Delphi Collected Works of Sir Richard Francis Burton (Illustrated) E-Book

Sir Richard Francis Burton

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Delphi Series Seven
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 25264

Beschreibung

Explorer, soldier, Orientalist, cartographer, spy, linguist, poet, fencer and diplomat, Sir Richard Francis Burton is famed for his travels and explorations in Asia, Africa and the Americas, as well as his extraordinary knowledge of languages and cultures. Burton's best-known achievements include a perilous journey to Mecca, an unexpurgated translation of ‘The One Thousand and One Nights’, the notorious publication of the ‘Kama Sutra’ and a fabled expedition in search of the source of the Nile. This comprehensive eBook presents Burton’s collected works, with numerous illustrations, rare texts appearing in digital print for the first time, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Burton’s life and works
* Concise introductions to the major texts
* Includes rare books appearing for the first time in digital publishing, including THE CITY OF THE SAINTS and THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA
* Images of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the texts
* Famous works are fully illustrated with their original artwork
* Includes Burton’s rare poetry translations, available in no other collection
* Features three biographies, including the seminal text by the author’s wife - discover Burton’s incredible life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Books
GOA AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS
FALCONRY IN THE VALLEY OF THE INDUS
A COMPLETE SYSTEM OF BAYONET EXERCISE
PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF A PILGRIMAGE TO AL MADINAH AND MECCAH
FIRST FOOTSTEPS IN EAST AFRICA
THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA
THE CITY OF THE SAINTS, AMONG THE MORMONS AND ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS TO CALIFORNIA
THE GUIDE-BOOK. A PICTORIAL PILGRIMAGE TO MECCA AND MEDINA
VIKRAM AND THE VAMPIRE OR TALES OF HINDU DEVILRY
A NEW SYSTEM OF SWORD EXERCISE FOR INFANTRY
TWO TRIPS TO GORILLA LAND AND THE CATARACTS OF THE CONGO
THE LAND OF MIDIAN
A GLANCE AT THE PASSION-PLAY
TO THE GOLD COAST FOR GOLD
THE KAMA SUTRA OF VATSYAYANA
THE BOOK OF THE THOUSAND NIGHTS AND A NIGHT
THE PERFUMED GARDEN OF THE SHAYKH NEFZAWI
THE JEW, THE GYPSY AND EL ISLAM
THE SENTIMENT OF THE SWORD

The Poetry Books
STONE TALK
THE LUSIADS
THE KASIDAH OF HAJI ABDU EL-YEZDI
CAMOENS. THE LYRICKS
THE CARMINA OF CATULLUS

The Biographies
THE LIFE OF SIR RICHARD BURTON by Thomas Wright
THE ROMANCE OF ISABEL, LADY BURTON by Isabel Lady Burton and W. H. Wilkins
BRIEF BIOGRAPHY: RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON by James Sutherland Cotton

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Leseprobe

The Collected Works of

SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON

(1821-1890)

Contents

The Books

GOA AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

FALCONRY IN THE VALLEY OF THE INDUS

A COMPLETE SYSTEM OF BAYONET EXERCISE

PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF A PILGRIMAGE TO AL MADINAH AND MECCAH

FIRST FOOTSTEPS IN EAST AFRICA

THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA

THE CITY OF THE SAINTS, AMONG THE MORMONS AND ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS TO CALIFORNIA

THE GUIDE-BOOK. A PICTORIAL PILGRIMAGE TO MECCA AND MEDINA

VIKRAM AND THE VAMPIRE OR TALES OF HINDU DEVILRY

A NEW SYSTEM OF SWORD EXERCISE FOR INFANTRY

TWO TRIPS TO GORILLA LAND AND THE CATARACTS OF THE CONGO

THE LAND OF MIDIAN

A GLANCE AT THE PASSION-PLAY

TO THE GOLD COAST FOR GOLD

THE KAMA SUTRA OF VATSYAYANA

THE BOOK OF THE THOUSAND NIGHTS AND A NIGHT

THE PERFUMED GARDEN OF THE SHAYKH NEFZAWI

THE JEW, THE GYPSY AND EL ISLAM

THE SENTIMENT OF THE SWORD

The Poetry Books

STONE TALK

THE LUSIADS

THE KASIDAH OF HAJI ABDU EL-YEZDI

CAMOENS. THE LYRICKS

THE CARMINA OF CATULLUS

The Biographies

THE LIFE OF SIR RICHARD BURTON by Thomas Wright

THE ROMANCE OF ISABEL, LADY BURTON by Isabel Lady Burton and W. H. Wilkins

BRIEF BIOGRAPHY: RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON by James Sutherland Cotton

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2016

Version 1

The Collected Works of

SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON

By Delphi Classics, 2016

COPYRIGHT

Collected Works of Sir Richard Francis Burton

First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2016.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78656 055 1

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

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The Books

Richard Francis Burton was born in Torquay, Devon, in 1821, (picture c. 1811)

Burton spent the early days of his life in Elstree, Hertfordshire

GOA AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

Goa and the Blue Mountains was originally published by Richard Bentley in 1851. It is the author’s account of his travels through Goa and sections of southwest India during a period of leave from the British East India Company Army. Burton spent time travelling along the Malabar Coast, before visiting the Nilgiri Mountains in the state of Tamil Nadu. Burton was an extraordinary linguist, who managed to master more than twenty five languages during his lifetime. He was keen to demonstrate his knowledge and proficiency in languages to his British readers and frequently positioned himself as an expert on the people he encountered and the places he visited.

Goa had been colonised by the Portuguese in the early sixteenth century and remained under their imperial control until the 1960’s when India annexed and assumed governance of the territory. India gained independence from the British in 1947 and subsequently requested Portugal to relinquish their claim to Goa. The Portuguese government refused to negotiate, so in 1961 the Indian army began Operation Vijay, which saw them launch a series of land, air and sea strikes on the territory over the course of two days. It was a quick and easy victory for the Indians and resulted in ending more than four hundred years of imperial rule by the Portuguese.

Burton’s observations and interpretations of his surroundings reveal his imperialist attitude and his cultural and scientifically racist views. He manages to be critical of areas of imperial rule, while also maintaining the belief that the inhabitants are extremely fortunate to be part of a European Empire. He uses overtly racist terms to describe many of the people he encounters and reaffirms the sense of European superiority. He believes that the Portuguese colonies in India had decayed and degenerated into corruption and disarray due to intermarriage between the Europeans and the indigenous population. He employs racist pseudo-scientific language to suggest biracial people have a ‘malformation’ or‘softness’ of the brain and states they are a ‘degraded looking race’. Burton also considers interracial relations to be a ‘treacherous political daydream’ and warns the British to avoid intermarriage if they wish to preserve their colonial power. Nevertheless, his detailed account of his travels evokes a vivid impression of colonial India and a time long since passed.

The first edition

CONTENTS

Chapter I. The Voyage.

Chapter II. New Goa.

Chapter III. Old Goa As It Was.

Chapter IV. Old Goa As It Is.

Chapter V. Return to Panjim

Chapter VI. The Population of Panjim.

Chapter VII. Seroda

Chapter VIII. Education, Professions, and Oriental Studies.

Chapter IX. Adieu to Panjim

Chapter X. Calicut.

Chapter XI. Malabar.

Chapter XII. The Hindoos of Malabar.

Chapter XIII. The Moslem and Other Natives of Malabar.

Chapter XIV. The Land Journey.

Chapter XV. First Glimpse of “Ooty.”

Chapter XVI. Life at Ooty.

Chapter XVII. Life outside Ooty.

Chapter XVIII. The Inhabitants of the Neilgherries.

Chapter XIX. Kotagherry. — Adieu to the Blue Mountains.

The first edition’s title page

Bekal Fort Beach, Kerala, Malabar Coast

Nilgiri Hills from Masinangudi

TO MISS ELIZABETH STISTED

This little work,which owes its existence to herfriendly suggestions,is dedicated,in token of gratitude and affection,

BY THE AUTHOR

Chapter I. The Voyage.

WHAT a glad moment it is, to be sure, when the sick and seedy, the tired and testy invalid from pestiferous Scinde or pestilential Guzerat, “leaves all behind him” and scrambles over the sides of his Pattimar.

His what?

Ah! we forget. The gondola and barque are household words in your English ears, the budgerow is beginning to own an old familiar sound, but you are right — the “Pattimar” requires a definition. Will you be satisfied with a pure landsman’s description of the article in question. We have lost our edition of “The Ship,” and to own humbling truth, though we have spent many a weary month on the world of waters, we never could master the intricacies of blocks and braces, skylights and deadlights, starboards and larboards. But if we are to believe the general voice of the amphibious race, we terrestrial animals never fail to mangle the science of seamanship most barbarously. So we will not expose ourselves by pretension to the animadversions of any small nautical critic, but boldly talk of going “up-stairs” instead of “on deck,” and unblushingly allude to the “behind” for the “aft” and the “front” instead of the “fore” of our conveyance.

But the Pattimar —

De suite: you shall pourtray it from our description. Sketch a very long boat, very high behind, and very low before, composed of innumerable bits of wood tied together with coir, or cocoanut rope, fitted up with a dark and musty little cabin, and supplied with two or three long poles intended as masts, which lean forward as if about to sink under the weight of the huge lateen sail. Fill up the outline with a penthouse of cadjans (as the leaves of that eternal cocoanut tree are called) to protect the bit of deck outside the cabin from the rays of a broiling sun. People the square space in the middle of the boat with two nags tethered and tied with halters and heel ropes, which sadly curtail the poor animals’ enjoyment of kicking and biting; and half-a-dozen black “tars” engaged in pounding rice, concocting bilious-looking masses of curry, and keeping up a fire of some unknown wood, whose pungent smoke is certain to find its way through the cabin, and to terminate its wanderings in your eyes and nostrils. Finally, throw in about the same number of black domestics courting a watery death by balancing themselves over the sides of the vessel, or a fever by sleeping in a mummy case of dirty cotton cloth —

And you have a pattimar in your mind’s eye.

Every one that has ever sailed in a pattimar can oblige you with a long list of pleasures peculiar to it. All know how by day your eyes are blinded with glare and heat, and how by night mosquitos, a trifle smaller than jack snipes, assault your defenceless limbs; how the musk rat defiles your property and provender; how the common rat and the cockchafer appear to relish the terminating leather of your fingers and toes; and, finally, how the impolite animal which the transatlantics delicately designate a “chintz,” and its companion, the lesser abomination, do contribute to your general discomfort. Still these are transient evils, at least compared with the permanent satisfaction of having “passed the Medical Board” — a committee of ancient gentlemen who never will think you sufficiently near death to meet your wishes — of having escaped the endless doses of the garrison surgeon, who has probably, for six weeks, been bent upon trying the effects of the whole Materia Medica upon your internal and external man — of enduring the diurnal visitation of desperate duns who threaten the bailiff without remorse; and to crown the climax of your happiness, the delightful prospect of two quiet years, during which you may call life your own, lie in bed half or the whole day if you prefer it, and forget the very existence of such things as pipeclay and parade, the Court Martial and the Commander-in-chief. So if you are human, your heart bounds, and whatever its habits of grumbling may be, your tongue involuntarily owns that it is a joyful moment when you scramble over the side of your pattimar. And now, having convinced you of that fact, we will request you to walk up stairs with us, and sit upon the deck by our side, there to take one parting look at the boasted Bay of Bombay, before we bid adieu to it, with a free translation of the celebrated Frenchman’s good bye, “Canards, canaux, canaille,” — adieu ducks, dingies, drabs, and duns.

Gentlemen tourists, poetical authors, lady prosers, and, generally, all who late in life, visit the “palm tasselled strand of glowing Ind,” as one of our European celebrities describes the country in prose run mad, certainly are gifted with wonderful optics for detecting the Sublime and Beautiful. Now this same bay has at divers and sundry times been subjected to much admiration; and as each succeeding traveller must improve upon his predecessors, the latest authorities have assigned to its charms a rank above the Bay of Naples — a bay which, in our humble opinion, places every other bay in a state of abeyance. At least so we understand Captain Von Orlich — the gentleman who concludes that the Belochees are of Jewish origin becausethey divorce their wives. To extract Bombay from the Bay of Naples, proceed thus. Remove Capri, Procida, Ischia, and the other little picturesque localities around them. Secondly, level Vesuvius and the rocky heights of St. Angelo with the ground. Thirdly, convert bright Naples, with its rows of white palazzi, its romantic-looking forts, its beautiful promenade, and charming background into a low, black, dirty part, et voici the magnificent Bombahia. You may, it is true, attempt to get up a little romance about the “fairy caves” of Salsette and Elephanta, the tepid seas, the spicy breeze, and the ancient and classical name of Momba-devi.

But you’ll fail.

Remember all we can see is a glowing vault of ultramarine-colour sky, paved with a glaring expanse of indigo-tinted water, with a few low hills lining the horizon, and a great many merchant ships anchored under the guns of what we said before, and now repeat, looks like a low, black, dirty port.

We know that you are taking a trip with us to the land flowing with rupees and gold mohurs — growing an eternal crop of Nabobs and Nawwabs — showing a perpetual scene of beauty, pleasure and excitement.

But we can’t allow you to hand your rouse-coloured specs, over to us. We have long ago superseded our original “greens” by a pair duly mounted with sober French grey glasses, and through these we look out upon the world as cheerily as our ophthalmic optics will permit us to do.

Now the last “nigger,” in a manifest state of full-blown inebriation, has rolled into, and the latest dun, in a fit of diabolical exasperation, has rolled out of, our pattimar. So we will persuade the Tindal, as our Captain is called, to pull up his mud-hook, and apply his crew to the task of inducing the half acre of canvas intended for a sail to assume its proper place. Observe if you please, the Tindal swears by all the skulls of the god Shiva’s necklace, that the wind is foul — the tide don’t serve — his crew is absent — and the water not yet on board.

Of course!

But as you are a “griff,” and we wish to educate you in native peculiarities, just remark how that one small touch of our magic slipper upon the region of the head, and the use of that one little phrase “Suar ka Sala” (Anglice, “O brother-in-law of a hog!”) has made the wind fair, the tide serve, the crew muster, and the water pots abound in water. And, furthermore, when you have got over your horror of seeing a “fellow-creature” so treated — and a “fellow subject” subjected to such operation, kindly observe that the Tindal has improved palpably in manner towards us; — indeed, to interpret his thoughts, he now feels convinced that we are an “Assal Sahib” — a real gentleman.

* * *

Evening is coming on, the sea-breeze (may it be increased!) is freshening fast, and Dan Phoebus has at last vouchsafed to make himself scarce. After watching his departure with satisfaction — with heartfelt satisfaction, we order our hookah up, less for the pleasure of puffing it, than for the purpose of showing you how our servant delights to wander through heaps of hay and straw, canvas, and coir rope, with that mass of ignited rice ball, rolling about on the top of our pipe. You are looking curiously at our culinary arrangements. Yes, dear sir, or madam, as the case may be, that dreadful looking man, habited in a pair of the dingiest inexpressibles only, excepting the thick cap on his furzy head — that is our cook. And we dare say you have been watching his operations. If not, you must know that he prepared for our repast by inserting his black claw into that hencoop, where a dozen of the leanest possible chickens have been engaged for some time in pecking the polls of one another’s heads, and after a rapid examination of breast-bone, withdrew his fist full of one of the aforementioned lean chickens, shrieking in dismay. He then slew it, dipped the corpse in boiling water to loose the feathers, which he stripped off in masses, cut through its breast longitudinally, and with the aid of an iron plate, placed over a charcoal fire, proceeded to make a spatchcock, or as it is more popularly termed, a “sudden death.” After this we can hardly expect the pleasure of your company at dinner to-day. But never mind! you will soon get over the feeling nolens, if not volens. Why, how many Scinde “Nabobs” have not eaten three hundred and sixty-five lean chickens in one year?

* * *

We will not be in any hurry to go to bed. In these latitudes, man lives only between the hours of seven P.M. and midnight. The breeze gives strength to smoke and converse; our languid minds almost feel disposed to admire the beauty of the moonlit sea, the serenity of the air, and the varying tints of the misty coast. Our lateen sail is doing its duty right well, as the splashing of the water and the broad stripe of phosphoric light eddying around and behind the rudder, prove. At this rate we shall make Goa in three days, if kindly fate only spare us the mortification of the morning calms which infest these regions. And we being “old hands” promise to keep a sharp look out upon the sable commander of the “Durrya Prashad” the “Joy of the Ocean,” as his sweetheart of a pattimar is called. Something of the kind will be necessary to prevent his creeping along the shore for fear of squalls, or pulling down the sail to ensure an unbroken night’s rest, or slackening speed so as not to get the voyage over too soon. As he is a Ilindoo we will place him under the surveillance of that grim looking bushy-bearded Moslem, who spends half his days in praying for the extermination of the infidel, and never retires to rest without graining over the degeneracy of the times, and sighing for the good old days of Islam, when the Faithful had nothing to do but to attack, thrash, rob, and murder, the Unfaithful.

Now the last hookah has gone out, and the most restless of our servants has turned in. The roof of the cabin is strewed with bodies anything but fragrant, indeed, we cannot help pitying the melancholy fate of poor Morpheus, who is traditionally supposed to encircle such sleepers with his soft arms. Could you believe it possible that through such a night as this they choose to sleep under those wadded cotton coverlets, and dread not instantaneous asphixiation? The only waker is that grisly old fellow with the long white mustachios flourishing over his copper coloured mouth like cotton in the jaws of a Moslem body. And even he nods as he sits perched at the helm with his half-closed eyes mechanically directed towards the binnacle, and its satire upon the mariner’s compass, which had not shifted one degree these last two years. However there is little to fear here. The fellow knows every inch of shore, and can tell you to a foot what depth of water there is beneath us. So as this atmosphere of drowsiness begins to be infectious, we might as will retire below. Not into the cabin, if you please. The last trip the Durrya Prashad made was, we understand, for the purpose of conveying cotton to the Presidency. You may imagine the extent of dark population left to colonise her every corner. We are to sleep under the penthouse, as well as we may; our servants, you observe, have spread the mats of rushes — one of the much vaunted luxuries of the East — upon our humble couches, justly anticipating that we shall have a fair specimen of the night tropical. Before you “tumble in” pray recollect to see that the jars of cold water have been placed within reach, for we are certain to awake as soon after our first sleep as possible, suffering from the torments of Tantalus. And we should advise you to restore the socks you have just removed, that is to say, if you wish the mosquitos to leave you the use of your feet to-morrow.

“Good night!”

The wish is certainly a benevolent one, but it sounds queer as a long grace emphatically prefixed to a “spread” of cold mutton or tough beefsteak, for which nothing under a special miracle could possibly make one “truly thankful.” However, good night!

* * *

From Bombay southwards as far as Goa, the coast, viewed from the sea, merits little admiration. It is an unbroken succession of gentle rises and slopes, and cannot evade the charge of dulness and uniformity. Every now and then some fort or rock juts out into the water breaking the line, but the distance we stand out from land prevents our distinguishing the features of its differing “lions,” such as Severndroog “the Golden Fortress,” Rutnageree “the Hill of Jewels,” and the Burnt Islands, or Vingorla Rocks. The voyage, therefore, will be an uninteresting one — though at this season of the year, early spring, it will not be tedious.

The ancient Hindoos have a curious tradition concerning the formation and population of this coast. They believe that Parasu Rama, one of their demigods, after filling the earth with the blood of the offending Kshatriya, or regal and military caste, wished to perform an expiatory sacrifice. As, however, no Brahmin would attend, his demigodship found himself in rather an awkward predicament. At length, when sitting on the mountains of Concan (i.e. the Sayhadree Range, or Western Ghauts), he espied on the shore below, the putrefied corpses of fourteen Mlenchhas (any people not Hindoos), which had floated there borne by the tides from distant lands to the westward. Rama restored them to life, taught them religious knowledge, and, after converting them into Brahmins, performed his sacrifice. He afterwards, by means of his fiery darts, compelled Samudra, the Indian Neptune, to retire several miles from the food of the Ghauts, and allotted to his protégés the strip of land thus recovered from the sea. From these fourteen men sprang the Kukanastha or Concanese tribe of Maharattas, and the pious Hindoo still discovers in their lineaments, traces of a corpse-like expression of countenance inherited from their forefathers.

* * *

We remarked that it was a glad moment when we entered the pattimar. We will also observe that it was another when our sable Portuguese “butler,” as he terms himself, ecstasied by his propinquity to home — sweet home, and forgetting respect and self-possession in an elan of patriotism, abruptly directed our vision towards the whitewashed farol, or lighthouse, which marks the north side of the entrance to the Goa creek. And now, as we glide rapidly in, we will take a short military coup d’oeil at the outward defences of the once celebrated Portuguese capital.

The hill, or steep, upon which the farol stands, is crowned with batteries, called the Castello de Agoada, as ships touch there to water. There are other works, a fleur d’eau, all round the point. These defences, however, are built of stone, without any embankments of earth, and suggest uncomfortable ideas of splinters. In fact, a few gun-boats would drive any number of men out of them in half an hour. The entrance of the creek is at least two miles broad, and the southern prong, the “Cabo de Convento,” is occupied, as its name shows, by a monastery instead of a fort. Moreover, none but a native general would ever think of thrusting an invading force through the jaws of the bay, when it might land with perfect safety and convenience to itself a few miles to the north or south.

* * *

“What are we pulling up for?”

The Tindal informs us that we may expect a visit from the “Portingal Captain,” who commands the Castello, for the purpose of ascertaining our rank, our wealth, and our object in visiting Goa. He warns us to conceal our sketch-book, and not to write too much; otherwise, that our ardour for science may lead us into trouble. But, mind, we laugh him to scorn; natives must have something mysterious to suspect, or expect, or affect.

But here comes the officer, after keeping us waiting a good hour. He is a rhubarb-coloured man, dressed in the shabby remains of a flashy uniform; his square inch of blackish brown mustachio, and expression of countenance, produce an appearance which we should pronounce decidedly valiant, did we not know that valour here seldom extends below or beyond the countenance. How respectfully our butler bows to him, and with what fellow-feeling the same valuable domestic grasps the hand of that orderly in shell jacket, but not in pantaloons, who composes the guard of his superior officer! Behold! he has a bundle of cigarettos, made of the blackest tobacco, rolled up in bits of plantain leaf; and he carries his “weeds” in a very primitive cigar-case, namely, the pouch formed by the junction of his huge flap of an ear, with the flat and stubby poll behind it. As the favourite narcotic goes round, no Portuguese refuses it. The Hindoos shake their heads politely and decliningly, the Moslems grimly and with a suspicion of a curse.

But we must summon our domestic to mediate between us and our visitor, who speaks nothing but most Maharatta-like Portuguese and Portuguese-like Maharatta.

We begin by offering him a glass of wine, and he inquires of Salvador, our acting interpreter,— “Why?” Being assured that such is the practice among the barbarous Anglo-Indians, he accepts it with a helpless look, and never attempts to conceal the contortions of countenance produced by the operation of a glass of Parsee sherry, fiery as their own divinity, upon a palate accustomed to tree-toddy and thin red wine. However, he appears perfectly satisfied with the inspection, and after volunteering an introductory epistle to one Ioaõ Thomas — i.e. John Thomas, a cicerone of Goanese celebrity — which we accept without the slightest intention of delivering, he kindly gives us permission to proceed, shakes our hand with a cold and clammy palm, which feels uncommonly like a snake, and with many polite bows to our servants, disappears over the side, followed by his suite. Whilst the anchor is being re-weighed, before we forget the appearance of the pair, we will commit them to the custody of the sketchbook.

* * *

The old lateen creeps creaking crankily up the mast once more, and the Durrya Prashad recommences to perambulate the waters as unlike a thing of life as can be imagined. Half an hour more will take us in. Perched upon the topmast angle of our penthouse, we strain our eyes in search of the tall buildings and crowded ways that denote a capital; we can see nought but a forest of lanky cocoa-nut trees, whose stems are apparently growing out of a multitude of small hovels.

Can this be Goa?

Rendered rabid by the query our patriotic domestic, sneering as much as he safely can, informs us that this is the village of Verim, that St. Agnes, and proceeds to display his store of topographical lore by naming or christening every dirty little mass of hut and white-washed spire that meets the eye.

Bus, Bus — enough in the name of topography! We will admire the view to-morrow morning when our minds are a little easier about John Thomas, a house, &c.

We turn the last corner which concealed from view the town of Panjim, or as others call it, the city of New Goa, and are at last satisfied that we are coming to something like a place. Suddenly the Tindal, and all his men, begin to chatter like a wilderness of provoked baboons; they are debating as to what part of the narrow creek which runs parallel with the town should be selected for anchor ground. Not with an eye to our comfort in landing, observe, but solely bearing in mind that they are to take in cargo to-morrow.

At length our apology for an anchor once more slides down the old side of the Durrya Prashad, and she swings lazily round with the ebb tide, like an elephant indulging in a solitary roll. It is dark, we can see nothing but a broken line of dim oil-lamps upon the quay, and hear nought save the unharmonious confusion of native music with native confabulation. Besides the wind that pours down the creek feels damp and chilly, teeming with unpleasant reminiscences of fever and ague. So after warning our domestics, that instant dismissal from the service will follow any attempt to land to-night, a necessary precaution if we wish to land to-morrow, we retire to pass the last of three long nights in slapping our face in the desperate hope of crushing mosquitos, dreaming of De Gama and Albuquerque, starting up every two hours with jaws glowing like those of a dark age dragon, scratching our legs and feet, preferring positive excoriation to the exquisite titillation produced by the perpetual perambulation, and occasional morsication (with many other -ations left to the reader’s discrimination) of our nocturnal visitations, and in uttering emphatic ejaculations concerning the man with the rhinoceros hid and front of brass who invented and recommended to his kind the pattimar abomination.

Chapter II. 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 Vanderdeeken, 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 Ioao 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 — 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 make 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, 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 Capitao; 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 cafe 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-but 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 bete-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 Ioao 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 Conceicao, 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 surprise 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 Chorao.”

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.

Choräo was formerly the noviciate place of the Jesuits. 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 colored prints and lithographs of Cerito and Taglioni.

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 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 horse 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 cotlin covered with a green pall.

At length we arrived at the Barracks, a large building in the form of a an irregular square, fronting the Rio, and our British curiosity being roused by hearing that the celebrated old thief, Phonde Sawunt, 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 plundered, and will entitled to sing the Suliot ditty —

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 Conceicao, 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 seabeach 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.

Chapter III. Old Goa As It Was.

“Señor,” said our cicerone, entering unannounced, at about ten a.m., “it is time for your Excellency to prepare for an interview with his Excellency the Governor-General of all the Indies; and if it meet with your approbation, we can see the library, and the celebrated statue of Alfonso de Albuquerque on our way to the palacio.”

The horses were soon saddled, and the Señor was with some difficulty persuaded to mount. En route his appearance afforded no small amusement to his fellow townsmen, who grinned from ear to ear seeing him clinging to the saddle, and holding on by the bridle, with his back hunched, and his shoulders towering above his ears like those of an excited cat. The little Maharatta “man-eater” was dancing with disgust at this peculiar style of equitation, and the vivacity of his movements terrified the Señor, that, to our extreme regret, he chose the first moment to dismount under pretext of introducing us to Albuquerque.

The statue of that hero stands under a white-washed dome, in a small square opposite the east front of the Barracks. It is now wrapped up in matting, having lately received such injuries that it was deemed advisable to send to Portugal for a new nose and other requisites.

The library disappointed us. We had heard that it contained many volumes collected from the different religious houses by order of the government, and thus saved from mildew and the white ants. Of course, we expected a variety of MSS. and publications upon the subject of Oriental languages and history, as connected with the Portuguese settlements. The catalogue, however, soon informed us that it was a mere ecclesiastical library, dotted here and there with the common classical authors; a few old books of travels; some volumes of history, and a number of musty disquisitions on ethics, politics, and metaphysics. We could find only three Oriental works — a Syriac book printed at Oxford, a manuscript Dictionary, and a Grammar of the Concanee dialect of Maharatta.

Arrived at the palace, we sent in our card, and were desired to walk up. We were politely received by an aide-de-camp, who, after ascertaining that we could speak a few words of Portuguese, left the room to inform the Governor of that prodigious fact, which, doubtless, procured us the honour of an interview with that exalted personage. It did not last long enough to be tedious, still we were not sorry when his Excellency retired with the excuse of public business, and directed the aide-de-camp to show us about the building. There was not much to be seen in it, except a tolerably extensive library, a private chapel, and a suite of lofty and spacious saloons, with enormous windows, and without furniture; containing the portraits of all the Governors and Viceroys of Portuguese India. The collection is, or rather has been, a valuable one; unfortunately some Goth, by the order of some worse than Goth, has renewed and revived many of the best and oldest pictures, till they have assumed a most ludicrous appearance. The handsome and chivalrous-looking knights have been taught to resemble the Saracen’s Head, the Marquis of Granby, and other sign-post celebrities in England. An artist is, however, it is said, coming from Portugal, and much scraping and varnishing may do something for the De Gamas and de Castros at present so miserably disfigured.

* * *

And now, thank Goodness, all our troubles are over. We can start as soon as we like for the “ruin and the waste,” merely delaying to secure a covered boat, victual it for a few days, and lay in a store of jars of fresh water — a necessary precaution against ague and malaria. Salvador is to accompany us, and John Thomas has volunteered to procure us a comfortable lodging in the Aljube, or ecclesiastical prison.

A couple of hours’ steady rowing will land us at old Goa. As there is nothing to be said about the banks which are lined with the eternal succession of villages, palaces, villas, houses, cottages, gardens, and cocoa-nut trees; instead of lingering upon the uninteresting details, we will pass the time in drawing out a short historical sketch of the hapless city’s fortunes.

It is not, we believe, generally known that there are two old Goas. Ancient old Goa stood on the south coast of the island, about two miles from its more modern namesake. Ferishteh, and the other Moslem annalists of India allude to it as a great and celebrated seaport in the olden time. It was governed by its own Rajah, who held it in fief from the Princes of Beejanugger and the Carnatic. In the fifteenth century it was taken by the Moslem monarchs of the Bahmani line. Even before the arrival of the Portuguese in India the inhabitants began to desert their old seaport and migrate to the second Goa. Of the ancient Hindoo town no traces now remain, except some wretched hovels clustering round a parish church. Desolation and oblivion seem to have claimed all but the name of the place, and none but the readers of musty annals and worm-eaten histories are aware that such a city ever existed.

The modern old Goa was built about nineteen years before the arrival of Vasco de Gama at Calicut, an event fixed by the historian, Faria, on 20th of May, 1498. It was taken from the Moors or Moslems by Albuquerque, about thirty years after its foundation — a length of time amply sufficient to make it a place of importance, considering the mushroom-like rapidity with which empires and their capitals shoot up in the East. Governed by a succession of viceroys, many of them the bravest and wisest of the Portuguese nation, Goa soon rose to a height of power, wealth, and magnificence almost incredible. But the introduction of the Jesuits, the Holy Tribunal, and its fatal offspring, religious persecution; pestilence, and wars with European and native powers, disturbances arising from an unsettled home government, and, above all things, the slow but sure workings of the short-sighted policy of the Portuguese in intermarrying and identifying themselves with the Hindoos of the lowest castes, made her fall as rapid as her rise was sudden and prodigious. In less than a century and a half after De Gama landed on the shore of India, the splendour of Goa had departed for ever. Presently the climate changed in that unaccountable manner often witnessed in hot and tropical countries. Every one fled from the deadly fever that raged within the devoted precincts, and the villages around began to thrive upon the decay of the capital. At last, in 1759, the viceroy, a namesake of Albuquerque, transferred his habitual residence to Panhim. Soon afterwards the Jesuits were expelled, and their magnificent convents and churches were left all but utterly deserted. The Inquisition was suppressed when the Portuguese court was at Rio Janeiro, at the recommendation of the British Government — one of those good deeds with which our native land atones for a multitude of minor sins.

The descriptions of Goa in her palmy days are, thanks to the many travellers that visited the land, peculiarly graphic and ample.

First in the list, by seniority, stands Linschoten, a native of Haarlem, who travelled to the capital of Portuguese India about 1593, in company with the Archbishop Fre Vincent de Foncega. After many years spent in the East, he returned to his native country, and published his travels, written in old French. The book is replete with curious information. Linschoten’s account of the riches and splendour of Goa would be judged exaggerated, were they not testified to by a host of other travellers. It is described as the finest, largest, and most magnificent city in India: its villas almost merited the title of palaces, and seemed to be built for the purpose of displaying the wealthy and magnificence of the erectors. It is said that during the prosperous times of the Portuguese in India, you could not have seen a bit of “iron in any merchant’s house, but all gold and silver.” They coined an immense quantity of the precious metals, and used to make pieces of workmanship in them for exportation. They were a nation of traders, and the very soldiers enriched themselves by commerce. After nine years’ service, all those that came from Portugal were entitled to some command, either by land or sea; they frequently, however, rejected government employ on account of being engaged in the more lucrative pursuit of trade. The viceroyalty of Goa was one of the most splendid appointments in the world. There were five other governments, namely — Mozambique, Malacca, Ormus, Muscat, and Ceylon, the worst of which was worth ten thousand crowns (about two thousand pounds) per annum — an enormous sun in those days.

The celebrated Monsieur Tavernier, Baron of Aubonne, visited Goa twice; first in 1641, the second time seven years afterwards. In his day the city was declining rapidly,