them told me that for an hour and a half, by a ceaseless flow of language, he kept the audience spell-bound. He has not derived his thoughts from English literature. He claims that he has received them from the atmos- phere of the soil. He has drunk them from the Upanishads. The Indian sky has showered them upon him. And I understand that the position of the other Bengali writers is very similar to the poet's.
When Mahatma Munshiramji, majestic as the Himalayas, delivers his addresses in chaining Hirdi, the audience composed of men, women and children listen to him and understand his message. His know- ledge of English he reserves for his English friends. He does not translate English thought into Hindi.
It is said of the Hon. Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviaji, who, though a householder, has, for the sake of India, dedicated himself entirely to the country, that his English speech is silvery. His silvery eloquence compels Viceregal attention. But if his Erg- lish speech is silvery, his Hindi speech shines golden like the waters of the Ganges under the sunbeams, as they descend from the Mansarovar.
These three speakers do not owe their power to their English knowledge, but to their love of the ver- naculars. The services rendered by the late Swami Dayanand to Hindi owe nothing to the English langu- age. Nor did English play any part in the contributions of Tukaram and Ramdas to Marathi literature. The English language can receive no credit for the growth in Gujarati literature ifrom Premanand's pen as of Shamal Chat's and quite recently of Dalpatram.
The foregoing illustrations seem to afford sufficient proof that love of, and faith in, the vernaculars, rather
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