Passing the two picturesque rocks of Colgong, which stand out in the river, boldly breasting its current, we in due time reached the headland of Sultangunge, opposite to which is the romantic islet of Junghera, with its white temple and curious sculptures.
Here our budgerow was boarded by two sturdy beggars, who levy contributions from all passers-by; one of whom was the Hindoo fakeer from the rock, the other his Mahomedan vis-à-vis, of the main land, ministers of rival creeds, but agreed on that point on which we everywhere find an astonishing unanimity, the auri sacra fames.
The Mahomedan fakeer was a very venerable old man, with a long beard. He was seated on a decked portion of the boat, a tiger skin spread beneath him; a disciple in very good case, rowing the boat.
“Mr. Gernon,” said Miss Belfield to me, the next morning, “the scene of yesterday has induced me to try my poetic powers. Here,” said she, handing me a manuscript; “I have courted the Muse with somewhat more success than you did at Plassey. Pray read this, and give me your opinion.”
EVENING ON THE GANGES.
’Tis eve! by Ganges palm-clad shore
Now lightly sounds the dipping oar,
As slow it breaks with sparkling gleam
The molten silver of the stream.
And list! a song, in fitful notes,