# On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII
PEOPLE TRICHINOPOLY HAS KNOWN
The meaning of a dream, the effects of clouds in autumn, the heart of a woman, and the character of kings are beyond the comprehension of anybody.–Sloka.
Trichinopoly, like other up-country stations in India, possesses several fine houses. The solid walls, terraced roofs, and noble pillars of polished chunam indicate the English architect lavish with the Indian labour at his command. Some of the buildings have fallen out of repair, and a few have disappeared altogether except for their foundations. The site of the reception-rooms can still be distinguished; but the prickly pear and the thorn bush spring up where the Persian rugs were spread ; and the black goats loiter, nibbling the tender shoots of the shrubs where the English ladies once lounged.
It is a matter of regret that local history is so soon lost in India. The Englishman, ever on the move through the exigency of promotion or of health, leaves few traditions behind him. A viceroy, a general, a distinguished visitor arrives as a guest of the judge or the collector. The grounds of the judge's house blossom with white tents for the use of the staff ; the house itself is furbished up for the reception of the great man and the guests invited to meet him. He departs, and the memory of his visit lasts just as long as the host remains. A few years later the judge leaves the station. The gaily dressed crowd ​that came at his bidding to welcome the big-wig also passes on, and the associations connected with the house sink into oblivion.
A name well-known in Trichinopoly during the last quarter of the eighteenth century—though it is neither of historical interest nor known to fame is that of Charles Darke. He was the grandfather of Sir Robert Peel's wife. In 1770 he came out to Madras as a cadet. Four years later he gave up his appointment in the Service and took out indentures as a free merchant, tempted by the many roads to rapid wealth which the country offered.
Fortune is proverbially fickle in the distribution of her favours, and she did not at first smile on Charles Darke. He suffered through the broken promises of an Indian prince. Just at that time the Nabob of the Carnatic, unchecked by a paternal Government that now watches over the expenditure of Maharajahs, was filling his impoverished exchequer with loans from the English free merchants and others. The enormous interest promised was a temptation few could resist. Darke was one of the merchants who risked his capital, and he had to wait a long time before he saw any return. He spent part of the time that he was detained in the country at Trichinopoly, where opportunity offered of making a second fortune by taking contracts for Government buildings. His name is connected with a handsome and substantial bridge over the picturesque Wyacondah channel, a tributary of the Cauvery River. The bridge is still known as Darke's bridge. It is unlikely that this was the only building that he undertook, and it is more than possible that he had a considerable hand in the erection of the barracks outside the fort at Worriore.
Darke's wife Rebecca, the faithful companion of his fortunes and misfortunes in the East, was the daughter of William and Sarah Gyles, of Northampton. She lies ​﻿beneath the floor of the old church in the fort at Trichinopoly. Pohle buried her in 1797. She was fifty-three years of age. He entered her name in the register book as ‘The Lady Rebecca Darke.' The honorary title that he conferred upon her suggests the state in which the merchant's household was conducted and the title by which its mistress was known to her bevy of slaves. Mrs. Darke's only surviving daughter, Rebecca Juliana, married Colonel (afterwards Sir John) Floyd, at St. Mary's Church, Fort St. George, in 1791. Sir John's daughter, Julia, born at Worriore probably, and certainly baptised by Schwartz, married Sir Robert Peel, afterwards Prime Minister of England. Lady Peel was in every sense a helpmate to her distinguished husband, although she always declared herself to be no politician.
Colonel Floyd commanded the 19th Light Dragoons, a regiment raised especially for service in India in 1781. It was known at first as the 23rd, but in 1783 it was renumbered the 19th, which title was retained until it was disbanded in the military reductions that took place after Waterloo. For twenty-four years it gathered laurels to itself and did good service in India. Under Colonel Floyd it played a prominent part in the campaigns by which Southern India was gradually drawn beneath the British Raj. Fourteen years out of the twenty-four it enjoyed the honour of being the only regiment of British Cavalry in the East. Military pride and precedence were as strong then as now, and the gallant 19th reckoned themselves, and not without justice, the crack regiment of the southern army.
About the year 1785 the military quarters inside the fort were so crowded with the increased garrison then stationed there as to be insanitary. New barracks were built at Worriore and the troops went into residence. They remained there ten years. At the end of that time they ​were driven away by cholera. One of the victims of this scourge of the East was General Horne. A new site was chosen, but it was decided to ascertain if the spot suited the health of the men before erecting barracks. They remained in camp for ten years before the permanent buildings were ready for their reception.
The remains of the old cantonment at Worriore are still visible. There is the open parade-ground with its bungalows clustering round; these were once inhabited by the officers of the 19th. The huts that housed the men have long since disappeared, and on the site has sprung up an irregular village, thickly packed with native houses of mud and thatch. The bungalows, which the officers of the 19th so hastily forsook for their camp on the ground occupied by the present cantonment, are inhabited by native merchants engaged in the cigar industry. In one of the largest, a two-storied house suggestive of better days, lived a Eurasian family upon whom I called. As I sat in the reception-room-its fine dimensions broken up with canvas partitions I thought of a possible past, when the imperious tones of the daughter of 'My Lady Darke' might have echoed through the house, as she sent her slaves flying to do her bidding; or as she greeted her guests and bade them welcome.
Mrs. Floyd was a handsome woman and an excellent rider. The saddle was more to her taste than the slow palanquin with its labouring, chanting bearers. Colonel Bayly, her contemporary, tells the following story in his diary.
One morning all the troops of the garrison were on parade waiting for the general who was to inspect them. Rebecca Floyd was among the spectators; so also were her children. The general, who was no favourite with the lady, was a little late in arriving on the ground. As he was seen approaching a spirit of mischief seized her. ​She snatched her child from the arms of the bearer, cantered up to the general just as he reached the edge of the ground in full view of the waiting troops, and tossed it upon his saddle, crying,
‘Oh, general, just hold the baby for me a moment,' and then she galloped away.
Captain Elers of the 12th Regiment, writing at the beginning of the nineteenth century, described Trichinopoly and mentioned several of the residents at that time. Among them was ‘an old gentleman of the name of Darke, formerly very rich, and to whom the Nabob of the Carnatic was indebted for many lakhs of rupees.' Other names that appear in the diary besides that of Colonel Floyd and his wife are Captain Prescot of the Artillery, William Hawkins of the Civil Service, Colonel Browne, Major Lennon, Wallace, a civilian in the Service, and Irwin his assistant. Captain Elers saw the initiation of the annual week of gaieties known in the present day as the ‘Trichy week.' The residents sent round a subscription list, which was responded to with liberality. Balls, breakfasts, and a race-meeting were inaugurated. Amusements for the men of the garrison were provided very much on the lines of the gymkhanas of the present day. It is more than a hundred years since that first race-meeting took place. The festivities still continue with cricket, golf, and tennis competitions added. The races may often be termed with more justice gymkhana meets.
The Trichy week in our time was always looked forward to with pleasure, not only by the residents of the station, but by the Europeans who lived within easy reach of the cantonment by road or rail. The residents kept open house. If the accommodation within the walls of the bungalows was not sufficient, the guests overflowed into white tents set up beneath shady trees in the compounds. The friendly gathering, which only lasted eight ​or nine days, was some compensation for the patient endurance of the long and trying hot season with its monotonous round of duties connected with the parade-ground and office.
A building which has retained the history of its association is that which is known as the Court House. It was one of the first that was erected within the limits of the present cantonment. Planned to sustain a siege, all the out-buildings–stabling, kitchens, and servants' quarters–are enclosed within a substantial fortified wall pierced with narrow loopholes. Here in 1825 lived John Bird of the Company's Service.
When Bishop Heber came to visit the remote southern portion of his diocese, where Christianity had begun to make marked progress, he was the guest of John Bird. The Rev. W. Taylor, who was his contemporary, saw him on more than one occasion, and described him as he appeared at a confirmation service at Madras, as a slender, dapper figure, wearing his own hair ‘fashionably dressed.’ He carried himself very erect and had a penetrating eye. Nor was he a man to spare himself in the performance of his duties. It was this very trait which probably caused his death.
He went to the fort from Mr. Bird's house and held a long, fatiguing service at Christ Church. An enormous congregation of native Christians assembled, not half of whom could find room within the walls. His eye fell on the great crowd waiting patiently to catch sight of him. Sooner than they should be disappointed, he determined to give an address from the top of the steps leading into the humble domicile built in the churchyard by Schwartz and once occupied by him. Exposed to the sun Heber stood before the listening multitude and preached for some time, probably with his head uncovered.
The effort was a tax upon his powers, but the excite​ment of the moment carried him safely through to the end. It was not until after his return to Mr. Bird's house that the evil effects of the excitement and exposure were manifested. He took a plunge bath, and the sudden immersion sent the blood to his head with disastrous consequences. When his servant came to see why his master stayed so long in the bath, he found him lying dead at the bottom.
The bath, which is like a small tank built of brick and chunam, has been repaired and enclosed with a protective railing. It is shown to the visitor as one of the interesting sights of Trichinopoly.
Bishop Heber was buried in St. John's Church. He lies under the floor of the chancel at the north end of the altar. Bishop Gell, who had an old-fashioned preference for the north end of the altar, was always a little exercised in his mind when he celebrated the Holy Communion at St. John's. It was against his inclination to take the eastward position, and yet he could never reconcile himself to the desecration of his predecessor's grave by treading upon it.
One afternoon in February I had occasion to go to the church, which was but a few minutes' walk from our house. The building was kept open during the day with a peon on duty to look after it. At the altar-rails I found & homely old couple silently regarding the brass that covered the place where the body of Bishop Heber rested. Not knowing whether they had come by appointment and were waiting to see the padre, I asked:
‘Do you wish to see the chaplain?'
‘No, thanks’; then by way of explanation the man continued, ‘we are visitors and are looking at the church.’
He spoke with an American accent. Always glad to point out the few objects of interest that St. John's contained, I said : ​‘Do you know that Bishop Heber, the author of the hymn
From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand,
lies there?’
They looked at me with the gravity to be seen on the countenances of real pilgrims as the answer was made :
‘Yes, we know it, and we have come all the way from America to see his grave.’
They showed no curiosity concerning anything else, and were indifferent to the fact that a large heathen temple was within reach and a big thickly populated heathen town close at hand. These sights had no interest for them. I left the old pilgrims from the New World silently worshipping at the shrine of the saintly man.
To the south of St. John's Church is a handsome house standing in park-like grounds on the Dindigul Road. It was built upon the foundation of an old chuttrum or native rest-house; part of the original building is incorporated into it and forms the lower rooms. It was erected for the use of the general officer commanding the Southern Division, with a bungalow in the compound for his aide-de-camp. While we were in Trichinopoly (1879-1888) the house was always in the occupation of the judge, each one taking it in succession from his predecessor.
Here Lord Roberts, then Sir Frederick, stayed when he visited the station as commander-in-chief. We met him on more than one occasion. He had a quick observant eye, and was gifted with a grace of manner that was inherent. He also possessed a good memory, and seldom forgot a face that he had once seen, or the traits of character that marked the owner of the face. Among his many accomplishments were to be numbered riding and tent-pegging. On one occasion at Hyderabad he was ​persuaded to try his skill against that of the Nizam, a noted master of the lance. Lord Roberts beat his Highness, to the intense gratification of the English troops who witnessed the contest.
Lady Roberts accompanied him on one of his visits. They were received by Mr. Snaith, the judge at that time, a man of delicate health, to whom the necessary entertainment of his guests was an effort. One evening there was to be a ball at the old assembly rooms, at which Sir Frederick and Lady Roberts were to be the guests of the station. Mr. Snaith excused himself on the plea of ill-health, and went to bed as soon as the dinner was over. The time fixed for the ball was half-past nine; before the half-hour struck most of the people had arrived at the rooms. Ten o'clock sounded and half-past ten, but no chief appeared. I was detained at home, and it was not until half-past ten that I was able to reach the ballroom. At that time we had a large grey Australian horse which was driven in single harness. The judge had a pair of greys, which also went in single harness as well as double. As my coachman pulled up at the door there was a rattle of arms at a word of command. A group of gentlemen in full uniform stood in the verandah looking at me in blank amazement. Seeing the grey horse they had supposed that the Chief was coming; the guard had presented arms; the assembled company had risen to their feet, and a signal was given to the band to strike up. The perplexity of the moment quickly merged into laughter, in the middle of which Sir Frederick and Lady Roberts arrived under the portico almost unnoticed. The guard, having saluted, was in ignorance that the honour was misplaced, and the men were already withdrawing with a sigh of relief to stand at ease ; the delay had been long and unusual, for military punctuality was a prominent virtue with the Chief. The men were hastily reformed, ​and the salute repeated as Lord and Lady Roberts stepped out of the carriage.
The explanation was that the judge had gone to bed: his butler supposed that the rest of the household would follow his example, and so had counter-ordered the carriage. When the mistake was discovered there was a further delay while the coachman and syces reharnessed the horses, and they were late in starting.
In 1875 King Edward VII., as Prince of Wales, spent a night at the judge's house. Mr. Forster Webster had the honour of receiving him. Special preparations were made, and the natives were much impressed with the news that the son of the great Queen, as they called her, was coming to Trichinopoly. Among other duties, the dhirzee was commissioned to put up new mosquito nets on the bed intended for His Royal Highness. The man set to work, and, having crowded as much material as was possible into the net, found that after all it had a very commonplace appearance; it might have been the couch of the youngest civilian in the Service. It is beyond human power to invest a mere mosquito net with a regal air or to give the fittings of an Indian bedroom a princely appearance. Whitewashed walls and matted floors are insuperable difficulties to ornate decorations of any kind. The dhirzee was a man of resource. He spent some hours in the 'evening bazaar,' otherwise known as the thieving bazaar, where he purchased several yards of cheap turkey-red and a huge secondhand pincushion. He cut up the material and formed it into a number of large rosettes, which he sewed broadcast over the mosquito netting. The pincushion was the chief ornament of the dressing-table. He called his mistress to behold his handiwork, and stood swelling with pride as she ran her eye over the scarlet excrescences on the curtains and the pincushion upon the table. The tightly stretched satin ​cover bore the word 'WELCOME' done in white pins. Under the greeting could be read in pinholes 'LITTLE STRANGER' The pins had been removed, but they had left the words indelibly printed on the papery satin. To the dhirzee's intense chagrin the pincushion was replaced by an unpretentious toilet set and the rosettes were removed, reducing His Royal Highnesses couch to the level of an ordinary bed such as might have been occupied by any ordinary mortal.
The Prince came and went, and the memory of his visit was fast fading into oblivion when we arrived in 1879. It was proposed to commemorate it by the erection of his statue in the grounds of the house which had the honour of receiving him. A site was chosen, and a platform built with a canopy ; but the statue was never placed in position, it being considered wiser, on the whole, not to carry out the design for fear the natives should worship it.
At the back of this house, just beyond the limits of the compound, is the spot where the duellists of the old days settled their differences. It is easily reached by riding south-west from the Artillery Barracks in the direction of the Buttamullee Hill. I have ridden past it more than once in the early morning, when the rocky hill has been the object of my ride. Following this line across -country, the duelling-ground lies to the left, between the barracks and the old road.
One of the pensioners pointed out the spot. He remembered the last duel that was fought there. The victim of it was buried in St. John's Churchyard, at the west end of the cemetery, not far from the entrance leading out on to the parade-ground. The monument is 'To the memory of David Edward Armstrong, Captain H.M. 84th Regiment, who died 24th August, 1852, aged 30 years and 11 months.' The cause of the dispute was ​trifling, said the old soldier, who was in the same regiment, some difference at mess with an officer in the artillery. The next morning they rode out at dawn to the retired spot behind the house, and the tragedy was enacted. On the following morning the narrator of the story formed one of the firing party at the grave.
A well-known figure, familiar during the last half of the nineteenth century to the residents of Trichinopoly native as well as European was that of Bishop Caldwell. He and his wife were frequent visitors at the house of his son-in-law, the Rev. J. L. Wyatt of the S.P.G. Mission. Robert Caldwell came out to India in 1841 as a missionary. He was an indefatigable student, and was learned in several of the sciences. Sanscrit and the Dravidian languages were his special study, as being the foundation of all the vernaculars of Southern India. He was not long in mastering Tamil, one of the most difficult of the Dravidian group. As soon as he knew sufficient Tamil to speak to the people in their own tongue, he began his missionary labours among them, moving about from village to village, far from the Europeans and out of the beaten track of Governors and commanders-in-chief. He was a man of magnificent physique. One of his assistant missionaries described him as a fine man, over six feet high, and weighing twelve stone. He was well built, and was endowed with handsome features. Few Englishmen, even if they ever dreamed of attempting such a thing, could walk as he did in the heat of the Tropics from Ootacamund to Tinnevelly; the distance by rail is more than three hundred miles. When he first arrived at Idaiyangudi he spent nearly all his time in travelling about his district. He passed the heat of the day in village schoolrooms, while he slept at night in the open air, because of the bloodthirsty insects which haunted the native houses. He was fortunately blessed with a ​capital appetite and a good digestion to wait upon it. He could eat and assimilate almost anything; and it was probably owing to this that he was able to work in India for upwards of half a century, and that he possessed such wonderful recuperative power. As he moved about from district to district, he was met on the way and welcomed at each halting place by crowds of people with the usual accompaniment of band, banners, and torchlight procession. After a long and tiresome journey, the tamasha began with addresses and songs, and the Bishop replied with unflagging patience. He sat listening by the hour to all that they had to say, and appeared as happy and philosophic as if the dust and heat, the din of tom-toms, the blare of the dreadful brazen instruments, and the evil smell of the oil torches were as refreshing as the bath and dinner that were awaiting him. Even in his old age, when he could scarcely see to read, he stood erect as a palm, the episcopal vestments, the long white hair, the snowy beard, and the clear-cut features giving an ideal presentment of a venerable Bishop.
He was a voracious reader, and remembered what he read, and was a student of nature as well as of books. His studies of the Hindus by whom he was surrounded had a curious effect: their Orientalism seemed to enter his very soul and put him in sympathy with their mode of thought. It enriched his speech with the imagery of the East. The sermons he delivered occasionally from the pulpit of St. John's Church were full of beautiful word-pictures, which touched the imagination and charmed his hearers. It was a style of preaching that was particularly impressive with the emotional Hindus.
In 1843 Caldwell attended Daniel Wilson, Bishop of Calcutta, as interpreter on a pastoral tour through the southern part of the Diocese of Madras. The Bishop, as was the custom with all Government officials, travelled in ​State with a large retinue. He was carried in a palanquin, and the camp equipage went in carts or on the backs of camels, which were then used as a means of transport. When the Bishop approached any place of importance, a red umbrella was held above the palanquin by a peon in gorgeous uniform. It was a sign of dignity, which in olden days before the advent of the British was the prerogative of rajahs, and it made a deep impression upon the country people who came to meet him with music and fireworks. His camels, however, produced an even greater sensation than the red umbrella upon the simple Tinnevelly folk, who had never before seen such creatures.
A confirmation was to be held at a certain village, where the Bishop was timed to arrive a short while before the service, just allowing himself an hour for early tea and robing. The camp was usually pitched outside the village under a spreading many-stemmed banyan tree if possible.
The Bishop arrived, robed himself in his vestments, and proceeded to the church in his palanquin punctual to the appointed hour. The catechists and native clergy met him at the door. The building was perfectly empty, without so much as a chorister boy or bellringer to be seen.
'Where are the candidates?' asked the Bishop.
The clergy wrung their hands as they replied in consternation and distress:
'We could not help it, your Lordship! An hour ago they were all here waiting outside the church.'
'What has become of them?' demanded the astonished prelate.
'They heard of the arrival of your Lordship's camels, and they have gone to see them.'
Mr. Caldwell was obliged to go back to the camp, and with the assistance of the catechists and clergy collect the wandering flock. ​ The experiences of Bishop Whitehead in the present day are very similar when he visits the native Christians in the remote corners of his Diocese. In an account of a tour in 1905 he relates how he was carried in a palanquin with a great deal of shouting and chanting: 'When we arrived at the village a large crowd met us with music and fireworks. Fireworks in this part of India seem to be regarded as a regular part of the ritual of confirmation. Even in broad daylight they invariably form the prelude or sequel of the service. Doubtless they will soon claim to take rank as an "Oriental use," and have some subtle doctrinal meaning attached to them. At any rate, when we are accused, as we often are in England, of Anglicising the Indian Church and preventing it from developing on its own lines, we can appeal to the fireworks to refute the charge.'
Bishop Whitehead goes on to say that they proceeded 'with much pomp and noise' to the house which had been prepared for him. Breakfast was eaten, and the travellers took an hour or two of rest. Meanwhile the people came in from far and near, and about two o'clock in the afternoon there was a congregation sufficiently large to hold a service. Over the Bishop's chair was erected a canopy of scarlet cloth (cotton) gaily decorated with tinsel. In the eyes of the natives it was no doubt a suitable and imposing ornamentation of the episcopal seat. The choir was accompanied by tom-toms and cymbals. They sang lyrics which seemed to have no natural end, and they continued to sing until they were told to stop.
On returning to the missionary's house Bishop Whitehead had an interesting talk about schools. Those belonging to the Mission obtained assistance from Government by complying with the regulations enforced by the Educational Department. One of these was to the effect that benches must be provided for the pupils. ​Natives are accustomed to sit on the floor, and they are unhappy if they have to adopt any other mode of sitting. It would be positively inhuman to make the little ones use the benches, so the forms ' stand in the school-room ready for the Inspector's visit, while the children follow the custom of their forefathers for a thousand generations and sit on the floor. It reminded me/ adds the Bishop, 'of the story of the missionary in one of the South Sea Islands, who wrote home saying that he could not induce his flock to give up cannibalism, but, happily, he had persuaded them to use knives and forks. If we cannot educate the village children, at any rate we can teach them to sit on benches.'