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a style, far too rugged and far too bald for melodious poetry, Bhattu Murthi gloried in what may be described as "a beautiful procession of words that go upon their way, singing,"--not forgetting to give us an inkling into his leaving by doing homage to the last great epoch-maker before him. Peddanna was indeed not altogether without quaint imagery and an equable flow of verse, but Bhattu Murthi made it manifest that he had quite a passion for them. With Peddanna, the progress of the plot was paramount, and all else--except perhaps an unusual number of ncologies and rare and uncommon words--was subordinate; whereas, to Bhattu Murthi, everything was beneath a harmonious blending of musical cadence with ingenious figures and tropes, emanating in endless novelty and in unmeasured abundance, out of the seemingly-exhaustless resources of his genius. The cadence he panted after, reminds you of a soft, sweet purling stream, welling out of a perennial spring with variegated shells, brilliant gems, and shining bits and sands of gold, dazzling the eye through its clear and limpid waters as it ripples along. You may also compare his verses to a bracelet and the words in them --not to jewelled links, chained together, but to the mere lengthening of gold of the finest touch, with a variety of precious stones, set and embedded in it with exquisite workmanship. Again, his productions, as a whole, may be likened to a Museum in which
