“Oh, it’s a fact,” said O’Gorman; “but what’s the matter? you appear unwell.”
“Oh, I am quite well,” said I; “but let’s take a glass of wine.”
I tossed off a bumper, and felt relieved.
“And so—little—Olivia—Jenkins—is actually—married? Good heavens! only think of that!”
“Why, sure,” said the ensign, smiling, “there’s nothing very strange in a pretty girl getting married; but,” added he, looking hard at me, and after a pause, “I suspect you were a little touched in that quarter yourself; am I not a true diviner?”
“I acknowledge it,” said I; “I did like that girl. Good heavens! and so little Olivia Jenkins is actually married!”
The ensign pressed me to stay with him a week, but I was forced to decline his hospitality, and resumed my onward route the next morning.
In a few days I reached Benares—Kasi, the splendid—the Jerusalem or Mecca of the Hindoo world. What a treat to look upon a picture of human existence, just as it probably was when Alexander the Great was a little chap!
As I glided past the swarming ghauts, where the pure-caste damsels, the high-born Hindoo maidens, of this strange and antique land, displayed their lovely forms, and laved their raven tresses in the sacred stream; where the holy bramin and the learned pundit, seated cross-legged, marked with ashes and pigments, pattered their Veds and Purans, I felt this in all its force; whilst the blowing of the conch, or the tinkling of bells, announced the never-ending round of Poojah and devotion!
Here and there, the sacred Bull of Siva, and the yoni and lingam, festooned with wreaths of lotus or chumbalie, met the eye; whilst crowded boats, jingling bylies (ruths or native carriages), armed natives in the varied costumes of India (here assembling in the common centre of religious hopes and duties), with an elephant or two half-immersed, would serve to complete the foreground of this interesting picture.