No other English post come in, but I think we have quite satisfied ourselves that the Whigs cannot stay and we shall go in February at latest. I have heard from Captain Grey, to whom I wrote to ask what accommodation he could give us in the Endymion. He says, smaller than the Jupiter, but he thinks he can take us all. We shall be fewer by Mars[507] married; Chance, dead; and Fop, William’s greyhound, also dying of old age. I wonder whether we have only been here six years. I imagine we are all dying of old age sometimes, and that we have been here the usual Indian terms of twenty-one years.
August 16, 1841.
The July post come in—the Elections all wrong, and so our going home is certain. George sends his resignation by this post, and in February we sail. God bless that dear post for bringing us such good news and so quickly. I am still an excellent Whig, but there is much pleasure in Opposition. And then the delight of going home! Good-bye, Sister; I’m coming directly. Just stop one minute while I draw my ship up your river. I really believe George is rather sorry, but he says not, and he is an honourable man. Your affectionate
E. E.
[Captain Elliot had been unjustly blamed for the management of the expedition to China. He was recalled by Lord Palmerston for disobedience to his instructions, and on his return to England he found Lord Aberdeen had become Foreign Secretary. Elliot’s explanation of his conduct was satisfactory, and he completely cleared his character.]
Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire.
CALCUTTA,
September 10, 1841.
MY DEAREST SISTER, I have never felt such unwillingness to set off letter writing as this month, and it will be worse and worse and worsted for the next three, and then I shall be ready to write a line to say we are going on board, and after that I never mean to write to you again—never. I am tired of it, and besides, mean to pass the rest of my life with you. What a horrid prospect for you to find me always tugging after you with a long languid Indian story, only diversified by requests for a large fire and shut windows. I would not be you on any account. Besides, think of the obtuseness with which we shall meet each other’s topics. I beg to apprise you at once that I do not remember the botanical name of any one single flower; so don’t expect it. I have gone back to the old childishness of roses, wallflowers, and carnations, and beyond that I cannot charge my memory.
I have been ornamenting the garden with some stone vases that the natives make very prettily, and just at the proper moment, Fop, William’s old greyhound, died, so I buried him symmetrically opposite to Chance, and Captain FitzGerald has put two ornamental vases over the two dogs, with a slight tendency to the funereal urn about their design for the consolation of my hurt feelings, and yet sufficiently like flower vases to deceive the Tory Governor-General, so that he cannot be spitefully tempted to pull them down again. Zoe, my new dog, is very pretty and very small, but certainly with none of the genius of her predecessor. In fact, between friends, she is rather dull, but she is such a little helpless thing that nobody can help coaxing her, and I could not expect two Chances in one life. George rather affections her, though he says he thinks a black bottle full of hot water would be quite as good as Zoe sitting on his lap, and full as lovely. Every morning in the auction papers there is a list of “Europe toys” for children, and I found one called a black cloth dog, defective, which is clearly another Zoe for sale. However, all this is only a hypocritical jest. I am very fond of her; and I assume you think that if anything happened to Dandy, you would be obliged to try a successor. One wants something of the sort.
Sir Jasper[508] and all the Nicolls family are on the point of setting off for their march through India. Lady Nicolls has done it once before and is fully awake to its horrors, and the young ladies do not like leaving Calcutta, but Lady Nicolls looks so ill that it is lucky she is going. They are a nice English family, and will be a loss here. The married daughter from Madras arrived last week with the first grandchild. Such a hideous little baby—but they are all in such ecstasies with it. I went there this morning and found our Miss Nicolls with the thermometer at 1000, I believe, walking up and down the room with the baby, away from the punkah because they thought it made the child sneeze. The perspiration was streaming down her face, and there was old Sir Jasper in a white jacket snapping his fingers and saying, Bow, wow, wow, and then rushing back to the punkah and saying he really could not stand the heat, but perhaps the baby with her cold had better not venture near the punkah. I believe the child was boiled; it looked like it. I think I ought to be excused a few small sins for the merit of going to the Nicolls this hot day.