1837-1840
_Miss Eden to her Sister, Mrs. Drummond._
GOVERNMENT HOUSE,
_January 16, 1837_.
THERE is a Lady Henry Gordon[443] here, on her way home with two of the
loveliest children I ever beheld. One of them puts me in mind of her
aunt, poor Lady M. Seymour,[444] but it is still more beautiful. They
are older than most children here, and have come from a cold part of the
country with fresh rosy cheeks. George and I had met them twice on the
plain when we were out riding, and had bored everybody to death to find
out who they were. William [Osborne] knew Lady Henry when she was a sort
of companion to Lady Sarah Amherst, and a victim to old Lord
Amherst’s[445] crossness, so he went to call on her and discovered our
beautiful children. They have dined here since, and I want her to let us
have them at Barrackpore, as she is too busy preparing for her voyage to
come herself, but I am afraid she will not. Her husband is a very
particular goose, and a pay-master in some particular department, and
she does all his work for him. Nobody knows at all how he is to go on
while she is away. [Letter unfinished.]
_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._
GOVERNMENT HOUSE,
_January 25, 1837_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, I will take your plan of sitting down forthwith and
answering your letter (of August 18th, received January 23rd) on the
spot, before the pleasure of reading it wears off. It means I am going
to answer your letter directly, and I am so obliged to you for asking me
questions--just what I like. Intellect and memory both are impaired, and
imagination utterly baked hard, but I can answer questions when they are
not very difficult, and if they are put to me slowly and distinctly; and
besides, I am shy of writing and boring people with Indian topics. I
used to hate them so myself. But if they ask about an Indian life, as
you do, and about the things I see every day, why, then, I can write
quite fluently, and may heaven have mercy upon your precious soul! So
here goes:
“Do you find amongst your European acquaintances any pleasing or
accomplished women?” Not one--not the sixth part of one; there is not
anybody I can prefer to any other body, if I think of sending to ask one
to come and pay me a visit, or to go out in the carriage; and when we
have had any of them for two or three days at Barrackpore, there is a
_morne_ feeling at the end of their visit that it will be tiresome when
it comes round to their turn of coming again. I really believe the
climate is to blame.
“They read no new books, they take not the slightest interest in home
politics, and everything is melted down into being purely local.” There
is your second question turned into an answer, which shows what a clever
question it was.
Thirdly. It _is_ a gossiping society, of the smallest macadamised
gossips I believe, for we are treated with too much respect to know
much about it; but they sneer at each other’s dress and looks, and pick
out small stories against each other by means of the Ayahs, and it is
clearly a downright offence to tell one woman that another looks well.
It is not often easy to commit the crime with any regard to truth, but
still there are degrees of yellow, and the deep orange woman who has had
many fevers does not like the pale primrose creature with the
constitution of a horse who has not had more than a couple of agues.
The new arrivals we all agree are coarse and vulgar--not fresh and
cheerful, as in my secret soul I think them. But that, you see, is the
style of gossipry.
Fourthly. It _is_ a very moral society, I mean that people are very
domestic in their habits, and there are no idle men. Every man without
exception is employed in his office all day, and in the evening drives.
Husbands and wives are always in the same carriage. It is too hot for
him to ride or walk, and at evening parties it is not considered
possible for one to come without the other; it is quite out of the
question. If Mr. Jones is ill everybody knows that Mrs. Jones cannot go
out, so she is not expected.
Fifthly. I believe in former days it was a profligate society, as far as
young men were concerned, the consequence of which is that the old men
of this day are still kept here by the debts they contracted in their
youth. But the present class of young men are very prudent and quiet,
run into debt very little, and generally marry as soon as they are out
of college.
Then as to the Hindu College. The boys are educated, as you say, by the
Government, at least under its active patronage, and they are “British
subjects,” inasmuch as Britain has taken India, and in many respects
they may be called well-educated young men; but still I cannot tell you
what the wide difference is between a European and a Native. An elephant
and Chance, St. Paul’s and a Baby-Home, the Jerseys and Pembrokes, a
diamond and a bad flint, Queen Adelaide and O’Connell, London and
Calcutta, are not further apart, and more antipathetic than those two
classes. I do not see how the prejudices ever can wear out, nor do I see
that it is very desirable. I do not see that any degree of education, or
any length of time, could bring natives to the pitch of allowing any
liberty to their wives. Their Mussulman creed makes it impossible, and
as girls are married at 7 or 8 years old, and after that are never seen
by any human being but their husbands, there is no possibility of
educating them, and in fact education could only make them miserable.
Even our lowest servants of any respectability would not let their wives
be seen on any account. They live in mud huts, something like Irish
cabins, and in half of that hut these women pass their lives.
Wright[446] has tried hard to persuade my Jemadar (a sort of groom of
the chambers), who is a superior man of his class, speaks and reads
English, and is intelligent, to let her see his wife, but he will not
hear of it. The Ayahs who wait on us are not at all considered, though I
have never made out to my satisfaction how bad they are.
There is an excellent Mrs. Wilson here, who for 20 years has been trying
to educate the lower orders of native females, but she told me the other
day, that she has never been able to keep a day-scholar after she was 6
or 7 years old, and she has now removed her whole establishment 7 miles
from Calcutta. She has collected 160 orphans, who were left utterly
destitute after a great inundation in 1833. They were picked up on the
banks of rivers, some even taken from the Pariah dogs! Mrs. Wilson took
any that were sent to her, a great many died out of whole cargoes that
were sent down. It is the prettiest thing possible to see her amongst
her black children, she looks so pleased and happy; she is in her
widow’s dress without another European near her, and as she told me the
other day, with no more _certainty_ of funds than would supply her for
her next six weeks. In short, in a position which would justify a weaker
person in sitting down and taking a good cry, but she was as cheerful
and as happy as if she had not a care on her mind.
Sixthly. I do not speak a word of Hindustani, and never shall, because I
have three servants who all _understand_, though only one speaks it, and
the aides-de-camp are at hand for interpretation. I wish I had learnt
it. But there is nothing to read in it, it is difficult to learn
accurately, and as I said before, I am not driven to it by the servants.
In all this immense establishment there are not more than six who speak
English, and if my Jemadar dies, I must. The only time I miss the
language is out riding. When more than one of us ride, there is an
aide-de-camp with us, but as Fanny constantly goes out with William, I
found a _tête-à-tête_ with George was much to be preferred to that bit
of state, so he and I ride out alone, and of course he is met by a
petition at every odd turning, and sometimes we both long to enquire
into the case or to tell the man what to do, and it seems so stupid not
to be able to do so.
The guards do not understand a word of English, and the Syces who run by
the side of the horses are remarkably cute at understanding our signs if
they have reference to the horses, but have no idea on any other
subject.
Seventhly. The Ménagerie is almost full. An old tiger, and a young one
who is just beginning to turn his playful pats into good hard scratches
and is now shut up in a cage grown up and come out, as we should say on
arriving at that dignity; a leopard, two cheetahs, two porcupines, two
small black bears, sloths, monkeys of sorts that are caught about 100
miles off and shut up, and parrots, and heaps of beautiful Chinese
pheasants. _Zoological Garden beasts_ do not walk about wild, but there
are a great many parroquets wild in Barrackpore, and alligators in the
rivers; and we have met, much to my discomfiture, some huge snakes.
There are vultures without end, and the great adjutant birds who live on
the top of Government House and walk about the compound all day, would
have surprised one in England; but I take it that when we commence our
march up the country we shall see many more strange animals. As it is, I
am quite satisfied still with the natives. I never see one that would
not make the fortune of an artist, particularly at this time of the
year. There are so many Arabs come down for the races, and the Burmese
or Mugg men, are come with fruit and fish, and yesterday when we went
out there were a crowd of Nepaulese, with such beautiful swords and
daggers, at the gate. We sent to ask what they wanted, and they said,
“Nothing, but to see the Lord Sahib go by.” I am going to send for one
to add to my drawings of costumes.
There! Now I have done it thoroughly. I think you are cured of asking
questions, but it has amused me writing all this.
I wrote to you December 29th, and sent you a silk scarf in a parcel that
poor Doctor Bramley was sending home to his wife. He was with us at
Barrackpore three weeks ago, was taken with fever last Monday fortnight,
and died in seven days. There never was such a loss both publicly and
privately, but the former especially. There is nobody here who _can_
take his place at the Hindu College. He was a very delightful person in
his way and the man we saw most of, as George had a great deal of
business always to do with him, and he was very sociable with us. It is
a horrid part of India, those sudden deaths. Your most affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._
BARRACKPORE,
_April 17, 1837_.
MY DEAR MR. GREVILLE, they say that a letter written to-day will still
be in time for the overland packet, and for all the adventures to which
the _Hugh Lindsay_, the _Dromedary Dawdle_, the _Desert_, etc., may
entitle it. Waghorn[447] I see is not at Cairo--another calamity! I am
in opposition to George’s government on the great Waghorn question. I
cannot see why they do not pay him anything he asks, and give him an
East Indian peerage, or anything else. All the letters that come quickly
to us are invariably stamped “to the care of Mr. Waghorn, Cairo,” and if
I thought he were there now, I should, in defiance of the authorities
here, address this “to the care of dear Mr. Waghorn”! I suspect you
would then have it in less than two months; now, if you receive it in
1838 my fondest expectations will be gratified.
I cannot go back in our life more than 36 hours. It is all the same
thing, so I will suppose you called on Thursday morning, and after your
visit we came up to Barrackpore in the evening. You know what a horrid
bad road it is this side of the half-way home, and therefore will not be
surprised to hear that one of the leaders, the horse that you always say
is the handsomest of the new set, stepped on a loose stone and came down
like a shot. The postillion, who weighs about 1-1/2 lbs., as a small
native should, was pitched out of sight into a neighbouring presidency;
I believe the leaders ran over the fallen horse, who kicked at them, and
they of course kicked him. The spring of the carriage was broken, and
the four Syces and the postillion and the guards, being all good
Mohammedans, of course looked on contentedly, knowing that what must
be--must be. Luckily W. Osborne for once had no other conveyance but our
carriage, so he jumped out at the side, and we all tumbled out at
opposite doors, and he _Hindustani’d_ the Syces and cut the traces, and
we were all put to rights (barring that one horse), and not the worse,
thank you. Only it is so much too hot in this country to have
adventures.
We were all assiduously fanning ourselves when the accident happened,
but no fan would have helped us after that. Think of jumping out of a
carriage in a hurry with the thermometer at 95. I will give you a
journal of yesterday, to show the vividness and endless variety of our
amusements.
Breakfast at nine--an operation which lasts seven minutes, because
nobody has any appetite, and George has no time. Then we discussed the
papers.... In the afternoon, a neighbour sent a note requesting
admission to a new native school George has built in a park, for a
Brahmin boy of good caste. I gave the father Brahmin a note to the
schoolmaster, and with the proper craft of a native, he went and fetched
two more of his children and said the note was intended to admit them
all three. But the schoolmaster, as all schoolmasters should, knew how
to read, and refused them, so when George and I drove to the school in
the evening, we found them and about twenty others all clasping their
hands and knocking their heads against the ground, because they were
prevented learning English, and all saying “Good morning, Sir,” to show
how much they had acquired. They say that at all times and to everybody,
since the school has been opened.
Then we drove to the Garden, when Chance and his suite met us, and he
swam about the tank for half an hour, and the tame otter came for its
fish, and the young lynxes came to be looked at, and we fed the gold
pheasants and ascertained that that rare exotic the heartsease was in
flower, but the daisy, the real English white daisy, has turned out a
more common Oenothera, and it proves that neither daisies nor cowslips
can be nationalized here. I myself think the buttercup might be brought
to perfection, but I know I see those matters in too sanguine a point of
view.
We came home hotter than we went out. William [Osborne] and Fanny had
been on the river, which was still worse. Dinner was not refreshing.
Then we all went out in the verandah, where there are great pans of
water used for wetting the mats put over the windows, and the
Aides-de-Camp found a new diversion in putting Chance in one pan, while
three of them lifted the other and poured the water over him. He
growled, as he used to do at you, to show he did not think those
liberties allowable, but immediately jumped into the empty pan to have
the bath repeated, whereat we all laughed, for that amounts to a good
joke in India. But we never laugh more than two minutes at a time; it is
too fatiguing. So then we went, like Lydia Bennet, to a good game at
Lottery tickets. Our intellects fell last year from whist pitch, and now
they have fallen below _écarté_, but the whole household can understand
Lottery, and except that it is too much trouble to hand a rupee from one
card to another, we all like it very much.
At ten o’clock, Fanny and William and I went to a little sailing-boat he
has here, and we should have sailed, and it would have been cooler if
there had been any air. But there was a lovely moon, and the Hoogly is a
handsome bit of river, and we floated about for an hour, and then went
to bed. And so ends that eventful day.
We are all very well, though I have been rather ailing for ten days, but
in a general way you are quite right; I _have_ very much better health
here than I had at home. So all my abuse of the climate is gratuitous;
I do not owe it any spite, except for being so very disagreeable. I
trust there is a letter from you somewhere on the sea. George has sent
for this, so God bless you. I have not time to read it over. Yours ever,
E. EDEN.
_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._
GOVERNMENT HOUSE,
_Sept. 11, 1837_.
MY DEAR MR. GREVILLE, George says he thinks I ought to write to you,
which is rather an impertinent thought of his, because he does not know
that I have not been writing to you every day, and he does not know that
I have nothing to say, and that out of that nothing I have already
furnished him with eight letters for this overland post. But he says
there is 3/4 of an hour yet before the last Bombay dawdle goes.
Three-quarters of an hour for the preparation of a letter that is to
travel 15,000 miles!
I am not going to comment on the dear young Queen; that I have done in
the other letters. But I never think of anything else, and we are all
dying of fevers brought on by court mourning, and curiosity coming on
the rainy season. Our own approaching journey[448] is one other great
interest, and we all declare we are packing up. It is almost as
fatiguing lying on the sofa and wondering what is to become of all one’s
property as actually packing up, and may perhaps by perseverance produce
some result. But hitherto I have not done more than that personally. The
faithful Byrne, and the rest of his staff, have gradually removed many
of the comforts, and in two days the band and the horses and most of the
servants depart, and, as William Osborne observes with real
consternation, we shall not have above eight servants apiece left to
wait on us.
Certainly some of the arrangements are amusing. I asked Byrne just now
what our Ayahs (or black Lady’s Maids) were allowed to put their
travelling-gear in. “Half a camel!” he said, with an air of reproach at
such desperate ignorance. “Oh, half a camel _apiece_,” I said, looking
intelligent, and laying an emphasis on _apiece_ as if that had been my
doubt, and you know one hears such strange stories of camels carrying a
supply of water for their own private drinking, quite honestly, though
they have drunk it already, that I was ready to believe the Ayah, veils
and bangles, travelled the same way. But Byrne obligingly added that
each camel carried two trunks, one of which each Abigail might claim.
The steamer to Benares will be the most tiresome part of our journey,
there is so little to see on the banks; but once in camp I mean to
commence an interminable course of sketching. I hope my sister Mary will
show you some of the sketches I sent home about two months ago. I think
they would amuse you.
Our great anxiety now is for the arrival of the _Seringapatam_, a new
ship, quite untried, _AI_--a mark the papers put here to a ship that is
making its first voyage, but what it means I can’t guess. Still, to this
untried article is confided the trousseau of myself, of Fanny, and two
other interesting females belonging to the camp who will, if the
_Seringapatam_ does not come very soon, be starved to death in camp,
reduced as we are to white muslins and chilly constitutions. The
_Coromandel_ I am also anxious for, as I have a nephew on board; but
still you know I have 48 nephews, and only one box of gowns, so if there
is to be a little adverse weather, etc.
We are going to give a dinner on Monday to the party that will go with
us in the steamer, and to rehearse our hardships. The punkahs are to be
stopped, as the heat on the river is always stifling; cockroaches to be
turned out in profusion on the floor; extra mosquitoes hired for the
night; the lamps to be set swinging; the Colvins[449] and Torrens’[450]
children to be set crying; Mrs. MacNaghten,[451] on whom we depend for
our _tracasseries_, to repeat all that any of the company have ever said
of the others; Mrs. Hawkins, who is very pretty, to show Hawkins how
well she can flirt with all the aides-de-camp. Altogether I think it
will be amusing.
There! I have no time for more. This ought to bring me two answers at
least. I am more ravenous than ever for letters. We are all well, more
or less. Yours very truly and heartily,
E. EDEN.
_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._
GOVERNMENT HOUSE,
_October 2, 1837_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, A sort of a nominal, no--cousin of yours, Mr.
Talbot, is going home in the _Reliance_, and it gives me a good
opportunity of sending you a Bird of Paradise feather, as he can put it
into his portmanteau, and it will be no trouble to you, nor to him, nor
to anybody. Of course I shot it myself, and found the nest, and am
bringing up the young Paradises by hand, and they promise to have
handsome tails which I will send you in due course--that is the sort of
thing I mean to assert at home.
In little more than a fortnight we shall be off on our great journey to
the Himalayas. Everything we have in the shape of comfort is
gone--servants, horses, band, guards, and everything embarked a month
before us, as we shall go by steamer to Benares, and though that is slow
work, it is necessary to give the country boats a considerable advance.
The Ganges, you see, is not an easy river to navigate.
Sixty-five elephants and 150 camels will carry our little daily personal
comforts, assisted by 400 coolies, and bullock-carts innumerable. They
say that everybody contrives in the _mêlée_ to receive their own
camel-trunks and pittarhs safe every night; but I own I bid a long
farewell to every treasured gown and bonnet that I see Wright bury in
the depths of a camel-trunk.
We are all enjoying the thoughts of this journey--not that I shall ever
believe till I have tried that it is really true a tent can be as
comfortable as Government House, with its thick walls and deep verandah
and closed shutters. Still, we shall be travelling to a better climate,
and that is everything. Then there will be eligible sketching, both
buildings and figures, and we shall have occasional days of quiet and
solitude. And once up in the mountains I expect to be quite strong
again, and there is actual happiness in mountain air, independent of all
other comfort.
What became of that book you said we should have to read some time ago?
I have been vainly watching for it.
This must go. It has been sent for twice, and if you knew the
impossibility of doing anything in a hurry you would appreciate
particularly this semblance of a letter.
We are going what is called “in state” to the play to-night “by
particular desire”--not of ours, but of the Amateurs who have got up a
play for us before our departure. The thermometer is at 90, the new
theatre is without punkahs, the small evening breeze that sometimes
blows ceases entirely in September and October, and we are in black for
our King. Rather a melancholy combination of circumstances. _Priez pour
nous!_ God bless you, dearest. Your most affectionate
E. EDEN.
_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._
ALLAHABAD,
_December 1, 1837_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, I have never had but two letters from you since I
came to India. No wonder! I daresay the letters contrive to turn off the
instant they are out of your hands, and go to some better and nearer
climate. The odd thing is that my letters, which ought to know better,
do not seem to rush home with that impetus which would be natural under
the circumstances. At least, my sisters, whom I write to morning noon
and night, write nothing but complaints of the want of letters. If I
felt the least guilty I should feel provoked, but as it is I receive all
their murmurs with the gentle resignation of injured innocence.
I am at Allahabad, Theresa--“More fool I; when I was at home I was in a
better place”: as dear Shakespeare, who knew all about Allahabad, as
well as everything else, observed with his accustomed readiness. I do
not know more about it, seeing we only arrived this morning. Our tents
are pitched on the Glacis of the Fort, an encampment sacred to the
Governor-General, and this Glacis, as you in your little pleasing way
would observe, is not Glacé, seeing that I have just desired an amiable
individual clothed in much scarlet and gold to pull the Punkah, which,
by the _prévoyance_ of the Deputy Quarter Master General, has been
wisely hung in my tent. You see, what is called the cold weather is
really cold and remarkably pleasant in the mornings, and our march,
which we generally commence in the dusk at half-past five, and conclude
before eight, is very bracing and delightful. But then that horrid old
wretch the sun comes ranting up; the tents get baked through; and all
through the camp there is a general moulting of fur shoes and merino and
shawls, then an outcry for muslin, and then for a Punkah to give us
breath. We cannot go out till it is nearly dark; and then about
dinner-time, when we cross over from our private tents to the great
dining-room, we want cloaks and boas and all sorts of comforts again.
Those cold hours of the day are very English and pleasant.
I hate my tent and so does George. We incline to a house with passages,
doors, windows, walls that may be leaned against, and much furniture.
Fanny luckily takes to a tent kindly, but the majority of our camp,
consisting of various exemplary mothers and children, are of the house
faction.
Our chaplain and his Scotch wife, who speaks the broadest Scotch I have
ever heard, have been _eating_ with us all to-day, for, as Mrs.
Wimberley observed, “It’s just reemarkable: the cawmels kicked all our
crockery off their bocks yeesterday, and to-day our cooking-tent is left
on the other side of the Jumna, so we’ve just nothing to eat.”
We crossed the river at the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna this
morning.
Last night we went down on our elephants to see the advanced guard of
the camp pass over. It was a red Eastern sky, the beach of the river was
deep sand, and the river was covered with low flat boats. Along the bank
were tents, camel-trunks, fires by which the natives were cooking, and
in the boats and waiting for them were 850 Camels, 140 Elephants,
several hundred horses, the Body Guard, the regiment that escorts us,
and the camp-followers. They are about 12,000 in all.
I wish it was possible to make more sketches, but the glaring light is
very much against it, and the twilight is very short. There are robbers
in camp every night. That is part of the fun. We met an officer
yesterday riding for his life in the cold hours of the morning with only
a white jacket and trousers on. He looked shivery, and it appeared that
the Dacoits had entered his tent in the night, taken all they could turn
to account, and as European cloaks are of no value to a native, they had
cut the buttons and lace off his uniform and minced up into small pieces
all his linen. There is no end to the stories of the cleverness of
Dacoits, and that is one of the things I hate in camp. The instant it
grows dusk, the servants come in and carry off every little atom of
comfort in the way of furniture that one may have scraped together, and
put it outside the tent under the charge of a sentry. It is the only
chance, but it makes a gloomy-looking abode at night.
We are cut off from a great part of our tour by the dreadful scarcity in
the Upper Provinces. There is no fodder whatever to be had, and a great
camp like this makes in the best of times a great run on the price of
provisions.
We shall lose the sight of Agra, which I regret; otherwise I am not
sorry to miss the great stations. We are so plied with balls and
festivities, and have to give so many great dinners, that the dull road
is perhaps the most amusing after all.
I wish you would write. I always excuse you because I presume you are
hatching both a child and a novel; but if I do not soon hear of one or
the other, I cannot tell what excuse to make. I wrote to your brother
George. George and I were agreeing the other day that he is the only
friend who has utterly and entirely failed us; and yet somehow we cannot
believe it of him. But he was the only person we knew well who took no
notice of us even when we were coming away.
Now it is lawful to forget us, but it was rather shocking of him, was
not it? Pray give my love to your mother and Mr. Lister. Ever, dearest
Theresa, your most affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._
SIMLA,
_April 28, 1838_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, I had meant to have answered your letter by the last
overland post, but I was poorly just as it started, and it is rather a
doubt whether it will be a safe conveyance this time. Something wrong
about the steamer, or the Arabs, or the dromedaries, or some of those
little items that go to make up an overland post. However, I can but
try.
Your account of poor Lady Henry interested me very much. Indeed,
everybody must be interested in her, but the melancholy fact is that it
is totally _impossible_ to help them. We saw a great deal of Lord
Henry[452] at Meerut, and took pains to show him great attention as he
was in a shy state after the results of that investigation. There was
not the slightest shadow of distrust as to his intentions, poor man! but
his utter incapacity made it rather surprising that Lord Amherst ever
should have given him an office of such trust, and not the least
surprising that he should have been robbed and cheated in every way, by
the number of crafty natives under him. I was thinking of any pendant to
him in London for your information, but I hardly know anybody with such
a _silly_ manner--something like Petre, but more vacant and unconnected.
He seemed thoroughly good-hearted, and very anxious about his children,
who, he told me, were to go either to Boulogne or Bordeaux, he did not
know which, but a great way from London! He was living with Captain
Champneys, his successor in the paymastership, and seems quite contented
to sit in a large arm-chair and look at Champneys in a fuss, which he
has been in ever since he got the appointment. Indeed, he wrote me word
yesterday that he found it so difficult to guard against the knavery of
the Baboos attached to the office, that he never could enough regret
having left his Aide-de-Camp with us.
George told me to say both to you and to Lady Morley that there is
nothing he wishes so much as to help Lord Henry, but that in the present
state of India there are no situations that are not responsible and
hard-working, and even if it were possible (which it is not) to give one
of these to a man who is a great debtor to the Government, Lord Henry is
really not capable of one.
I did not know till I came up the country how really hard-worked
Europeans are. It is lucky for them, for it is only the necessity of
being in these _Cutcherries_ or offices all day, that prevents their
sinking altogether under the solitude of their lives and the climate. In
most stations there are not above two or three Europeans, and in many
only one.
There were two young men here yesterday who talked quite unceasingly; it
was impossible to put in a word, and at last one of them said that he
had been eight years, and his brother four, in stations where they never
saw a European. They were both in horrid health, of course (everybody is
in India), and so they had got six months’ leave to see what the hills
could do for them, and they said they were so delighted to find
themselves again with people who understood English, that they were
afraid they had talked too much. It was impossible to dispute the fact,
but still I was glad to hear their prattle; it evidently did them good.
Our band was their great delight; they had not heard any European music
for so long.
We tried to get up a dance two nights ago--a total failure I thought.
Most of the people here are invalids, and as there are no carriages,
and no carriage-roads, they can only come out in Jhanpamas (a sort of
open Sedan), and the nights are cold. The whole company only amounted to
forty, and I thought I never saw a heavier dance, but some of them
thought it quite delightful, and I am afraid will wish for another.
It is even more delightful than I expected to be in these hills; the
climate is perfection, and the pleasure of sitting out of doors looking
at those lovely snowy mountains, and breathing real cool air, is more
than I can say.
The change from those broiling plains was so sudden. At Bareilly the
thermometer was at 90 in our tents at night, and the next day at
Sabāthu it was at 55 in the middle of the day. Such a long breath as
I drew!
These mountains are very beautiful, but not so picturesque, I think, as
the Pyrenees--in fact they are too gigantic to be sketchable, and there
are no waterfalls, no bridges, no old corners, that make the Pyrenees so
picturesque, independent of their ragged shapes. But I love these
Himalayas, good old things, all the same, and mean to enjoy these seven
months as much as possible to make up for the horrors of the two last
years, and as for looking forward, it is no use just now.
I think George will find Calcutta so extravagantly hot that perhaps he
will consent to go home sooner. That would be very satisfactory. The
deaths there have been very numerous this year. Almost all the few
people we knew intimately in the two years we were there, are dead--and
almost all of them young people.
Do you remember my writing to you about poor Mrs. Beresford’s death? He
is here now with a second wife, twenty years younger than himself, to
whom he engaged himself three months after the first wife’s death;
never told anybody, so we all took the trouble of going on pitying him
with the very best pity we had to spare! Such a waste!
What became of your second book? I cannot even see it amongst the
advertisements. I am disconsolate that we have had the last number of
_Pickwick_, the only bit of fun in India. It is one of the few books of
which there has been a Calcutta reprint, lithographs and all. I have not
read it through in numbers more than ten times, but now it is complete I
think of studying it more correctly.
Mention much about your children when you write. I find the letters in
which my friends tell me about themselves and their children are much
pleasanter than mere gossip. They really interest me--there is the
difference between biography and history. My best love to your mother,
and remember me to Mr. L. It is very odd how easily I can bring your
face to mind when I think of you. Some faces I cannot put together at
all cleverly, but I see you quite correctly and easily. Don’t alter,
there’s a dear. Your most affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._
SIMLA,
_June 10, 1838_.
A letter from you of November (this being the 10th of June) has just
come dropping in quite _promiscuous_. Though I have had one of a later
date, yet this has made me laugh and has put me in the mood to write to
you forthwith.
Your remarkably immoral views as to the mischief that religion does in a
country were wrong in the abstract, but they unfortunately just chimed
in with some views his Lordship had been worried into taking, and he is
quite delighted to have a quotation from your letter to act as motto to
one of his chapters. Here we have such a medley of faiths. The Hindus
convey a pig carefully cut up into a Muhammedan Mosque, whereupon the
Mussulmanns cut up the Hindus. Then again the Mussulmanns kill a cow
during a Hindu festival, and the Hindus go raving mad. Then an
_un_sensible man like Sir P. Maitland refuses to give the national
festivals the usual honours of guns, drums, etc., which they have had
ever since the English set foot in India. In short, there is an
irritation kept up on the plea of conscience, where the soothing system
would be much more commendable and much easier.
I must say that, except in the Upper Provinces, where once or twice we
have met with some violent petitioners, the Hindus and Mussulmans live
most peaceably; so that they have separate cooking-places, and that the
Hindu’s livery Tunic is made to button on the right shoulder and the
Mussulman’s on the left, they ask no other differences. We have about an
equal number of each in our household, and in Bengal they are all very
friendly together.
We are very much interested in our foreign politics just now. It is all
very well your bothering on about Canada,[453] and giving us majorities
of 29 in favour of Lord Glenelg[454] (your last letter of February had
mentioned that the Tories never would vote with the Radicals on such a
party question: Peel was above it!! How he always takes you in!). Those
little, trivial, obscure questions are all very well in their way, but
my whole heart is fixed on intelligence from Herat, and I live in a
state of painful wonder as to what Dost Mahomed’s[455] real relations
with Persia and Russia may be.
One serious grievance is that the steamer which was to have taken our
letters home this month was ordered off to Persia to bring away Mr.
MacNiel,[456] if he wished to come, and our letters are “left
lamenting,” like Lord Ullin, on the beach at Bombay. That is the sort of
thing George does in the plenitude of his power, and which you know
shocks us free-born Britons; and then we think of Trial by Jury, and
annual Parliaments, and no Poor Laws, and Ballot, and “Britannia rules
the waves,” and all the old story.
We have had a picturesque and pleasant deputation of Sikhs from Runjeet
Singh, which we have returned by a Mission composed of Mr. MacNaghten,
_our_ Lord Palmerston, a dry sensible man, who wears an enormous pair of
blue spectacles, and speaks Persian, Arabic, and Hindustani rather more
fluently than English; of William Osborne, who goes in exchange for a
nephew of Runjeet’s who came here; of Captain MacGregor, another
Aide-de-Camp; and of Doctor Drummond, who has left our little sparks of
life to go out by themselves, because Runjeet was particularly anxious
to be attended by the Governor-General’s own physician. They are all
under the conduct of Captain Wade,[457] the Political Agent at Lahore,
who has lived so much with natives that he has acquired their dawdling,
soft manners and their way of letting things take care of themselves.
They are all at Adeenanuggur, a summer palace of Runjeet’s, where, by
way of being cool, their houses are furnished with Tatties and
Thermantidotes, a sort of winnowing-machine that keeps up a constant
draft, and with that the thermometer ranges from 102 to 105. Poor
things! In the meanwhile they are perfectly delighted with Runjeet, as
everybody is who comes within his influence. He contrives every sort of
diversion for them. I hardly know how to state to you delicately that
the Mission was met at the frontier by troops of Cashmerian young
ladies, great dancers and singers, and that this is an extract from W.
Osborne’s letter to-day, which I ought not to copy, only it will amuse
you: “Runjeet’s curiosity is insatiable--the young Queen, Louis
Philippe, how much wine we drink, what George drinks, etc. His questions
never end. He saw me out riding to-day, and sent for me and asked all
sorts of impertinent questions. Did we like the Cashmerian girls he had
sent? Did all of us like them? I said I could not answer for the others;
I could only speak for myself.” But Runjeet’s curiosity is really
unbounded, as William states it. He requested George to send him samples
of all the wines he had, which he did, but took the precaution of adding
some whiskey and cherry brandy, knowing what Runjeet Singh’s habits are.
The whiskey he highly approved of, and he told MacNaghten that he could
not understand why the Governor-General gives himself the trouble of
drinking seven or eight glasses of wine when one glass of whiskey would
do the same quantity of work. He had asked one gentleman to a regular
drinking-party, which they were dreading (as the stuff he drinks is a
sort of liquid fire), and his great amusement is to watch that it is
fairly drunk.
George says that your letter costs you nothing, so I enclose an account
of Runjeet’s Court, which young MacGregor wrote me. If you have had
enough of him you can burn the letter unread, but I have a faint
recollection that the only Indian subject that was interesting at home
was “The Lion of the Punjâb.” It is a matter of great importance just
now that he should be our faithful ally, so we make much of him, and I
rather look to our interview with him next November. “If this meets
encouragement,” as Swift says, I will give you an account of it.
Whenever we want to frighten any of our neighbours into good conduct, we
have one sure resource. We have always a large assortment of
Pretenders, black Chevaliers de St. George, in store. They have had
their eyes put out, or their children are in hostage, or the Usurper is
their own brother, or they labour under sundry disadvantages of that
sort. But still there they are, to the good. We have a Shah Shujá all
ready to _lâcher_ at Dost Muhammed if he does not behave himself, and
Runjeet is ready to join us in any enterprise of that sort.
Still, all these _tendencies_ towards war are always rather nervous
work. You should employ yourself more assiduously in plucking Russia by
the skirts and not allow him to come poking his face towards our little
possessions. Whenever there is any important public measure to be taken,
I always think George must feel his responsibility--no Ministers, no
Parliament, and his Council, such as it is, down at Calcutta. To be
sure, as you were going to observe, _if_ he ever felt himself in any
doubt, he _might_ feel that he has my superior sense and remarkable
abilities to refer to, but as it is, he has a great deal to answer for
by himself.
I daresay he does it very well, for my notion is that in a multitude of
counsellors there is folly--“wisdom” was a misprint. And then again, if
the Directors happen to take anything amiss, they could hardly do less
than recall us. I certainly do long to be at home, not but what I am
thankful for Simla, and am as happy there as it is possible to be in
India, but still there is nothing I would not give to be with friends
and in good society again, with people who know my people, and can talk
my talk. Here, society is not much trouble, nor much anything else. We
give sundry dinners and occasional balls, and have hit upon one popular
device. Our band plays twice a week on one of the hills here, and we
send ices and refreshments to the listeners, and it makes a nice little
réunion, with very little trouble. I am so glad to see Boz is off on
another book. I do not take to _Oliver Twist_; it is too full of
disasters.
I must nearly have bored you to death, so good-bye. Please write again.
Yours most truly,
E. EDEN.
_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._
SIMLA,
_November 1, 1838_.
There is a small parcel going to you per Miss Fane (not a ship, but the
General’s daughter, Miss Fane[458]), which you are to take care of, and
eventually it will be a pleasing little occupation for you. It is a
journal of William Osborne’s,[459] kept while he was at Runjeet Singh’s
Court, and illustrated with some drawings Fanny has made from nature
designs, and from some sketches made by one of our Aides-de-Camp, and
altogether it may eventually make rather a nice little publication, and
we think you will be just the man to edit it, and to cram it down the
throat of an unwilling bookseller, extracting from him the last penny of
its value--and a great deal more. It is not to be published till George
gives his consent, and as it gives an account of the Mission which
formed the alliance, which is to end in the war--which may end we don’t
know how--and as William will indulge in levities respecting the Company
highly unbecoming the Governor-General’s Military Secretary, who is in
the receipt of £1500 a year from the said Company, and as for many other
“as’s,” it is not to be printed till further advice. It is trusted to
you with implicit confidence. Lord Stanley, Fanny says, is to be allowed
to read it, but I have not heard of any other confidant, so you are not
to go rushing about with treble raps, and then saying: “Here are a few
pages about Runjeet, a man in the East, King of the Punjab, or Shah of
Barrackpore, or something of that sort, which I think would amuse you.
You may run them over, and lend them to anybody else who will take the
trouble of reading them.” That is not the line you are to take--not by
any means. On the contrary, after a long silence, and with an air of
expressive thought, you are to observe: “I have been reading this
Memorandum--in fact, I wish I could send it to you; but there are
reasons. However, never mind; there is no harm in my saying that I have
been reading a journal. I almost wish it might be published; but yet, I
do not know. However, if it is, I am sure you _for one_ (a great
emphasis on ‘for one’) would be amused to the last degree. A friend of
mine in India, a young man, odd but clever, passed some time with
Runjeet Singh, and kept a sort of diary. Curious and odd. You may have
heard of Runjeet Singh,--Victor Jacquemont’s[460] friend, you know; only
one eye and quantities of paint. I wish I could show you the little
work, etc.” And so, eventually, you know, it might come out with great
_éclat_. I think William may write a second part of the Interview at
Ferozepore, which might be very gorgeous, taking our army into account,
as well as the meeting of the two great people.
ROOPUR,[461]
_November 13, 1838_.
I wrote the above before we left Simla, when we had a good house over
our heads and lived in a good climate, and conducted ourselves like
respectable people, and people who knew what was what. Now we have
returned to the tramping line of life, and have been six days in one
wretched camp, the first few so hot and dusty, I thought with added
regret of the Simla frost. And now to-day it is pouring as it pours
only in India, and I am thinking of the Simla fires. It is impossible to
describe the squalid misery of a real wet day in camp--the servants
looking soaked and wretched, their cooking-pots not come from the last
camp, and their tents leaking in all directions; and a native without a
fire and without the means of cooking his own meal is a deplorable
sight. The camels are slipping down and dying in all directions, the
hackeries[462] sticking in the rivers. And one’s personal comfort!
Little ditches running round each tent, with a _slosh_ of mud that one
invariably steps into; the pitarrah[463] with the thin muslin gown that
was carefully selected because the thermometer was at 90 yesterday,
being the only one come to hand; and the fur pelisse, that in a wet
rag-house slipping from a mud foundation would be pleasant and
seasonable wear, is gone on to the advanced camp. I go under an umbrella
from my tent to George’s, because wherever there is a seam there is a
stream; and we are carried in palanquins to the dining-tent on one side,
while the dinner arrives in a palanquin on the other. How people who
might by economy and taking in washing and plain work have a comfortable
back attic in the neighbourhood of Manchester Square, with a fire-place
and a boarded floor, can come and march about India, I cannot guess.
There were some slight palliations to the first day in camp: some
English boxes, with new books and little English souvenirs from sisters,
nieces, etc. And then I have a new horse, which met us at the foot of
the hills, and which has turned out a treasure, and is such a beauty, a
grey Arab. He is as quiet as a lamb, and as far as I can see,
perfect--and a horse must be very perfect indeed that I get upon before
daylight, when I am half-asleep and wholly uncomfortable, and which is
to canter over no particular road, and to go round elephants, and under
camels, and over palanquins, and through a regiment, without making
itself disagreeable.
The army will be at Ferozepore two days before we shall. The news from
Persia is so satisfactory, that probably only half the force will have
to cross the Indus, and it is very likely that Sir H. Fane will go home,
and Sir W. Cotton later.[464]
_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._
SIMLA, 1839.
MY DEAREST THERESA, Your letter, which I received three weeks ago, was
most welcome, though it was “the mingled yarn, of which we spin our
lives.” Your happy bit of life with your brother, and your prospering
children, and your journey, which always (so as you stop short of India)
gives a fresh fit of spirits, and then your return, and that melancholy
catastrophe.[465]
I cannot say how grieved I was for that. Such a happy young life, and
one that was of importance to so many others! I hope Lord John will be
allowed to keep those children,[466] and I suppose she will have left
them under his guardianship. I suppose he would hardly object to all the
children being together. I see by the papers that you have been at
Cassiobury with poor Lord John.
Everybody writes what you say of Sir G. Villiers[467]--that he is not
the least altered, which I own surprises me, because as far as I am
concerned he has been decidedly “changed at nurse,” and just simply
because he would not answer the two long letters I wrote him, I settled
that he was not the original G. Villiers, with whom one could talk and
laugh any number of hours, and whose visits were a bright spot in the
day, but that he was a mixture of a Spanish Grandee in a reserved black
cloak, with a mysterious hat and plume, etc., or a Diplomat in a French
comedy who speaks blank verse. But “it is the greatest of comforts,” as
Mrs. Bennett said about long sleeves, to know that he is unaltered. I
should be sorry if those horrid Spaniards had gone and spoilt one of our
pleasantest men, and I still think that a system of sending out bores to
foreign courts would be an improvement.
Foreigners would never know how it was. A bore would be softened by
being translated into another language, or he might simply pass as an
original--_un Anglais enfin_; and then we might keep all the amusing
people to ourselves. I should like to have seen your brother; and how I
should like to see your children! I have no doubt they are as pretty as
you say; the little boy[468] always had a turn that way. I cannot make
out whether there are any more coming, but I suppose you would have
mentioned it if there were, and I think you are apt to increase your
family in a dawdling way, not in that rapid manner with which my sister
used to produce ten or twelve children all of a sudden, and before one
was prepared for the shock.
We came back to these dear good hills about a fortnight ago, and I love
them more dearly than ever. The thermometer was at 91 in our tents, and
after two days’ toiling up the hills, we found snow in our garden here.
That is all gone, and the flowers are beginning to spring up. The snowy
range is so clean and bright, it looks as if one might walk to it, and
the red rhododendrons are looking like gigantic scarlet geraniums in
the foreground. I cannot sketch hills at all: they are too large here,
and there is no beginning nor end to them--no waterfalls, or convents,
or old buildings to finish them off.
We were about four months and a half in camp this year, so the blessing
of being in a house again is not to be described. I never am well in the
plains, and this year it would have been perverse not to have had
constant fever. We had rain every week, which kept the tents constantly
dripping, and we were very often apparently pitched in a lake, and had
to be carried through the water to dress. I was hardly a month the whole
time free from ague, and how George and Fanny are so constantly well is
a matter of astonishment to our doctor and every one else.
The Punjab was an interesting bit of our tour, and I am very glad we
have seen Runjeet Singh[469] and all his Indians in their savage
grandeur. He very nearly died just before we came away, which would have
been a dreadful blow in the political way, but he has happily rallied
again.
I should like to show you some of my Sikh sketches, though I have
horrible misgivings that, except to those who have run up Sikh
intimacies, and who prefer Shere Singh[470] to Kurruck Singh, or _vice
versa_, they may be tiresome performances. I have, in the meanwhile, had
several of my sketches copied by the miniature painters at Delhi, and
they have made some very soft likenesses from them. Do you ever draw
now? Or have you no time?
There are 96 ladies here whose husbands are gone to the wars, and about
26 gentlemen--at least there will, with good luck, be about that number.
We have a very dancing set of Aides-de-Camp just now, and they are
utterly desperate at the notion of our having no balls. I suppose we
must begin on one in a fortnight, but it will be difficult, and there
are several young ladies here with whom some of our gentlemen are much
smitten. As they will have no rivals here, I am horribly afraid the
flirtations may become serious, and then we shall lose some active
Aides-de-Camp, and they will find themselves on Ensign’s pay with a wife
to keep. However, they _will_ have these balls, so it is not my fault.
Your ever affectionate
E. EDEN.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._
SIMLA,
_June 17, 1839_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, I have had a letter of yours to answer more than a
month, but this is a bad time of year for writing home. We try all sorts
of plans; but, first, the monsoon cripples one steamer, and the next
comes back with all the letters still on board that we fondly thought
were in England. Then we try an Arab sailing vessel; but I always feel
convinced that an Arab ship sails wildly about drinking coffee and
robbing other ships. This is to go to the Persian Gulf, and if you are
living at your nice little villa, Hafiz Lodge, on the banks of the Gulf,
I think it just possible this letter may find you. Otherwise, I do not
see why it should.
And now for your letter. First: I see you are now Lady Theresa.[471]
Ought I to make any difference in my little familiarities? Secondly: as
touching Lord Clarendon’s marriage,[472] which had been mentioned so
often as decidedly settled that I began to fear there could be no
foundation for it--I never have faith in a report that lasts three
months without becoming a fact. However, I am very glad it is all right
now. I remember he always liked her, and she has had rather a trying
life of it, which will fit her all the more for the enjoyment of
happiness.
You talk of your uncle’s will as if it had been unsatisfactory. I was in
hopes Lord Clarendon was rolling in riches--I do not know why. You
should never write as if I knew anything. If you mention a will, you
should state it, beginning with “sound health of mind and body,” and
ending with the witnesses’ names; otherwise we never know anything in
India, and what little we do know we forget, for want of people to talk
it over with.
We cannot remember if that poor Lady H. Villiers[473] died; but I think
she did, and if so, I do not see who the late Lord C. could leave his
money to, except to the present one. However, he will be well off now,
at all events. Lady Verulam,[474] I own, I think a sad and very large
objection, but only at first; and as I rather hope to hear by the next
mail that your brother is in office, politics and business will prevent
any very wearisome intercourse.
Thirdly: as to those unfortunate H. Gordons. His memorial for leave to
retire is gone home to the Court of Directors, and George has no more to
say to it than you or I have. It rests entirely with the Court, but
George thinks they will give him leave to go home, as the idea of his
paying that large debt out of his wretched income is absurd, and he is,
in fact, a mere expense to them. But about the pension--there again no
authority, not even the Court, can help him. I see constantly in the
Calcutta papers that when anything the least unusual, or even doubtful,
with regard to the Pension Fund is contemplated, then it is put to the
vote of the whole Army, and always carried economically. Still, if the
Court give him leave to go home, I am sure it would not be worth his
while to live here in misery for the sake of the small addition to his
pension. I suppose it cannot be more than £100 a year altogether, and I
should really think it could not hurt Lady C. Cavendish[475] to make
that up out of her own allowance. You will have had my letter explaining
the absolute impossibility of George’s doing anything here for him.
There is no such thing, Heaven knows, as a sinecure in India. For
military men there are Staff appointments, which are, of course, in the
gift of the Commander-in-Chief.
We have been uncommonly gay at Simla this year, and have had some
beautiful tableaux with music, and one or two very well acted farces,
which are a happy change from the everlasting quadrilles, and everybody
has been pleased and amused, except the two clergymen who are here, and
who have begun a course of sermons against what they call a destructive
torrent of worldly gaiety. They had much better preach against the
destructive torrent of rain which has now set in for the next three
months, and not only washes away all gaiety, but all the paths, in the
literal sense, which lead to it. At least I know the last storm has
washed away the paths to Government House.
The whole amount of gaiety has been nine evening parties in three
months--six here, and three at other houses. Our parties begin at
half-past eight, and at twelve o’clock we always get up and make our
courtesies and everybody goes at once. Instead of dancing every time, we
have had alternations of tableaux and charades, and the result has been
three Aides-de-Camp engaged to three very nice English girls, and the
dismissal of various native Mrs. Aides-de-Camp. Moreover, instead of the
low spirits and constant _tracasseries_, which are the foundation of an
Indian station, everybody this year has been in good humour, and they
all delight in Simla, and none of them look ill.
Our public affairs are prospering much, but I will not bore you with
details. We really are within sight of going home, dearest Theresa, but
it makes me shiver to think of it. I am so afraid something will happen
to prevent it.
I do not count Simla as any grievance--nice climate, beautiful place,
constant fresh air, active clergymen, plenty of fleas, not much society,
everything that is desirable; and when we leave it, we shall only have a
year and a half of India. The march is a bad bit; I am always ill
marching, and our hot season in Calcutta makes me simmer to think of it.
Then, the last five months will be cool, and we shall be packing. And
then, the 4th of March 1841, we embark, and in July of the same you will
be “my neighbour Lister,” and we shall be calling and talking and making
much of each other. I should like to see your children. No, I do not
approve of Alice for your girl.[476] There is an unconscious prejudice
in favour of the name “Alice” which has risen to an alarming height, and
I think it my duty to oppose it. It gives me an idea of a slammerkin
milk-and-water girl. However, do as you like, only don’t blame me if
Alice never looks tidy. Love to Mrs. Villiers. Ever your affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._
SIMLA,
_June 29, 1839_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, To-day an old sea letter of yours (January 23) has
come to hand, containing all that I wanted to know, so as there is an
odd opportunity of writing (a Chinese clipper going from Calcutta to
Aden, and the letters to find their own way from thence--such a post
office arrangement!) I take advantage of it....
This letter is six months old, but still very acceptable, and it shows
that I still have some right original English feelings,--that I have
been brought up in good Knightsbridge principles.
That old Lord Clarendon[477] was a brute; I always thought so. But what
can be the use of carrying on a farce of that sort to the end? He cannot
pop his head up even for a minute to say, “How I have tricked
you!”--supposing he was proud of it. My only hope is that Lady
Clarendon, who will find it difficult amongst her own nieces to hit upon
a worthy heir, will do what Lord Clarendon ought to have done. This must
go forthwith. Ever, dearest Theresa, your most affectionate
E. E.
_Miss Eden to her Brother, Robert Eden [Vicar of Battersea]._
PINJORE,
_November 2, 1839_.
MY DEAREST ROBERT, Here we are again fairly in the plains, and to be
sure the plains are not the hills--an axiom the profound wisdom of which
you cannot appreciate, unless you had been yesterday luncheoning with us
at the Fir Tree Bungalow, with the snow in sight, the cool air rushing
about, and everything as it ought to be in October, the cones tumbling
off the fir trees, and the fern red and autumnal, and then you should
have been snapped up by your _Jhanpannies_ and run away with down-hill,
till in two hours you found yourself at Barr, the thermometer at 90 in
the tents, a man pulling the punkah for a little artificial air, and
nothing but dust and camels to be seen for miles round.
We came on eight miles to this place this morning, and stay two days to
allow time for our goods to arrive; but it is almost hotter than Barr.
Poor dear Simla! I had a great mind to cry when I saw the last glimpse
of it yesterday; but still I look upon this march as one step towards
home.
The army is on its way back from Cabul, but as Dost Mahomed is supposed
to be not far from the frontier, a larger force remains behind than was
at first intended. However, nothing can be known till the spring, for
the boundary between here and Cabul is impassable from snow, even for a
messenger during the winter. However well the expedition has succeeded
with reference to Russia and Persia, and to the safety of this country
from foreign enemies, I really think it is more important in the effect
it has had in India itself. Natives are totally unlike anything we know
at home; and they have had for some years an idea that their fate, or
what they call the good-luck of England, was to change, and the Nepalese
have been fomenting this notion with great care, so that there were many
petty states quite ready for an outbreak.
Every post now brings letters from Residents all over India, saying that
the success in Afghanistan has not only astounded the natives, but given
them faith again in English luck in general, and in their Lord Sahib in
particular. The further the news spreads, the more effect it seems to
make. There has been one very odd proof at Kurnaul in the Madras
Presidency of the _thinness_ of the crust over the volcano on which we
all sit in this country. The only wonder is it does not explode oftener.
The Nawáb of Kurnaul has been often accused of disaffection, and lately
of having concealed stores. He was uncommonly angry, as people are when
they are accused of anything true or false, and desired three
commissioners should be sent to examine his jaghir. They found nothing
and were coming away, but some of the military authorities got
information from the Nawáb’s own people, summoned more forces, and asked
for another search. He said they were quite welcome to go into his fort,
and his prime Minister should go with them. Nothing was visible; but his
workmen betrayed him. They pointed out dead walls which were covered up,
concealed pits that were opened, etc., and everywhere arms were
discovered. More guns than belong to the whole army of [illegible];
rooms full of double-barrelled guns, and bags of shot attached to each;
and shells, which the natives were supposed not to know how to make. His
Zenána was turned into a Foundry, etc. There never was a thing done more
handsomely. As he has an income of only £100,000 a year, of course he
must be in league with richer and greater potentates, and his own 1500
followers could not have made much use of all this artillery. He made a
little fight for it, but he is in prison and his territories are seized
by the Company--one of the cases in which Lord Brougham would probably
like to talk about native wrong and British encroachments. George says
the Directors occasionally write a fine sentence about not attending
exclusively to British interests, just as if the British were here for
any other purpose, or as if everybody’s interest were not to keep the
country at peace.
Lord Elphinstone[478] has done this Kurnaul business very sensibly and
well.
SHAH-I-BAD,
_November 8, 1839_.
I have kept this open in hopes of the overland post. It won’t come. We
are progressing slowly and painfully. George and I think we have been a
year in camp; but other people say only a week. The heat is quite
dreadful, and I think I feel my brain simmering up in small bubbles,
just as water does before it begins to boil. We are in Mr. Clerk’s[479]
district, and he has let Henry Vansittart come with the camp, which
delights him, and he learns a little bit of camp business, regulates the
price of flour at the bazaar, talks big about the roads, and by way of
showing how good they are, overturned his buggy and himself last night.
But he is pleasanter on his own ground than at Simla. My best love to
Mary. Ever yours most aff.
E. E.
_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._
CAMP UMBALLA,
_November 5, 1839_.
MY DEAREST THERESA, I have not heard from you for a long time, but one
of the last overland letters mentioned that you had been ill, so it is
tempting to write and hope that you are well again.
The wife of the Private Secretary[480] came with me from Simla, because
in compliment to my weaker health I made shorter marches to the foot of
the hills with the last fat baby, Auckland Colvin[481] refusing to sit
anywhere but in her lap, and the baby before that refusing to go to
sleep unless she slept in the same tent with him, in which there were
the three children, two Portuguese Ayahs, and the children’s favourite
bearers. No light, because the candles had been sent on by mistake to
the next ground; no carpets, because ditto; so that the servants kicked
up a dust even in their sleep. Several Pariah dogs were playfully
avoiding the Jackals, and about thirty bearers sleeping or smoking on
the kynants, or the space between the lining and the outside of the
tent. “_That I saw_,” as Sydney Smith used to say in his charity sermons
when he was stating a particular case of distress which he not only
never had seen, but never heard of.
This was in our encampment in the hills, when the climate was still
delicious. Now the thermometer stands at 90 in the tents, and these
unfortunate ladies begin to march at four in the evening. I do not know
that the horn signifies, as I defy anybody to sleep in camp more than
two hours, and it is being uncommonly acute to snatch at that the first
week, till the sentries have learnt to stop the tent-pitchers and
camel-drivers from knocking down and packing up all night at unlawful
hours. I got Captain Codrington, our Quarter-master, to stay behind last
night instead of going on to pitch the advanced camp, that he might see
and hear what a quantity of illicit pitching and packing went on, and
the result was that he imprisoned 160 tent-pitchers, 56 camels, and
removed out of hearing the neighing horses of half the clerks in the
public offices, and we all went to sleep for at least half-an-hour,
which was very grand. Moreover, it is a rule that nothing should leave
the ground till the Governor-General’s carriage goes by, and a gun is
fired to announce that highly important event; so to-day this rule was
enforced, and in a country of hot dust, which this is, a very good rule
it is. But it was funny to see the crowds of old men and beasts the
advance guard had stopped, camels and elephants innumerable, our own
band, several hundreds of grass-cutters’ ponies laden with grass for
sale, palanquins full of small half-caste babies, everybody’s pet dog
with their bearers, sofas and arm-chairs. My own tame pheasants in their
wooden house I saw in the _mêlée_.
Marching disagrees so much with me, that by the doctor’s advice, and
George’s desire, I leave the camp at Agra, and go straight down to
Calcutta, where I hope to be the middle of February. George does not
expect to be there before the 1st of April, but I rather hope he will,
driven by the heat, cut off some of his tour as the time draws nearer.
We have been joined on the march by several officers returning from
Cabul, and very flourishing they look, and they cannot make out that
their sufferings have been what the papers tried to make out. Captain
Dawkins, of Lord Auckland’s Bodyguard, who has been through the campaign
with a regiment to which he lawfully belongs, has come back looking
fatter than most Falstaffs, and he brought back three of the sheep which
he left with us at Ferozepore last year, so that danger of starving was
not great.
God bless you, dearest Theresa. This is a very stupid letter, but then
it is better than none, which is what I have had from you. And you
cannot imagine how hot it is. Your most affectionate
E. EDEN.