To be the first is always an achievement, even though the steps falter.
To be the first is also a distinction that cannot be taken away, because
whoever comes after must be a follower; and to follow is tame. It
occasionally happens that the first, no matter how many imitate him, is
also the best; but this cannot be said of Baboo Ramkinoo Dutt, retired
medical officer on pension, a tiny pamphlet by whom has just fluttered
my way.
Mr. Dutt's pioneer work was done in the realms of poesy, somewhen in the
eighteen-sixties, and the fruits are gathered together in this
_brochure_ under the title _Songs_, published at Chittagong, in India,
which, in some bewildering way, reached a second edition in 1886. In the
opening "distich" Mr. Dutt makes the claim to be the first Asiatic poet
to write in English, and if that is true this insignificant work
becomes the seed of which the full flower is the gifted Rabindra, son of
Tagore, whose mellifluous but mystic utterances lie, I am told, on every
boudoir table. Me they, for the most part, stump.
Baboo Ramkinoo Dutt, although a pioneer, made no claim himself to have
originated the startling idea of writing songs "in English word" and
English rhyme; he merely accepted the suggestion and acted upon it. The
suggestion came, under divine guidance, from Mr. J. D. Ward, the
Chittagong magistrate. Here are the lines, setting forth that
epoch-making moment, in an address to the Deity:
I thank Thee for an idea that Thou has created in my heart
On which through the faculty I met now a very fresh art.
...
Being myself desired by the Chittagong magistrate, Mr. J. D. Ward,
Got encouraged and commence writing a few songs in English word.
To Mr. Ward, then, much honour; and, indeed, one of Ramkinoo Dutt's
pleasantest qualities is his desire always to give honour where it is
due. Mr. Ward was perhaps his especial darling among the white sahibs
of Chittagong, but all are praised. Thus, in another invocation to
Heaven, we read:
King, conqueror of nations, encourage two sorts of mortals,
One skilled in war, the other in counsel.
If so, why not Captain Macdonald should be the former?
If so, why not Mr. J. D. Ward would be the latter?
And here is part of a "distich on arrival of 38th N.I.":
We paid a visit upon Captain John A. Vanrenen,
He is a high-spirited hero and jolly gentleman,
So is the Lieutenant George Fergus Graham,
So is the Lieutenant Henry Tottenham.
The last poem of all is wholly devoted to eulogies of Chittagong
worthies. For example, Mr. H. Greavesour, the judge,
Is a pious and righteous man,
Administering justice with mental pain.
Of Mr. D. R. Douglas:
There is Mr. D. R. Douglas, Joint Magistrate,
His judgment is pure, yes, on the highest rate.
And Mr. A. Marsh, Magistrate-Collector:
He is devout, holy man, naturally shy,
His mind seems runs through righteous way.
And the Executive Engineer, Mr. C. A. Mills:
The energitic gentleman is getting on well.
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.