NEW GOA.
Early in the morning, rudely roused by curiosity, we went on deck to
inspect the celebrated view of the Rio de Goa.
The air was soft and fragrant, at the same time sufficiently cool to be
comfortable. A thin mist rested upon the lower grounds and hovered half
way up the hills, leaving their palm-clad summits clear to catch the
silvery light of dawn. Most beautiful was the hazy tone of colour all
around contrasted with the painfully vivid tints, and the sharp outlines
of an Indian view seen a few hours after sunrise. The uniformity of the
cocoa-nut groves, which at first glance appeared monotonous, gradually
became tolerable. We could now remark that they were full of human
habitations, and intersected by numbers of diminutive creeks. Close by
lay Panji, Panjim, Panjem or New Goa, with its large palace and little
houses, still dark in the shadow of the hill behind it. As for Goa Velha
(the Old Goa) we scarcely ventured to look towards it, such were our
recollections of Tavernier, Dillon, and Amine Vanderdecken, and so strong
our conviction that a day at least must elapse before we could tread
its classic ground. An occasional peep, however, discovered huge masses
of masonry—some standing out from the cloudless sky, others lining the
edge of the creek,—ruins of very picturesque form, and churches of most
unpicturesque hue.
* * * * *
Precisely at six A.M. appeared Mr. John Thomas, whose aristocratic proper
name, by the by, is the Señor Ioaõ Thomas de Sonza. After perpetrating
a variety of congees in a style that admirably combined the Moorish
salaam with the European bow, he informed us in execrable English that
“he show de Goa to de Bombay gentlemens.” We rapidly pass over the
preliminary measures of securing a house with six rooms, kitchen, stable
and back court, for fourteen shillings _per mensem_—a low rate of rent
for which the owner was soundly rated by his compatriots, who have
resolved that treble that sum is the minimum chargeable to Englishmen—of
landing our bag and baggage, which were afterwards carried to our abode
by coolies[6]—the primitive style of transportation universally used
here,—and finally of disembarking our steeds by means of a pigmy crane,
the manipulation of which called together a herd of admiring gazers.
Then the Señor began to take command. He obligingly allowed us to
breakfast, but insisted upon our addressing a note to the aide-de-camp in
waiting to ascertain the proper time for waiting upon his Excellency the
Governor of Goa. This the Señor warned us was _de rigueur_, and he bade
us be prepared to face the burning sun between eleven and twelve, such
being the hour usually appointed. Then with our missive between his sable
fingers he performed another ceremonious bow and departed for a while.
Just as the Señor disappeared, and we were preparing to indulge in our
morning meal _en deshabille_, as best suits the climate, an uncomely
face, grinning prodigiously, and surmounted by a scampish looking cap,
introduced itself through the open window, and commenced a series of
felicitations and compliments in high-flown Portuguese.
Who might our visitor be? A medical student, a poet, or a thief? Confused
in mind, we could only look at him vacantly, with an occasional
involuntary movement of the head, respondent to some gigantic word, as it
gurgled convulsively out of his throat. He must have mistaken the sign
for one of invitation, for, at the close of his last compliment to the
British nation, he withdrew his head from the window, and deliberately
walked in by the door, with the usual series of polite bows.
Once in the house, he seemed determined to make himself at home.
We looked up from our breakfast with much astonishment. Close to
our elbow stood our new friend in the form of a tall ugly boy about
seventeen, habited in a green cloth surtout, with plaited plaid
unmentionables, broad-toed boots, and a peculiar appearance about the
wrists, and intervals between the fingers, which made us shudder at the
thought of extending to him the hand of fellowship. Rapidly deciding
upon a plan of action, we assumed ignorance of the _lingoa Baxa_,[7] and
pronounced with much ceremony in our vernacular,
“Whom have I the honour to address?”
Horror of horrors! Our visitor broke out in disjointed English, informed
us that his name was the Señor Gaetano de Gama, son of the collector
of Ribandar, and a lineal descendant from the Gran Capitaõ; that he
had naturally a great admiration for the British, together with much
compassion for friendless strangers; and finally, that he might be of
the utmost use to us during our stay at Goa. Thereupon he sat down, and
proceeded to make himself comfortable. He pulled a cigar out of our box,
called for a glass of water, but preferred sherry, ate at least a dozen
plantains, and washed down the sherry with a coffee-cup full of milk. We
began to be amused.
“Have you breakfasted?”
Yes, he had. At Goa they generally do so betimes. However, for the
sake of companionship he would lay down his cigar and join us. He was
certainly a good trencher-companion, that young gentleman. Witness his
prowess upon a plate of fish, a dish of curry, a curd cheese, a water
melon, and half-a-dozen cups of _café au lait_. Then after settling the
heterogeneous mass with a glass of our _anisette_, he re-applied himself
to his cheroot.
We were in hopes that he had fallen into a state of torpor. By no means!
The activity of his mind soon mastered the inertness of the flesh. Before
the first few puffs had disappeared in the thin air, our friend arose,
distinctly for the purpose of surveying the room. He walked slowly and
calmly around it, varying that recreation by occasionally looking into
our bed, inspecting a box or two, opening our books, addressing a few
chance words to us, generally in the style interrogative, trying on our
hat before the looking-glass, defiling our brushes and combs with his
limp locks, redolent of rancid cocoa-nut oil, and glancing with fearful
meaning at our tooth-brushes.
Our amusement now began to assume the form of indignation. Would it
be better to disappear into an inner room, send for Salvador to show
our _bête noire_ the door, or lead him out by the ear? Whilst still
deliberating, we observed with pleasure the tawny face of John Thomas.
The Señor Ioaõ Thomas de Sonza no sooner caught sight of the Señor
Gaetano de Gama than his countenance donned an expression of high
indignation, dashed with profound contempt; and the latter Señor almost
simultaneously betrayed outward and visible signs of disappointment and
considerable confusion. The ridiculous scene ended with the disappearance
of the unsuccessful aspirant to ciceronic honours, a homily from John
Thomas upon the danger of having anything to do with such rabble, and an
injunction to Salvador never to admit the collector’s son again.
“His Excellency the Governor General of all the Indies cannot have the
exalted honour of receiving your Excellency this morning, on account of
the sudden illness of Her Excellency the Lady of the Governor General of
all the Indies; but the Governor General of all the Indies will be proud
to receive your Excellency to-morrow—if Heaven be pleased!” said John
Thomas, tempering dignity with piety.
Thank Goodness for the reprieve!
“So, if the measure be honoured with your Excellency’s approval, we will
now embark in a covered canoe, and your servant will have the felicity
of pointing out from the sea the remarkable sites and buildings of New
Goa; after which, a walk through our celebrated city will introduce your
Excellency to the exteriors and interiors of its majestic edifices, its
churches, its theatre, its hospital, its library, and its barracks.”
Very well!
A few minutes’ rowing sufficed to bring our canoe to the centre of
the creek, along side and in full view of the town. Around us lay the
shipping, consisting of two or three vessels from Portugal and China,
some score of native craft, such as pattimars, cottias, canoes, and
bunderboats, with one sloop of war, composing the Goanese navy.
* * * * *
Panjim is situated upon a narrow ledge, between a hill to the south, and,
on the north, the Rio de Goa, or arm of the sea, which stretches several
miles from west to east. A quay of hewn stone, well built, but rather too
narrow for ornament or use, lines the south bank of the stream, if we may
so call it, which hereabouts is a little more than a quarter of a mile
in breadth. The appearance of the town is strange to the Indian tourist.
There are many respectable-looking houses, usually one story high,
solidly constructed of stone and mortar, with roofs of red tile, and
surrounded by large court-yards overgrown with cocoa-nut trees. Bungalows
are at a discount; only the habitations of the poor consist solely of
a ground floor. In general the walls are whitewashed,—an operation
performed regularly once a year, after the Monsoon rains; and the result
is a most offensive glare. Upon the eminence behind the town is a small
telegraph, and half-way down the hill, the Igreja (church) de Conceição,
a plain and ill-built pile, as usual, beautifully situated. The edifices
along the creek which catch the eye, are the Palacio, where the Governor
resides, the Archbishop’s Palace, the Contadorin or Accomptant’s Office,
and the Alfandega or Custom House. All of them are more remarkable for
vastness than neatness of design.
“We will now row down the creek, and see the Aldeas or villages of St.
Agnes and Verim,” quoth our guide, pointing towards a scattered line of
churches, villas, and cottages, half concealed from view by the towering
trees, or thrown forward in clear relief by the green background.
To hear was to obey: though we anticipated little novelty. On landing
we were surprised to find the shore so thickly inhabited. Handsome
residences, orientally speaking, appeared here and there; a perfect
network of footpaths ramified over the hills; in a word, every yard of
ground bore traces of life and activity. Not that there was much to
be seen at St. Agnes, with its huge, rambling old pile, formerly the
archiepiscopal palace, or at Verim, a large village full of Hindoos, who
retreat there to avoid the places selected for residence by the retired
officers, _employés_ of government, students, and Christian landed
proprietors.
“And now for a trip to the eastward!”
“What!” we exclaimed, “isn’t the lionizing to stop here?”
“By no means,” replied John Thomas, solemnly; “all English gentlemen
visit Ribandar, Britona, and the Seminary of Chorão.”
Ribandar is about two miles to the east of Panjim, and is connected
with it by a long stone bridge, built by the viceroy Miguel de Noronha.
It seems to be thriving upon the ruins of its neighbour, San Pedro
or Panelly, an old village, laid waste by the devastator of Velha
Goa—intermittent fever. From some distance we saw the noble palace,
anciently inhabited by the archbishops, and the seat of the viceroys and
governors, called the Casa de Polvora, from a neighbouring manufactory
of gunpowder. Here, however, we became restive, and no persuasion could
induce us to walk a mile in order to inspect the bare walls.
Being somewhat in dread of Britona, which appeared to be a second edition
of St. Agnes and Verim, we compounded with John Thomas, and secured an
exemption by consenting to visit and inspect the Seminary.
Chorão was formerly the noviciate place of the Jesuits.[8] It is an
island opposite Ribandar, small and thinly populated, the climate being
confessedly most unwholesome. We were informed that the director was
sick and the rector suffering from fever. The pallid complexion of the
resident pupils told a sad tale of malaria.
The building is an immense mass of chapels, cloisters, and apartments
for the professors and students. There is little of the remarkable in
it. The walls are ornamented with abominable frescoes and a few prints,
illustrating the campaigns of Napoleon and Louis Quatorze. The crucifixes
appear almost shocking. They are, generally speaking, wooden figures
as large as life, painted with most livid and unnatural complexions,
streaked with indigo-coloured veins, and striped with streams of blood.
More offensive still are the representations of the Almighty, so common
in Roman Catholic countries.
In the sacristy, we were shown some tolerable heads of apostles and
saints. They were not exactly original Raphaels and Guidos, as our black
friends declared, but still it was a pleasure to see good copies of
excellent exemplars in India, the land of coloured prints and lithographs
of Cerito and Taglioni.
[Illustration: R. Burton delᵗ. Printed by Hullmandel & Walton.
THE CATHEDRAL OF GOA.
London: Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street, 1851.]
Ah! now we have finished our peregrinations.
“Yes,” responded John Thomas; “your Excellency has now only to walk about
and inspect the town of Panjim.”
Accordingly we landed and proceeded to make our observations there.
That Panjim is a Christian town appears instantly from the multitude and
variety of the filthy feeding hogs, that infest the streets. The pig
here occupies the social position that he does in Ireland, only he is
never eaten when his sucking days are past. Panjim loses much by close
inspection. The streets are dusty and dirty, of a most disagreeable brick
colour, and where they are paved, the pavement is old and bad. The doors
and window-frames of almost all the houses are painted green, and none
but the very richest admit light through anything more civilized than
oyster-shells. The balcony is a prominent feature, but it presents none
of the gay scenes for which it is famous in Italy and Spain.
We could not help remarking the want of horses and carriages in the
streets, and were informed that the whole place did not contain more than
half a dozen vehicles. The popular conveyance is a kind of palanquin,
composed of a light sofa, curtained with green wax cloth, and strung to
a bamboo pole, which rests upon the two bearers’ heads or shoulders.
This is called a _mancheel_, and a most lugubrious-looking thing it is,
forcibly reminding one of a coffin covered with a green pall.
At length we arrived at the Barracks, a large building in the form of
an irregular square, fronting the Rio, and our British curiosity being
roused by hearing that the celebrated old thief, Phonde Sawunt,[9] was
living there under surveillance, we determined to visit that rebel on a
small scale. His presence disgraces his fame; it is that of a wee, ugly,
grey, thin, old and purblind Maharatta. He received us, however, with not
a little dignity and independence of manner, motioned us to sit down with
a military air, and entered upon a series of queries concerning the Court
of Lahore, at that time the only power on whose exertions the agitators
of India could base any hopes. Around the feeble, decrepit old man stood
about a dozen stalworth sons, with naked shoulders, white cloths round
their waists and topknots of hair, which the god Shiva himself might
own with pride. They have private apartments in the barracks, full of
wives and children, and consider themselves personages of no small
importance; in which opinion they are, we believe, by no means singular.
Their fellow-countrymen look upon them as heroes, and have embalmed, or
attempted to embalm their breakjaw names in immortal song. They are, in
fact, negro Robin Hoods and Dick Turpins—knights of the road and the
waste it is true, but not accounted the less honourable for belonging
to that celebrated order of chivalry. The real Maharatta is by nature a
thorough-bred plunderer, and well entitled to sing the Suliot ditty—
“Κλεφτες ποτε Παργαν,”[10]
with the slight variation of locality only. Besides, strange to say,
amongst Orientals, they have a well-defined idea of what patriotism
means, and can groan under the real or fancied wrongs of the “stranger”
or the “Sassenach’s” dominion as loudly and lustily as any Hibernian or
Gael in the land.
We now leave Phonde Sawunt and the Barracks to thread our way through
a numerous and disagreeable collection of yelping curs and officious
boatmen.
“Would your Excellency prefer to visit the hospital, the churches of St.
Sebastian and Conceição, the jail, the library, the printing-house, and
the bazaars now or to-morrow morning?”
“Neither now nor ever—thank you—we are going to the promenade.”
After a few minutes’ walk we came to the west end of Panjim, where lies a
narrow scrap of sea-beach appropriated to “constitutionals.” On our way
there we observed that the Goanese, with peculiar good taste, had erected
seats wherever a pretty _point de vue_ would be likely to make one stand
and wish to sit awhile.
Had we expected a crowded _corso_, we should have been disappointed;
half-a-dozen mancheels, two native officers on horseback, one carriage,
and about a dozen promenaders, were moving lazily and listlessly down the
lugubrious-looking strand.
Reader, has it ever been your unhappy fate to be cooped up in a wretched
place called Pisa? If so, perhaps you recollect a certain drive to the
Cascine—a long road, down whose dreary length run two parallel rows
of dismal poplars, desolating to the eye, like mutes at a funeral. We
mentally compared the Cascine drive and the Panjim corso, and the result
of the comparison was, that we wished a very good evening to the Señor,
and went home.
“Salvador, what is that terrible noise—are they slaughtering a pig—or
murdering a boy?”
“Nothing,” replied Salvador, “nothing whatever—some Christian beating his
wife.”
“Is that a common recreation?”
“Very.”
So we found out to our cost. First one gentleman chastised his spouse,
then another, and then another. To judge by the ear, the fair ones
did not receive the discipline with that patience, submission, and
long-suffering which Eastern dames are most apocryphally believed to
practise. In fact, if the truth must be told, a prodigious scuffling
informed us that the game was being played with similar good will, and
nearly equal vigour by both parties. The police at Goa never interfere
with these little domesticalities; the residents, we suppose, lose
the habit of hearing them, but the stranger finds them disagreeable.
Therefore, we should strongly advise all future visitors to select
some place of residence where they may escape the martial sounds that
accompany such _tours de force_ when displayed by the lords and ladies of
the creation. On one occasion we were obliged to change our lodgings for
others less exposed to the nuisance. Conceive inhabiting a snug corner of
a locality devoted to the conversion of pig into pork!
* * * * *
“Sahib,” exclaimed Salvador, “you had better go to bed, or retire into
another room, for I see the Señor Gaetano coming here as fast as his legs
can carry him.”
“Very well,” we whispered, slipping rapidly through the open door, “tell
him we are out.” And behind the wall we heard the message duly delivered.
But the Señor saw no reason in our being out why he should not
make himself at home. He drew two chairs into the verandah, called
for cigars and sherry, fanned himself with his dirty brown cotton
pocket-handkerchief, and sat there patiently awaiting our return.
We did not forcibly eject that Señor. The fact is, memory began to be
busily at work, and dim scenes of past times, happy days spent in our
dear old distant native land were floating and flashing before our
mental eye. Again we saw our neat little rooms at ⸺ College, Oxford,
our omnipresent dun, Mr. Joye—what a name for a tailor!—comfortably
ensconsed in the best arm-chair, with the best of our regalias in his
mouth, and the best of our Port wine at his elbow, now warming his
lean hands before the blazing coal fire—it was very near Christmas—now
dreamily gazing at the ceiling, as if £ _s._ _d._ were likely to drop
through its plaster.
And where were we?
Echo cannot answer, so we must.
Standing in the coal-hole—an aperture in the wall of our
bedchamber—whence seated upon a mass of coke, we could distinctly discern
through the interstices of the door, Mr. Joye enjoying himself as above
described.
Years of toil and travel and trouble had invested that coal-hole with
the roseate hue which loves to linger over old faces and old past times;
so we went quietly to bed, sacrificing at the shrine of Mnemosyne the
sherry and the cheroots served to us, and the kick-out deserved by the
Señor Gaetano de Gama, son of the Collector of Ribandar, and a lineal
descendent of the Gran Capitaõ.