# On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 19

CHAPTER XIX
A PIONEER MISSIONARY BISHOP
Just as the moon is the light of the night and the sun the light of the day, so are good children the light of their family.–Sloka.
Bishop Caldwell was fortunate in the choice of a wife. The lady was a faithful and constant companion to the end of his life. She was filled with the enthusiastic missionary spirit that influenced her husband. In addition to the care of their souls she applied herself to the care of the bodies of his flock, and dispensed simple domestic medicines to all who sought her aid. Their faith in her skill was unbounded, whether she was ministering to their bodily ailments or to their spiritual needs.
She was with her husband on one of his many tours in his Diocese. There had been a service in the morning of Sunday at the village where they had pitched their camp. In the afternoon the Bishop and his chaplain went to a neighbouring town to hold a service in the open air. It was customary for the catechist to conduct matins and evensong when no clergyman was available. Accordingly the catechist fulfilled the usual duty at the church in the Bishop's absence, Mrs. Caldwell being present. Evensong was finished, and they sang a lyric. At the conclusion Mrs. Caldwell was surprised to see the catechist, who had been officiating, seat himself without giving the usual Benediction. She looked round; the ​congregation had also settled down, and showed no sign of departing. Leaning from her pew towards the catechist she whispered in Tamil :
‘Why don't you conclude the service ?’
‘Because we are waiting for your sermon, madam,’ was the embarrassing reply.
Robert Caldwell's experiences as a missionary before he became bishop were varied, and must often have aroused his sympathy for St. Paul when the apostle was dealing with his converts. One of the difficulties, which still remains with native Christians, is the position which the religion of Christ gives to woman. In the eyes of the Hindu she is an inferior creature whose chief duty is child-bearing, and she accepts this position, shaping her conduct accordingly. It is almost impossible in the present generation to persuade a modest, gentle Hindu woman who has embraced Christianity that she does not still occupy this traditional position.
The height of becoming conduct on the part of a Hindu bride at a heathen wedding is an exhibition of overwhelming modesty. The more shyness she can display the more admiration does she evoke. She neither speaks nor smiles from beginning to end of the ceremony. The consequence of this assumption of shyness is to make the bride late. It takes time to overcome her modesty sufficiently to allow of her being dressed. While her toilette is in progress she frequently has to be propped up against a wall; and even then, if not supported on either side by assistant bridesmaids who are usually drawn from the elder women of the family she allows herself to collapse and roll over helplessly, to the great admiration of the feminine portion of the family circle looking on.
In Christian weddings the old Hindu customs cling, and there is a difficulty in bringing the bride to church ; ​she frequently keeps the clergyman waiting till his patience is exhausted. When she does appear she is so imperfectly dressed and so painfully shy that she looks a shapeless bundle of new clothes and jewelry. Her head is hidden in the folds of her saree, and she has to be supported up the church by her old bride-women. Once placed at the altar rails it is almost impossible to elicit a response, or even a murmur which may be treated liberally and taken as a response.
Bishop Caldwell was once marrying just such a couple, the bride maintaining a modest silence. After frequent repetitions of the betrothal sentence his patience was at an end. It had already been severely tried by the loss of more than an hour of valuable time he could ill spare. Closing the book, he said :
'Now, for the last time I repeat the sentence. If you do not say the words after me, I shall send you home unmarried.'
On hearing this terrible threat, one of the bridesmaids, who was the bride's great-aunt and an influential person in her father's household, rushed forward, seized the bride, and gave her a violent shaking, as she exclaimed :
"How dare you behave so! Why don't you do as the gentleman tells you?'
It had the desired effect, inasmuch as it gave the bride leave to speak. She found her voice–a firm, strong young voice it was, too–and the ceremony was concluded without further delay.
After he became Bishop he made his headquarters at Tuticorin, where he occupied a curious old Dutch house that had its staircase outside. He was consecrated Bishop of Tinnevelly in 1877, and died in 1891, in the seventy–eighth year of his age, after fifty-three years' work in South India. His parents were Scotch, but he was ​born at Belfast (1814). Like Bishop Gell, it was Caldwell's wish to rest in the land where he had laboured. Six out of the first seven Bishops of Calcutta left their bones in India. Middleton (1822), Turner (1831), and Wilson (1858) were buried in Calcutta. Heber (1826) lies in Trichinopoly; Cotton (1866) was drowned at Kushtia and his body was never found; Milman (1876) lies at Rawal Pindi. Corrie, the first Bishop of Madras, was buried in Madras (1837); and so also was Dealtry (1859). Sargent was buried at Palancotta (1889), Caldwell at Idaiyangudi, in Tinnevelly (1891), and, lastly, Bishop Gell at Coonoor (1902).
The house in which Bishop Caldwell stayed when he visited Trichinopoly was at Puttoor, a part of the cantonment occupied by sepoy lines when I first arrived there. The lines have since been pulled down, but the officers' bungalows remain, as at Warriore. The largest of these was purchased by the S.P.G. Mission. Here Mrs. Wyatt, Bishop Caldwell's eldest daughter, lived for many years in the midst of her scholars, orphans, Bible-women, lacemakers, and converts. She had her father's gift of language, and spoke Tamil fluently.
Like Mrs. Caldwell, she was a veritable mother in Israel to her people, ministering to their spiritual or temporal needs as occasion demanded. Among the natives she had a great medical reputation founded on the judicious use, in the absence of qualified men, of castor oil, quinine, and other simple drugs. Being the mother of sons herself, they believed that the touch of her hand brought prosperity and good fortune. Chance favoured a further belief that she could bring fruitfulness to barren women, a reputation that was not without its embarrassments. She engaged a teacher for her school, a married woman who had no children. Whether it was the regular occupation, or better food, in consequence of ​a better income, or the change of air, it is impossible to say; but the result was better health, and the woman became the happy mother of a son. Her delighted husband put it down to nothing less than the fact of having taken service under Mrs. Wyatt. The news spread, and one day a woman who had been married seventeen years and had not been blessed with children came, and entreated Mrs. Wyatt to exercise her powers on her behalf and grant her the priceless boon. In vain she protested that she had no such powers; the poor creature, who was emaciated and out of health, begged and prayed and refused to depart. It seemed to the kind-hearted Englishwoman cruel to send her away in that miserable condition, especially as from all appearance she was suffering from a very common complaint. A dose of santonine was made up, and afterwards a tonic was administered, together with a diet of wholesome food, with the result that the woman not only became fat and strong, but also, to her endless joy, a mother.
At the close of the war made upon King Theebaw, some members of the royal family, who by the merest chance had escaped the general massacre made by Theebaw, were sent to Trichinopoly and placed under the charge of the European missionary and his wife who were superintending the Mission at that period. They arrived while the missionary was away on a pastoral tour through his district. His wife took them under her wing, but not without some trepidation, which was in no way lessened when she heard the account of their conduct on the journey given by the inspector. In the train one of the boys crawled under the seat of the carriage and remained there the whole time, refusing to come out of his hiding-place for food or for any other inducement.
The lads had been brought up luxuriously at the palace at Mandalay, and were imbued with the Oriental princely ​contempt for their inferiors. It would not do to place them in the dormitories of the school ; on the other hand, unaccustomed as they were to European habits of living, she could not give them a bedroom in her own house. There was a small bungalow in the compound which was used as a store-house. One of its rooms was empty; this was prepared and made as comfortable as was in her power for the reception of the scions of royalty.
Fortunately she had on her staff of teachers a high-caste woman who had been brought up in the palace of Tanjore, and knew something of the treatment suitable for Oriental princes. She had been educated as a dancing girl, the only class of women to whom the Hindus grant education. She possessed sufficient knowledge of the classical languages of the East to make herself understood by the boys. She was put in charge of them as their governess, and under her care they settled down without further trouble to their new life.
Before long the spirits of the boys returned. They mixed with the scholars of the Mission, and with an imperialism that was in their blood they took the lead in all their games. Athletics were a popular form of amusement with them. They organised sports with wrestling and acrobatic performances, which were made attractive by the special costumes donned for the occasion. The young princes' pocket-money went in bright-coloured cloths and tinsel for personal adornment.
The curiosity of the Hindus of the bazaars and villages round Puttoor was aroused. Trespassing in the Mission grounds had for some time past been a nuisance in more ways than one. The curiosity increased. Not content with gazing, the trespassers laid light fingers upon any trifle that might be within reach. When at last a brilliant acrobatic property disappeared the ​Burmese princes took action. At the first sight of a stranger they started off in wild impetuous pursuit. The mild Hindu-particularly mild in the south-fled in terror for his life. Such a scare was established that the bazaar boys dared not so much as peep over the wall, much less venture inside the gates.
The princes had a talent for picturesque decoration in their own fashion, not only of their persons, but in the gala ornamentation of the house and garden. At Christmas they begged to be allowed to assist in the decoration of the room used as a chapel. (A church has since been built.) The effect produced by light garlands was thoroughly Eastern and decidedly pretty. Had they confined their attention to the walls it would have been a thorough success. Their ambition went further than the walls. They wished to give the kind English lady, who had been so good to them in their exile, a pleasant surprise. They cut out in paper two large angels with a strong Burmese cast of countenance, and painted them in the brightest colours they possessed. The heraldic word rampant' is the only term that will exactly describe their attitude, one foot being lifted and the hands upraised. On Christmas morning, as she entered the chapel, her eyes fell upon these wonderful creations, which were pinned upon the altar cloth over the embroidery. Whatever the lady felt she took it in the right spirit. The congregation, with their Eastern tastes, saw nothing to give offence, and they expressed their unqualified admiration for the effort of the Burmese.
It was some time before Government would permit them to return to Burmah, though they petitioned frequently for the termination of their exile. When permission came at last the eldest boy had arrived at man's estate. He embraced Christianity and married the daughter of his governess. He, with his wife, mother​in-law, and brothers, settled in Burmah, where he obtained a post in the service of Government, and became a loyal, law-abiding British subject.
The lives of the people of India are full of tragedy for two simple reasons: they make no attempt to control emotion, and their minds are steeped in superstition. Anger, joy, fear of demons, grief, disappointment, sway and toss them as the tempestuous blasts of their cyclones sway and toss the trees, laying many of them low, never to rise again.
The governess of the princes, who was born and brought up a heathen, had many strange tales to tell of the palace where her childhood was passed. She was the daughter of a high-caste man of Tanjore, who was of the same caste as the Rajah. Her father had the good fortune to save the life of the Rajah at Siva Gunga by killing a wounded tiger that was charging down upon him. As a reward he was made food-taster to his prince, and was given quarters in the palace. There he died, leaving his wife and little daughter under the Ranee's protection.
The Ranee and her women, with the rest of the Rajah's wives, were strictly purdashin. They occupied a huge block of buildings within the walls of the palace, where they were served entirely by women slaves. About seventy children were brought up and educated in the palace to minister to the wants of the ladies of the Rajah's zanana. They did not all fill the duties of domestic servants. Some were taught trades such as carpentering, masonry, iron and brass work, jewellers' and goldsmiths' work. Some learnt to drive and to harness the palace horses, so that the ladies could take carriage exercise within the walled grounds.
The governess was taught to dance; and she learned Sanscrit so that she could perform in the Sanscrit plays ​that were got up for the amusement of the princesses. Certain pujaris, by right of their sacred office, were admitted to serve the palace temple, and to give instruction to the girls, who not only danced to amuse, but took a part in the temple ritual at certain seasons of the year.
One of the yearly festivals was the Ayeetha, which affects every trade and calling in India. It is the blessing of the tools, and the offering of a sacrifice to ensure success for the coming year.
There is a legend to the effect that one year a fair and beautiful Mahratta maiden was chosen out of the rest to perform some special and mysterious pujah in the temple. She was very proud of the honour of being the chosen one, and was the envy of all her companions. Each day that passed some ceremony of preparation was performed. She was washed and anointed with scented oil, and fed on sweetmeats and delicate curries. Her hair was combed and perfumed and adorned with jewels. The finest white cloth was soaked in saffron and hung out to dry in the sun to be ready for her use.
On the great day of the Ayeetha all the girls assisted at the toilette of the chosen one. When she was ready, the pujari, gaunt and wild from the ascetic ceremonies performed in preparation, came in person to carry her to the temple. The little heart beat fast in mingled awe and pride as she was lifted to the shoulder of the dishevelled, ash-besprinkled Brahmin, and borne away to the mysterious doorway through which only Brahmins might pass. No! there was another who possessed the right of way, but he seldom exercised that right. This was the Rajah himself. No door could be shut against the reigning prince within the palace, not even the door of the mulasthanam.
The children watched their companion disappear ​within the temple. Her fair face and young limbs, the yellow robe and gleaming jewels, a vision of brightness in the Indian sunlight, flashed before their admiring eyes. Once she looked back as though a qualm of fear had touched her, but curiosity and pride stifled timidity; and they saw her turn her head towards the grim idol she was to serve in some mysterious manner. Then she vanished into the murky darkness and was lost to sight. They strained their eyes to penetrate the dim light of the windowless temple, and they could distinguish the red flame that burnt like a spot of blood before the idol. In another moment the door was shut on pujah and pujari, and the temple was wrapped in its usual silence.
They waited long in the hope that their little companion would return. The sun went down towards the west, and the children shuddered as the Brahmins—wilder and more fanatical than ever-issued from the door, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. A great crowd had gathered, bringing their tools for dedication after the pujah had been performed within the temple. The group of children stood on one side, and watched the strange rites and ceremonies by which the gods of the people were to be propitiated. As night fell they went to their supper well-nigh fainting with hunger, confident that their companion would join them in the hall where the food was placed, and would tell them all she had seen and heard within the dread temple.
Their quick eyes soon discovered that no bowl of special curry had been prepared to-night, and that the absent one was not expected. Wondering and full of awe at the thought that she would have to spend the night with that dreadful idol, each silently rolled herself in her sheet and fell asleep.
The next day she did not appear; and when one girl, ​bolder than the rest by reason of her friendship with the missing companion, ventured to ask a question, she was told that the child had become the wife of the god and could no longer live with them. After this they ceased to look for her, believing that she had been sent away to some other temple.
The English Government, under whose protection the Rajah lived, began to ask questions that were not easily answered. It was whispered that, though the ritual was carried out by Brahmins who profess to abhor blood sacrifices, the practice of human sacrifice was sometimes performed within the palace temple.
The Rajah, who was an enlightened man, did all he could to aid the English Government in their enquiries, but could discover nothing.
A year passed and the Ayeetha was once more approaching. There were rumours that this time a youth of fifteen would be the victim. The matter was discussed between the English officials and the prince, and it was decided that the Rajah should pay the temple an unexpected visit while pujah was being performed. It was no light task that he had undertaken. So strong was the hold of superstition upon the minds of the palace people, that even the Ranee herself would be on the side of the Brahmins, and not in sympathy with her husband. Before taking part in the Ageetha the pujaris went through a long course of ceremonial, which rendered them especially sacred in the eyes of the people. To lay a finger upon one of them when he was thus prepared would, in their belief, be as sacrilegious as meddling with the god himself, and draw down his wrath upon the presumptuous person.
On the day appointed, and at the hour when the pujaris had assembled in the temple, the Rajah appeared and asked for admittance. He brooked no delay, but ​pushed open the door and entered. The worshippers assembled outside were aghast but none ventured to stop him. When the Brahmins recognised their sovereign, they made no attempt to obstruct the way. Never before had he done such a thing, and his sudden appearance in their midst caused consternation.
He pressed forward through the crowd to the sacrificial spot; and there, sure enough, lay something beneath a blood-stained cloth.
He was not altogether free from superstition himself, and to raise the cloth with his own hand was more than he with all his courage cared to do. He ordered some men standing near to lift the sheet. They glanced at their chief, awaiting a sign of his consent. The pujari made a few passes before the Rajah and signed to the men to withdraw the cloth.
Slowly it was raised, and the dead body of a sheep met the Rajah's gaze.
The eyes of the chief Brahmin never left the face of his prince, and a light of fanatical triumph shone in them as the Rajah turned away. He passed out of the temple in silence and without comment from the assembly. He was unaccustomed to give reasons for his actions and they were used to the ways of an Oriental despot. The door closed behind him as he left the stifling atmosphere of the temple, and the mysterious ceremonies of the Ayeetha were continued.
Whether he saw a sheep or a human body it was impossible to say. There was no reason to doubt his word. He and his English friends were inclined to believe in the sheep. His people thought differently. They said that the pujari had exercised divine power acquired by his severe preparation, and that he had changed the youth into a sheep on the entrance of the Rajah. ​One thing was certain. A well-favoured youth disappeared from the town; and when his people were asked what had become of him, they replied that he had gone to a distant temple to serve the gods.
The Rajah who was reigning in 1879 was the last of his race. His predecessor was for a long time without an heir. In despair he made a gigantic effort at matrimony and married seventeen girls--some say twenty-two-in one day. The matter was reported to the directors of the East India Company, and a discussion took place as to the propriety-politically speaking-of his act. Seventeen girls for the old man meant a probable future charge of seventeen widows upon the revenues of the State.
The news of this remarkable marriage caused some amusement to the Board. On the margin of the draft despatch, prepared for the consideration of the members, one of the directors scribbled 'Oh, what fun!'
The matrimonial effort produced one daughter only, and when her father died she succeeded him. A consort was found for her, and he was given the title of Rajah. When I went to Tanjore she and her husband were reigning.
There were fourteen widows living, but their numbers have considerably diminished since then. Their wholesale marriage was cruel and unjust. At the death of the Rajah all the girls had to submit to the deprivations associated with Hindu widowhood. They were shut up for life in the palace, a huge building containing more than a hundred rooms, besides the durbar halls of audience, the courtyards, gardens, stabling, servants' quarters, and palace temple. There they spent their lives, living on what excitement they could find behind the purdah. It usually took the form of quarrelling. Their little world was full of jealousies. The widows were supposed to be on an equality, but were constantly in dispute on the subject of ​precedence. Many were the appeals made to the political agent who had charge of them. He patiently listened to their complaints, and did his best to restore peace.
I visited Tanjore two or three years later with a party from Trichinopoly. We were the guests of the Rajah and Princess, who were marrying a niece of the Rajah to a prince from the north. The ladies were allowed to pass behind the purdah that screened a dais at the end of the durbar hall, and were introduced to the Princess, the bride, and the first wife of the bridegroom, who had come with her two children to see the wedding. This lady excited my interest, and I asked her through an interpreter how she liked her husband's new wife. She replied with a pleasant smile:
'She is all that I could desire, and will be a beloved sister to me.'
Had I put the same question to the bride, something of the same reply would have been given, with a difference in the last sentence:
'She is all that I could wish, and she will be a mother to me and my children.'
The first wife looked about twenty-five years of age, and the bride, a slip of a girl, not more than fifteen, if so much.
It was at Tanjore that the women of the palace who proved unfaithful or obnoxious in the old days were shut in a dark room, into which a male cobra was introduced. It requires a knowledge of the people and of their language to draw from them the stories of their tragedies and their comedies. Questions by casual and curious visitors addressed to the guide fail to elicit information, for they resent inquisitiveness.
'Are there no traditions connected with the palace?'
'No, sir, there are none.'
​‘I have heard that in the old days such and such a thing happened.'
‘Perhaps, sir. The people are ignorant and have many foolish beliefs, but I have been told nothing.'
Which is perfectly true. Being a pariah he neither knows nor cares about the legends of the higher castes; and even if he did, it is not likely that he would be made a confidant.