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 association, was sometimes led into certain acts of a questionable character. But he never did anything which was wrongful or which might bring harm to others. Many had received the fruits of his bounty, and by his favour a good many people had secured their means of livelihood.

Dinabandhu was particularly kind to his friends, and I may say with conviction that the friendship of a man like Dinabandhu is a rare fortune in life. Those who have lost it would find their sorrow beyond description.

The year 1859-60 was a memorable year in the field of Bengali literature—a year which was the meeting-point of the old and the new. Iswarchandra, the last poet of the old school had then gone down the horizon, and Madhushudan, the first poet of the new school, was coming up. Iswarchandra was essentially a Bengali, and Madhushudan, English from head to foot. Dinabandhu stood bridging the two. Like the year 1859-60 Dinabandhu was the meeting-point of the old school and the new in the field of Bengali poetry.

Dinabandhu was a disciple of the poet Iswar Gupta. Amongst the disciples of Iswar Gupta none acquired the literary quality of the teacher so much as Dinabandhu did. In his command of humour Dinabandhu followed in the footsteps of his master. The intimate relation of Dinabandhu's literature with the everyday life of the Bengali people was, too, reminiscent of his master. Dinabandhu's taste which is often censured is his master's too.

But judging of art, the disciple has to be placed above the master, and this is no shame to the master, either. When I say Dinabandhu's humour imitated the humour of Iswar Gupta, what I mean is that Dinabandhu and Iswar Gupta were satirists of the same school. The technique of satire was of one kind in the past; now we are leaning towards a different kind. People in the past seemed to love broad work; now it is fine work people seem to prefer. The humorist of the past would like a lathial 1  take up his lathi 2   and hit his enemy hard on the head, crushing the skull. The humorist of today, like the surgeon, brings out his fine lancet and thrusts it in the delicate spot nobody knows when, but heart's blood gushes out through the wound. Today in the British-dominated