If my imagined lunch-parties in Westminster and the
tomb of Washington should take place, the incident
would cause a vast outbreak of bitter eloquence about
Barbarism and Irreverence; and it would come from two
sets of people who would go next day and dance in the
Taj if they had a chance.
As we took our leave of the Benares god and started
away we noticed a group of natives waiting respectfully
just within the gate—a Rajah from somewhere
in India, and some people of lesser consequence.
The god beckoned them to come, and as we passed out
the Rajah was kneeling and reverently kissing his
sacred feet.
If Barnum—but Barnum’s ambitions
are at rest. This god will remain in the holy
peace and seclusion of his garden, undisturbed.
Barnum could not have gotten him, anyway. Still,
he would have found a substitute that would answer.
Do not undervalue the headache. While it is
at its sharpest it seems a bad investment; but when
relief begins, the unexpired remainder is worth $4
a minute.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
A comfortable railway journey of seventeen and a half
hours brought us to the capital of India, which is
likewise the capital of Bengal—Calcutta.
Like Bombay, it has a population of nearly a million
natives and a small gathering of white people.
It is a huge city and fine, and is called the City
of Palaces. It is rich in historical memories;
rich in British achievement—military, political,
commercial; rich in the results of the miracles done
by that brace of mighty magicians, Clive and Hastings.
And has a cloud kissing monument to one Ochterlony.
It is a fluted candlestick 250 feet high. This
lingam is the only large monument in Calcutta, I believe.
It is a fine ornament, and will keep Ochterlony in
mind.
Wherever you are, in Calcutta, and for miles around,
you can see it; and always when you see it you think
of Ochterlony. And so there is not an hour in
the day that you do not think of Ochterlony and wonder
who he was. It is good that Clive cannot come
back, for he would think it was for Plassey; and then
that great spirit would be wounded when the revelation
came that it was not. Clive would find out that
it was for Ochterlony; and he would think Ochterlony
was a battle. And he would think it was a great
one, too, and he would say, “With three thousand
I whipped sixty thousand and founded the Empire—and
there is no monument; this other soldier must have
whipped a billion with a dozen and saved the world.”
