C., with room for two persons only. The wheels were nearly
off, and the spring of one side was broken. The harness was made of
old rusty chains and bits of string tied together. Our coachman and
footman were two boys in little dirty shirts, with something round
the loins kept together with bits of twine, and bare legs peeping
out underneath like two sticks of chocolate.
Our first drive was to Cazalem, a place which reminded me of the Barra
at Santos, in Brazil. Here several Europeans lived, I mean native
Portuguese, mainly officials of the Government. As Richard wrote a book
about Goa when he was there some thirty years before, there is not much
that I can add to his description of the place.
Our next drive was to Old Goa, where is the tomb of St. Francis Xavier.
Nothing is left of Old Goa but churches and monasteries. In the
distance, with its glittering steeples and domes, it looks a grand place;
but when we entered it, I found it to be a city of the dead--indeed
it was the very abomination of desolation. The Bom Jesus is the church
dedicated to St. Francis Xavier, my favourite saint, on account of his
conversion of so many unbelievers. It is after the same pattern as all
other Portuguese churches, a long, whitewashed, barn-shaped building.
The object of my devotion, the tomb, is contained in a recess on a side
of the altar dedicated to Xavier, and consists of a magnificently carved
silver sarcophagus, enriched with _alto relievi_, representing different
acts of the Saint's life.
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