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.