# On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 16

CHAPTER XVI
ORPHANS
It is easier to snatch a pearl from the jaws of a crocodile or to twist an angry serpent round one's head than to make an ignorant and obstinate person change his ideas.—Sloka.
In India death comes suddenly to all men. Nothing brings the fact more forcibly to the mind of the European than the rapidity with which the event is followed by the funeral. Barely twenty-four hours elapse ere the deceased man is carried to his grave. With improvident Eurasians the death of the bread-winner is nothing short of a catastrophe. The family is thrown into sudden destitution and reduced to deplorable beggary. To provide against this, orphanages have been founded in India for the children of poor Europeans and Eurasians whose fathers have died or deserted them. The orphanage at Trichinopoly, known as St. John's Vestry School, owed its origin to Schwartz. During his ministrations as chaplain there was an explosion in the powder magazine at the fort. Several Europeans were killed, and their wives and children were left without means of support. He made an appeal on behalf of the orphans, which met with a liberal response. A sum of money was collected sufficient to found the school and endow it. Pohle called it 'Our Charity,' and was greatly interested in its welfare. So also were all the English residents, civil and military, some of whom, members of the vestry, ​sat on the committee of management. Similar institutions in Madras and other military centres have been built, and have proved of great benefit to the European and Eurasian community.
The Trichinopoly orphanage was originally in the fort. After the troops were moved and St. John's Church was built, a habitation was found for it in the cantonment just within its limit. When we arrived in Trichinopoly it had its own buildings in Puttoor, situated about a mile from the church. After the English troops left, a fine airy building which had been occupied by the soldiers was assigned by Government, at the request of the chaplain, for the use of the orphans. It was nearer the church and was more convenient in every way. With a few alterations the building was adapted to the new purpose and the children went into residence (1881). Since then there has been no change, and the Vestry School continues to flourish as far as its funds allow, always full, and with a list of candidates waiting for a vacancy.
The children regard the chaplain as their temporal as weir as their spiritual father. With the assistance of a good matron the large family is not a very onerous charge. The little ones of mixed blood are gentle and obedient. They have no desire to break bounds or run away. The rules that govern them are those that exist in any well-ordered house and no severity is required to enforce them. A certain amount of discipline is good for boys and girls all over the world. Eurasian children conform to rule with more readiness than those who are pure-blooded and born in England. Habits of cleanliness and truthfulness have to be enforced; and certain native practices, learned in early childhood when there was a too intimate acquaintance with the bazaars, have to be eradicated. ​ Soon after our arrival we sent a bar of yellow soap to the orphanage with a request that it might be used night and morning. The woman in charge, a snuffy old person who had been born and brought up in the bazaar, came to inquire how it was to be used. The children had been accustomed to ablutions in the native style—with water only, and an occasional Saturday scrub with soap-nut. A big bar of soap was a problem she could not solve without assistance. The poor old soul acted the part of matron to the best of her ability, but she was obliged at last to resign. A more suitable matron, a kind, motherly woman, country-born, but with European instincts, was elected for the post.
The boys and girls lived happily under the same roof, their quarters being divided by the big schoolroom. The classes were mixed, and the teachers mostly young women with the gentle speech and refined manners that are natural to the Eurasians. Life at the institution flowed smoothly as a rule. The inmates learned to love each other as though they belonged to the same family. In course of time the boys went out into the world to follow some trade or take up a clerkship, and the girls married or went into service. The former was preferable in many respects. If the engagement between mistress and maid terminated before another situation could be found, the girl had no home to go to, and ran a risk of being exposed to temptations. When once a member of the school had left, he or she could not be readmitted. The vacant place was filled immediately.
The children were devotedly attached to the orphanage and had no desire to leave. They usually came from wretched homes, utterly unworthy of the name, and compared with which the school was a paradise. There were more applications for admittance than there were vacancies. It was sometimes hard to refuse the parents ​when their requests were accompanied by the wistful looks of the little ones. Ablebodied men of the poorer class, who were able to work for their living and support their families, used to beg that their children might be admitted. The preference had to be given to those who had lost a parent or whose father was incapacitated for work.
A fair-skinned boy of eight with a pair of pathetic grey eyes manifestly English was admitted on his own entreaty. One day he was found sitting on the steps of the chaplain's verandah just outside the study. How long he had been waiting there it was impossible to say.
'Who are you, my boy?' 'Pat.' 'Pat what?' 'Pat Campbell.' 'Where do you live?' 'In the bazaar.' 'Who is your father?' 'Father is drunk and mother is dead. Please, sir, can I go to the orphanage?' The request was accompanied by such a wistful look of entreaty that it was impossible to say no. On inquiry it turned out that the little boy's story was perfectly true. The old Scotch pensioner, to whom he owned his existence, was rarely sober. He was one of the tough old Englishmen who had survived the hardships of the Mutiny campaign. He had settled in the country and was devoted to fishing when he was sober. He left his children to the care of an old native woman who kept house for him. Pat and a younger brother were admitted to the orphanage to their great joy and comfort.
Another child, whose circumstances were somewhat similar, found a haven of refuge in the orphanage. When he arrived he was a miserable little bag of bones with unkempt hair and grimy skin. After a few weeks in the school he picked up flesh and grew bright and happy. One day his father arrived at the school with a request that his son might be allowed to spend a few days at home. Remembering the old times, the scanty meals, ​the blows that were showered upon him by his tipsy parent, and the squalid misery of his home, Dan begged the school-sergeant to refuse the request. The father was persuaded to depart without the child.
Some days later he again appeared at the orphanage driving himself in a dilapidated jutka drawn by a wiry pony hired for the occasion. Again he was met with a refusal, in which he apparently acquiesced. Producing some tempting sweetmeats he persuaded the child to get into the jutka to eat them. No sooner had he mounted than the man whipped up the pony and dashed away towards the bazaars, the jutka swaying from side to side in imminent danger of being overturned. Nothing could be done in the way of rescue, as he had a perfect right to his own child. Notice was duly sent to the chaplain that Dan had been stolen by his own father. That same evening as the matron came out of church after evensong she felt a timid pull at her skirt. Peering down in the darkness she discovered poor little Dan, dirty, forlorn, beaten, and hungry. He clung to her and begged with tears to be allowed to return. His father had attempted to lock him in his miserable house. As soon as the drink had done its work Dan crawled out of the window and escaped. Never again did he allow himself to be decoyed away by either sweets or threats.
The inmates were not all orphans in the true sense of the word. Many had no relatives at all, some had lost one parent, and a few still possessed—to their detriment, sad to say—both parents. Four children belonging to a couple who were incorrigible beggars were admitted that they might be saved from the contamination of their wretched home. At seven years of age the girl was still running about the native bazaars as naked as the Indian children with whom she played. Within a very short period she and her three brothers were tamed and ​converted into mild, gentle little members of the institution.
The eldest boy, who from longest association with the bazaars might have been the worst, was one of the steadiest and most trustworthy lads of the place. Perhaps he owed his sobriety to the fact that his mother had once made arrangements for his funeral. The exchequer was low, and Mrs. Robins was thrown on her own resources to provide food for her family. Her husband, an able-bodied man and an excellent carpenter, retired from work at the early age of thirty. He absolutely refused to do more, and based his action on the Bible. Our Lord, he averred, had laboured as a carpenter thirty years and no longer. He but followed his example in laying aside his tools. The responsibility of making an income sufficient to keep body and soul together fell upon Mrs. Robins, who set herself to the task with more zeal than principle. The burial of her son was not her own invention, but an old trick which has been played off on more than one unwary chaplain new to the country.
One morning she appeared in the verandah and related with torrents of tears a sad story. Her dear little son, Fred, had been taken ill in the night and had died. She described his symptoms and how he drew his last breath. The piteous tale was concluded with an urgent appeal for money. She wanted a few rupees to pay for a coffin, quite a plain coffin, to put her poor boy in. The cheapest she could get would cost seven rupees. Then there would be bearers to pay, and in addition she would be obliged to give them some coffee and bread. The list of her requirements poured from her lips with a glibness that ought to have raised suspicion; but the tears were convincing. The unsuspecting listener was melted to pity, and at the end of her tale of woe he placed fifteen rupees in her hand. The burial was fixed for five o'clock ​that evening. The chaplain was at the cemetery and the grave prepared, but no funeral party appeared. He waited for more than an hour, and then returned to his house with many misgivings. He took the earliest opportunity of paying Mrs. Robins a visit when his suspicions were confirmed. He discovered that there had been no death in the family, and little Fred was playing in the road with some native children, with whom he seemed to be on excellent terms. When reproached and further-more threatened with the police, she shed copious tears and said that she must live. She considered poverty and an idle husband sufficient excuse for her conduct, and she seemed surprised that the chaplain did not regard her action in the same light.
The charity was intended primarily for the poor of Trichinopoly, but there were many applications from outside. A widow on the west coast hearing of the institution raised sufficient money to carry herself and her children by rail as far as Beypore. From Beypore she walked, arriving one afternoon travel-stained and weary, the veriest tramp in appearance that ever trod the high-ways. A loaf of bread and some tea were the first consideration; then followed her story, a sad one of course, justifying the reception of the children into the orphanage. The following day she departed . The little ones were quite happy, but for some days they put by part of their food for the absent mother. The kind-hearted matron smiled as she bade them take it to the kitchen to be kept hot.
The choir of St. John's Church was furnished with choristers from the orphanage. No amount of training could eliminate the metallic sound from the boys voices, but they learned to render the music of the simple services correctly, if not as musically as might be desired. Their conduct was orderly, and only once did the lads put the chaplain into any difficulty. ​ The hot season was setting in with fiery blasts that shrivelled grass and foliage as the frost withers them in the temperate zone. Natives and Eurasians feel the heat to a certain extent, much as Englishmen may feel a hot summer. The serge uniform coats were laid aside and garments of cool blue cotton were given out at the orphanage according to custom. The boys thought that they could do better still by imitating the natives; they cropped their heads so closely that they looked as if they had been shaved. On a certain Friday, the day of the choir-practice, the boys arrived and took their seats in the choir. The chaplain's face was a study as he walked into the chancel and ran his astonished eyes over the double row of bald pates. On the following Sunday the service was performed without the assistance of the choir. The boys had to remain gosha until their baldness was a little less apparent.
Among other responsibilities which fell upon the shoulders of the chaplain was finding employment for the boys and husbands or situations for the girls. As a rule there was no difficulty in marrying the orphanage maidens. They were popular as brides with Eurasian men, as they made good housewives and had no extravagant tastes. Letters were received from guards, engine-drivers, writers, and Eurasians in the police service, men of various occupations drawing between twenty-five and a hundred rupees a month. They all asked for wives, and promised to be model husbands. Before mentioning the matter in the school, inquiries were made as to the character and prospects of the suitor. If these proved satisfactory, an interview was arranged with the chaplain that the latter might satisfy himself concerning complexion and appearance, two important points in the eyes of the girls.
If all was considered satisfactory, the candidate for matrimony was provided with a note of introduction to ​the matron setting forth his wishes. She was asked to introduce him to So-and-so. The girls of whom he was to have the choice were of a complexion that matched his own. Unless some arrangement of the kind was made, trouble and discontent ensued. The darkest man invariably aspired to the hand of the fairest girl. Had he been permitted he would have tried to win a pure European. The girls were just as particular in their choice, and quite aware of their own value.
When it was known in the school that a suitor was in the field a thrill of excitement stirred the whole institution. The boys were full of brotherly anxiety that their adopted sisters should be well and suitably mated. The young man usually drove up in a hired carriage. As he was received by the matron he ran the gauntlet of many pairs of eyes. Presently Daisy Brown, Leonora Smith, and Maud Jones, all dressed in their best, were presented in turn by the matron. After the inspection the suitor intimated that his fancy had fallen on Leonora Smith. He begged to be allowed to have another interview, which was granted. After talking to her a little time and telling her about himself and his prospects, he put the question. Did she think that after she had seen him again she could bring herself to look upon him with favour? If she smiled, hung her head, and whispered with lowered eyes that she would like to have a little time to consider his offer, he departed a happy man. If, on the other hand, she frowned and turned aside in silence, he understood that he must either make a second choice or leave the place disappointed of his bride. A refusal, however, was rare. It usually ended in a wedding that turned out happily for both. The courting after the first interview was done under the chaperonage of the matron, and the trousseau was made in the school.
No suitor was allowed to appear at the orphanage ​before he had been seen and approved of by the chaplain. In one institution a widower of about forty introduced himself and inquired if he could see the girls with a view to making choice of a wife. He was asked to produce his credentials; and when they found that he had none, the girls armed themselves with the sweepers' brooms and drove him out of the compound.
A handsome young sepoy from one of the regiments stationed at Trichinopoly ventured to pay attention to a girl in the orphanage. She was the daughter of a native by a European soldier. The ample diet of the school had conduced to plumpness in the maid who had no pretentions to beauty of feature. Embonpoint is reckoned by the natives one of the most attractive of female charms. It was doubtless the attraction in this case. Marriage between natives and Eurasians was not encouraged, and no applications were entertained from either Hindus or Mohammedans. Aware of this fact, the son of Mars trusted to his own personal charm. Whenever they met upon the road, as she took her walk with the other girls, he directed amorous glances at her, which she received with flattered embarrassment. One day he brought a beautiful sugared cake as a love-token. A small boy was decoyed from the playground and bribed to take it in with a message. Having fulfilled his part of the contract the little urchin returned to the playground with the news that a sepoy was courting Susan. The boys trooped off in the direction indicated, and found the unfortunate man waiting near the girls' side of the house, in the hope of receiving some sign that his gift had created a favourable impression upon the heart of his plump lady-love. Whooping like a pack of jackals they descended upon him, and he took to his heels in terror. He attempted to escape over a wall, but they seized his legs and administered a sound pommelling with their fists. He never ​ventured to appear again, but sought a bride among his own people.
Refusals to marry have been known among the girls. Sometimes they arise from a desire to remain in the institution, where they are so happy that they do not wish to make any change. After a certain age, when the education is finished, they cannot be retained, and if they refuse to marry they have to go out into service. Marriage is not pressed upon them if they show genuine dislike to it. Sometimes it is nothing but a little shyness that has to be overcome, and this can be managed by the suitor himself if he is inclined to persevere.
A man applied at an orphanage in Madras for a bride. His credentials were satisfactory, and he was allowed to make his choice in the usual way. An interview was arranged in the matron's private sitting-room, where two chairs were placed opposite each other for the young people to be seated while they conversed. Although Maggie had consented to think over his proposal, his suit did not prosper. She listened to all that he had to say about himself, his work and pay, and his family ; instead of responding she drew back, and he pleaded his cause in vain. He pressed her for a reason, but none was forthcoming. She could only give the feminine excuse that he did not take her fancy, and she wished to have nothing to do with him. When the matron entered the room some time later to learn how matters were progressing, Maggie was sulking in silence, while the unhappy swain was regarding her in sorrowful perplexity. Seeing at a glance that his wooing was not prospering, she dismissed the reluctant maid.
'I am afraid, Mr. O'Brien, you have not been very successful?' she remarked.
'She will have nothing to say to me, ma'am. She won't even look at me,' he replied plaintively. ​ 'Perhaps you would like to see another girl?'
'No, ma'am, thank you; I would rather have Maggie.'
'But if she won't have you, you must give her up and choose another. We never force our girls unwillingly into marriage. Let me send for Rosa or Mary. Either of them would make you an excellent wife.'
The lover shook his head disconsolately.
'I don't fancy Rosa or Mary.'
'Then, Mr. O'Brien, I think we had better say good-bye,' said the matron, feeling that matters were at a deadlock and that there was nothing more to be done.
He rose from his chair to go. Suddenly his eye brightened with an inspiration.
'May I come again? May I have one more try?' he asked eagerly.
'Certainly, if you wish; but I warn you that Maggie is not one to change her mind easily.'
'Thank you, ma'am. I will come next Tuesday, and I will bring my concertina.'
He came and brought his concertina, and Maggie was wooed a second time. When the matron went in to see how he fared there was no need to ask any questions. The concertina occupied one chair and the young couple the other.