No. XII.
CANNOGE, ON THE RIVER GANGES.
It is impossible to look at these miserable remnants of the great city of Cannoge without the most melancholy sensations, and the strongest conviction of the instability of man's proudest works. Cannoge was built, it is said, a thousand years before the Christian era; it was celebrated for its extent, riches, beauty, and magnificence; it was the capital of Hindoostan when that empire was great and powerful, under the predecessor of Phoor, or Porus, whom Alexander (whose pernicious ambition deluged the plains of Asia with human blood) overthrew and subjugated. But the illustrious conquests of that human tiger are now scarcely noted on the records of the world, or noted only with detestation and horror; and a vast extent of scattered ruins are at this time nearly all that remain of the great Cannoge! A small town, constructed from the quarry of scattered edifices on which it stands, still bearing the name of that city, is yet permitted to exist, merely, as it would seem, to make its misery and degradation more apparent.
The plains of India indeed present to mankind many a sad proof of the uncertainty of human glory. That country seemed at one period to be the centre of all that was splendid, or great or grand within the grasp of man's capacity; all that his genius could invent, or his pride aspire to. It contained numerous cities of immense extent and population; merchants, artizans, philosophers, poets, historians; and with these a truly imperial patronage, equally munificent and patriotic, that called every faculty into action. In fine, it contained whatever appeared capable either to improve and exalt the state of man, or perpetuate his glory.
But, alas! the heroes, the sages, and men of genius of those times, who, perhaps, despising the contemporary envy or praise, looked with fond hope to a more discerning and grateful posterity; that posterity knows not, nor regards their claims; their palaces, their mausoleums, temples, and choultries, the memorials of benevolence, ostentation, or piety, have long ceased to exhibit their splendours; for time, regardless of the proud hopes of genius or ambition, has almost blotted out this gorgeous portion of our globe, and all the external signs of its ancient greatness, its works of art, and the monuments of its power, are almost obliterated; and its talents, its virtues, and its vices, have long ceased to be remembered.
Cannoge is in latitude 27° 3′, longitude 80° 13′, distant from Calcutta about eight hundred miles.
Cannoge, on the River Ganges.