ADIEU TO PANJIM.
At a time when public attention is so deeply interested in the twin
subjects of colonization and conversion, some useful lessons may be
derived from the miserable state of the celebrated Portuguese settlement;
even though our present and their past positions be by no means parallel
in all points, and though a variety of fortuitous cases, such as the
pestilence and warfare which led to their decadence, cannot or may not
affect our more extended Indian empire.
The Portuguese, it must be recollected, generally speaking, contented
themselves with seizing the different lines of sea-coast, holding them
by means of forts, stations, and armed vessels, and using them for the
purpose of monopolising the export and import trade of the interior.
In the rare cases when they ventured up the country they made a point
of colonising it. We, on the contrary, have hitherto acted upon the
principle of subjugating whole provinces to our sway, and such has been
our success, that not only the Christian, but even the heathen, sees the
finger of Providence directing our onward course of conquest.
Of late years, climates supposed to be favourable to the European
constitution, such as the Neilgherry hills and the lower slopes of the
Himalayas, have been discovered, tested, and approved of. Determined
to make use of them, our legislators have taken the wise step of
establishing barracks for the British soldiery in places where they may
live in comparative health and comfort during peaceful times, and yet
be available for immediate active service, whenever and wherever their
presence may be required.
But we are not willing to stop here, we argue that such salubrious and
fertile tracts of country would form excellent permanent settlements for
half-pay officers, pensioners, worn-out soldiers, and others, who prefer
spending the remainder of their days in the land of their adoption. Here,
then, we have the proposed beginning of a colony.
To the probability of extensive success, or public utility in such a
scheme, there are two important objections.
In the first place, supposing the offspring of the colonists to be of
pure European blood, we must expect them to degenerate after the second
generation. All who have sojourned long in the southern parts of Europe,
such as Italy or Spain, must have remarked the deleterious effects of a
hot and dry climate upon a race that thrives only in a cold and damp one.
An English child brought up in Italy is, generally speaking, more sickly,
more liable to nervous and hepatic complaints, and, consequently, more
weakened in mind as well as body, than even the natives of the country.
If this remark hold true in the South of Europe, it is not likely to
prove false in tropical latitudes.
But, secondly, if acting upon Albuquerque’s fatal theory, we encourage
intermarriage with the natives of the country, such colony would be
worse than useless to us. We cannot but think that the Hindoos are the
lowest branch of the Caucasian or Iranian family; and, moreover, that,
contrary to what might be expected, any intermixture of blood with the
higher classes of that same race produces a still inferior development.
Some have accounted for the mental inferiority of the mixed breed by a
supposed softness or malformation of the brain, others argue that the
premature depravity and excess to which they are prone, enervate their
bodies, and, consequently, affect their minds. Whatever may be the cause
of the phenomenon its existence is, we humbly opine, undeniable. Neither
British nor Portuguese India ever produced a half-caste at all deserving
of being ranked in the typical order of man.
Our empire in the East has justly been described as one of opinion, that
is to say, it is founded upon the good opinion entertained of us by the
natives, and their bad opinion of themselves. In the old times of the
Honourable East India Company, when no Englishman or Englishwoman was
permitted to reside in India, without formal permission, the people
respected us more than they do now. Admitting this assertion, it is not
difficult to account for the reason why, of late years, a well-appointed
British force has more than once found it difficult to defeat a
rudely-drilled Indian army. We are the same men we were in the days of
Clive and Cornwallis; the people of India are not; formerly they fought
expecting to be defeated, now they enter the field flushed with hopes of
success. We cannot but suspect that the lower estimate they have formed
of their antagonists has more to do with their increased formidableness,
than any other of the minor causes to which it is usually attributed.
But if not contented with exposing individuals to their contempt, we
offer them whole colonies, we may expect to incur even greater disasters.
Every one knows that if the people of India could be unanimous for a
day they might sweep us from their country as dust before a whirlwind.
There is little danger of their combining so long as they dread us. Such
fear leads to distrust; every man knows himself, and, consequently,
suspects his neighbour, to be false. Like the Italians in their late war
of independence the cry of _tradimento_ (treachery) is sufficient to
paralyse every arm, however critical be the hour in which it is raised.
So it is in India. But their distrust of each other, as well as their
respect for us, is founded entirely upon their fear of our bayonets.
In whatever way, then, we propose to populate our settlement, we place
ourselves in a position of equal difficulty and danger. Such colonies
would, like Goa, be born with the germs of sure and speedy decline, and
well for our Indian empire in general, if the contagious effects of their
decay did not extend far and wide through the land.
The conversion of the natives of India to Christianity has of late years
become a species of excitement in our native country, and, consequently,
many incorrect, prejudiced and garbled statements of the progress and
success of the good work have gone forth to the world. Not a few old
Indians returned home, have been very much surprised by hearing authentic
accounts and long details of effectual missionary labour which they
certainly never witnessed. Our candour may not be appreciated—it is so
difficult for the enthusiastic to avoid running down an opinion contrary
to their own—we cannot, however, but confess that some years spent in
Western India have convinced us that the results hitherto obtained
are utterly disproportionate to the means employed for converting the
people. Moreover, study of the native character forces us to doubt
whether anything like success upon a grand scale can ever reasonably be
anticipated. We have often heard it remarked by those most conversant
with the deep-rooted prejudices and the fanatic credulity of the Hindoos
that with half the money and trouble we have lavished upon them they
could have made double the number of converts to their heathenism in
Europe.
The splendid success of the Portuguese in converting the Hindoos,
was owing to two main causes, the first, their persecution,[55] which
compelled many natives to assume European names, adopt the dress,
manners, and customs of the West, and gradually to lapse, if we may use
the expression, into Christianity. After once entering a church, the
proselytes were under the strict surveillance of the Inquisition, who
never allowed a “new Christian” to apostatize without making a signal
example of him. In the second place, the Portuguese sent out in all
directions crowds of missionaries, who, as Tavernier informs us, assumed
the native dress, and taught under the disguise of Jogees and other
Hindoo religious characters, a strange, and yet artful mixture of the two
faiths. That these individuals sacrificed the most vital points of their
religion to forward the end they proposed to themselves, we have ample
proof; at the same time that they were eminently successful, is equally
well known. The virulent animosity that existed between the Jesuits
and Jansenists disclosed to astonished Europe the system of adaptation
adopted by the former, and Benedict XIV., by a violent bull, put an end
at once to their unjustifiable means, and their consequent successfulness
of conversion.[56]
We by no means mean to insinuate that our holy faith is unfavourable to
the development or progression of the human species. Still it cannot be
concealed that, generally speaking, throughout the East the Christian
is inferior, as regards strength, courage, and principle to the average
of the tribes which populate that part of the world. His deficiency of
personal vigour may be accounted for by the use of impure meats, and
the spirituous liquors in which he indulges. The want of ceremonial
ablutions, also, undoubtedly tends to deteriorate the race. It may be
observed, that from Zoroaster and Moses downwards, no founder of an
Eastern faith has ever omitted to represent his dietetic or ablusive
directions as inspired decrees, descending from Heaven. Care applied to
public health, ensures the prosperity of a people, especially amongst
semi-barbarous races, where health engenders bodily vigour, strength
begets courage, and bravery a rude principle of honour.
What Goa has done may serve as a lesson to us. She compelled or induced
good Hindoos and Moslems to become bad Christians. The consequence
has been the utter degeneracy of the breed, who have been justly
characterized by our House of Commons as “a race the least respected and
respectable, and the least fitted for soldiers of all the tribes that
diversify the populous country of India.”
In conclusion, we have only to inform our reader that the opinions thus
boldly proposed to him are, we believe, those entertained by many of the
acutest judges of native character and native history. It is easy to
understand why they are not more often offered to public attention.
* * * * *
After addressing a note to the Secretary for permission to leave Goa, we
set out in quest of a conveyance; and deeply we had to regret that we did
not retain our old pattimar. The owners of vessels, knowing that we must
pay the price they asked, and seeing that we were determined to migrate
southwards, became extortionate beyond all bounds. At last we thought
ourselves happy to secure a wretched little boat for at least double the
usual hire. After duly taking leave of our small circle of acquaintances,
we transferred ourselves and luggage on board the San Ignacio awaiting
the pleasure of the Tindal—a hard-featured black Portuguese—to quit the
land of ruins and cocoa trees. Before preparing for rest we went through
the usual ceremony of mustering our crew, and ascertaining the probable
hour of our departure: we presently found, as we might have guessed,
that they were all on shore except a man and a diminutive boy, and that
consequently we were not likely to weigh anchor before 2 A.M., at least
five hours later than was absolutely necessary. As we felt no desire to
encounter the various Egyptian plagues of the cabin, we ordered a table
to be placed under the awning, and seated ourselves upon the same with
the firm determination of being as patient and long-suffering as possible.
The night was a lovely one—fair and cool as ever made amends for a
broiling and glaring April day in these detestable latitudes. A more
beautiful sight, perhaps, was never seen than the moon rising like a
ball of burnished silver through the deep azure of the clear sky, and
shedding her soft radiance down the whole length of the Rio. The little
villages almost hidden from view by the groves of impending trees, whose
heads glistened as if hoar-frost had encrusted them; the solemn forms
of the towering churches, the ruins of Old Goa dimly perceptible in the
far distance, and nearer, Panjim, lying in darkness under the shadow of
the hills, all looked delightfully tranquil and peaceful. Besides, we
were about to bid adieu to scenes in which we had spent a pleasant hour
or two, and they are epochs in the traveller’s life, these farewells to
places or faces we admire. Will then the reader wonder if we confess
that, under the circumstances of the case, we really had no resource but
to feel poetically disposed? And, as happens in such cases, the Demon
of Doggrel emboldened by the presence of those two kindred spirits, the
naughty Herba Nicotiana and the immodest “Naiad of the Phlegethontic Rill
Cogniac,” tempted us so long and sorely, that he at last succeeded in
causing us to perpetrate the following
LINES.
Adieu, fair land, deep silence reigns
O’er hills and dales and fertile plains;
Save when the soft and fragrant breeze
Sighs through the groves of tufted trees;
Or the rough breakers’ distant roar,
Is echoed by the watery shore.
Whilst gazing on the lovely view,
How grating sounds the word “adieu!”
What tongue⸺
Aye, what tongue indeed? In an instant the demon fled, as our crew, in
the last stage of roaring intoxication, scaled the side of what we were
about poetically to designate our “bark.” A few minutes’ consideration
convinced us that energetic measures must be adopted if we wished to
restore order or quiet. In vain were the efforts of our eloquence;
equally useless some slight preliminary exertions of toe and talon. At
last, exasperated by the failure, and perhaps irritated by thinking
of the beautiful lines we might have indited but for the inopportune
interruption, we ventured to administer a rapid succession of small
double raps to the Tindal’s shaven and cocoanut-like pericranium. The
wretch ceased his roaring, rose from off his hams, and after regarding
us for a minute with a look of intense drunken ferocity, precipitated
himself into the water. Finding the tide too strong for him he began
to shriek like a dying pig; his crew shouted because he shouted,
sympathetically yelled the sailors in the neighbouring boats, and the
sentinels on shore began to give the alarm. Never, perhaps, has there
been such confusion at Goa since the Maharatta rode round her walls. Up
rushed the harbour master, the collector of customs, the military, and
the police—even his Excellency the Governor General of all the Indies,
did not deem it beneath his dignity to quit the palace for the purpose of
ascertaining what had caused the turmoil. The half-drowned wretch, when
hurried into the high presence, declared, in extenuation of his conduct,
that he had imprudently shipped on board the San Ignacio, an Inglez or
Englishman, who had deliberately commenced murdering the crew the moment
they came on board. The Governor, however, seeing the truth of things,
ordered him immediately to be placed in the nearest quarter guard till
midnight, at which time it was calculated that, by virtue of the ducking,
he might be sober enough to set sail.
As we rapidly glided by the Castle of Agoada, all our crew stood up, and
with hands reverentially upraised, said their prayers. They did not,
however, pay much respect to the patron saint of the boat, whose image, a
little painted doll, in a wooden box, occupied a conspicuous position in
the “cuddy.” A pot of oil with a lighted wick was, it is true, regularly
placed before him every night to warn the vermin against molesting so
holy a personage: the measure, however, failed in success, as the very
first evening we came on board, a huge rat took his station upon the
saint’s back and glared at us, stretching his long sharp snout over the
unconscious San Ignacio’s head. One evening, as the weather appeared
likely to be squally, we observed that the usual compliment was not
offered to the patron, and had the curiosity to inquire why.
“Why?” vociferated the Tindal indignantly, “if that chap can’t keep the
sky clear, he shall have neither oil nor wick from me, d—n him!”
“But I should have supposed that in the hour of danger you would have
paid him more than usual attention?”
“The fact is, Sahib, I have found out that the fellow is not worth his
salt: the last time we had an infernal squall with him on board, and if
he doesn’t keep this one off, I’ll just throw him overboard, and take to
Santa Caterina: hang me, if I don’t—the brother-in-law!”[57]
And so saying the Tindal looked ferocious things at the placid features
of San Ignacio.
The peculiar conformation of our captain’s mind, recalled to memory a
somewhat similar phenomenon which we noticed in our younger days. We were
toiling up a steep and muddy mountain-road over the Apennines, on foot,
to relieve our panting steeds, whom the vetturino was fustigating, _con
amore_, at the same time venting fearful imprecations upon the soul of
Sant’ Antonino Piccino, or the younger.
At length, tired of hearing the cadet so defamed, we suggested that our
friend should address a few similar words to the other Sant’ Antonino—the
elder.
“The elder!” cried the vetturino, aghast with horror. “Oh, _per Bacco che
bestemmia_—what a blasphemy! No, I daren’t abuse His Sanctity; but as
for this little _rufiano_ of a younger, I’ve worn his portrait these ten
years, and know by this time that nothing is to be got out of him without
hard words.”
On the fourth day after our departure from Panjim, a swarm of canoes full
of fishermen, probably the descendants of the ancient Malabar pirates,
gave us happy tidings of speedy arrival. They were a peculiar-looking
race dressed in head-gear made of twisted palm leaves, and looking
exactly as if an umbrella, composed of matting, had been sewn on to the
top of a crownless hat of the same material.
And now we are in the Malabar seas.