings
to an inevitable conflagration. At least this uncontrolled excitement
was what we learnt to look on as the quintessence of English literature.

[Illustration: Moonlight]

In the impetuous declamation of English poetry by Akshay Chowdhury, our
initiator into English literature, there was the wildness of
intoxication. The frenzy of Romeo's and Juliet's love, the fury of King
Lear's impotent lamentation, the all-consuming fire of Othello's
jealousy, these were the things that roused us to enthusiastic
admiration. Our restricted social life, our narrower field of activity,
was hedged in with such monotonous uniformity that tempestuous feelings
found no entrance;--all was as calm and quiet as could be. So our hearts
naturally craved the life-bringing shock of the passionate emotion in
English literature. Ours was not the aesthetic enjoyment of literary art,
but the jubilant welcome by stagnation of a turbulent wave, even though
it should stir up to the surface the slime of the bottom.

Shakespeare's contemporary literature represents the war-dance of the
day when the Renascence came to Europe in all the violence of its
reaction against the severe curbing and cramping of the hearts of men.
The examination of good and evil, beauty and ugliness, was not the main
object,--man then seemed consumed with the anxiety to break through all
barriers to the inmost sanctuary of his being, there to discover the
ultimate image of his own violent desire. That is why in this literature
we find such poignant, such exuberant, such unbridled expression.

The spirit of this bacchanalian revelry of Europe found entrance into
our demurely well-behaved social world, woke us up, and made us lively.
We were dazzled by the glow of unfettered life which fell upon our
custom-smothered heart, pining for an opportunity to disclose itself.

There was another such day in English literature when the slow-measure
of Pope's common time gave place to the dance-rhythm of the French
revolution. This had Byron for its poet. And the impetuosity of his
passion also moved our veiled heart-bride in the seclusion of her
corner.

In this wise did the excitement of the pursuit of English literature
come to sway the heart of the youth of our time, and at mine the waves
of this excitement kept beating from every side. The fi