neither quote nor analyse it. A great deal of its author's charm, too, lies in his wit, and this it is utterly impossible for us to reproduce in English, depending as it does on similarities between the sounds of Bengali words and ideas which are almost incomprehensible to a foreigner.
There are several other writers still remaining to be noticed, but the limited space at our disposal compels us to bring the present paper to a close. Babu Ranga Lál Banerji is a poet with a high reputation among his countrymen, but we must say that he has done very little to deserve it. His three poems are—Padmini, Karmmadebi and Surasundari, all three being versified stories of Rajput women, taken from Tod’s Rajasthan. Padmini is perhaps the best. This writer belongs to the school of Bharat Chandra, though, unlike the old author, he is free from obscenity. Indeed, such merits as he has are chiefly of a negative character.
Babu Hem Chunder Banerji, though less known to fame, is a far better poet. His Indra’s Nectar Feast is a spirited imitation of Dryden’s Alexander’s Feast.
Among the romance writers, Babu Protap Chandra Ghose, author of ‘Bangadhip Parajay’, has recently been noticed at length in this review. The only other writer of this class whose works it seems necessary to notice, is Babu Bankim Chandra Chatarji, whose Durgesnandini, Kapál Kundalá and Mrinalini are among the most popular of Bengali books. Perhaps we cannot do better than give a brief sketch of the story of Kapál Kundalá which, if not the best, is the shortest and most easily reproduced of the three. The story then runs thus:—
A young Brahman named Naba Kumar, on his return from Ganga Ságar, was left by his companions on a deserted part of the coast of Hidgelee. The only inhabitant of the place was a ‘Kapalika’, or member of one of those strange sects which practised the wild and terrible Tantric forms of worship—whose temple is the burning ghat, and for whom no rite is too bloody and disgusting. From him the young man obtained food and shelter. Having provided for his necessities, his unattractive host, with his drinking cup of human skull, went on a journey with a promise to return again. But day after day passed and no Kápálika appeared, till at length Naba Kumár, weary of waiting, determined to find his own way, if possible, through the pathless wilderness of jungle in which the hermit’s cave stood, to some region inhabited by men. But in the attempt he utterly lost his way, and the following scene then occurs, which we quote because it is a favourite with native readers:—
‘He now perceived that he could not even find his way back. The deep roar of the water boomed in his ear and he recognized the voice of the ocean. Suddenly emerging from the thicket, he saw the sea spread before him. The infinite expanse of the dark waters filled him
