Hawrah, I made bold to
call on him. We met, and I tried my best to make conversation. But I
somehow felt greatly abashed while returning home, as if I had acted
like a raw and bumptious youth in thus thrusting myself upon him unasked
and unintroduced.

Shortly after, as I added to my years, I attained a place as the
youngest of the literary men of the time; but what was to be my position
in order of merit was not even then settled. The little reputation I
had acquired was mixed with plenty of doubt and not a little of
condescension. It was then the fashion in Bengal to assign each man of
letters a place in comparison with a supposed compeer in the West. Thus
one was the Byron of Bengal, another the Emerson and so forth. I began
to be styled by some the Bengal Shelley. This was insulting to Shelley
and only likely to get me laughed at.

My recognised cognomen was the Lisping Poet. My attainments were few, my
knowledge of life meagre, and both in my poetry and my prose the
sentiment exceeded the substance. So that there was nothing there on
which anyone could have based his praise with any degree of confidence.
My dress and behaviour were of the same anomalous description. I wore my
hair long and indulged probably in an ultra-poetical refinement of
manner. In a word I was eccentric and could not fit myself into everyday
life like the ordinary man.

At this time Babu Akshay Sarkar had started his monthly review, the
_Nabajiban_, New Life, to which I used occasionally to contribute.
Bankim Babu had just closed the chapter of his editorship of the _Banga
Darsan_, the Mirror of Bengal, and was busy with religious discussions
for which purpose he had started the monthly, _Prachar_, the Preacher.
To this also I contributed a song or two and an effusive appreciation
of _Vaishnava_ lyrics.

From now I began constantly to meet Bankim Babu. He was then living in
Bhabani Dutt's street. I used to visit him frequently, it is true, but
there was not much of conversation. I was then of the age to listen, not
to talk. I fervently wished we could warm up into some discussion, but
my diffidence got the better of my conversational powers. Some days
Sanjib Babu[54] would be there reclining on his bolster. The sight would
gladden me, for he was a genial soul. He delighted in talking and it was
a delight to listen to his talk. Those who have read his prose writing
must have noticed how gaily and airily it flows on like the sprightliest
of