Bhowanipore, and entitled A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields. This shabby little book of some 200 pages, without preface or introduction, seemed speedily destined to find its way into the waste-paper basket. I remember that Mr. Minto thrust it into my unwilling hands, and said, 'There, see whether you can make something of that.' A hopeless volume it seemed, with its queer type, printed at the Saptahiksambad Press. But when at last I took it out of my pocket, what was my surprise, and almost rapture, to open at such a verse as this—
"Still barred thy doors. The far East glows,
The morning wind blows fresh and free;
Should not the hour that wakes the rose
Awaken also thee.
"All look for thee, Love, Light and Song;
Light in the sky, deep red above,
Song in the lark of pinions strong,
And in my heart true love."
Although Toru's first book is the least perfect and polished of her literary productions, it is in some respects the most interesting, revealing as it does both her weakness and her strength. At every turn we are met by instances of genius overcoming all obstacles, and yet, in its turn, baffled by ignorance and inexperience. It is little short of marvellous to see the way in which the oriental mind adapts itself to Western ideas, and expresses them with a purity and a grace that leaves nothing to be desired; while,
