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had kept eight terms. There were four more terms to keep before I could be called to. the Bar. I made up my mind to stay on in England and finish my terms and be called to the Bar. Little did I then dream that even here my hopes were doomed to be frustrated.

I continued eating my dinners, and the time came when I was to be called. That was some time in April or May, 1875. My name was duly put up. An objection was, however, raised, from what quarter or by whom I knew not, nor did I care to enquire then nor do I even now. My dismissal from the Civil Service was considered to be a fatal objection, and the Benchers of the Middle Temple declined to call me to the Bar. An old English barrister, Mr. Cochrane, who for many years was an eminent leader of the Calcutta Bar, warmly interested himself in my case. Old as he was and almost tottering with the weight of years, he did all that was humanly possible. It was a pleasure to see the old man, fired with the enthusiasm of youth on my behalf. He was a grand specimen of a type which I fear is rapidly passing away. But all his efforts were made in vain. From the Civil Service I had been dismissed. From the Bar I was shut out. Thus were closed to me all avenues to the realization of an honourable ambition.

The outlook was truly dark. My friends declared that I was a ruined man, and that there was no hope for me on this side of the grave. Even the great Kristo Das Pal, editor of the Hindoo Patriot, took the same view. A friend, now dead, who achieved considerable distinction as a member of the Calcutta Bar, advised me in a sympathetic vein that I should change my name, go to Australia and seek out a career there for myself. I listened to these friendly counsels with all the equanimity I could muster, but I never despaired, nor even was the exuberant joyousness of my youthful nature darkened by the heavy clouds that lay thick around me. In the iron grip of ruin I had already formed some forecast of the work that was awaiting me in life. I felt that I had suffered because I was an Indian, a member of a community that lay disorganized, had no public opinion, and no voice in the counsels of their Government. I felt with all the passionate warmth of youth that we were helots, hewers of wood and drawers of water in the land of our birth. The personal wrong done to me was an illustration of the helpless impotency of our people. Were others to suffer in the future as I had suffered in the past? They must, I thought to myself; unless we were capable as a