All these were living and probably in daily reception of the obeisances of the retired medical officer who esteemed them so highly; but Dr. Beatson was dead:
We lost, lately lost, Dr. W. B. Beatson.
We again shall never gain him in person....
He is a Dr. Philanthropist,
He is a Dr. Physiognomist,
He is a Dr. Anatomist,
He is His Lordship's personal Surgeon.
It will be seen already that Mr. Dutt had not yet mastered his instrument, but he did not lack thoughts: merely the power to express them. Throughout these thirty odd pages one sees him floundering in the morass of a new language, always with something that he wants to say but can only suggest. Here, for example, is a personal statement, line by line more or less inarticulate, but as a whole clear enough. With all the mental incompleteness, the verbal looseness, the fumblings and gropings of the traditional Baboo, it is a genuine piece of irony. Seldom can a convert to Christianity have been more frank.
I would not accept a second creation,
I thank the Omnipotent for his kind protection.
From my minority,
I profess the mendacity,
Passed days in poverty,
From my minority.
Perpetually my duty,
Sobbing under perplexity.
Nothing least prosperity,
But sad and emotion.
I gave up the heathenism,
And its favouritism,
Together with the Hinduism.
I gave up the heathenism.
Neither the fanaticism,
Nor the paganism,
Or my idiotism,
Could enrich me with provision.
Such was the poetical pioneer, Baboo Ramkinoo Dutt, who (supposing always that we may accept his statement as true) was the first Hindu to write English verse.