to the scene of her earliest memories, the circling wilderness of foliage, the shining tank with the round leaves of the lilies, the murmuring dusk under the vast branches of the central casuarina-tree.  Here, in a mystical retirement more irksome to a European in fancy than to an Oriental in reality, the brain of this wonderful child was moulded.  She was pure Hindoo, full of the typical qualities of her race and blood, and, as the present volume shows us for the first time, preserving to the last her appreciation of the poetic side of her ancient religion, though faith itself in Vishnu and Siva had been cast aside with childish things and been replaced by a purer faith.  Her mother fed her imagination with the old songs and legends of their people, stories which it was the last labor of her life to weave into English verse; but it would seem that the marvellous faculties of Toru’s mind still slumbered, when, in her thirteenth year, her father decided to take his daughters to Europe to learn English and French.  To the end of her days Toru was a better French than English scholar.  She loved France best, she knew its literature best, she wrote its language with more perfect elegance.  The Dutts arrived in Europe at the close of 1869, and the girls went to school, for the first and last time, at a French pension.  They did not remain there very many months; their father took them to Italy and England with him, and finally they attended for a short time, but with great zeal and application, the lectures for women at Cambridge.  In November, 1873, they went back to Bengal, and the four remaining years of Toru’s life were spent in the old garden-house at Calcutta, in a feverish dream of intellectual effort and imaginative production.  When we consider what she achieved in these forty-five months of seclusion, it is impossible to wonder that the frail and hectic body succumbed under so excessive a strain.

She brought with her from Europe a store of knowledge that would have sufficed to make an English or French girl seem learned, but which in her case was simply miraculous.  Immediately on her return she began to study Sanscrit with the same intense application which she gave to all her work, and mastering the language with extraordinary swiftness, she plunged into its mysterious literature.  But she was born to write, and despairing of an audience in her own language, she began to adopt ours as a medium for her thought.  Her first essay, published when she was eighteen, was a monograph, in the “Bengal Magazine,” on Leconte de Lisle, a writer with whom she had a sympathy which is very easy to comprehend.  The austere poet of “La Mort de Valmiki” was, obviously, a figure to whom the poet of “Sindhu” must needs be attracted on approaching European literature.  This study, which was illustrated by translations into English verse, was followed by another on Josephin Soulary, in whom she saw more than her maturer judgment might have justified.  There is something very