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Title: Miss Eden's Letters
Author: Eden, Emily, 1797-1869
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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[Illustration: _Pamela, Lady Campbell

from a painting by Sir William Napier_]









It is difficult to express one’s gratitude. Mine I owe to my brother, R.
E. Dickinson, to Mrs. Ernest Farquhar (granddaughter of Lady Theresa
Lewis), to Sir Guy Campbell, Mrs. W. Rendel, and Sir Arthur Stanley, for
the loan of letters in this book. I also thank Mr. Claud Paget and Mr.
W. Barclay Squire for the help they have given me.

Doubtless, through want of experience, I have been guilty of leaving out
much that might have been left in, and leaving in much that might not be
of interest.

The pleasure of knowing Lady Campbell through her letters has been
doubled by the kindness I have met with from her daughters, Mrs. Ellis
and Mrs. Percy Wyndham.

Lord Cromer before his death in 1917 had been interested in reading
these letters. It is due solely to his encouragement that they are now
published, though lacking the Introduction he was good enough to offer
to write.

A friend of mine read some of the proofs. I found on three occasions
they induced sound sleep within a few minutes, which leads me to hope
perhaps other readers may find them equally soothing.

V. D.

_July 1919._


In the autumn of 1913 a Life of Lord Clarendon[1] was published, and
among many of his letters were a few written to him by an old friend,
Miss Eden. It was thought that a further selection of Emily Eden’s
letters might be of interest.

She was a keen politician of the Whig order, clever, amusing, critical,
an excellent friend and a devoted sister. Her father, William Eden,[2]
was the third son of Sir Robert Eden, Bart., of West Auckland, Durham,
and he married in 1776 Eleanor Elliot, a sister of the 1st Earl of
Minto.[3] Two years later, Eden went as a Commissioner to America. He
was Chief Secretary in Ireland under Lord Carlisle;
Minister-Plenipotentiary in 1785 to the Court of Versailles; in 1788
Ambassador to Spain, and in the following year Ambassador to Holland; he
was given a peerage in 1789 (Baron Auckland). Mrs. Eden, from her own
account, was evidently a first-rate traveller; she took great interest
in her husband’s work, and she had a child, often amidst much
discomfort, in every country to which they were sent.

Emily was born in 1797. Her parents were settled at Eden Farm,
Beckenham, Kent, and her father now devoted his time to politics. Her
mother took great trouble to rear and educate her family of fourteen,
leaving a detailed account in her Diary of their upbringing, diseases
and marriages. Evidently her sense of humour and cheerfulness helped her
through much misery.

“Out of fourteen I suckled thirteen. Eleven of the children had smallpox
during their wanderings, also cow-pox, whooping-cough, measles and
scarlet fever.”

In 1786, Eden, who was then in Paris, wrote to his friend Lord
Sheffield: “Mrs. Eden is just returned from passing nearly a week in the
Circle and Society of the whole Court of Versailles without feeling a
moment’s discomposure. It is impossible to describe to you all the
glorious attentions with which she is honoured by the Queen of France,
not only in presents, but in what she values more, in admiration of her
children. She and the little Frenchman are both well, and we have now as
many nations in our Nursery as were assembled at the Tower of Babel.”
Another friend also wrote:

“Every report says Mrs. Eden’s Nursery is the admiration of the Court
and the Town, that they make parties to see it, that she had made
domestic life quite fashionable”; and there are constant allusions to
the Brattery, the Light Infantry, and the little Parisians.

By her contemporaries Lady Auckland was known later in life as Haughty
Nell, and the Judicious Hooker. Her eldest girl, Eleanor, was Pitt’s
only love, but for various reasons, after a long correspondence between
Pitt and Lord Auckland, the affair came to an end, and Eleanor in 1799
married Lord Hobart, who became Secretary of State for War and the
Colonies in 1801, and succeeded his father as Earl of Buckinghamshire in

Lord Auckland died suddenly at Eden Farm in 1814. Lady Auckland only
survived him four years. Six of their daughters had married, and the
remaining two, Emily and Fanny, lived with their elder brother George,
and went with him to India when he became Governor-General in 1835.

From an account given of herself in a letter to one of her friends,
Emily had profited by the education she received from her mother. She
had read Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_, the _Memoires du Cardinal de
Retz_, Shakespeare, and knew a great part of the Bible almost by heart
before she was eleven.

She took a strong interest in politics, but she was never happier than
when living quietly at Greenwich with her brother, sketching, reading
and gardening, and in 1835 the prospect of a five months’ sea journey to
India, and being obliged to leave her sisters, friends, and interests,
depressed and worried her.

On her return to England in 1842 she published her _Portraits of the
People and Princes of India_. She also wrote _Up the Country; Letters
from India_, edited by her niece; and two novels, _The Semi-Detached
House_ and _The Semi-Attached Couple_.

Three large volumes of her Water-colour Sketches were sold at Christie’s
in 1907 and are now in the Victoria Memorial Hall, Calcutta.

The year 1849 proved to be one of the greatest sorrow to Miss Eden. Her
brother, Lord Auckland, died quite suddenly in January, and three
months later she lost her sister Fanny. For the next twenty years she
divided her time between Eden Lodge, Kensington Gore, and a little
cottage at Broadstairs, writing her books, and seeing many of her
friends. Though she had become quite an invalid, her house still
remained a centre of political interest. One of her nieces, Lena Eden,
lived with her.

Among her most intimate friends were Mr. George Villiers (Lord
Clarendon) and his sister Theresa, who married Mr. Lister of Armitage
Park in 1830. He died twelve years later, and in 1844 she married George
Cornewall Lewis, M.P.[4]

Unfortunately, none of Lady Theresa’s letters to Miss Eden can be found.
She had a most attractive and gifted nature; her family and friends were
devoted to her. Kent House, Knightsbridge, in which she lived nearly all
her life, was within a short walk of Eden Lodge.

Another great friend was Pamela, daughter of Lord and Lady Edward
FitzGerald. Her father, the chief figure in the Irish Rebellion of
‘98,[5] had married her mother, the beautiful and fascinating Pamela,
six years previously. He died in Newgate Prison, Dublin, leaving three
children, Edward, Pamela, and Lucy.

After his death a bill of attainder was passed against his estate, and
his wife had to leave Ireland. Edward was left to the care of his
grandmother the Duchess of Leinster; Lucy went to Lady Sophia
FitzGerald (Aunt Soph), at Thames Ditton. Pamela lived abroad with Lady
Edward till 1811, when she returned to her grandmother; three years
later the Duchess died; Pamela was then sent to Thames Ditton to be
brought up with her sister; she married Sir Guy Campbell in 1820. Her
correspondence with Emily Eden covered a period of thirty years. Her
letters describe her life with all its Irish and English fun and misery,
her adventures and difficulties, the bringing into the world her eleven
children, and her efforts to educate them on a dwindling income.

Sir Guy Campbell and Lord Auckland both died in 1849. Pamela lived to be
seventy-three, and Emily to be seventy-two; they died in 1869. Emily’s
letters began in 1814, and were written to her elder sister, Eleanor
Lady Buckinghamshire, who lived at Eastcombe, near Greenwich, within
driving distance of Eden Farm, the Edens’ home till their mother’s death
in 1818.


CHAPTER I                                           PAGE

1814-1819         1


1819-1820        30


1820-1825         51


1825-1827         89


1827-1828         125


1828-1829        156


1829-1830        176


1830-1831       193


1831-1835       211


1835-1837       250


1837-1840       279


1840-1842       319


1842-1849       359


1849-1863       380

INDEX           405


PAMELA FITZGERALD (LADY CAMPBELL)             _Frontispiece_
From a painting by Sir William Napier.


MRS. LISTER (LADY THERESA LEWIS)                         203
From a painting by G. S. Newton.


EMILY EDEN                                          397
From a drawing by George Richmond.



_Hon. Emily Eden (aged 17) to her Sister the Countess of Buckinghamshire
(aged 37)._[6]

_Monday, September 26, 1814._

We have been very much surprised by a letter from Miss Milbanke[7] to
Mary[8] informing her she was engaged to marry Lord Byron, a “person of
whose character she has had the best opportunity of judging, and who, as
he merits her greatest esteem, possesses her strongest attachment.” That
last sentence certainly sounds very well, but, that she does not seem to
be acting with her usual good sense is Mama’s opinion, as by all
accounts Lord Byron is not likely to make any woman very happy. It is
particularly unlucky, at present, as Mary’s letters to her about “Lara,”
the “Corsair,” etc., have not expressed much admiration for their

_September 30._

Mr. Van.[9] came here to dinner to-day and goes away to-morrow. I wish
you would tell me what to say to him just now, for he looks as if he
wanted some one to talk to him. Mary and George[10] are so busy at
chess, and Mama is so interested in the _Anarchie de Pologne_,[11] and I
am so tormented by a real, large, green, crawling caterpillar which has
found its way to the table and keeps hunting me round it, I have not
presence of mind enough left to make out one topic.

Mary has just received Sarah’s[12] letter. You perhaps may not know that
she [Sarah] is going to change her character to that of a good-natured
shilly-shally fellow. She is also thoroughly to understand politics, and
is studying Junius, and for want of better society is to get into great
habits of intimacy with me. If we were not to change our characters
sometimes, there would be rather a sameness in our lives.

George is going to Dropmore and Shottesbrook, but will return home to
receive the Colviles, stay here a week longer, and then go for six weeks
to Melbury.

He will be a great loss to us, and I cannot but look forward with dread
to the long evenings, which used to be so happy, and which will seem so
lonely without _Him_,[13] who enlivened them so much.

Good-bye, my dearest Sister. Do not trouble yourself to answer my
letters, as a letter to any part of this family does as well for the

_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_October 25_ [1814].

MY DEAR SISTER, Charlotte[14] has had a good night by the account we
received this morning. The baby is wonderfully well.

Lord Francis goes to Newmarket on Sunday, and I am to go to Earl’s Court
for a week, and George[15] and Willy Osborne come here. It sounds as if
we were going to play Puss in the Corner on a grand scale, but I shall
be glad to get back to my corner again....

George writes me word that one story about Lady Caroline Lamb[16] is,
that the separation had been agreed upon, and the articles ready; that
Lady Melbourne set out one morning from London to try and arrange
matters, and on her arrival she found the happy couple at breakfast, and
Lady Caroline drawling out--“William, some more muffin?”--and everything
made up.

Mary has grown so fat she can scarcely waddle about, and flatters
herself she is looking very well. I remain ever your aff. sister,


(_Quite private_)

I must just mention that the tucker Ingram made is considered as the
most beautiful, elegant, decent, well-behaved, unassuming good sort of
tucker in His Majesty’s dominion, and is quite the rage. I am in a
fever, which should be called the _decent_ fever, till I can get four
dozen made just exactly like it.

Mary has been very busy preparing for her journey, and desires her love
to you, and is very much obliged to you for the use of your necklace,
bracelet, etc., which she will take great care of.

She has not heard from Miss Milbanke lately, but we hear that Lord Byron
is going to be a good boy, and will never be naughty no more, and he is
really and truly writing a new version of the Psalms!

_Lord Auckland to Miss Eden._

_November 12_ [1814].

MY DEAR EMILY, I must write one line though it is past midnight, and
that because nobody writes to poor Emily. Well, I am glad you have got a
little gaiety at last.

As for us here, we are as merry as grigs, and as active as flies, and as
chatty as the maids. We eat and drink, and work and walk, and shoot and
hunt, and talk and laugh, all day long--and I expect my pretty master,
you would like the eating and drinking the best of all. Such luncheons!
a roast turkey, and hash and potatoes, and apple pudding, and what not,
and I stand by and abuse them all for eating, and eat with the best of

We have been trying the new experiment of burning clay for manure, and
have not above half succeeded--and we have just found an old book, 80
years old, which gives a full and detailed account of what all the
wiseacres are all making an outcry about as a new discovery, and as the
practice has not been adopted, we are beginning to suspect that its
merits are a little exaggerated.

We have a house brimful.

Give my love to all, Vansittart and all, and so good-night, my old boy,
for I must go to bed. Your affec. brother,


_Miss Eden to her Sister, Lady Buckinghamshire._

_December 1814_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Mary’s first letter is arrived, so I must begin
copying and extracting, and abridging, as if I had never done anything
else all my life.

But I must begin by observing that we all parted most heroically on
Wednesday morning, not the least in the O’Neil style, but we were all as
cool as cucumbers, and as hard-hearted as rocks. (What beautiful
similes!) Mary looked very smart, her coat was covered with grey
vandykes, which does not sound pretty, but looked very well, and her hat
of course matched it exactly. She says they did not arrive at
Shottesbrook[18] till late, as they went round and round the place
several times before the postboy could find the entrance....

We heard from Morton[19] the other day, a long account of his gaieties.
He has been showing Oxford to the Feildings, and the Meerveldts[20]
(what a difficult word to spell), and then was invited to go to
Middleton with them, where he met the Worcesters, Cowpers, Eustons, and
the Duke of Devonshire. We are rather in dread of his return, and to
find him grown very fine, which will be an unlucky turn to take....

Mrs. Percival’s[21] marriage shocked us all, as we had not heard of it
before, but Mrs. Moore sent in word of it, and of the gentleman’s name
afterwards. Ever your affec. sister,


_Miss Eden to her Sister, Lady Buckinghamshire._

_December 23, 1814_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, We have had two such long letters from Mary (at
Bowood). You must be contented with some extracts. She says: “We have
almost as few events here as at Eden Farm; in the morning we walk four
or five miles, and in the evening everybody reads a little except Lady
E. Feilding,[22] who walks about disturbing us all. She brought down a
great book full of verses and epigrams, that she is collecting all over
the world and gathered chiefly at Middleton; she let few of them be
read, and screamed and pulled away the book every three minutes in case
we should see more than we ought.

There were some pretty things of Lady Cowper’s[23] composing, one
addressed to her sleeping baby, and another on an Infant that is one of
the most beautiful things possible. It seems to be the fashion
collecting these things, for Captain Feilding says it was quite
ridiculous to see Lady Jersey[24] and Lady Cowper, and Lady E. Feilding
and two or three others coming down of an evening at Middleton with
their great books in satchells like so many schoolboys, and showing each
other their ‘little treasures,’ and one saying, ‘May I copy this?’--‘No;
not unless you will let me copy that.’--‘Very well, but you won’t turn
over the page?’--‘No.’--‘Then you must not go further than that line.’
And then the books are all locked up again, for they each have keys, and
Lady Elizabeth says everybody wore the key of her manuscript book at her
side, in case the others should get it by fair means or foul.

Lady Elizabeth’s maid is also making a collection. Lady Lansdowne[25]
looked prettier than ever last night, and is the kindest, most
pleasing-mannered person I ever saw. She has got some receipts for
dyeing muslins, sattins and silks any colours, and has been all this
morning up to the elbows in soap-suds, starch and blue, and then on her
knees for an hour ironing on the floor,--the work of the morning. I saw
her little girl[26] for a moment, and it seems to be a pretty little
thing; the boy[27] is exactly like Lord Lansdowne, but is never to be
seen, and I only met the little Feildings[28] once on the stairs since I
came here. We are much too learned to think of children.”

So much for Mary’s first letter. George says, “Mary behaves like an
angel. She walks with Lansdowne and talks learnedly--I do not know what
about. The only words I could hear were, _And be hanged to you_, and
_Slip-gibbit_, and _Betty Martin_.”

Mary says in her second letter: “We had a tremendous fit of Crambo again
last night from eight to eleven without stopping. Lord Lansdowne gives
his whole heart and mind to any little game, or whatever he is about,
and it is really quite amusing to see him fretting and arguing, and
reasoning and labouring, at this Crambo, as if it was a matter of the
greatest importance. It is certainly rather fretting, but it is as good
a way of passing a long evening as another. Lady Lansdowne takes a great
deal of charge of me, and is a person I really cannot find one fault

I had advanced so far in copying, and was just thinking how nicely and
quickly I had done it, when the post arrived, and brought a letter from
Mary of nine quarto pages thickly written, and so amusing. But you must
not see it to-day--you little thing--this is quite enough for once. Your
affectionate sister,


_Lord Auckland to his Sister, Miss Eden._

_December 31, 1814_.

MY DEAR EMILY, I am living in a state of great fright about the event of
my message by the last post, and if the key is not found, you must not
be much astonished at seeing me arrive either with or without Mary on
Tuesday; but I do not like to settle anything about this fussy,
provoking scrapey piece of business till I hear from you and from Dyer

We have been doing nothing particular to-day except going in a large
party after some woodcocks.

I am as pleased as Punch with the American peace.[29] We shall get rid
of the property tax, and the 3 per cents will be up in the skies. We
have nothing yet to succeed Whishaw.[30] Sir George Paul[31] is near
seventy, but he is a fine old beau, and has one of the prettiest places
in England, so that if the Dowager Lady Ilchester[32] does not snap him
up, something may yet be done.

To console us for not having you, we have an Emily here who has
something of the fooley in her, but she unluckily is a dullfooley.

I have in leisure hours been looking over a good many old letters which
are here, written by the Fox’s and Pelhams and Sir Charles Hanbury
Williams,[33] etc., etc., in the reign of George II., some of which are
very entertaining. I send you a copy of verses written by Sir C. H.
Williams to one of Ilchester’s aunts, Lady Susan O’Brien.[34]

    Sweeter than the sweetest Manna,
    Lovely, lively, dear Susannah,
    You’re the girl that I must muse on,
    Pretty little smiling Susan.
    Oh! if verses could amuse ye,
    Fairest, gentlest, laughing Susey,
    I’ll write to you, but ne’er rebuke ye,
    Handsome and good-natured Sukey.
    Every rhyme should flatter you
    Trifling, dimpling, tender Sue.
    I’ve sung my song and so adieu! adieu!
    Susannah, Susan, Susey, Sukey, Sue!

Mary is quite reviving to-night, and is making a deuce of a noise, and
be hanged to her. My love to my Mother and all. Yours very


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_Monday, January 1815._

MY DEAR SISTER, I have not a guess how far Mary’s journal[35] has been
continued to you. She says, “The great amusement here seems to be
eating, which goes on from morning till night. There is an immense
breakfast for people to go in and out to, a large luncheon which stands
two hours on the table, a very long dinner, and a regular supper, which
altogether takes up half the day. To-day, by way of amusement, and
keeping up an old custom, we have all been baking, that is, spoiling an
enormous quantity of good things in the housekeeper’s room, making some
uneatable gingerbread and cakes, and ourselves very dirty. There are a
quantity of children here, and all very nice ones seemingly. Lady
Theresa Strangways[36] would be really a dear little thing, if Lady G.
Murray[37] would not talk and teaze one so about her stomach and teeth.

...Lady G. Murray is in greater beauty than ever, and happier than
anybody I ever saw. She has two sons here.”


...I was so cross and stupid with a pain in my ear which I have had this
week, and in such a fury with Willy Osborne[38] who made a point of
dropping his shuttlecock on my paper every minute, that I was obliged to
leave off writing in order to fight with him, and when that battle was
ended, he insisted on playing at Blind Man’s Buff....

Mary seems quite delighted with her visit to Melbury, and even nearly
reconciled to quitting Bowood, which she was very sorry to do. Sir
George Paul,[39] nearly eighty years old, is very much struck with her,
she says, and when she goes to the pianoforte puts on his spectacles,
and sits opposite her, gazing on her beautiful countenance with great

He drank two glasses of wine with her at dinner, and all the other
ladies insisted on his drinking one with them, that they might at least
have half as much done for them as was done for Mary.

We are all in doubt whether to like Sir G. Paul best or Mr. Whishaw, a
lawyer, about ten years younger, but with only one leg. But the poor
man, George says, was terribly smitten, and if they had staid but two
days longer at Bowood, it would have come to a happy conclusion.

I myself should prefer somebody rather older and steadier.

Lady Ilchester wrote to Mamma, to know whether she was to let this
flirtation go on, as it does at present....

George writes in good spirits, and seems delighted with his tour and
with Melbury, which is the pleasantest place he knows. He says Mary is
in very good spirits and makes a deuce of a noise and that she is a
great favourite wherever she goes, and he believes _deservedly_ so.

They neither of them seem to have any idea that they must ever come home
again; but if ever they do I will let you know. Yours affectionately,


_Miss Eden to her Brother, Lord Auckland_.

_Monday, January_ 1815.

POOR DEAR LITTLE GEORGY, I am quite sorry it has been in such a fuss
about the key, and I am afraid my last letter will not have set it’s
little heart at ease, but on Sunday morning Morton[40] and I hunted for
an hour, and at last found the key tied with a _yellow_ ribbon, and not
a blue one, and when we had found it and made Bob ride to Greenwich[41]
as fast as he could, he found Mr. Dyer laughing by himself at the fuss
you and Morton were in. He said the chest was broken open at a quarter
past twelve and is now broken up for life. Which of your brothers-in-law
do you like best? because I cannot make up my mind quite to either,
though I believe I like lame Whishaw better than the venerable Paul.
Mama is really fidgetty about them; and if you write again, will you let
us know whether Mary is really as pleasant as she pretends to be and
whether she did not make you underline the words “_deservedly liked_” in
your last letter? Because it looked very suspicious.... Talking of
Fooleys, by the bye, Mr. and Miss Vansittart come here this afternoon,
and I am grown duller than ever. Thank you for your verses, which we
liked very much. Ever your affectionate sister,


_Lord Auckland to Miss Eden_.

_January_ 13, 1815.

MY DEAR EMILY, Here we are once more within 30 miles of home, came here
late yesterday, everybody at dinner--Mary in such a fright you never
saw--such a silence you never heard--room so hot you never felt--dinner
so cold you never tasted--dogs so tiresome you never smelt. So we must
go to Shottesbrook _bon gré, mal gré_. Hang labels round your necks when
we arrive on Wednesday or Thursday with your names on them (like the
decanters) for do what we will, Mary and I cannot recollect your faces.
Are you the one with the long nose?

Lady Riversdale’s maid has had an offer of marriage, and she has refused
it, because she “had not that attachment that ought to subside between
man and wife.”

Mind that, girls, and don’t marry rashly. Yours, and a day no more
foolish than yourself,


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_March_ 9 [1815].

MY DEAREST SISTER, As the Queen has been so uncivil and even spiteful to
me and my sattin gown, as to put off the drawing-room, our three letters
per day upon dress may now cease, and this is merely a letter of thanks
for all the trouble you have taken with Wynne, Pontet, lace, notes,
hoops, drapery, sattin, carriers, feathers, jewels, etc., and which have
unluckily, by this strange and unaccountable spitefulness of H.M., all
proved useless.

Poor Beckenham is gone mad about the corn laws,[43] and have revenged
themselves on poor innocent harmless out-of-the-way George, by drawing
him on the walls hanging as comfortably as possible, and Mr. Cator on
another gibbet opposite to him. Mr. Colvile[44] is also hanging
somewhere else.... Every house and wall is covered with mottoes, and “No
corn laws” in every direction. Ever your affectionate,


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_June_ 24 [1815].

MY DEAREST SISTER, We had not expected the satisfaction of two letters
from you to-day.... A letter that condescends to speak of two
housemaids, without talking of battles and Bonaparte, is a very
delightful novelty, as I am quite tired of rejoicing and lamenting over
this news[45] which, upon the whole, strikes me as very melancholy,
though I know that is a very wrong feeling.

There have yet been no accounts of poor Lady Delancey![46] She must have
had a horrible shock at first, as Sir William, believing himself to be
dying, refused at first to be removed from the field of battle, which
gave rise to the report of his death. Poor Lady I. Hay quitted London at
six yesterday morning to inform her father,[47] who was in the country,
of Lord Hay’s death. He was not more than nineteen, and was a friend of
Bob’s at Eton.

The George Elliots[48] came here to dinner yesterday, with their
youngest child, who is a very fine child, and as a baby, I thought its
name might be interesting to you, though it was not very different from
other children, except that it had, on its cap a lilac satin
cockade,[49] which is naturally a very pretty thing, though a baby sewed
to it does not add to its beauty.

That is, however, a mere matter of taste.

Mrs. G. Elliot we all like, and she has full as much sense as the rest
of the world, and would be as pleasant, if her manner was not rather
hurried and rough, evidently from shyness and a fear of being thought

Except these, we have not seen anybody, not even a neighbour, nor do I
believe there are such things as neighbours left in the world, and it is
much too hot to go and look for them if they are yet alive.

Mrs. Green, poor woman, seems to think you a little dull, but I always
told you how it would be when you lost me, and I am glad to see Mrs.
Green has so much penetration. Ever your affectionate sister,


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_July_ 3, 1815.

We heard yesterday from the Selkirks[50] a certain account of poor Sir
W. Delancey’s death,[51] and we heard it also from several other good
authorities. The Selkirks have been in town every day in hopes of
hearing either of or from Lady Delancey, but without success. Her
situation is most dreadful, as he died at Waterloo, so she is not near
any acquaintance she might have made at Brussels. She is but eighteen,
and literally just out of the nursery. She has with her only a new
maid, whom Lady Selkirk procured for her but three weeks ago. It appears
very shocking that none of her relations should have gone to her on
hearing of his wound, as she will now have every detail to manage for
herself, and her return to Penge, which she quitted in such violent
spirits not a month ago, will be dreadful. The Selkirks expect her every

I have just been interrupted by the arrival of the Lansdowne children,
who are come here for the afternoon to make Lady Lansdowne’s excuse for
not coming to take leave before she goes out of town. The little
girl[52] is the prettiest little thing I ever saw--the smallest
child--looking like a fairy _for all the world_.

_July 6, 1815_.

We were all very sorry to hear of poor Comte Meerveldt’s[53] death, for
_her_ distress must be very great. Little Rodolphe will now be a great
consolation to her. Lady Selkirk has had one very short note from poor
Lady Delancey.[54] It was almost too composed to be comfortable to her
friends. She said her husband had died at Waterloo, and was buried the
morning she wrote, at Brussels, and she wished Lady Selkirk would have
his picture done immediately by Heaphy,[55] as that was the only thing
she could now live for. She made no complaint, except saying that she
had had but one very happy week at Brussels, which was over, and that
she was sure Lady Selkirk, at least, would feel for such a very wretched
creature. She is expected at Penge to-morrow. There is an odd mixture of
joy and sorrow in that house, as Lady K. Douglas[56] is married there
to-day, which is rather astonishing, considering the state her family is

_Miss Eden to Lord Auckland_.

_August 11 [1815]_.

MY DEAREST GEORGE, I put a most excellent joke in these two first lines,
but was obliged to efface them from my fear of the police, but it is
inserted in sympathetic Ink, and if you will hold it for 3/4 of an hour
by a very hot fire, rubbing it violently the whole time without
intermission, with the back of your hat and one hand, I daresay you will
find it.

We are much as you left us. I cannot buy any sheep yet, for the price
has risen in the market prodigiously, and we must wait a little, but
Walsh is to go to Smithfield this week to see how things are. In your
directions you left out a very important word, whether the ferrule
should be fixed in the bottom, or the seat of the Tilbury. I say the
former, and Mama the latter. One makes the umbrella too low, the other
too high, but by a little arrangement of mine, too long to explain, I
have made it the right height for myself, bonnet, feathers, and all, and
it will altogether be very comfortable.

There is to be a meeting of all the Sunday Schools in the district next
week at Bromley, and a collection, and a collation. We mean to eat up
the collation, and give all our old clipped sixpences to the collection,
which we think is a plan you would approve if you were here.

Madden[57] has given us so much to do, we have not a minute’s spare
time. We are duller than a hundred posts about Astronomy, and if you can
find any planets for us in Paris, we shall be obliged to you, as we
cannot find one on the globe, and Madden only laughs at us. There!
Good-bye, my dearest George. Take care of your little self. Your


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_Thursday, August_ 31, 1815.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Did Mama write to you yesterday? I wish I knew, but
she is unluckily upstairs, and indeed I must say is hardly ever in the
way when I want her.

I had meant to have answered your letter yesterday, but Mary, Miss
Vansittart, and I went a-pleasuring, so that I had not time.

We went in the morning to Greenwich, where Mr. Van.[58] met us in the
Admiralty barge, and took us to the steamboat.

We found there Lord and Lady Liverpool,[59] my dear Letitia Taylor, Lady
Georgina, and Lady Emily Bathurst, Lord Bathurst, Lord Harrowby, Sir G.
Hope, Sir George Warrender, Mr. Lushington, etc. Lady Liverpool still
retains the notion that I am Miss Eden in the country, as well as in
town, and introduced Mary as Miss E. Eden, and me as Miss Eden to all
the company, and Mr. Van. insisted on calling Miss Taylor--Miss Rickets,
so that the most curious effect steam has had yet was making a large
company answer to wrong names.

The Invention itself, I believe, was supposed to succeed perfectly. We
had a very pleasant row, or steaming, or whatever else it may be called,
beyond Woolwich, and back to Greenwich again in three hours, during
which time we also contrived to eat a large breakfast, and a larger
dinner and dessert.

Lord Liverpool had some very improper purring scenes, and Lady Liverpool
was very good-natured....

It must be an amusing sight to see Sarah[60] scolding the post-boy for
not driving fast enough, or calling to the hostler for “a pair of horses
to St. Albans immediately,” or adding up the innkeeper’s account, and
giving him something over for the scoundrel that drove.

That is the style she must now adopt. Ever your affect. sister,


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_August 19_ [1817].

MY DEAREST SISTER, The reason I am in such a state of ignorance about
the letter is, that Mama and Louisa[61] went to meet them in _their_ way
to London; that we were behind them in the poney-cart; and George behind
us in the gig. We all fell in with each other and the letters in the
middle of Penge Common, where we each took what belonged to us. I met
immediately with the dreadful intelligence that you were going actually
to take May Place, and on our recommendation, which dreadful
intelligence I communicated to George, who immediately fainted away, and
was driven off by his servant. I fainted away, and was driven off by
Mary, and Mama and Louisa went on in hysterics to London. I really am
quite in a fright about it, and cannot think what beauties I ever saw in
it. The house is nothing but a pile of old bricks, the rooms cold, damp,
dirty, inconvenient cells, the view cheerless and bleak, the offices
large and decaying, the garden unproductive and expensive, the
neighbours impertinent and intrusive, the gardener impudent, the
housemaids idle, the landlord exacting, and the tenant in a terrible
scrape indeed--and so is the tenant’s sister too, as far as I can make
out.... The only thing I know for certain is that I am to send our
bricklayer there early to-morrow to look at the house, and to meet
George, who goes there at break of day; and if I can bribe him, as he is
a very clever person, to pull the whole thing down, I will. It is past
letter-time, and I have not time to read over what nonsense I have
written. Lady Byron[62] and her child come here the 27th. Most
affectionately yours,

E. E.

There is a rheumatic headache attached to the place, and let with it.

_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_October_ 10 [1817].

MY DEAREST SISTER, The “Eden Farmots” have kept me in such profound
ignorance with respect to you that I had some doubts whether you were
not settled at Charlton,[63] or whether you were not tired of the name
of house, and had fitted up a nice hollow tree for yourself with some
little hollow trees round it for your sisters and friends. It looks
rather pretty and attentive though, in me, that I should answer your
questions two days before you ask them.

This weather is particularly provoking in a house where there are but
few books, but the last week we have contrived to be out nearly ten
hours every day, beginning at seven in the morning. Getting up at that
time and swimming through the fog to drink the coldest of all cold water
is the least pleasant part of the day, but otherwise I have lost all
hatred to exercise, from the circumstance of never being fatigued with
any quantity of it.

The Vyners are so close to us that we are always together.... I wish
somebody would just have the kindness to marry Miss Vyner. She would be
such an excellent chaperon-general to all young ladies.

We had on Sunday morning the finest sermon I ever heard from Mr.
Benson--so fine that we went in the dark and in the rain to hear
another. He began by preaching at the Opposition, which gave me a fit of
the sullens; then he went on to smugglers, then to brandy merchants;
and, lastly, laid the sins of the whole set and all the other
misfortunes of the country upon “ladies who wore fancy dresses” and
encouraged smuggling by example and money.

It is a very odd fashion now, I think, to abuse women for everything,
but, however, there were so few gentlemen at Church that we all bore it
tolerably well. People’s French bonnets sat tottering on their heads,
and if it had not been for some sense of decency and a want of pockets,
many a French shawl was preparing to step itself quietly out of the way.
Your most affect. sister,

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_November_ 16 [1817].

MY DEAREST SISTER, You seemed by your last letter to be so overcome by
the communications of your friends, that I burnt a long composition of
mine. Indeed, nobody but an excellent sister could be induced to write
on such a gloomy, dispiriting afternoon, but I have put the table close
by the fire, with one leg (belonging to the table, not to me) in the
fender, to prevent it from slipping away, the arm-chair close behind the
table, and me supported by them both, holding a pen in one hand and the
poker in the other, and now, have at you.

Yesterday was not a flourishing day by any means, but this is to be
different, as the Osbornes[64] and their five noisy, unmanageable,
provoking, tiresome and dear children are coming, so we have all
collected whatever health and strength we possess to answer the demands
of the day.

I called on Lady Grantham[65] last week. The Baby is a remarkably pretty
child, immensely fat and very nice-looking for its age, but still I
could not come up quite to her raptures on the subject, and I thought it
still looked red like other babies, and I never should of my own accord
have thought of coaxing it so much as she expected. Ever, my dearest
Sister, most affect. yours,


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire_.

_Sunday Ev. September_ 13, 1818.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Your account of Mary agrees very much with her own. I
do not know if you have heard from her since she has settled to pay a
little visit at Frognal, but, if so, you must have thought with me that
Lord Sydney[67] will be a very pleasant brother-in-law for us. Such a
great addition, in every sense of the word, to our society, and when the
Miss Townshends have been turned out of doors, upon any slight pretence,
it will really be a very nice establishment.

I am going on here just as was expected, very unhappy at first for about
three days, without any particular place in the room, or any particular
rule about being in the library, or my own room, or Lady Grantham’s, and
then, you know, my trunk and all my worldly possessions were missing
and lost, which was a cruel blow, at my first setting out, but at last
my dear trunk reappeared unexpectedly, and from that time I got
comfortabler and comfortabler, till I could get no further.

Miss Wynn[68] I like very much, probably because I expected to dislike
her. The rest of the family are perfectly inoffensive, with nothing
particularly agreeable or disagreeable in them, except indeed I have the
pleasure of beating Mr. Wynn at chess every evening, till the tears
almost course one another down his innocent cheeks, but I go on beating
him for all that.

Lady Grantham is much better than she was during the journey; we go out
every day in the pony-cart together, and call on the farmers and
cottagers. I do not understand one word in ten the people say, and
should be glad to take a Yorkshire master if I could find one. I hope,
for your sake, Gog Magog[69] is not as green as this place is, else you
will be more angry than ever with the dusty trees and brown grass of
Eastcombe. The grass was quite dazzling when I first came here, and the
green is a bad colour for the eyes, after the nice quiet brown we have
been accustomed to, but green peas agree remarkably well with me, and
sometimes I give a little passing thought to you, when I am packing up a
great forkfull of them, and again when the children bring me in immense
nosegays of mignonette, sweet peas, jessamine, which are to be put out
at night because they smell so very sweet.

Lady Grantham’s garden is beautiful, and full of every sort of flower,
but then it is generally locked. The house is excessively comfortable,
with a stove in every passage, and a fire in every room, servants’ and
all, an excellent library, and a very pretty statue gallery, heaps of
amusing books, and an arm-chair for every limb. I foresee a great
probability of my being very happy here, as my love of Lady Grantham
does not diminish by any means, and he and I are great friends, and he
likes to be played to for hours together. Your most affec.


_Miss Eden to her Brother, Lord Auckland._

_Monday_ [1818].

MY DEAREST GEORGE, Having in our former letters nearly settled all our
business matters, I may venture this time to indulge you with a few
lighter topics.... This house is what Bob would call _chuck full_, but I
do not think you know any of the company except the Markhams[70] and
Mrs. Graham. I think all the Markhams pleasant in their way. Anne is
rather an odd fellow, but very amusing, and Frederica is very pleasant.
Cecilia desires me to give you her kind remembrance. As for your friend
Mr. Graham,[71] though I would not wish to be severe, yet I cannot think
a man who wears a light sort of mulberry-coloured “don’t mentions,” from
a wish to look _waspish_, can be any great shakes. The rest of his
character may be very good perhaps, but I can hardly think so under
these circumstances.

Your Bess has been making sad work of it indeed, and I wish she had not
been promised to Sister, for the Granthams are enquiring everywhere for
a dog of that description, and I think Bess would find this place
pleasanter than Eastcombe. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

NEWBY HALL [1818].

MY DEAREST SISTER, Your pride must be getting up again, I should
imagine, and I must give it a little epistolary pat on the back (what a
remarkably odd clever expression) to keep it all smooth.

My illness was remarkably opportune, inasmuch as it began at
Studley,[72] and which was so uncommonly dull, that the impossibility of
dining down was an immense advantage that I had over the rest of
society. We were nineteen at dinner every day. We were all immensely
formal in the evening.

The house is but a bad one in the old-fashioned way, and my room was
peculiarly liable to murder and that sort of accident, a large dark
green bed with black feathers on the top, stuck in a deep alcove, and on
one side of it an enormous dark closet, quite full of banditti I fancy,
and all the rest of the room actually swarming with ghosts I know, only
I was much too sleepy to lay awake and look at them.

Mrs. Lawrence has an unhappy turn for music without any very remarkable
genius, and we played 150 pages of the dryest Duetts in the Dussek and
Pleyel style without even changing our time, or rising into a forte, or
sinking into a piano, and minding every Repeat and Da Capo in the book.

On Wednesday Lord Grantham and Mr. Graham went on some Yeomanry business
to Leeds, on Thursday we came home to my great joy. Adieu, my dearest
sister; this has been written in a confusion of tongues, and I cannot
make it any longer by any means. Ever your most affec.


_P.S._--I have got a beautiful black cloth gown for two guineas, so fine
you never saw the like.

_Emily Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_November_ [1818].

MY DEAREST SISTER, We are now quite alone for the first time since I
came--that is, the Wynns are here still, but they are part of being
alone, and we have never before been so few, and I must say that it is
uncommonly pleasant after so much company. The mere comfort of being
able to go about the house with _rough_ hair, or a _tumbled_ frill, and
in an old black gown, is not to be despised, and there is some pleasure
in taking up a book in the evening and yawning over it, and then saying
anything that comes uppermost, without thinking. We are very busy,
dressing little dolls for Lord Grantham’s Theatre, which is one of the
most ingenious pieces of mechanism I ever saw, and one of the prettiest
things altogether. There is to be a grand representation to-night, and
we have been rehearsing all the last week. It takes nine people to
manage the scenery, figures, and music, and we all of us lose our
tempers at it regularly every morning. I act the orchestra, and whilst I
am playing away to the best of my power the music belonging to any
particular scene, Anne[73] and Lady Grantham, who manage the figures,
get into some hobble, and the music is finished before the action to
which it belongs is begun, so that Harlequin and Columbine have to dance
out without any time to assist them. I believe nothing in the world
could ruffle Lord Grantham’s temper; but these theatrical difficulties
go nearer to it than anything else, and while he is explaining to Lady
Grantham that the figures will move if she takes pains, and to me that
the music is quite long enough if I will but play slower, it may be
rather provoking that Freddy[74] should let down the wrong trap-door,
Anne set her sleeves on fire in one of the lamps, Mary[75] turn the
cascade the wrong way, so that the water runs up instead of down; Thomas
the footman should let down a light blue sky to a dark moonlight scene,
and Shaw should forget the back scene altogether, so that his coat and
buttons and white waistcoat are figuring away in the distance of the
Fire King’s Palace. However, patience and scolding have overcome these
little difficulties, and our last rehearsal was perfect.

Lady Melville[76] and her children were here for five days last week. I
do not know exactly what I thought of her. She is too clever not to be
rather pleasant, and too argumentative not to be very tiresome, and
altogether I do not think I liked her. But her visit took place very
soon after I had heard of poor Sir S. Romilly,[77] and I was too much
shocked and too unhappy really to like anybody, particularly a person
who insisted upon discussing the whole thing constantly, and in a
_political_ way. I think I have never been more shocked by anything that
was not a private calamity--I mean, that did not concern one’s family or
one’s self--than I was by this, and poor Captain Feilding[78] who was
here, and who was a private friend of his, was so completely overcome
that I was very sorry for him too. Altogether it is a horrible history,
and only shows how very little we can know what is good for man in this
life, when we were all saying some months ago that this would be the
proudest year of Sir S. Romilly’s life. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Lord Auckland to Miss Eden._

_Monday, November 1818_.

MY DEAR EMILY, I have this moment seen an agent of Mrs. Wildman, a rich
Kentish widow, and she has agreed to take Eden Farm on my own terms,
which gives us a prospect of being a little more settled and

She is to have it for seven years and pay £600 a year. And now I must
look out for a house in town, which you will find pretty near ready for
you when you arrive. I am in a great bustle and hurry, for we are all
alive with this election, though with the melancholy impression of poor
Romilly’s death it is difficult to rouse people. Hobhouse[79] has
behaved so ill that it is right to try to beat him, but I fear that
Lamb[80] is too late. He will certainly be low on the poll for the first
week, but it is possible that afterwards he may recover. In the
meantime, people are very busy, and none of our friends are sanguine.
Your affectionate brother,


_Lord Auckland to Miss Eden._

[_November_] 1818.

MY DEAR EMILY, Lamb carried his election to-day by 604, and made a sort
of a speech saying that now he was their member, and they were his
constituents, and that they would soon learn to be friends. He was a
little hooted, but not much more than usual; but all our foolish friends
appeared to cheer him with cockades in their hats, and all was uproar
and riot and confusion and pelting and brickbats and mud, and it is
lucky none of them were very seriously hurt. They all arrived covered
with dirt to the west end of the town, and the mob at their heels, for
they were too gallant not to stop to be occasionally pelted.

I never saw such a scene. Your friend Graham[81] looked as if he had
just come out from the pillory; Sefton, Morton, and twenty others in the
same plight.

Report says that one servant is nearly killed; I hope it is not true.
Ferguson had a blow on his head, and Mr. Charlton another more serious
one; but I hear of nothing worse. It makes but an ugly triumph for our
great _victory_. What a glorious debate was yesterday’s!

You will live at No. 30 Lower Grosvenor Street, the only house I can
get, small but convenient, and I think we shall make it do well enough.
Ever affectionately yours,


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

NEWBY HALL [1818].

MY DEAREST SISTER, ...Mr. Ellis left this place yesterday, so I could
not give him your message. I think he enjoyed the latter part of his
visit here very much, as there was a very pleasant set of gentlemen, and
Mr. Douglas, who is more amusing than ever. We had besides them, two Mr.
Lascelles’s,[82] one “a cunning hunter” and the other very gentlemanlike
and pleasant; Mr. Duncombe, a _pretty_ little London Dandy, rather
clever in his way; Captain Cust,[83] a soldierly sort of person, and a
kind of _Lusus Naturae_ (is that sense do you think?), because he is
pleasant and well-looking though he is a Cust, and Mr. Petre, very rich
and very stupid, so that we had a very proper mixture of character....

We are all hunting mad in these parts, and I am afraid that when I come
to Eastcombe I shall be a great expense to you with my hunters and
grooms. I have already made great progress in the language of the art.

I have heard a new name for the Miss Custs, in case you are tired of the
Dusty Camels; by uniting their names of Brownlow and Cust, they become
Brown Locusts, which is a very expressive title I think. I remain, ever
yr. very affec. sister,




_Miss Eden to the Dowager Lady Buckinghamshire._

_Sunday, February 14_ [1819].

MY DEAREST SISTER, I was very sorry to hear of the unfortunate state in
which you have been, and in which Sarah [Lady Sarah Robinson] is, as I
have a sufficient recollection of the Mumps to know what a very
disagreeable disorder they are, or they is.

We have had a _spirt_ of company for the last three days, but they all
very kindly walked off yesterday, and as it is wrong to dwell upon past
evils, I spare you an account of most of them.

There were a Mr. and Mrs. Winyard amongst them, who were very pleasant.
He was in the army, and is now in the Church, and though they are the
sort of people who have a child every year, and talk about their
governess, and though she very naturally imagined, that because she was
absent, the high wind would blow away the little tittupy parsonage, and
the ten precious children, yet they really were very agreeable.

He sang so very beautifully though, that it made all his other good
qualities quite superfluous, and I am convinced it would have touched
your unmusical heart to hear him sing some of the Irish Melodies.

I have some thoughts of writing an Essay on Education for the good of my
country, and I think the little Robinsons[84] will in most cases serve
for example, and I must say that, tho’ children, they are very nice
things, and uncommonly well managed.

If at any time you will let me know how you are going on, the smallest
intelligence will be thankfully received. Ever, my dear Sister, your
very affect.


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_Monday, March 15, 1819._

MY DEAREST SISTER, This place affords so very little to say, that if
this prove to be a long letter, of which at present I do not see much
chance, I pity from my heart your feelings of weariness at the end of
it. There is nobody here but the Campbells, but I imagine that the
family of Thynne are much pleasanter out of a crowd. At least, we are
not the least formal or dull, which from the account Mary and Fanny used
to give I thought would have been the case.

The magnificence of the house far surpasses anything I have ever seen,
and with all that, it is one of the most comfortable abodes possible. It
is inconvenient too in some respects, at least to me, who have an
unfortunate knack of losing my way even in a house that may consist of
only ten rooms, so that I cannot stir without Fanny or some other guide.

There are several roads to our rooms. The servants make it, I think,
about five and twenty minutes’ walk, a little more than a mile and a
quarter; but then that is a very intricate way.

Lady Bath[85] is very much out of spirits at times about Lord
Weymouth,[86] who is going on very ill; but she is always very pleasant
and very good-humoured....

Lady Elizabeth[87] and Lady Louisa[88] both make themselves very

We leave this place Saturday night, probably, which I am very sorry for,
but George must be in town Monday, and therefore it is necessary to be
there Saturday. However, he is first going to see poor Lord Ilchester at
Weymouth,[89] and is to rejoin me on the road, so our plans depend a
little on Lord Ilchester’s. London will be a little dark and
dismal-looking this weather, but the FitzGeralds are coming up to be at
the Meeting of Parliament, and I shall be rather glad to meet Pam.[90]
Your most affectionate


_Miss Pamela FitzGerald to Miss Eden._


So you are not dead at all, Emmy! I am very glad, for I can’t spare you.
I have been what the people call in a great deal of trouble. Aunt[91]
frightened me, she chose to neglect her cough so long, that when at last
on her complaining of pain in her side I bullied her, and sent for
Dundas, he found she has a considerable degree of inflammation on her
chest, and she was to be bled directly; the Apothecary out of the way,
never came home till night. Aunt made a monstrous piece of work between
fright and fever, and cried out, and the candles flared, and Baker
stamped, and I who thought myself so courageous, I was turned upside
down with the whole business.

Lucy[92] is staying at Mrs. Seymour’s, luckily out of the mess; she went
over for a ball Monday, and Mrs. Seymour has kept her on there.

I had a letter from Edward[93] a few days ago, written from the Slough
of Despond; he has joined his regiment at Lichfield, and you may imagine
the transition from Paris, poor darling. I would give the whole world to
go and comfort him.

Emmy, don’t you know what I mean? But when anything one loves is
unhappy, it seems more particularly to belong to one.

He comes to us the 11th, for a few days, which I look to with some
anxiety, after that taste, or rather distaste, we had of each other in

I am looking about for a conveyance to Town, because I want to buy a
hat; at present I am all shaven and shorn, and shall be reduced to wear
a paper cap, if I don’t take care.

I am obliged to write with this pen, which is like a Chinese chop stick,
because I am in Aunt’s room, and she is asleep, and I dare not begin
that quick rustle, which disturbs and wakes a Patient as much as the
roar of a cannon, and which would be unavoidable in a hunt for quill or
knife; as it is I have some trouble to keep the paper from crackling,
and the few books _d’alentour_ from throwing themselves head-long off
the table, which is the way of all books the moment one drops asleep.

I have had sad fits of low spirits. Spring makes one languid to a
degree, that the air is a weight upon one.

The Assizes were delightful. I don’t think it right to carve out
futurity for oneself, or else I really think I should like never to
marry anybody who does not wear a Lawyer’s Wig. It is proper, it
adorneth the outward and visible man; those thin terrier faces, those
hollow cheeks and deep eyes, are precious and lovely.

I was amused at the younglings, whose callow smooth faces look all the
younger for the wig. Seriously, the interest of the most important cases
to me was inexpressible. It is the reality which presses on one’s heart,
and makes an impression far deeper than the utmost stretch of imaginary
sorrow can ever produce.

I have seen no creature, and have established my character Bearish in
the neighbourhood, so they are content to let me alone....

Mr. Peel[94] could not help marrying that girl who is silly; those
things fit, and are so far satisfactory they establish some sort of
system in the goings on of the world, and give body to speculation. Wise
men love fools.

I had done writing, and then as usual a whole heap of things came
lumbering about my head. I had a high letter from poor Eliza Fitz.[95]
She has given up her dearest hopes on earth, and if she should be
obliged to marry any one else, miserable, wretched, homeless, she trusts
she will do her duty and be a good wife; that’s the résumé of four
criss-cross sheets of paper. I wrote her a very reasonable letter to
comfort her, for she is painfully ashamed of herself, poor girl, and
there is no use in that, so I turned her over to the bright side. She
has only fallen in that common error of whipping up her feelings with
words, and they never can keep pace _even_, one will always be before
the other.

_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_June 4_ [1819].

MY DEAREST SISTER, Mary went out last night to Mrs. Baring’s[96] ball,
which was not likely to do her much good, and is completely “frappée en
haut” (Sir W. Wynn’s translation of “knocked up”) with headache and
fatigue this morning. Dissipation is not likely to agree with her,
certainly, but then, Sister, think of the pineapples and strawberries
and ices and temporary rooms and magnificent hangings and beautiful
flowers at Mrs. Baring’s.

I wish I was a rich old banker; but then I would not have, or _own_, so
many fellow-creatures as the Barings do. I keep my comforts a little
more to myself.... We have had a most alarming visit from Rogers the
Poet this morning, the very recollection of which would make my hair,
black pins, combs and all, stand on end, if they had ever subsided since
his first appearance. I never saw such a satirical, odious wretch, and I
was calculating the whole time, from what he was saying of other people,
what he could find ill-natured enough to say of us. I had never seen him
before, and trust I never shall again. Your most affectionate


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_June 10, 1819._

MY DEAREST SISTER, You will, I hope, have more pleasure or rather
happiness than _I_ can yet teach myself to feel, in hearing that our
dearest Mary is going to be married to Charles Drummond. It cannot be a
surprise, of course, to any one, as he has certainly taken no pains to
conceal his attachment; but the objections arising from want of
fortune, we had not hoped could have been so well overcome as they are,
quite to the satisfaction of his friends and hers also. It was almost
settled at Lady Darnley’s fancy ball on Monday, and concluded by letter
(such a very pretty letter!) on Tuesday morning. Mary and I went down to
Langley[97] for an hour for a little advice, as George was gone to his
Committee; then we saw George; then Mr. D.; and, in short, everything
went on smoothly, and as such things usually do go on. George has seen
the old Drummonds, who were very good-humoured and quite agreeable. In
short, I should believe we were all amazingly happy, only I _know_ I
have seldom felt so wretched. She will be such a dreadful loss to me!
But I will only think of the advantages of the case; and George is so
pleased, and it is altogether a very desirable thing for all of us,
besides the real chief point of her happiness, which she ought to find,
and of which she has so reasonable a prospect. The Post Bell is ringing.
Mary would have written herself, but _he_ is here, and this is their
first real conversation. Sarah will excuse my not writing to her to-day,
I hope, and I really have had great difficulty in making out this one
letter, and we have told nobody else yet. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_Friday, August 13, 1819_.

MY DEAREST EMILY, I was really sorry not to be able to accept Lady
Buckinghamshire’s invitation, but you see it could not be, for Lucy sets
off Tuesday morning, and as Aunt Soph[98] never parted with her before
in her life, I must stay and comfort her....

Think of Sister liking me! I know of few phenomena that ever more
surprised me, for I concluded she had set me down as wild and
scapegracish. However, it was certainly reciprocal, for she certainly
took my fancy very much.

Mary is very much changed since she has gone to live with that Drummond;
however, you must get the better of that awkwardness, my poor dear Emmy,
which for some time will hang over you. Besides, when Mary’s mind
settles again, you will get on better, and no longer miss her. In short,
make haste and come, for I cannot write, but I want to talk to you.

Mary gave a sad account of that comical Dog,[99] I trust he is

It was a very foolish thing of Mary marrying, but let us hope that, as a
cook once said to me when I represented that she had not married
prudently, “It was very foolish. The only thing is never to do so again,
Ma’am, let us hope.” I say she will look upon it as warning....

I have bought me some ducks, Emily, which I have to dill-dill myself. As
yet I hold out, but as I may think dill a bore, I must hope Providence
or instinct, that instinct, Emily, which does “Blush in the rose, and in
the diamond blaze,” that wonderful instinct I do hope will teach them
their solitary way to the back yard.

I am going to get me a Pig too, which I mean to farm upon speculation
and make monies.

Have you heard from that comical Dogge? By the bye, I hear that a man
was bit by a comical dog at Kingston, and is very bad. Sad times, bread
is dear, reformers meeting, dogs mad, and such a harvest the farmers
must be ruined.... Ever your affect.


_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_Friday, September 10, 1819_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, My visit to Thames Ditton I liked of all things. Poor
Aunty was confined to her room with a bad sore throat till the last two
days of my stay, so that Pam and I had it all to ourselves. We lived
from breakfast time till seven at Boyle Farm, a beautiful place of Lord
H. FitzGerald’s by the river. I drew a great deal (what an odd word drew
is! I mean, I drawed a great deal) and Pam read loud a very little, and
I played and she sang, and the talking and laughing we divided in two
equal large shares. I was very sorry to leave her, but I should have
missed Mary altogether if I had not come here this week. There is an
immense party in the house, but as everybody does what they like that is
rather an advantage than otherwise. We set off after breakfast yesterday
in _seven pairs_ to take a walk, Mr. D. and Mary leading the way like
Noah and his wife. Then came Mr. and Mrs. Shem, Ham and Japhet, and two
or three odd pairs of beasts, the remainder here I suppose. I was set
upon a horse, too, after luncheon, which was a Mazeppa-ish
sensation--but there are beautiful rides about here, and if I was not as
stiff as a poker to-day, I should have enjoyed that ride yesterday

Any little shyness that change of circumstance may have made, and indeed
must have made at first, is quite over, and we are as comfortable as
ever, which is satisfactory, considering that I love nothing in the
world so well as her--tho’ I should be sorry that she should say the
same of me _now_. I am quite contented to be second. Her happiness is
not the least surprising, as it must be pleasant in the first place, to
be _considered_ as she is by all the Drummonds, and Mr. Drummond’s
merits open upon me every day. He is much superior to all his family, I
think, and as Mary thinks him superior to everything else, it all is as
it should be. Adieu, dearest Sister. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_September 23, 1819_.

...You must tell Mr. Drummond I never thank him enough for having
blessed me with Bess, for some days she pondered on the vicissitudes of
sties, but she has recovered herself, and enjoys existence with all the
buoyancy and exuberance of youthful spirits. Her beauty is remarkable,
and she possesses much of that _piquant_ and _espièglerie_, which so
seldom is allied to regularity of feature. Her disposition is very
engaging, her heart mild and tender, and so affectionate she will eat
out of my hand. In short, her perfections are such, I defy the bosom of
a Jew to resist the fascination of them.

Your Uncle Henry[100] went away last Thursday; he went without bidding
us good-bye, but wrote a very quiet touching note, saying parting gave
him such a squeeze about the heart, he could not bear the idea of taking
leave. Poor Aunt did not like it at all--by the bye, that’s one of the
topics that are spoiling in my mind, for want of you to discuss them. I
think one don’t escape the squeeze at the heart by avoiding a parting,
and that one has in addition a very unpleasant jar, besides having one’s
mind all over in a litter of things one still had to say, and odd ends
of topics (the pig just stepped into the room to see what I was about;
it must have some Irish blood in it, for it seems quite at home in the

Lucy comes back next Saturday. She met, she tells me in her last
letter, Lady Harrowby,[101] and Newman the Russian, and Pahlen the
Prussian, and Lady Ebrington[102] behind her parasol and Lord Ebrington,
and Lady Mary Ryder, and Ed. Montagu; in short, as she says, the whole
cavalcade of Click.

We have just now my cousins Cootes[103] staying with us, I have always a
sort of nervous fear of seeing them vanish, they seem so like bad

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_October 3, 1819._

I cannot say how much your long satisfactory letter delighted me, that’s
something like a letter. I ought not to have been surprised at the
tidings you give of dearest Mary, for when people marry there is nothing
we may not expect them to do, and it is our own fault if we allow
ourselves to be astonished at anything.

Lucy came back yesterday week, fat, well, in high force, delighted with
all she has seen and done; in short, for you can bear with my
obliquities, her spirits were a peg or two higher than my own, which
trod me down very much at first....

I have been spending a day at Bushy with the Mansfields.[104] I like her
infinitely the best of the two, she really is sensible, amiable, and as
clever as need be. He seems to have a cloudy unhappy temper, and some
pretensions which he has not ability enough to either disguise or

Mr. Rose[105] was there (the Court of Beasts Rose), and I like him much
better on acquaintance. With wretched health he manages to keep up an
even flow of spirits. He appears to indulge himself in his whims and
oddities for his own amusement, and to divert his mind from dwelling
upon the sufferings of his body, which makes one very lenient towards
his jokes, poor man! even when they are not good. He seems amiable, and
when one can get him to speak seriously his conversation is very
charming, for with great information he is perfectly natural and easy;
it is very odd he should like dirty jokes. I wonder whether it is
inherent, or merely the consequence of bad health which catches at
anything for relief and distraction.

What are your plans? When do you go your travels, or has not the Comical
Dog told you anything about it, but means to have you off at a moment’s
warning, bundled into the carriage, with one arm in your sleeve, and
only one shoe on?

What do you think? Is there any hope of your going to Bowood? Are you to
live all October in the papered up rooms in Grosvenor St. with brown
paper draperies?

_Miss Eden to Lady Buckinghamshire._

_October 7_ [1819].

MY DEAREST SISTER, I am going to write you a long letter, and I shall be
like a ginger-beer bottle now, if once the cork is drawn. I shall
spirtle you all over--not that I have anything to say, but just a few
remarks to make.

In the first place, I am eternally obliged to you for your just and
proper appreciation of Autumn; nobody cares about it enough but you and
me, and it is so pretty and so good, and gives itself such nice airs,
and has such a touching way of its own, that it is impossible to pet it

I tried some cool admiration of it upon Louisa,[106] but she said she
did not like it, as it led to Winter, and the children wanted new coats,
and she must write to Grimes of Ludgate Hill for patterns of cloth, etc.

However, London is a very pretty check to enthusiasm; there are no trees
to look brown and yellow, and the autumn air only blows against poor
Lord Glengall’s[107] hatchment, and the few people that wander about the
streets seem to think it cold and uncomfortable. Except the Drummonds
and ourselves, I believe there is nobody here but the actors who act to
us, and the bricklayers who are mending the homes of all the rest of the
world. I have seen when I go sneaking down to Charing-Cross two or three
official people, who think I suppose, that they govern us and the

Fanny and I shall end by being very accomplished, if we lead this life
long. We breakfast at a little before ten, and from that time till a
little after three are very busy at our lessons.

We have just finished Mrs. H. More,[108] which I like very much,
particularly the latter part.

We have foolishly begun _Modern Europe_ for our history book, which I
think much too tiresome to be endured, and then we take a peep at what
the Huns and Vandals are about. My only hope is that fifteen hundred
years hence we shall be boring some young lady in the back Settlement of
Canada with our Manchester Riots.[109] That is the only thought which
supports me under the present dulness of the newspaper.

George brought us such a quantity of Confitures from Paris, that it is a
mercy we are not in bilious fevers before this. I enclose you some
Fleur d’Orange because it is so genteel. Pray remark when it is going
down, whether your sensations are not remarkably lady-like? Your most


_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_Tuesday, October 1819_.

Very pleasant, but not correct, as our immortal Monkey said when he
kissed the Cat, my going to see you in town! It would indeed be a case
for Hannah More, as that very comical Dog said; why it would make the
few pious hairs she still preserves rear up, like quills upon the
fretful Porcupine; to say I should like it is saying very little indeed.

Next to Hannah More, that Chancellor[110] is the greatest Beast and Bore
to prevent our going up; I won’t have my oath[111] trifled with no more
than my affections, and since he coquets with my conscience, I have a
great mind not to swear at all, and keep myself disengaged for some
little _Lèse-Majesté_. This letter seems copied out of Buffon or “The
Book of Beasts,” for I find honourable mention made of cat, dog, monkey,
beast, bore, porcupine.

I will try and let you know what day I come, if I can get it out of old
Sullivan, and if it is soon I will take the duck to you. I suppose
Hannah More will not be shocked at the dead duck spending the night
under the roof with you; the duck being dead must remove all impropriety
attendant on such a step.

Your account of your bonnet diverted me highly; it certainly is much
more difficult to find a congenial bonnet than a congenial soul, and
after all they don’t last one so long. Sullivan talks of Thursday as the
most likely day I shall land at your house, and I may from there branch
out into all other ramifications of business. I send you some three or
four violets to sweeten you in London.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_November 7, 1819._

DEAREST EMMY, I meant every day to have written to you whilst you were
at Shottesbrook,[112] but I never could hit the right temperature; when
I felt dull, I thought it was not fair writing to you, making “confusion
worse confounded,” and when I was merry, I imagined the shock might be
too much for you, and only serve to make your “darkness visible.” This
is a very deeply Miltonic apology, the truth I daresay may turn out to
be a severe fit of laziness, which has incapacitated me from doing
anything beyond reading, which delights me, and swallows up all my

Your sister Caroline seems an admirable Brood Mare. I admire her
exertions, but, Emmy, it is lucky we are not put to the test, we never
could imitate them. However brilliant and liberal our views, we should
fail in the plodding perseverance, which is the necessary ingredient to
fill up the gaps and make it all solid.

I have of late been driven by Aunt in the Chaise, to try a Mule, which a
man wants us to buy. In my life I never was on service of such danger.
She holds her reins so very loose, that she puts me in mind of the
picture of Phaeton when he is in the act of _culbute_ from Heaven, and I
find myself humming a Te Deum for my safety as I get out, for she has no
manner of power over the beast, and throws herself upon its generosity
with wonderful philosophy. I, who have not this reliance upon its
honour, really suffer greatly from terror.... My dear Emmy, the
Ogress’s[113] dereliction from the sober paths of temperance was a shock
I have not yet recovered from. Our cook has taken to drinking too, but
she certainly boasts some originality in her tastes; she ruins herself
in Antimonial Wine and emetics of the strongest nature; no remonstrance
can deter her from pouring every species of quackery down her unhappy
throat. It is very remarkable how the lower classes love physic.

Your anticipated fondness for your powder’d Friend quite enchanted us. I
have an extinguisher on my mind to-day, so good-bye. I write just to
show you I can make an effort for you. Good-bye. I am your own


_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_Sunday, November 14, 1819._

What are you about? Write to me directly. Yesterday I was stirred up by
one of those hubbubs that vanish into smoke. Mr. Ogilvie[114] wrote to
say he was coming to us for a few hours previous to his going to Paris
for a fortnight on business, upon which Lucy went mad; she would and
should go with him, raved and tore about, wrung from the hard hands of
Aunt her vile consent, and so far infected me with her fuss that I was
all of a twitter.

Her cloaths were preparing, in short, she was far on the road to France.
Ogilvie arrives, Lucy downs upon her knees, to beg he will take her to
Paris, and lo! he would have been delighted to take her, but he had
given up the journey!

We all dropt in spirit like so many sacks, after the excitation of the

We go to Town positively on the 27th of this month, God willing. Let me
know whether the master of your destiny, your fate, George, brings you
to Town. We shall be in Stratford Place, and about the beginning of next
month I suppose the Chancellor will have us up. Pray how do you think we
ought to dress the character, something of the sackcloth and ash

How do Fanny and Edward Drummond[115] go on? I hope she still thinks him
pleasant. Don’t rob her of those comfortable illusions, any bulwark
against bore is a blessing.

Aunt has had the white Cock, the pride of the Dunghill killed, and Lucy
has replaced him by a pair of stinking red-eyed rabbits. We have
robberies going on on all sides. The thieving establishment is put upon
the most liberal footing; they drive their cart, and keep their
saddle-horses, and nobody seems inclined to disturb them.

I understand Stocks? Emmy, I have been making Mr. Ogilvie give me a
lecture on Finance, but to-morrow I shall relapse into darkness. Nature
has done much for you and me, but we are not organised for Stocks.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_November 26, 1819._

We go to Town to-morrow, but too late to see you. I am so unhappy, my
snug own home so clean, so warm, my life so humdrum, to-day walking in
the footsteps of yesterday, all thrown over by going to that Babylon. If
it was not for you, I should hang myself previous to my departure.
Conceive my situation on finding myself to-morrow night, amidst the
smoke and stir of that dim spot which men call Stratford Place, Nr.

I had a kind note from Lady Lansdowne,[116] I love her. Emmy, if you
desire to keep a Grantham and four horses, I surely may have my
Lansdowne and two!

I feel walking against the wind, which is the only way I can express the
feeling one has in parts of one’s life when matters go contrary. We are
coming up in truly Scriptural style, for we know not where we shall eat,
and where we shall drink, nor wherewithal we shall be clothed.

_December 17, 1819._--Emmy, the moon whistles, but why don’t you write?
My trunk is gone forth and is now on its remote, unfriended, melancholy,
and slow journey to Bowood, and drags at each remove a lengthening
chain, and the weather is so bad, and so we are all very unhappy. Isn’t
(I never know how to tittle that abbreviation, but to you my meaning is
palpable) well to go on. Isn’t this a day for Crack-skull Common?

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_Thursday, a great deal p.m., December 23, 1819_.

MY DEAREST EMMY, I am safely arrived into this country, and as you have
never peregrined into these parts, a few remarks, peradventure, a few
remarks upon the nation Wiltshire may give you satisfaction. The
Wilt[117] is generally of noble disposition, kind of heart and of sound
understanding. In person short of stature, thick set, square built, hath
straight hair, and a pleasing aspect. In civility most laborious,
insomuch there seems a wall of politeness which keepeth off better
acquaintance in this tribe. The Wilt woman[118] liveth bounden in
subjection and loving obedience unto the husband, and filleth her time
duly in catering and ordering for her household. The Wilt[119] when
young is ill-favoured, given unto the asking of questions, eager for
food, and hath a harsh and unmusical voice. It is the custom to
_déjeune_ at the hour Ten. The Wilt doth eat, and read the signs of a
large leaf showing the contests of the Two Tribes--the one having power
that doth act foolishness, and the other which hath no power--speaking
wisdom; and after breathing a word or two at intervals when the meal is
ended, the Wilt will go unto his avocations and work with his brains,
and then at about the hour Two, he eateth of a mixture of flour and
water like unto cakes, and then doth go forth unto the exercising of his
body in the way of quick walking, or managing of a small horse. At
dinner the Wilt ordereth himself seemly, eateth of all things freely and
slow, drinking moderately. He then adjourneth unto another part of the
Habitation and doth talk of divers matters good and well spoken, rubbing
his hands withal exceedingly; and after he hath drunk of a hot brown
liquor, the women take their tools and do sew wearing apparel and are
still, and the Wilt taketh a volume and doth lift up his voice and read.
I do mention this because the custom is after the manner of this tribe
peculiarly, and is regarded upon by other tribes as an abomination,
inasmuch that one of the tribe of Dumont[120] has been known to cover
his countenance with a cloth when the same has been practical. I have
been at some pains to get particulars of this form of idolatry to the
god Bore, and have collected thus much: Bore is an evil spirit that,
they reckon, commonly doth haunt empty places, but is more terrible when
he doth infest crowded places. He doth possess people after the fashion
of the Devils in Judaea, and hath, besides, a contagious property, it
having been noted that one possessed will generally infect others. What
a fool I am, Emmy dear! but I was so full of nonsense I was obliged to
come and write to you, and such an ill-tempered pen too, that would go
no way, not even its own. I am sure it came out of Lady Holland[121] or
the Dss of Bedford’s[122] Wing!

I am very snug here as to my body, but I do want you to talk to beyond
expression, and I cannot bear to think Lucy is missing me all this
while. I have been over all my old walks here, and remembering all the
corners and rooms and chairs and tables, so that I feel two years the
younger. But I wonder how I got on at all without knowing you. Lady
Lansdowne is in high favour with me. There is so much to like in her.
Him of old I have always doated on, but I have sat with my extinguisher
upon my head ever since I arrived, so that I fear, pleased as I am with
them, the feeling is not reciprocal. I always shall love this place for
having brought me acquainted with old _Mary_, for my liking to her was a
sort of halfway-house to my affection for you.

I have not an idea who or when anybody is to come. I don’t care. You
have lost the art of writing me good long letters. I desire you will
mend. Goodbye, Dearie, God bless you. Tell me more. And believe me ever
your own


Emmy now, don’t let all my stupid jokes lay about, and don’t because you
have nothing ready to say to Mary and Mr. Drummond, in an evil hour go
and shew my letter. You know you have done such things, you animal.
Remember, I will never write again if you play me this trick. I pour my
nonsense into your trusty bosom only in confidence. If I must restrain
my nonsense, what a bond of Friendship will be broken!

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

BOWOOD [1819].

That One Pound Bill is for the liquidation of the debt I contracted that
morning in Town with you at a shop in Regent Street for value received
of silk handkerchiefs, ribbons, etc.... I am fallen in love with Mr.
Abercromby.[123] He is quite a darling, mouth and all. The first day I
saw him I thought of your face and laughed; but we are now inseparable.
He is so natural, so good-natured, and does love nonsense. You would
delight in him. The Macdonalds have been here, and they are no loss. She
is so very dull, oh dear!--and they are much too newly married to be fit
for society.... I take long walks with my dear Lord Lansdowne. Emmy, he
is so good, and so knowledgeful, and so liberal, I think he is the most
liberal man I ever met with at all, in taste as well as principle. And
that is a great merit, for one knows where to have him. Emmy, don’t New
Year’s days and all those milestones in one’s life make you very
melancholy? They do me to a degree. I take some time shaking off the
weight. Of course I won’t say a word of the Dromedaries [Drummonds] to
any one, but I don’t see that you have any duty laying in that quarter,
particularly as the more you see of them and go to Charing Cross, the
more obligations they will imagine themselves bestowing on you.



_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_February, 1820_.

HUSH, hush, Emmy, the King _is_ dead,[124] and we have entered a new
reign, yes, yes, and George IV. _has_ been proclaimed, and I _have_
wondered what he’ll do with his wife, and Henry VII. would not let his
Queen be crowned for two years, and Hume says so, and all the newspapers
are very black, and the _Times_ blacker than any, and there is an end of
the topics and we know it all. Now to our old channel.

My hair is on tip-toe. I have heard with my outward ears to-day, that
there hangs a possibility in Fate of my not getting home for a month.
Not that I am uncomfortable here, but only I do so wish to see you
again, my dearie, and poor dear Lu![125] It quite amounts to longing, or
craving, or hunger, or thirst. It is so long since I have done out my
heart and mind, it is all in a litter.

I enjoyed myself so very much indeed while your brother and Mr.
Fazakerly were here. As for the others, I wished them hanged, for I had
to make company to them, and they did not make amusement for _me_.

We are quite alone, and have been ever since Wednesday. After I have
made breakfast, and Lord Lansdowne has engulphed as much Tea as he can
carry, I take my mornings to myself and bask in the Library. I do not
mean this as a figurative allusion to the sunshine of the mind, but that
the room stands South, as all rooms should stand, or walk off. I then at
about two, lunch, and see Lady Lansdowne for half-an-hour, take my walk
till five, come in, and write an empty line to Lucy to while away her

Lady Lansdowne dines with us, goes to bed before eleven, and I stay on
talking till near one with the Wilt. I do, I _will_ like him, tho’ I
have run very near hating him, that Wilt wise man! He goes next Monday
to Woburn[126] and Middleton[127] on his way to Town, and Lord knows
when it will please Providence we should follow.

Tell me something of Mary, and above all, tell me about yourself. Your
last letter made me laugh so much! Do it again. I ever remain, your
affectionate old


_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_February 10, 1820_.

It is now settled we are to be in Town the 20th.... We do not mean to be
in London this year at all to remain, Emmy; it is not worth while. I
need not say it to you, for we compared notes last year upon the
emptiness of existence in that Town--gaiety as it is called. You will
come to Thames Ditton, where we have the certainty of being comfortable

Lord Lansdowne set off to-day for Middleton. I miss him shockingly. He
has crept into my affections in a wonderful degree these last ten days;
I have pounded a little nonsense into him. Twice I made him laugh at
jokes not worth repeating, and once at his own matter-of-fact method of
understanding Fun: in short, our intimacy grew so thick he committed
himself far enough to say that he was quite in a childish fidget to see
his new Gallery and ceiling--much more anxious about that than about the
Meeting of Parliament. And last night the agony he got into fancying he
should want all the identical books in this library in Town, and which
to take, and the sort of goodbye he bid the volumes, gave me hopes of

Emmy, you know the brother, William Strangways?[128] He is a curious
specimen. He certainly will pack himself up by mistake and send himself
as a Fossil to the Geological Society some fine day. I rather like him,
he is so good-natured, and so cram full of out of the way information.
Another Brother arrived to-day, y-clept Giles.[129] I know nothing of
him, and am likely to remain in ignorance, as they go away to-morrow.

She and I get on charmingly. I like her more than I ever did, more than
I ever thought I could love anybody who has the misfortune of not being
one of us.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_March, 1820._

Your letter gave me such delight, the laugh of other days came o’er my

My dear, rums is ris, and sugars is fell. My cold is gone, but Aunt is
sick, in short, barring myself who am very well thank you, the house is
an Hospital.

Aunt has been quite ill, shut up, and the Apothecary busy, all over
pocket handkerchiefs and Ipecacuanha.

All my neighbours far gone in liver complaints and buried in bile, so
that I have kept aloof from all, when they did not want me, and we are
so very, very quiet here, I almost fancy I must be grown deaf, for I
suppose the world is still in a bustle, and going on. No letters, no
murder, no crimes.

What a _retention_ of correspondence this cessation of franks seems to
have caused: when shall we see our wholesome days again?

Emkins, Holland will never do. Why? When, shall I see you? Why can’t you
stay where you are? Your brother George is like an _âme en peine_; he
can’t abide nowhere. I suppose you will like the junket, you Beast....
So you have your Grantham.[130] It is all very well we should allow
those sort of people to love us, etc. but they must be kept in their
place. How little I saw you in Town, and then you think it my fault and
that I won’t dine with you. You don’t know, you cannot know, how I have
been bothered about it, not by Aunt alone. In short, there is a bother
in our celibacy, that as there is no one to speak as one having
authority, the whole herd think they have a right to have a pull at
one’s tether, and pin one down to their own fancies....

Emmy, only think Danford is going to-day! A woeful day that such a Dan
should go.

There’s been a grand inventory to do, and glass and china, etc. Aunt was
aghast at the mortalities among the rummer glasses. He denied having
crackt their noble hearts, when, oh Providence! oh, _juste ciel!_ their
glassy relics rose in judgment, and from the cupboard called for
vengeance. There lay their bottoms, which, like the scalps of his
enemies, had accumulated in evidence of his deeds. His wen grew pale
when he thought of his wages. “Conceive his situation!” What a
climacteric! Good-bye, write to me much and often, but if you don’t,
never mind, for I know what London is.

I do long to see Matthews,[131] so provoking the animal won’t begin his
pranks before we leave London.

_April, 1820._

...Poor Aunt gets no worse, but I see no great amendment.... I assure
you, Emmy, I take great care of myself; we only sit up every other
night, and my spirits are quite good. I am screwed up like a machine,
and get through day and night very quickly indeed. I eat and drink and
laugh and don’t let myself think.

You must come again, when you can, to see me, Emmy. I have no scruple in
asking you to come and see me in the fullness of my dullness, out of the
fullness of your gaiety, because when we get together, we get into our
element, my darling. Your visit quite refreshed me the other day. I send
you some flowers to brighten up your room, and you will put them into
the Christening bowls, which lie about your tables.

_April 30, 1820._

I have given up the hopes of seeing you, nobody is going to Town, unless
I take a cling to some carriage footboard as the beggar boys do. I have
given up all prospects of bonnets for the future, and so have ordered
one at Kingston.

I had an obliquity the other day, and awful longing to be in London for
a _leetle_, a very _leetle_ while. I tried and tried what you call to
reason myself out of it, and I partly succeeded, but the getting out of
that folly cost me a great deal, and made me rather rough and
uncomfortable. Brushing up one’s reason is just as disagreeable as
having one’s teeth cleaned, it sets one on edge for the while....

I am sure you will be obliged to me for telling you, that in a shower in
London, a man was running along with an umbrella, and ran against
another man, this latter offended man snatched the offending umbrella,
out of the umbrell_ee’s_ hands, and throwing it away said, “Where are
you running to like a mad mushroom?”

If Aunt gets better soon, I will go up in a week or two, and have a look
at you, and get a hat. Your Leghorn sounds well, but I never yet found
home brewed bonnets answer, they are always ill-disposed, full of bad
habits, and get awkward crics about them. Good-bye.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_May, 1820._

I should have written directly to wish you joy of Mary’s job being so
prosperously accomplished,[132] but I have been keeping my bed. My cough
has got such a grip of me, nothing does me good.... What a fuss you must
have been in I can but think. Was Mr. Drummond in a fuss? Well, it must
be a great relief off your mind, and off hers too, poor dear. I suppose
she is already doatingly fond of the little brute as if she had known it
all her life.... I have got a horrid cold and cough, and I look a beast
of the first water, and of course, Edward [FitzGerald] has fixed this
moment to come and see us. I expect him in two days, and he expects me
in my present haggard, worn, water-gruel state of mind to amuse him and
be _sémillante_. I, who am so low in words, I have not one to throw at a
small dog.

_Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden._

_June, 1820._

I am quite so much better to-day, I entertain some hopes of prolonging
my precarious existence a little longer. Company to dinner yesterday.
Humbug and Bore kissed each other without truth or mercy. Why didn’t
you come to me to-day? Come to-morrow for I have such a piece of
nonsense for you.

_August_ 12, 1820.

We sailed Tuesday and arrived this morning by 5 o’clock at Leith. Our
journey was most prosperous and very amusing. Our Society of Passengers
also kept me in great amusement. I must just mention that their meals
amused me as much as any part of their proceedings. One poured whisky
over cold pie for sauce, and one ate raspberry jam with bread and
butter, all ate peas with their knives. We shall see the sights between
this and Tuesday, when we go to Bonnington. Write to me my own Emmy, and
direct at Lady Mary Ross,[133] Bonnington, Lanark.

_October_ 9, 1820.

...Your letter amused me. The geographical happiness which has befallen
us in being born near one another is indeed inestimable. That horrible
supposition of my being the amiable Laplander made me shudder. You
always do hit the funniest ideas in the world. You darling, I require
something to keep up my spirits, for if I don’t laugh I shall cry when I
tell you it is more than probable I shall not see you till next May.

Mary Ross has put it into Aunt’s head that it would be the best plan in
the world for us to pass the winter in the Isle of Bute. Living is for
nothing. As this is a plan of economy I dare say nothing, but I am very
unhappy, I am very unhappy indeed, for I feel my heart sink into my
shoes when I think how long it may be before I again see you or any of
you.... We shall stay here till November, when we shall go to our
little Bute. Our society there is likely to be confined to Mrs. Muir,
the factor’s wife, a quick, lively, little body, I am told, which sounds
awfully bustling and pert, an occasional King’s officer in search of
smugglers, and the master of the steam-boat. I have liked Scotland upon
the whole, in short I had determined to make the best of it, and one
always partly succeeds in those cases, yet I don’t like the people; they
are very hospitable, but _du reste_, they appear to me stubborn,
opinionated, cold, and prejudiced. The women are either see-saw and
dismal, or bustling and pert, and appear to me to be generally ignorant,
which I did not expect, and the minute gossip they keep us is something
I cannot describe.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._[134]

_Monday_ [1820].

DEAREST THERESA, Please to write again directly to say how you are going
on. I take your Grove[135] to be equal to my Nocton[136] in matter of
bore, and that being the case, if one is to have an illness, one may as
well have it at those houses. It fills up the time. My ague is
subsiding, but I have fits of it occasionally and hate it very much. I
had one yesterday, which even moved George’s strong heart to pity,
though he has such a contempt for illness that I keep it all very snug.
I am going to Langley to-day, and that is another thing which makes him
so _scrapey_ that I am writing in his room in order to talk him over in
my most insinuating and winning manner between the sentences of my

He and I go on such different tacks about town and country, that we make
our plans, and talk them over for half-an-hour before I recollect that
we are working for different aims. He thinks every day spent in the
country by anybody who does not shoot is so much time wasted, and I
happen to think every day spent in London is a mistake, and I was roused
to the sense of our different views by his saying, “Well, but I want you
to gain another day in London, and you can write to Louisa that you were
not well yesterday, and then stay here, and I will go to the play with
you to-night.” Such an iniquitous plot! And I am about as fit to go to
the play as to go in a balloon.

George liked Middleton very much. Lady Jersey[137] was going, as soon as
the present party was all gone, to turn unhappy for the poor Duke of
York,[138] and as far as I can make out, she was going to show it by
putting off all the _ladies_ of the party she was to have had this week,
and to keep up just enough to receive all the gentlemen. She and Lady
Granville[139] seem to have had a fine _tracasserie_ at Paris. George is
so charmed with Lady Jersey’s children. He says he never saw such a fine
pleasant set of boys, and the girls are very pretty.

I have not been out of the house, except once, to see Elizabeth
Cawdor,[140] and with that wonderful quickness of observation that I
possess I discovered that she will probably soon add to her family, and
that the addition will be very considerable--three or four at least.

Lady Bath is at Rome again and not the least anxious to come home, which
is odd. One of Elizabeth’s children is so pretty. I have no news to
tell you, as it does not come of itself. One must go to look for it.

     [In October 1820 Emily Eden suddenly received from her friend
     Pamela in Scotland the news of her engagement to a widower with one
     child--Sir Guy Campbell, and a month later the wedding had taken
     place. Pamela, in her characteristic way, wrote and announced the

Before you read thro’ this letter call your maid, and get the smelling
bottle, for you will certainly faint away with surprise and wonder. Who
would have thought it! I don’t believe it myself so I cannot expect you
to believe it, but I am going to be married perfectly true in about a
month or six weeks.

I am going to be married to Sir Guy Campbell[141].... What I would have
given to have had you with me all this time, and at this moment, I miss
you beyond expression. He is uncommonly right-headed, of course it
follows he is liberal, _wide_-minded and indulgent, at the same time I
see he can take violent dislikes, as you do at times, my best one. He is
very tact to a degree, and that you know, Dearest, is a corner-stone in
happiness, for there is no fitting two minds without it.

     [On her wedding-day, November 20, Pamela wrote to say the Catholic
     priest had married them at half-past twelve, and that she was to be
     married again by the Presbyterian minister, and a long dinner was
     to be given for them in the evening for all the Family to
     contemplate her. A week later she wrote again to Miss Eden.]

Just like you, and quite tactful not to cool our affection for each
other by sending me a wet blanket in the shape of a congratulation. I
like Sir Guy more and more, he understands me so well, he knows my
faults, which is a great relief, for I have no silent obliquity to
smother, or no good behaviour to act up to more than is comfortable. He
is doing a set of sketches of the Highlands for you, which I am sure you
will like. However, tho’ he is of a Highland family, let me take from
your mind any impression that he is at all Scotch in obstinacy, cunning
cheek-bones, or twang. He has not been in Scotland for the last six and
twenty years. You need not tell dear Mrs. Colvile this, who has built
all my hopes of future happiness on his being Scotch to the bone. Hers
was the first letter I received with Lady Campbell on it....

I cannot say how pretty it was of you to send that pretty cap, which I
think the prettiest cap that ever was prettied. Pat your Grantham for
she did that commission well. So she was very brimful of London and the
ways and means of the place? You wonder at her liking it so much after
having had so much of it; but it grows upon them like a description I
read somewhere of some part of the Infernal Regions, where the damned
were condemned to misery and dirt, wallowing in mire and sand, but they
were so degraded they had lost the sense of misery, and had no wish to
leave the darkness for light.

I wear your dear cap often and often, and occasionally Sir Guy wears it
when he is not very well. He says he is sure you will be gratified by
the attention.

I have had a very neat silk pelisse trimmed with fur, sent without the
donor’s name, and as the poor thing is a very pretty pelisse, but can’t
tell me its business or where it comes from, I have a silent great-coat
here, and thanks I can’t impart. I believe it comes from those Lady
Hills, those bosom friends I never could bear, and if I have thanked the
Gods amiss, I can’t help it.

Have you seen your Elliots?[142] for I am anxious to know what India has
done for them. It is a dangerous experiment, they get so stuffed with
otto of roses, sandal-wood and sentiment, they never come quite

Aunty is in the grumps with the rheumatism, and the winds and draughts.
You know the sort of silent-victim appearance of suffering innocence
some people take and wear, which increases when the meat is tough, and
the pudding burnt, and which is all more or less aimed at me, till I
feel so _culprit_, as if I blew the winds, and made the cold, and
toughed the meat, and burnt the dish. However, I don’t mind it now and
go on doing my best for all of them, particularly as she desired not to
be troubled with housekeeping, and as I recollect she always keeps a
growl at the cold at home. Sir Guy behaves like an angel to her....

I hear they have a large party at Bowood, I suppose the usual routine. I
heard of Truval at Longleat, not doing anything particular. That small
Ealing address with all the little Truvals of the grove, babes and
sucklings, amused me. He was bored at Longleat and deserves to be bored
thro’ life. I can only wish him a continuance of H. Montagu’s

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_January 7, 1821_.

Many thanks, my darling Emmy, for your delightful letter. Till you are
shut up for six months in an old rambling house on the coast of the Isle
of Bute in January, you cannot know the value, the intrinsic sterling,
of such a letter as yours.... I am sorry poor Mary’s Charing-Cross
purgatory has begun again.

I think, if God grants us life, we are very likely to settle, when we do
settle, somewhere near London. It is bad for the mind to live without
society, and worse to live with mediocrity; therefore the environs of
London will obviate these two evils. But I like the idea. I cannot bear
Scotland in spite of every natural beauty, the people are so odious
(don’t tell Mrs. Colvile). Their hospitality takes one in, but that is
kept up because it is their pride. Their piety seems to me mere love of
argument and prejudice; it is the custom to make a saturnalia of New
Year’s Eve, and New Year’s Day they drown themselves in whisky. Last New
Year’s Eve being Sunday, they would not break the Sabbath, but sat down
after the preaching till 12 o’clock; the moment that witching hour
arrived, they thought their duty fulfilled, seized the whisky, and burst
out of their houses, and ran about drinking the entire night, and the
whole of Monday and Monday night too. This is no exaggeration, you have
no idea the state they are in--men lying about the streets, women as
drunk as they,--in short, I never was more disgusted....

Lady Lansdowne did not send the Pelisse. She sent me ribbons, an Indian
muslin gown, quantities of French-work to trim it, four yards of lace, a
dozen pocket-handkerchiefs; and that touching Lord Lansdowne sent me a
beautiful set of coral. She also sent me a white _gros de Naples_ gown.
In short, she has done it uncommon well, and I love her as much as I
can, and who can do more?

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_January 21, 1821._

Many many thanks, my Dearest, for your kind letter. We certainly do
understand one another _extraordinair_ well, as they say in Scotland.
Your writing in London too is quite “from the depths I cried out.”
Emily, there is a sympathy of bores between us. Sir Guy and I have
regularly been put out of humour every morning by the new _Times_, and
it will come all the way to Bute, though he has written to agents and
bankers and offices to stop it. Like old Time and pleasant Time and
Time-serving, there is no arresting it, and its disgusting pages meet my
eye and try my temper without cessation. Send me down a little genuine
essence of Whig when you have time occasionally. Sir Guy is no
politician at all, only I in a quiet way insinuate sound principles into
his mind. Not but what I think a military man should be without party,
so that the doses I give are very mild. I go no further than just
liberality, and now and then drawing him into some remarks on the
malversations of ministers.

I enter into your dinner and house bothers.

I don’t find that variety in the beef of to-morrow and the mutton of
to-day, which the _Anti-Jacobin_ expatiates upon with such delight, and
the joints diminish in sheep when we eat mutton. As for puddings, they
are one and the same, and only one, and then when one has tortured one’s
brain and produced a dinner, and that it is eaten, my heart sinks at the
prospect that to-morrow will again require its meal, _et les bras me
tombent ..._.

Lord[143] and Lady Bute are coming here. We don’t know them at all, but
I suppose we shall see them, which is bore, for nothing is so tiresome
as to be near neighbours with people one scarce knows. One has one foot
in intimacy, and the other in formality, and it makes but a limping
acquaintance. I don’t think Lady Lansdowne has quite got over my not
marrying her way; she covers it up very well, but you know how soon you
and I can see through all that, and I know also that Sir Guy is not
likely to overcome that feeling in her. He is not a party man, he is not
scientific, and unless he likes people he is very shy, and I see they
will never make it up. But I always thought marriage must disarrange
many acquaintances. I don’t regret acquaintances; even to have had
variety of acquaintances is an advantage, for the reason which makes a
public school an advantage to a boy; it widens the mind. But to go on
through life with them is heartless and thankless too. I mean to save my
time, and keep it all for those I like and love.... We have lovely warm
spring weather here, always breakfast with the window open and getting
away from the fires. I must say the climate far exceeded my
expectations. The garden is covered with thick white patches of
snow-drops in full bloom. Don’t this make your mouth water, and your
eyes too, you poor misery in your cold smoke?

Good-bye, Dearest, have you been drawing and what? I don’t mean just now
in London, but in your lucid intervals, and are you well?

So far London is a place that cures or kills. Your own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_February 28, 1821_.

Don’t go out during this pestilential month of March, people may call it
east wind and sharp, but it is neither more or less than a plague, that
regularly blows thro’ the Islands, and it is nonsense to brave it, just
because it is not called pest, or yellow or scarlet, or pink fever, so
don’t go out.

I am spending a few days here at Mount Stuart,[144] and you may see that
I am writing with strange paper and ink, and have but a distant bowing
acquaintance with this fine clarified pen.

You are quite right, one is a better human creature, when one has seen a
mountain and it does one good. I only wish I could see a mountain with

Your Feilding fuss is so described, that I laughed over it for an hour;
my Dear, I see it, and enter into your quiescent feelings on the
occasion; things settle themselves so well I wonder other people always,
and we sometimes, give ourselves any trouble about anything.

This is a good enough house, but somehow they go out of the room and
leave one, and yet one has not the comfort of feeling alone and easy,
and I caught myself whispering and Lucy too; I can’t account for it,
except by the great family pictures, that are listening all round in
scarlet cloaks, and white shoes, and red heels and coronets. Kitty[145]
is to be married to-day--plenty of love but little prospect of anything
else. Her future income is rather in the line of a midshipman’s
allowance, _Nothing a day and find yourself_.

I hope you will taste this saying, for I am partial to it, it gives one
a comfortable idea, that in these days, when the Whigs complain of
Ministerial extravagance, the Navy establishment will escape censure.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_March 3, 1821._

Much to say I can’t pretend, but something to say I can always find when
I write to you. We left Mount Stuart to-day. Sir Guy, Lucy and I
delighted to be at home. Aunt rather missing the cookery dishes, claret,
champagne, and a sound house.

My mind is grown much more easy since I have clearly ascertained,
weighed, and measured that I don’t like Lord Bute, and of course I have
a whole apparatus of reasonable reasons, to support my dislike _envers
et contre tout_. He is proud not in that complimentary sense. Some
people use the word implying a dislike of dirty deeds and a love of
noble doings. He is not purse-proud nor personally proud of his looks;
but the sheer genuine article pride which now-a-days one seldom meets
with barefaced. He is proud of his ancestors, proud of the red puddle
that runs in his veins, proud of being a Stuart, a Bute, and a Dumfries.
He apes humility, and talks of the honour people do him in a way that
sounds like “down on your knees.” Talks of his loyalty as if Kings
should kiss his hand for it. However though this is tiresome and
contemptible, he has some of the merits that mitigate pride. He seems
high principled and honourable, with sense enough for his own steerage,
and I make allowances for his blindness which must make him center in
self a good deal.

She is pleasant enough in a middling way, no particular colour in her
ideas. She never moots or shocks, or pushes one back, but she don’t go
any further, content to dwell in decencies for ever. She likes a joke
when it is published and printed for her, but I suppose a manuscript
joke never occurred to her.

They never have anybody there, except now and then Mr. Moore, his man of
business, who is in the _full_ sense of the word corpulent, red-faced,
with a short leg with a steel yard to it, and a false tuft; and he is
Colonel of the Yeomanry. But I like him for a wonderful rare quality in
any Baillie, but above all in a Scotch Baillie; he is independent and no
toad-eater. He found fault with his patron’s potatoes at the grand
table, with a whole row of silver plates dazing his eyne; and he as
often as occasion occurs quietly contradicts him....

General Way[146] and his wife are to be at Mount Stuart next week. Sir
Guy described General Way as an Adjutant-General, and a Methodist,
which sounds such an odd mixture,--true Church Militant. They are great
Jew converters. I have been reading a luminous treatise on Witchcraft,
seriously refuting such belief. One rather odd circumstance is, that
three-and-twenty books and tracts have been written since Charles II.’s
reign in earnest support of the doctrine of Sorcery and Witchcraft....

I go on writing in case you are still shut up, it may amuse you tho’ I
have no event. An occasional mad dog spreads horror thro’ the district;
no wonder I enter into the poor dog’s feelings, he belonged to the steam
boat, and that was enough to send any Christian out of their senses, let
alone a dog.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_March 10_ [1821].

What a delightful letter, and I feel perfectly agonised, not an idea,
not a topic, not a word to send you in return. Sir Guy says I may do as
I please, so I shall send the Highlands to the right about, and go south
to you as soon as the weather is _travellable_, and that we have seen
Sir Guy’s old Scotch aunt[147] at Edinburgh. I must see her because she
is called “Aunt Christy.” That name, you must acknowledge, is worth a

I send you, my Darling, a small Heart with my hair in it. Put it on
directly and wear it. I know it is a comfort to have a little something
new when one is ill, as I learnt when I had the chicken-pox, and found
great benefit in some gilt gingerbread Kings and Queens. Lucy used to
bring me them twelve years ago; they were hideous, useless, and not
eatable, but still they made a break in the day....

I wish I could instil in you a little of that respect and mystic
reverence which I never could feel myself for Doctors, and Pestles and
Mortars--that blind devotion which is so necessary to make the stuff
efficacious, for by faith we are saved in these cases, as in cases of

I am sorry they have made you have hysterics, and won’t let you have the
Elliots, and conversation. That bluff Chilvers,[148] with his
Burgomaster appearance, as if he was magistrate of our vitals and poor
bowels! I hate him ever since he offered me the insult of a blister,
that first blister of hateful memory.

Write, or don’t write, as it suits you. Lucy and Sir Guy are such
friends, they quite doat on one another, and understand each other.
Therefore wipe away all I said for nothing. That is my comfort with you,
I can tell you and then scratch it out again as I please, and that is
the only way to be constant in this changeable world, to be able to
follow the changes of those we love, so as to be always the same with

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_March 15, 1821_.

...We have been a day at Mount Stuart since I wrote, to meet a Sir
Gregory and Lady Way--such bores! Oh! no, never. His brother is the
great Jew-converter, and has now left his wife and house and estate and
is gone a converting-tour into Poland. Some Israelites played him an
ungrateful trick. He invited them to his house in Buckinghamshire to
render thanks in his private Chapel for their redemption, but alas! they
had not cast off their old man, for they stole all Mr. Way’s plate,
which he has found it impossible to redeem, they having most probably
converted it into money and made off. These people are strictly pious
characters, and on Lucy saying she had heard of Mr. Way, Sir Gregory
replied: “An instrument, Madam, merely an instrument!”

Lady Way is too heavy, and so dressed out--all in a sort of _supprimé_
way, and wears a necklace like a puppy’s collar....

Did you see those pretty nice Feilding children[149] when the Feildings
were in London? I hope that nasty woman[150] will not spoil them.

Have you had Mary Drummond in comfort since you have been shut up and
ill?--like the indulgence of barley sugar with a cough; no remedy, but
yet it is pleasant. Does Fanny still keep up “brother and sister” with
Edward Drummond?[151] I don’t think even Fanny could do it. Sir Guy
knows the one in the Guards (Arthur is not his name), and liked him
better than Drummonds in general, for there is no denying that Drummonds
are Drummonds to the greatest degree.... Send me your low letters, and
your gay letters, and all you write, for I love it all.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_March 22, 1821._

...Jane Paget’s[152] business shocked, but did not surprise me. I never
saw any poor girl so devoured by Ennui, and I have so long found Bore
account for all the unaccountable things that occur, that it solved
Jane’s marriage to me. She cannot exist without excitement, for she is
completely _blasée_ upon everything. Blasée is the genteel word; you
would call it besotted or stupefied, if she had accomplished this
vitiated destruction by dram-drinking or opium; but the effect, call it
what you please, is exactly the same. I pity that poor Mr. Ball truly,
for I don’t suspect him of being equal to rule a wife and have a

I forget to tell you a good idea of Lucy’s, about Jane Paget’s
marriage. She said it was such a pity to see good articles selling off
at half-price like ribbon in Oxford Street, to make room for a new
spring assortment.

We are doing our Mount Stuart again. We have a Mr. and Mrs. Veetchie (a
Commissioner of the Customs and has been in the army) and Lady Elizabeth
and Mr. Hope. Mr. Hope can be pleasant now and then, but as dulness was
paramount during our intercourse, I suspect the agreeableness to be a
little gilding he has got from living with the wits of Edinburgh. There
seems no source--mere cistern work. Your old Burgomaster Chilvers is
clever, and I think as much of him as of any of them. But go on
mentioning all he does, whether you are drenched in drugs.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_April 1, 1821._

...Tho’ I know they are all taking care of you with all their might, I
feel I should do it better, because I want to be with you so very too
much, that I feel cross with those who can be about you. Sir Guy thinks
you are a lucky woman in being allowed only ten minutes of everybody’s
company; at least the chances are in your favour for escaping bores.

I hear of nothing but crash upon crash in London. Leinster[153] and Mary
Ross[154] are obliged to join to help Lady Foley.[155] Lord Foley is so
completely ruined, it is supposed it will be impossible to save anything
for his six unfortunate children, and Lord and Lady Foley cannot have
the satisfaction of throwing the blame on one another. He has gambled,
and she has had six guineas-apiece handkerchiefs. She has enjoyed the
bliss of boasting she never tied a ribbon twice, or wore her sattin
three times. I thought I had made a poor marriage, and was content, but
I begin to believe that I am a rich individual.

I think you are right about William,[156] I am sure he has taken a quirk
about my marriage, because you see, my dear Emmy, it splits upon one of
the very rocks of prejudice he has in his character. I would almost say
the only one, but then it is a considerable stone, his _worldliness_. He
would not have had me marry a regular established fool even he was rich,
because again, the world might think the worse of me; but if I could,
have met a rich quiet man without bells to his cap, made a good figure
in London, and of whom some people might indulgently say--in
consideration of his fortune, “Such a one I promise you has more sense
than one would think, he is not such a fool as people give him credit
for.” If I had run the usual race of London misery with such a man,
William would not have objected.

It is a crooked corner in him, I have often observed he has a childish
respect to the opinion of London; and Paris has done him no good in
giving him a notion that it don’t signify what people do, so they keep
it quiet, and make no open _scandale_. I have often wondered at this,
because we mortals always try and trace a consistency in character,
which is an ingredient never to be found in any composition, foreign to
human nature altogether, which we still hunt after, and refer to and
talk of, as if it was not as ideal as the philosopher’s stone, a
tortoise-shell Tom cat, or any other impossibility you like to think of.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_April 10, 1821._

I have been again at Mount Stuart. Saw a civil Mr. Campbell of
Stonefield, whom of course I ought to have called Stonefield _tout
court_, but this seemed to me so improper and affectionate. I would not
expose my conjugal felicity to such a slur, and I believe I affronted
the Laird. He is a great man, having been at Oxford, of course the
refined thing in education in Scotland; just as Lansdowne was sent to
Scotland to give him a better coating of education. I suppose on the
principle that the longest way about is the shortest road home. I see
all those who are taken most pains with make the plainest figure. This
man seems, however, to have preserved his whole row of Scotch prejudices
unshaken, proud, and touchy.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_July 16, 1821_.

DEAREST EMMY, I have been so pestered and worried. I should only have
worried you if I had written to you in the midst of my various bothers.
I find I have about one half of my baby linen to get made, Aunt
Charlotte[157] having handsomely provided the caps and frocks and
fineries, but turned me off with only half-a-dozen of everything
needful, and not an inch of flannel. You are enough of a mother to enter
into my feelings on the occasion.

I have had scene after scene to undergo with Aunt [Lady Sophia
FitzGerald] upon the unkindness of my not remaining to be confined here
within the compass of a sixpence, and taking everybody’s advice, sooner
than hers, and, in short, not having her in the room with me. As I
should have died of that, self-preservation gave me firmness to resist,
and I declared I could not. All this was to be kept smooth to Sir Guy,
for Aunt chose to be sulky with him. In short I have found the kindness
of the house the cruellest thing on earth. I have not had a quiet
moment, the neighbourhood have poured upon me.... Lucy is gone mad, for
she is preparing to go to the Coronation.[158] Your affectionate and own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_Tuesday, August 14, 1821._

...I am settled in Town since Saturday evening, and if Eastcombe has had
reminiscences of me for you, Grosvenor Square has reminisced you to me,
our evening walks, and Lady Petre, and Penniwinkle. Every valuable Bore
I possess has by instinct discovered me in Town, and I have been
surrounded with Clements,[159] Cootes, and Strutts.[160] However I had a
visit from Bob[161] as a palliative which supported me under the rest.

It is quite impossible to give an idea of the hurry and scurry of the
people in every direction, and as if the rain only increased their
ardour. Women with drooping black bonnets and draggled thin cotton
gowns, and the men looking wet and _radical_ to the skin. I catch myself
twaddling and moralising to myself just as I went on about poor
Buonaparte. They say fools are the only people who wonder, and I believe
there is something in it, for I go on wondering till I feel quite

However I own I am shocked (not surprised in this instance) that not a
single public office or government concern should be shut. No churches
at this end of the town either open, and no bells tolling.[162]

Your small parcel delighted me and is the smartest I had. I have given
every direction as to that being the first article worn, for I should
not love my child unless it had your things on.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

WOBURN, 1821.

MY DEAR THERESA, There never was a house in which writing flourished so
little as it does here, partly that I have been drawing a great deal,
and also because they dine at half-past six instead of the rational hour
of seven, and in that lost half-hour I know I could do more than in the
other twenty-three and a half. After all, I like this visit. It was
clever of me to expect the Duchess[163] would be cross, because of
course, that insures her being more good-natured than anybody ever was.
I am only oppressed at being made so much of. Such a magnificent room,
because she was determined I should have the first of the new furniture
and the advantage of her society in the mornings, though _in general_
she makes it a rule to stay in her own room. In short, you may all be
very, very good friends, but the only person who really values my merits
is--the Duchess of Bedford, and once safe with her the house is pleasant

We have had the Duncannons.[164] I like her; she is so unlike Lady
Jersey. Miss P. is something of a failure in every way, except in
intrinsic goodness; but she was terrified here, and at all times dull,
and as nearly ugly as is lawful. They have been the only ladies. Then,
there are dear little Landseer, Mr. Shelley, so like his mama in look,
and a great rattle; Lord Chichester, Lord Charles Russell, etc.; and a
tribe of names unknown to fame, headed by a Mr. Garrett, who is a rich
shooting clergyman with the most suave complacent manners!--one of those
appurtenances to a great house I cannot abide.

Eliza[165] is in the greatest beauty, and is a very nice person
altogether. I think Lord Chichester succeeds here, and there is no
denying that he is a creditable specimen of a young gentleman of the
reign of George IV.[166] We have been on the point of acting, but the
Providence that guards _les fous et les ivrognes_ evidently keeps an eye
on Amateur actors and preserves them from actually treading the boards.
Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_Le 16 Juillet, 1822_.

MY DEAREST EMILY, I have been robbed and pillaged and bored and worried,
and hate France as much as ever I did, and so does Guy. Mama[167] has
made us a comfortable visit, but alas I cannot stay any longer, and
conceive my joy! we let our house here, and return to England for my
_Couche_. It almost makes up to me for the business. I shall be in
London in August, there to remain six months. To show you how entirely
and utterly false it is that you have not always and always had that
very large den in my heart, let me beg and entreat that, if you can, you
will be in or _near_ Town, if you can manage it, during my confinement.

It would be existence to me. Oh Emmy, I have so much to unburthen and
talk over with you--and you only. I am much pleased with what I have
seen of Mama, and Guy likes her....

Conceive the fuss we have had! My Lansdowne recommended Bridget as my
maid; Bridget turned out a thief and has robbed me to the amount of 70
Pounds, and acknowledged the fact before the Police, which is no
consolation, her candour not replacing the articles. We declined the
other consolation of pursuing her, whipping and branding, and five
years detention; but only--mind you!--never trust Jane Kingston, Lady
Bath’s laundress, for Bridget declares upon oath having sent the things
to her--my best lace among the rest.

On searching her things, a fine brodée handkerchief appeared, with
Harriet embroidered in the corner, and as she lived with Lady H.
Drummond[168] perhaps the House of Drummond might wish to make
reclamation.... Your own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_September 16, 1822_.

MY OWN EMILY, Here have I been settling myself to my infinite
satisfaction, after having endured the ordeal of France which I went
through. Where are you? What are you doing? Remember I have bespoke you,
October I expect to lay my egg.[169] If you are within reach--oh, it
will be such a comfort to me, I positively thirst to have a talk with
you. I am so happy to be in England. Better to live on a crust or a
crumb, which is not half so good in England, than upon penny rolls in

I understand Lord Worcester[170] is already so bored with his bargain
that he is to be pitied according to the good-nature of the world for
anything that is passing wrong. It is sad that for the morality of the
world, people will not be convinced that illegality and sin are not free
from bore and ennui....

Tell me you are at hand or coming, for I downright long to see you, and
in my _position_ you should not let me long, though it would be no great
punishment to have a child like you. Sir Guy sends his particular love
to you. Your own affectionate


_November 22, 1822._

Emily, these trembling lines, guided by a hand weakened by confinement,
must speak daggers and penknives to you, for never having taken any
written notice of me since you chucked me my child in at the window and
went your way. As you come on Monday, I refer all to our meeting.

I want you shockingly.... Come to me soon, dear. Your affectionate


_Lord Auckland to his sister, Miss Eden._

_October 29_ [1822].

Thank you for your two letters which I would have answered sooner, but
we shoot all day and are lazy all the evening.

I am not sure that you knew that Wall[171] had been ill and near losing
the sight from one of his eyes. He is considerably better, and shoots as
usual, and has no doubt of perfectly recovering.

My trip to Fonthill[172] was an amusing way of passing a spare day, and
has left a strong impression of the immeasurable folly with which money
may be spent. The house is too absurd, but the grounds are beautiful.
Lansdowne has bought some pictures there which he was anxious for, as
they belonged to his father. I have just heard from him. He is going for
a few weeks to Paris, and like everybody else, is expecting you and me
to pay him a good long visit at the end of the year. In his mild
rational way he exceedingly regrets that the Cortes have not cut off the
head of Ferdinand.[173]

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._


MY DARLING EM, Your letter has revived me, for I was smothered with Fog
and so obfuscated I found myself growing callous of the density of the
gloom, and my perception of my own dirt and my neighbour’s grimness was
diminishing. I was getting hardened, when your letter and a gleam of
dingy yellow sun showed me the state of myself and the children, and I
went up and washed myself and repented of my filth. The fog prevented
Mrs. Colvile coming, which is provoking. I wanted to show her my boy;
she has put so many of them together, she has an experienced eye on the

The Ladies Fitz-Patrick, old Mrs. Smith, etc., are cooking up a match
between Vernon Smith and Mary Wilson, old Lord Ossory’s natural daughter
with much money.

Emily does it strike you that vices are wonderfully prolific among the
Whigs? There are such countless illegitimates among them, such a tribe
of Children of the Mist.... Your own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_January 6, 1823._
_Twelfth Night or what you will._

MY DARLING EMMY, Thank God you have written at last, I have worked
myself into a fright this day or two that you were very ill. I have been
very poorly, but am better. You are mistaken about that sucking lump
being a favourite. I esteem him; he is a man of strict probity and
integrity with steady principles, and he is a man would make any
reasonable woman very happy in domestic life; but there is a refinement
and charm in that Cain that makes a fool of me,--a great fool, for
she[175] don’t much care for me, and is radically vicious.

We have got a house between Reading and Basingstoke, a mile from
Strathfieldsaye, at a village called Strathfield Turgess:--delightful
prospect, well furnished, roomy, with Cow and poultry included, garden
meadow, for £84 per annum.

Lady Louisa Lennox had rather taken my fancy, and that negative mind of
being Anti-Bathurst is a jewel in their favour. Emily, to have it
gravely told me Lady Georgina Bathurst[176] is a strong-headed woman,
superior, with wonderful abilities, etc. _Cela m’irrite la bile_, when I
know her to be prejudiced, worldly, entrenched by prejudices upon
prejudice, till her very soul is straightened within the narrow limit of
the Ministers, their wives, and her own family....

How is your Grantham? My Lansdowne is playing at _de petits jeux
innocents_. I am of a guilty inclination and cannot taste those social
innocences, besides, Emmy, we don’t do such things well in England, it
don’t suit well, and to fail in a triviality is failure indeed, but the
Wilt loves a caper. All this is very well, but I want to talk to you,
Emmy. I have such quantities I cannot even tap in a letter, that I could
talk out just in one 1/2 hour.

Louisa Napier[177] is with Lady Londonderry,[178] and the account I
think very horrid. Every thing at Cray goes on the same, conversation,
laughing, novels, light books, the attaches and habitués coming in, the
very red boxes of office left in their places, not a shade of difference
in her occupations, amusements or mode of life.

She seems as if determined there shall be no change. This may be
fortitude, to me it is frightful. That habits should be so cherished and
so rooted as to withstand such a shock as the disappearance of the only
object she is ever supposed to have loved by Death, and such a death,
is wonderful, and not to be understood if it is upon principles so

I dined with the Wellesleys yesterday. Mr. Wellesley[179] acknowledges
having been distractedly in love with Sister, and was so pleased to see
her at Hastings. He hopes you like the place. His son Arthur is such a
cub, and thinks himself so very _every thing_, it made me quite low. Of
the Wellesley girls, the top and bottom dish, or eldest and youngest,
are of the specie Geese--the middle ones, Georgina[180] and Mary,[181]
are quite delightful, and very uncommon in their way.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_April 11, 1824_.

Thank you for your last letter, thank you for Lord Lansdowne’s after
laugh, but thank you above all, for being still my own Emmy just the
same as ever. I suppose you are going to Captain Parry’s[182] _fête_ on
board the _Hecla_, announced in the newspaper. I think he might have
asked me, and then I could have got over his ordering all this snow from
Gunter’s. However I think he has rather overdone it. I understand there
is to be a whole course of Walrus.

I had a letter from Sister, written at Lady Sarah’s[183] the day she
left Strathfieldsaye. She is full of good, and agreeable; but yet, I
never should be able to be quite friends with her. There is some gall
about her which would always give me an afterthought, and keep me
perhaps more on my guard with her than with many others who might betray
me faster.

I wish you could have seen us all, we were so ill-sorted. As for poor
Sister, among three Eton boys, one Oxford _merveilleux_, 2 silent girls,
1 military clergyman, 2 Colonels, some dancing country neighbours all
wound up and going, I don’t know how she survives. By the bye tell me
what are a Mr. Adderley and a Miss Adderley[184] to her? Something? Lord
Buckinghamshire’s legitimates by a former marriage, or Sister’s
illegitimates, or both their children, or no children at all? I was
asked and could not tell. Don’t racket yourself to death. I, who no
longer sit at good men’s feasts, certainly may magnify the fatigue, but
I am sure you do too much.

_May_, 1824.--There is some saying, Chinese I believe, about not letting
grass grow between friends, or words to that effect. Now, you must allow
I have mowed it twice, but you will not keep it down, and if you will
not, what’s to be done?

Lucy is coming to me to-morrow in spite of her resolutions never to be
with me during a groaning. Mrs. Napier, too, who is staying at Farm
House with her husband and a few children, wishes much to be with me,
and it will, I know, end in my running away into some Barn, like a Cat,
to kitten in peace. No, my dear Emmy, you are the only person that can
be agreeable to me even in a lying-in--_c’est tout dire_.

Lucy tells me she saw dear Robert,[185] greatly to her satisfaction, one
stray day she spent in London. So odd! for in general those are the
particular days one can look out no face one ever saw before, unless one
happens to be ill-dressed or in any disgraceful predicament of Hackney
coach or bad company.... But strange to say, Lucy met Robert with
decency and without distress. She says he is just the same, only
sunburnt. How I wish I could see him, if he has any houses of low price
and good dimensions, and furnished suited to a genteel but _indigent_ or
indignant Family? There is a talk of our leaving this, as the Landlord
wishes to live here himself, and I should like to belong to Robert’s
flock, of being one of his _Ouailles_.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_May 14, 1824_.

DEAREST EMMY, I was quite sorry I had sent my letter when the day after
I found I was at liberty to talk about William de Roos’s marriage.[186]
I am all delighted, and all that, and all I should be when I see him so
happy. But tho’ I have been going thro’ all the palliating influence of
confidant and in his secret, and within the mark of all hopes, and
fears, and difficulties, yet I cannot shake off the idea that she is not
good enough, he is _selon moi_ such a dear creature, so much beyond the
common run of man, of young men. Of course I rely on your keeping this
alongside with your own ideas on the subject.

I believe she is improved, and I liked her once, when first she came
out, and you know we certainly sober in this world unless we go mad;
perhaps she may have taken that turn. In short there is much in her
favour, but while he was marrying a beggar he might have had a
pleasanter, but opportunity does all those things, there is no choice in
the case. One negative advantage I have never lost sight of, she is not
a Bathurst.

I do regret bitterly not seeing Robert. If I was not childing, I could
have had a room for him, but somehow I shall be lying-in in every room
and all over the place. Give my love to him and ask him seriously, if he
knows of a family house that could suit us, as Sir Guy and I are very
likely to find all the world before us next February, like Adam and Eve,
only with better clothes and more children.

Is not it so like William de Roos to go to Ireland to avoid the wishing
joy? He had business certainly, but still nobody but him could do such a
thing. Many thanks for solving Sister’s acidities for me. Your own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_Sunday, June 20, 1824_.

DEAR EMMY, Yes, yes, you may still show pleasure, surprise, emotion, on
seeing my handwriting again. Here, alas, my reign is over, my rôle of
lying-in.... One month, one little month, was scarce allowed me; and I
was again dragged into the vulgar tumult of common barren life.
Provoking and vexatious events are no longer kept from my knowledge, the
hush and tiptoe are forgotten, the terror of my agitation has ceased,
the glory of Israel is departed! The truth is I am too well; there is no
pathos, no dignity, no interest, in rude health, and consequently I meet
with no respect. I have not even been allowed to read _Redgauntlet_ in
seclusion, and chickens and tit-bits have given way to mutton chops and
the coarse nutrition adapted to an unimpaired constitution.

Emily! let me be a warning if you wish to preserve the regard of your
friends, the respect of your acquaintance, consideration, attention, in
short, all social benefits, don’t get well--never know an hour’s health.

I have got into a fit of nonsense, as you will perceive, a sort of
letter-giggle; seriously now I want to hear from you, to know how you
are.... Sir Guy is gone to Town to see his sister off to France. He is
to sleep to-night in _Water Lane_, which sounds damp, but is convenient
to the Steamboat by which Fanny Campbell sails or boils to Calais....
Your own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_June 1824_.

I wish I knew how you are, and where you are. William de Roos is the
happiest of men, and Lady G. has won Uncle Henry’s[187] heart at
Strangford by taking to gardening; I do hope it may turn out well and
shame the Devil....

As I stood looking over a heap of weeds that were burning, they struck
my own mind, as being somewhat like itself, you could see no flame, you
could see no fire, and yet it was surely tho’ slowly consuming to ashes.
Now you see my indolence does just the same to my better qualities.
There is no outraged sin, no crying vice, and yet this indolence eats
into my life.

If you will but keep me in order, and pity my infirmities, when can you
come to me?...

The great House is a bore, _selon moi_, but I will tell you all about it
when you come. I have just read Hayley;[188] considering I don’t think
him a Poet, nor his life eventful, I wonder why one reads it? The truth
is, we are all, I believe, so fond of knowing other people’s business,
we would read anybody’s life.

_July 9, 1824._

Many thanks for your letter. It did indeed make my country eyes stare,
and put me in such a bustle as if I had all you did--to do. I have had a
great combat, but pride shall give way, and candour shall cement our
friendship. The paragraph in your letter about Lord E. threw me into
consternation, as well as those who might have known better, for,
Emily, he has not written me a word about it, and would you believe it?
I don’t know who he is going to marry.... You rolled your pen in such a
fine frenzy that I cannot read your version of his name no more than if
it had been written with one of the lost legs of the spider tribe. I see
it begins with a B., but the rest dissolves like the bad half of those
prayers to Jupiter in Air.

I believe I should make your city hair friz again, if I were to detail
my country week’s work. However, I will be cautious. I won’t speak too
much of myself, which for want of extraneous matters, I might be led to
do.... You keep very bad company with _them_ Player-men, those
Horticultural Cultivators of the Devil’s hot-bed.

I suppose I shall hear you talk of the Sock and Buskin; it is all that
Cassiobury connexion that makes you so lax.

_Miss Eden to her Niece, Eleanor Colvile._

_Sunday_ [1824].

MY DEAR ELEANOR, Your Mamma seems to think you may like to have a
letter, and I am vainly trying to persuade myself I like to write one.

The Miss Copleys have their Sunday School just the same as ours, with
the Butcher’s daughter and the Shop-woman for teachers; not quite so
many children as we have; but in all other respects the two schools are
as like as may be, and they are there all Sunday, which gives me time
for writing.

Maria [Copley][189] has just been telling a story of a Christening that
makes me laugh. She and her sister stood Godmothers to two little twins
in the village, and carried them to church. The children were only a
fortnight old, and therefore were much wrapped up, and Miss Copley, who
is not used to handling children, carried hers with the feet
considerably higher than the head. She gave it carefully to the
clergyman when he was to christen it, and together they undid its cloak
in search of its face, and found two little red feet. They were so
surprised at this that the clergyman looked up in her face and said:
“Why, then, where is its head?” And she, being just as much frightened,
answered: “I really cannot think.” Maria at last suggested that in all
probability the head would be at the opposite end of the bundle from the
feet, and so it proved.

Good-bye, dear Eleanor,[190] mind you get better. It is foolish to be
ill; I found it so myself. Love to all. Your affectionate Aunt,

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_August 1824_.

MY DEAR MISS VILLIERS, George has gone to Scotland to kill the poor dumb
grouse (or _grice_), as they ought to be in the plural, but I will
transmit your direction to him, and if he can do what you wish I daresay
he will, though I have an idea it is the sort of thing about which
people chuse to look really important, and say they cannot interfere.

...Dear Lady Chichester![191] How lucky it is that people’s letters are
so like themselves. It is perhaps not unnatural but amusing too, I did
not know till Lady Buckinghamshire mentioned it the other day when she
was talking of this marriage that the Chichesters have the strongest
possible feeling on the subject of connexion, and she said they would
look on this marriage as a positive calamity. How very absurd it is,
and it is a shame of Lady Chichester to exaggerate George Osborne’s[192]
faults so much. He was not in fact very much to blame, in his
disagreement with Lord Francis, and if it were not the way of the
Osborne family to make their family politics the subject of their jokes
to all the world, George would have been reckoned just as good as any
boy of his age. I imagine that even Lord Chichester has found _his_ son
liked his own way as well as the rest of the world, but perhaps Lady
Chichester and he do not impart to each other the little difficulties
they find with those separate little families you mention....

We are so settled here that it seems as if we had never gone away, I
believe one changes one’s self as well as _Horses_ at Barnet, I lose all
my recollections of London, “that great city where the geese are all
swans and the fools are all witty” and take up the character of the
Minister’s sister, as I hear myself called in the village. Robert’s
house is very comfortable, and I think this much the most beautiful
country I have seen since I saw the Pyrenees. Some people might think it
verging on the extreme of picturesque and call it wild, but I love a
mountainous country. I go sketching about with the slightest success,
the rocks are too large and obstinate and won’t be drawn.

Mrs. Lamb[193] came here Sunday, and we must return the visit some day,
but by a great mercy I broke the spring of the pony carriage the other
day. Your ever affectionate

E. E.



_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Saturday_ [1825].

MY DEAR MISS VILLIERS, What a shame it is that I should have been so
long writing to you, particularly after Mrs. Villiers had made the
discovery that my letters amused her. My sister Louisa [Colvile] and
four of her children passed a fortnight here at the end of last month,
and our whole time was spent in “exploring in the barouche landau,” as
Mrs. Elton observes.

By the time I have had nine or ten more of my sisters here, and thirty
or forty of their children, I shall be tired of my own enthusiasm in the
great picturesque cause; but at present all other employments are
sacrificed to it. However, it may amuse you.

I shall continue to think a visit to Chatsworth a very great trouble.
You are probably right in thinking the Duke[194] takes pleasure in
making people do what they don’t like, and that accounts for his asking
me so often. We have now made a rule to accept one invitation out of
two. We go there with the best dispositions, wishing to be amused,
liking the people we meet there, loyal and well affected to the King of
the Peak himself, supported by the knowledge that in the eyes of the
neighbourhood we are covering ourselves with glory by frequenting the
_great house_; but with all these helps we have never been able to stay
above two days there without finding change of air absolutely
necessary,--never could turn the corner of the third day,--at the end of
the second the great depths of _bore_ were broken up and carried all
before them: we were obliged to pretend that some christening, or a
grand funeral, or some pressing case of wedding (in this country it is
sometimes expedient to hurry the performance of the marriage ceremony)
required Robert’s immediate return home, and so we departed yawning. It
is odd it should be so dull. The G. Lambs are both pleasant, and so is
Mr. Foster and Mrs. Cavendish and a great many of the habitués of
Chatsworth; and though I have not yet attained the real Derbyshire
feeling which would bring tears of admiration into my eyes whenever the
Duke observed that it was a fine day, yet I think him pleasant, and like
him very much, and can make him hear without any difficulty, and he is
very hospitable and wishes us to bring all our friends and relations
there, if that would do us any good. But we happen to be _pleasanter_ at
home. However private vices may contribute to public benefit, I do not
see how private bore can contribute to public happiness, do you?

Pray give my love to your mother, and believe me, your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to her Sister, Lady Buckinghamshire._

_July 15, 1825_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Do you recollect my asking you whether you would give
us a dinner in the course of the year? Well, at one of our pleasant
dinners the other day we were all so mortal agreeable that we settled
we should go to Astley’s on the 18th. The party consisted of Maria
Copley, Lord Henry Thynne,[195] Colonel Arden,[196] Mr. Wall,[197] Henry
Eden,[198] and our three selves. To that it was necessary to add for
decency’s sake Sir Joseph and Coppy.[199] It occurred to me this
afternoon whilst murmuring over the heat, which is extremely unpleasant,
that Astley’s would be the death of us all, and that if the weather
continued in its present state, it would be better to change it for a
water party.

It would be very pleasant if your carriage and two or three of those
nice little poney-carriages you keep on the heather were to meet us at
the water-side to bring us to your nice little place, and you receive us
in your nice little way, and give us a nice little collation at about 6
o’clock, and let us walk about the place and then leave you, and talk
you well over in the boat, as we go back again.

In the first place, these are all the people whom you have read about
over and over again, and whom you are dying to see. Then, though they
are ten now, yet by the end of the week they will not be above seven or

Sir Joseph hates the water, so as I mean to make a vacancy for the
present list I will ask your own Mr. G. Villiers to come with us, and he
will be _such_ a support to you. Well, what do you think?

My own interest in the question is this: that I am going to establish a
coolness between myself and Lord Henry, who is exposing me to the
remarks of the invidious public without any earthly purpose; and I had
all the advantage at Burlington House on Thursday of being supposed to
be honoured by a proposal from him in the face of many curious
spectators, when he was imparting to me his intentions of admiring
another person more than me. I do not know whether it was fun or spite,
or a tryal of my feelings, or whether he is serious; but as I found that
I did not care which it was, I do not mean to favour the world with the
sight of any more such long conversations. It amuses them more than it
does me, and henceforth I mean not to let him go _tagging_ after me as
he has done lately. The Astley party was made before this wise
resolution, and I want to change it to a water-party, which will cut him
out without offending him, as he never goes on fresh water, and we will
ask Mr. Villiers in his place.

Don’t let yourself be frightened, you will find us so pleasant.

Good-night. I can’t help laughing when I see myself introducing the
Colonel to you. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Sunday, 1825_.

You must have got hold of some other family in the same street. It is
not _my_ story you are telling me. I am Emily Eden, of No. 30 [Grosvenor
Street], who has been marrying a brother[200] in Derbyshire; then has
been to Kent to visit a married sister; then found another sister
setting off into Yorkshire, and took advantage of an offered place in
her carriage and was deposited yesterday at Sprotbro’. I am really
delighted that Mrs. Villiers is getting better. Is not Doctor Pidcock
the man who cured Mr. H. Greville and whom Mrs. Villiers abused with
unusual injustice, first because he was a doctor and no doctor could be
of any use to anybody, and next because he was a quack and therefore no
doctor. He is taking such a generous revenge! heaping such large coals
of fire on her head! I hope he will go on, dear man!--skuttle-full after
skuttle-full of fiery coals till she is quite well.

I saw your brother riding up the deep solitudes of Parliament Street the
day I drove through London. It was an awful sight. The street so quiet
you might have heard a pin drop.

Sister and I left Eastcombe last Monday and went to Gog Magog. I invited
myself of course, but Charlotte[201] bore it very well. I was there
fifteen years ago in the capacity of a child: I therefore did not see
much of her, or know anything of her, and except that, have not seen her
but for two or three morning visits per annum; so it was a voyage of
discovery, in the style of a North Pole expedition. The Frost
intense--and a good deal of _hummocky_ ice to sail through. However, I
really liked it much better than I expected. Lord Francis is
particularly pleasant in his own house, and young Charlotte[202] very
civil and good-natured. I found _nine_ letters yesterday here and have
had two more to-day, all requiring answers. I mean to put my death in
the papers. It would be cheaper than if I really were to die from the
over-exertion of writing eleven letters.

Robert’s new relations write to me, which is kind, but hard, as I must
answer them. Lord Bexley[203] has given Robert the living of
Hertingfordbury.[204] I have written so much about it lately, that I
have at last forgotten how to spell it, and I am, beside, related to it,
and am in the habit of familiarly terming it Hert.

Robert leaves this place next week. At first we thought he was going to
be immensely rich, but dear Lord Bexley in a fit of conscientiousness
divided from Hertingfordbury the living of St. Andrews, which has been
given with it for the last 150 years. He thinks it will be a good
example to his successors if he divides them in a case where he has a
nearer interest, as in a brother-in-law. I can’t guess what his
successor may think, and never shall know probably, as I never look to
be Chancellor of the Duchy; but I can tell him that I think his
relations think it extremely unpleasant, and it makes the benefit rather
a doubtful one.

However, it is very good of him, only it is a pity where the principle
is so good the result is not more agreeable. And he is so complacent and
pleased with his decision! I have found out he is just what a
sea-Captain said of one of Wesley’s preachers: “a heavenly-minded little
Devil.” Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Monday._--I was prevented by a very long ride on Saturday from sending
this. I am so grieved to see poor Captain Russell’s[205] death in the
paper. It is not formally announced, but I see it in the Ship news
mentioned by the captain of some other ship. Perhaps it may not be true,
but yet I fear it is. I saw Eliza[206] the other day in her way from
Scotland, as I believe I told you, and she talked with such pleasure of
her brother George’s promotion. I had a letter from her a fortnight ago
delighted that he had escaped the fever which his ship’s company had all
had. Poor thing! I am so sorry for her. She was so fond of him, and the
unexpected loss of a dearly loved brother is a grief that must, like all
others, be endured, but one that, God knows, time itself cannot heal,
and hardly mitigate. I wonder where Eliza is now--whether they are gone
to Paris. If you hear anything of her or of Captain Russell’s death will
you let me know? I suppose everybody feels most for the calamity under
which they themselves have suffered, and from my very heart I pity
Eliza, and it was impossible not to like Captain Russell for his own

Good-bye, dear Theresa. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

[_December_] 1825.

I say Theresa, I shall be in Grosvenor Street on Tuesday from twelve to
four. Please, if you are in the land of the living, commonly called
Knightsbridge, to come and see me and we will talk a few.

We (thereby meaning Robert, his wife, and me) arrived here from
Derbyshire last night, and are quite delighted with this place. It is a
real country place, not like a parsonage, with a little park something
in the Irish class of parks, but with fine trees in it and a pretty
garden, and everything very nice.

We are just come back from our first church here. There are a great many
_nervous_ points in a clergyman’s life, and I think the first interview
with his parishioners rather awful. I remember the time when I used to
think a clergyman’s life the most pitiable thing in the world. I am
wiser now, and can see the numerous advantages a man has whose duties
and pleasures must necessarily be one and the same thing.

Robert preached to-day a sermon I wrote, and to my horror I detected a
disguised quotation from Shakespeare in an imposing part of it, which
was not obvious till it was read aloud. However, it was probably not
very apparent to anybody but myself. I was rather in hopes of seeing you
in a corner of the Cowper pew, but it was quite empty. Well, I can’t
stay chattering here all day. Your ever affectionate


_Miss Eden to her Sister, Fanny Eden._

_November 11, 1825_.

MY DEAREST FANNY, Begin writing to me again forthwith. I have heard from
the Copleys with fresh plans for my going there, so that I should not
have been in want of a house.

Mary says Mr. H. Greville[207] is so cross she does not know what to do
with him. What if it is love for Isabella Forester.[208] She is sorry he
is so foolish, and if it is bile--she is sorry he does not take more

Why, Foolish the 5th, don’t you remember my white muslin gown with tucks
and blue stars between them, and the body done with blue braiding, and I
wore it the Chatham day, and it smelt of the tobacco old gentlemen were
pleased to smoke in our faces, so I would not let it be washed for their
dirty sakes till Wright showed it me by daylight and told me I was
probably not aware I had worn it 30 times. And to be sure it was not the
cleaner for it. Still, it grieved me to have it washed. I shall go and
see our Caroline [Vansittart] in town and shall come down with all my
hair stroked up the wrong way by her remarks. Your most affectionate

E. E.

     [The year 1826 brought many troubles and great unhappiness to Lady
     Campbell. Her sister Lucy, who had always been an anxiety to her,
     had married Captain George Lyon, R.N., in 1825. Lucy evidently had
     her full share of FitzGerald beauty and charm, large dark eyes and
     beautiful chestnut auburn hair.

     In January she arrived at Calne, where the Campbells were now
     living, in a great state of misery, having just parted with her
     husband, who had gone to take up an appointment in Mexico. The
     couple had sailed together, but for eleven days the ship tossed
     about in a storm and finally was obliged to put back. Mrs. Lyon was
     ill, and she decided to remain in England; her husband left her at
     home, hoping to rejoin her in a year and a half.

     In February Lady Campbell’s cousin, Arthur de Roos, died at Boyle
     Farm, and in the following autumn her two elder children were
     dangerously ill with scarlet fever. Her friend, Miss Wellesley, and
     four of the servants also caught this illness, and her sister Lucy
     died of it at Thames Ditton when her child was born.

     “I have had eight persons ill of the fever. As soon as they come
     into the house to help _do_ for us,--they fall sick.”]

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_January 13, 1826_.

MY DEAREST EMILY, I never was so provoked in my life at anything, and I
cursed the aristocracy of the country, and I was told of it[209] as
coolly as if it was a distress in Ireland. Seriously, what provoked me
was her never telling me till after it was all given up, and put an end
to, for thank Heaven I have a small house, and therefore can always make
room, and I could perfectly have put up Fanny, and you, and your maid.

I had the gratification of seeing the whole party swamped in Crambo, and
water-logged in Charades, and a large party writhing in the agonies of
English Xmas conviviality, without any young ladies, without any music
to break the awful solemnity of the evening, and no Lord Auckland to
make them gamesome.

Lord Dudley was their wit, and as there was nobody to play with him, I
saw he tried to domesticate himself, as he could make nothing of his
jokes, or, what was worse, saw them torn to pieces before his eyes by
the avidity with which the hungry society seized on them, to support
themselves thro’ the day. But who could even domesticate in that

Sir Guy nearly died of Crambo, and was very near taking a Dictionary
with him the next time. But as he is not at all of the go-along tribe he
kicked, and would not cramb.

The event of the next time was Charades, and our enthusiasm knew no
bounds when Lord Dudley joined the crew, and appeared with his coat
turned inside out, and enacted a chimney-sweeper, and rattled a stick
upon a bit of wood. Our rapture was indescribable, and it reminded me of
the feelings of those who in ancient times beheld great men doing little
things! Anecdotes which Historians always dwell on with that delight
which human beings naturally feel on seeing a dry patch in a bog, or a
green patch in a waste--the man who ploughed in Rome after heading the
Yeomanry or Militia of the Republic; the man who picked up shells near
the same place; that other who had the horticultural turn for sowing
Lettuces--all these men were nothing in effect to Lord Dudley playing at
sweep. I felt it deeply.

It was that day too he said when they offered him toasted cheese, “Ah!
yes; to-day is Toasted-cheese day, and yesterday was Herring day!!”

How we all laughed!!!

How goodly is it to earn fair Fame! Once get your charter for a Wit, and
you may sit down with all the comfort of being a fool for the rest of
your life. One joke a year--not so much--even one _bad_ joke now and
then, is a better tenure than all those forms of carrying a Hawk, or the
King’s Pepper-box, at the Coronation, for an estate.

We had a ball at Bowood the night before Twelfth Night. It went off
very well indeed. I had the pleasure of cramming my small Pam[210] into
a pink body and seeing it dance, and seeing everybody make a fuss with
it because it was by many degrees the smallest thing in the room....

No; there never, never, never, was anything so cross as your not coming
to Bowood this year, because I had looked to it just as you did, and had
even distressed myself about how I should manage to see enough of you,
and whether Lady Lansdowne would facilitate our intercourse, and I meant
to show you all my new editions of children, and even make you
superintend the new one, for certainly the one you picked up in Cadogan
Place is the prettiest of the whole set. I cannot tell you how kind Lady
Lansdowne is to me, and she need be so after putting you off; but she
does really load me with kindnesses. However, we are not to stay in this
house. It smokes and is too dear for us, so alas! I am again hunting a
domicile. We get poorer and poorer, but as Guy bears it better and
better, I don’t mind.

I am glad you see William.[211] He is so dear a creature! His Family
cannot forgive him for having picked out a little happiness for himself
his own way.... Your affectionate


_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_March 30_ [1826].

MY DEAR THERESA, Robert and his wife are coming for a week to Grosvenor
Street, and I must be there to order their dinner and sweep their room,
so I shall go there on Saturday and stay in town ten days. I shall be
very glad to see you again. Pray come as soon as you can--Saturday
afternoon if possible. I want you to come in the light of something
good, to take the taste of going back to London out of my mouth. It is
an ugly place, is it not? Probably I shall forget my troubles to-morrow
if I do not _fix_ them by mentioning them to you to-day. I always find
that when I have withstood a strong temptation to mention to my friend
the worry of the moment, it ceases to be a worry much sooner than the
grief which has gone through the process of discussion. But the struggle
is unpleasant.

I liked Malachi particularly.[212] I have not seen the answers, but hear
they are very amusing, which is a pity. I have long vowed never to be
amused by anything Mr. Croker should say or do, be it ever so
entertaining, and “shall I lay perjury on my precious soul?” as Shylock
says, for a mere pamphlet?

I have been trying to read _The Last of the Mohicans_ and have come to a
full stop at the end of the first volume. I am sure you will not like
it. Those vulgar Mohicans only wear one long scalp-lock of hair--they
don’t _crêper_! Nasty savages! And so far from wearing full sleeves, it
is painfully obvious that they wear no sleeves at all, and not much else
in matter of cloathes.

Have you been uneasy about Sarah? Sister would have been if she could,
but it came out unfortunately by the admission of those who saw her,
that she had not been quite so ill as angry, and Sister weakly goes
backwards and forwards to London on the chance of being admitted, and
then hears Sarah is gone out airing. They say it is a fine sight to see
the preparations for her airing. She “plays such fantastic tricks before
high heaven” and the clerks of the Treasury; but whether she has
succeeded in making any “angel weep” but dear Robin,[213] I do not
know. However, it is wrong to laugh, because I believe nervous
complaints are great suffering, and at all events poor Mr. R. was

Good-bye, my love to your mother. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

TUNBRIDGE WELLS, _Sunday, August 6_ [1826].

DEAREST THERESA, I had such a desire to write to you yesterday because
it was not post day and I had no frank, and to-day it goes all against
the grain, because I have plenty of time and George is come back to give
me a frank and my letter can go. But you always make me write first;
why, I never make out. Have you any good reason for it?

Our Tunbridge speculation is answering so well to us. I always knew I
should like it, but George’s content, indeed actual enjoyment of the
place and way of life, surprises me. We have such a clean house, just
finished, and we are its first inhabitants, so we run no hazard of being
devoured by a flea hacknied in the arts of devouring and tormenting. I
was just going to bother myself by inventing a description of our way of
life, when George showed me his answer to a vain-glorious description of
the joys of Worthing, which Mr. Wall, who is living there, has just
sent, meaning to put us out of conceit with Tunbridge by the vulgar
notion of the Agar-Ellis’[214] man-cook and carriage and four, and so I
shall copy part of George’s answer.

It opens with a moral: “We are better off and happier than is properly
compatible with a life of innocence and vegetation. Our house is
delightfully clean and comfortable. The living very good. Fish caught
at eight in the morning at Hastings is devoured here at three. The eggs,
cream, and butter, are brought to us in an hourly succession of
freshness. All the material of the kitchen excellent, and the appetite
too pure to think that it is a female that cooks it. Then a few glasses
of hock and some coffee, and an hour’s repose, and we meet at Lady C.
Greville’s,[215] Alvanley[216] and his sisters, and the F.
Levesons.[217] We assort ourselves upon horses, into barouches, etc.,
and start for some of our inexhaustible lions; and we end our evening
together with the feast of nonsense and the flow of tea.” He ends his
letter with a promise to be at Norman Court the 1st of September, and
adds, “My guns are at home and the locks click sweetly. Water the
turnips when it does not rain.”

How much more foolish men are than women, particularly about their
amusements. We none of us write to each other about our white sattin
gowns that are hanging sweetly up at home.

George does not mention what is I think the most curious part of our
life--that I am actually dressed and down at the Wells every morning
before half-past eight, and he generally arrives only five minutes
later. We dine at three and go to bed at eleven, and are in a ravenous
state of hunger at all hours; and the consequence is that I can already
walk three or four miles without being tired.

The Duchess of Kent arrived two days ago, and we live in a transport of
loyalty. We insisted on illuminating for her and dragging her into the
town, which naturally alarmed her, so she put off coming, meaning to
step in unobserved. But that our loyalty could not suffer; and I never
stepped out without 50 yards of rope in one pocket, and a Roman candle
in the other, for fear of accidents. However, I believe she was allowed
to drive up to her own door, but there were some fine illuminations

Lord Alvanley is an amusing incident at this sort of place, and it is a
pity he is not more likeable, because there is certainly nobody more
amusing. He goes away Tuesday, but he liked it so much he means to come
back again. We all parted yesterday evening, quite worn out with
laughing, and yet I cannot recollect what he said. But it was very
delightful. Except these tea-drinkings we could not be quieter or more
independent in a country home of our own. Nobody visits of a morning,
and in the evenings they are all in their coloured morning dresses.

You will be happy to hear that our three-shilling coarse straw bonnets
are only a shade too good for the style of dress here.

I wish you were here. The man who built this house might have guessed we
should like to have you. The upholsterer knew it, for there are more
beds than enough, two in each room, but there are only three good
bedrooms, and neither Fanny nor I could sleep except in a room by
ourselves. But you must let me know your plans, because George will be
obliged to go away in a fortnight more, and unless any of my sisters
mean to take his place, which I do not suppose they will do, I think you
might give us a visit. It is the sort of life you would like. I have not
done so much drawing for years as during the last week. I have copied
those six Prints on six cards for that tiresome Hertford fair, and they
looked so pretty in that small shape I was quite sorry to send them to

What nice weather you have for your Gravesend expedition. Is the great
review of Tide-waiters[218] taking place to-day? I have not the least
idea what they are, what are the origin, manners, and customs of the
nation of Tide-waiters? If they are people who wait till the tide serves
they will flourish for ever. The poor dear tide never serves anybody,
and if they gain their bread by tide-waiting, what floods of tears they
must shed at Othello’s description of the Pontic Sea, which knows no
retiring ebb....

I am decidedly in what Swift calls “a high vein of silliness” this
afternoon; but it is the fault of the weather and of being in the
country, which, after all, is the only thing that makes actual
happiness. Your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Sunday_, 1826.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I should have written sooner to tell you where to
write to me, but I was rather in hopes George would let me stay another
month at Tunbridge. Everybody was going away, so we might have had a
very small house for half the price we gave for ours, and as the
servants will eat whether they are there or in Grosvenor Street, I
thought we might have lived more economically than in posting all over
England. However, after much correspondence, George, who terrifies me by
the way in which he spends his own money, settled that the expenses were
nearly equal, and that being the case that he would rather have us with
him. “I never met with such an instance of politeness all my life,” as
the immortal Collins observes,--not the Professor Collins, but the far
greater “Pride and Prejudice” Collins. And so we packed up and came
here, and I expect George and Mr. Wall to arrive every minute.

In shooting season they only travel on Sundays, I observe. We lived at
Tunbridge almost entirely with the F. Levesons. I had a great idea that
I should dislike her, which was a mistake, and if I were given to
_engouements_, I should suppose I were suffering under one now for her,
only it came very gradually, which is not the case with that complaint,
I believe. First a decrease of dislike, and then not caring whether she
were in the room or not, and then a willingness to walk towards her
house, and then an impossibility to walk in any other direction.

The last fortnight we had the de Roos’s, who dined with the F.
Levesons’s as often as we did, or else we all dined with the Peels;[220]
and if we dined early, we rode after dinner and met again for tea. I can
ride four hours at a time now without the least fatigue and walk in
proportion. I like the Peels too, only I wish Lady Jane would bind him
apprentice to a tinker, or a shoemaker, or to anybody who would make him
work, as he seems to have an objection to the liberal professions. From
mere want of employment, he has fancied himself into bad health, and
does nothing but hold a smelling-bottle to his nose all day, even at
dinner. How it would annoy me if I were his wife!--because he has
talents enough, and can be pleasant when he is roused. I cannot think
how any clever man who has not estate enough to find his property an
occupation, can consent to be thrown by his own choice out of all
professions. I should be a lawyer to-morrow if I were Lawrence Peel, or
a lawyer’s wife if I were Lady Jane. She might persuade him into it I am
sure, if she would try, and it would be so much better economy than
consulting Doctor Mayo three times a day, which he does sometimes.

There is nobody here but Lord Carnarvon and his daughter, and Mr. Newton
the painter, and one of the sons of the house. This is such a delicious
house now it is finished, and heaps of new books and good pictures.

I intend to make much of a friendship with Newton. Mr. Baring tells me
he has seen a great deal of you, which is an additional reason why I
should make his acquaintance. He seems to me clever and paradoxical and
a little Yankeeish and perhaps conceited, but that picture of
Macheath[221] is a great _set off_ against any faults he may have. It is
impossible, too, that I can know anything about him, as I only saw him
for five minutes at the other end of the breakfast-table; but I like to
state my first impressions. They are invariably wrong, and now I know
that, they are just as good as if they were right, I may believe with
much assurance the contrary of what I think.

Is your brother George in town? And did I fancy, or could he have told
me that I might enclose to him at the Custom House a parcel above the
usual weight. I want to send to my sister-in-law some interesting little
caps I have been making which will not be much above weight. Your most

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Monday, September_, 1826.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Your account of yourself pleases me, partly because
it is evident the proper remedy for your illness has been found out, and
also because you write so much more legibly, which is a good sign....

I do not know what state of appetite you are in or how much you eat, but
could not you live lower, and so require fewer leeches? Give up that egg
you mix so neatly with your tea and put on the leeches less.

You ask if I care about the present state of politics? Why, dear child,
I never cared for anything half so much in my life,--almost to the pass
of being sorry I am out of town this week. I am trying to _subside_,
simply because I do not think any of our people will get anything in the
scramble; but still it is amusing to see such a mess as all the other
side is in, and any change must be for the better, you know we think....

I doubt if the Chancellor[222] is safely out yet. He writes such
characteristic letters to an old sister-in-law of his who lives in this
village, talking of his release from fatigues that were too much for
him, and rest for his few remaining days, etc.

We dined at Panshanger yesterday. Lady Cowper[223] is miserable at being
out of all the ferment of London. She is a Whig only by marriage, I
suspect, and a regular courtier at heart, but talks bravely just now,
with only occasional regrets that the Duke of Wellington should have
been so _ill-advised_....

I saw Lady Ouseley yesterday and she is quite aware how ill you have
been, and that you could not write to her. I never can give my mind to
her conversation, but she looked very melancholy, and yet I cannot
recollect that she mentioned any misfortune except that Sir Gore[224]
had the rheumatism. Janie looked to me like a standing misfortune. She
is so very plain, and she does not pay the slightest attention to her
poor melancholy mother.

I am glad you are reading those books. To be sure, you are reading
Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_ only now. I knew that, the _Memoires de
Retz_, Shakespeare, and a great part of the Bible, almost by heart
before I was eleven years old; so then there was not a thought left for
me to think upon manners, men, imagination, or morals. Everything is in
those books. On scientific subjects I never could understand other
people’s thoughts, and am guiltless of having had one of my own even on
the simplest question. My sentiment, later in life, I took by the lump,
in absolute cwts. out of _Corinne_[225] and Lord Byron’s Poems, and so,
as I said before, I have never had a thought of my own and I do not
believe any of us can, in the way we are all educated; and I suppose it
is lucky, as they would be foolish thoughts probably if they came.

God bless you, dear, and go on getting better. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_September_ 24, 1826.

MY DEAR THERESA, I am in such a bad mood for writing, that I could not
set about it with a worse grace, only you will not write to me if I do
not write to you.

I am devoted to the arts just now, and to the improvement of my small
mind, which I have brought to a high state of cultivation by studying
fifteen books at a time, some of them amazingly abstruse, such as the
_Life of James Mackoul the Housebreaker_--very improving. Also I have
finished my Denham’s _Travels_, and the _Life of Professor Clarke_ and
_Les Barricades_,[226] a diluted sort of history, partly history and
partly dialogue, which Lord Lansdowne likes because it is the fashion at
Paris, but it is uncommonly stupid. And I have been dipping into
Pothier’s _Histoire de l’Eglise_,--and in short, if we stay here a week
there is no saying how much I shall read, or how little I shall

Think of the agonies of coming here last Monday doubtful if we were
expected or not! _Il Fanatico per la Musica_ (by which form of words I
opine that the Italians translate: Lord Lansdowne) passed last week at
the Gloucester music meeting, so he did not receive George’s letter in
proper time, and of course there was some mistake about his answer, as
there always is about any letter that signifies, and so we did not know
if this week suited them. A warm reception from her is in the best of
times doubtful, and arriving against her wish would have been horribly
degrading. George never will enter into those sort of feelings, but that
only makes them worse. However, he promised, if he found we had not been
expected, to go on to Bath, and then we had a beautiful wild scheme, if
I could have made my mind up to twelve hours’ steam-boat, of going from
Bristol to see Elizabeth Cawdor.[227] But unfortunately we found our
rooms here all ready, so we shall not see Wales this year. The
Lansdownes were quite alone, expecting us, and she in the most cordial
affectionate state; the place, which I have never seen but at Christmas,
quite beautiful, and in short, I never liked Bowood half so much before.
That was sure to be the consequence of expecting to dislike it.

Our Newton we have overtaken here again. He left the Grange rather in a
huff some days ago, affronted somehow about his singing (at least so I
heard, for I was not in the room to hear it); but he went away suddenly
and ungraciously. I certainly don’t like him, he is so argumentative,
and talks so much of himself. His opinion of your brother George amused
me particularly. He raves about you, but sensibly and properly, and
calls you Miss Villiers. I have not a notion what line you take when
you praise me, but he will distrust your judgment in future whatever you
said, for he is one of the people to whom I must be odious. I go and
look at his picture of “Macheath,” which is in the drawing-room here,
and which I think one of the best modern pictures I know, and collect a
large mass of esteem and admiration for the painter, and rush into the
library and address myself to him while it is all smoking hot; and
before I have been five minutes there, all my good opinion turns sour
and bitter and tough and cold, and he might just as well never have
painted the picture at all.

Moore[228] has been here the last three days, singing like a little
angel. He has some new songs that make one perfectly and comfortably
miserable, particularly one, set to a very very simple air, and with a
constant return of the words, “They are gone,” etc. He was singing it
here on Friday, and there was a huge party of neighbours, amongst others
a very vulgar bride who is partly a Portuguese, but chiefly a thorough
vulgar Englishwoman, calls Lord Lansdowne “Marquis” when she speaks to
him, and turns to Lady Lansdowne all of a sudden with “Law, how ‘andsome
you look.” Just as Moore had finished this, and we were most of us in
tears, she put her great fat hand on his arm and said, “And pray, Mr.
Moore, can you sing Cherry Ripe?” George and I, who were sitting the
other side of him, burst out laughing, and so Moore was obliged to make
a good story out of it afterwards; else he owns he was so angry he meant
to have sunk it altogether. Your ever affectionate


_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_October_ 1826.

MY DEAR THERESA, I must be come to my second childishness and mere
oblivion, for I cannot recollect whether I have answered the letter you
wrote to me at Shottesbrook, and which followed me here, or not. If I
have written, you had better put this in the fire, because it must be
the same thing over again. One thing I know: That I have written above
_twenty_ letters since I came here. My family are all dispersed, and I
have unwisely enlarged my list of friends, and my acquaintances have
been uncommonly troublesome; and in short, I have been ill-used in the
article of letter writing.

I have such miserable letters from my poor dear Pamela. It breaks one’s
heart to read them, and yet she is very good. She wrote to tell me of
Lucy’s death _immediately_ after it occurred, and wrote in the greatest
agony, but even then resigned, at least trying to be so, and thinking
much of the life of trouble which poor Lucy would have had before her.
Pamela said, “Think of her Aunt, think of her poor husband, think of all
but _her_, for she was miserable and it was in mercy that God took her.”
And I believe her death to have been in fact occasioned by the state of
excitement and anxiety in which she had lived since her marriage; and
she had little chance, with her strong feelings and the peculiar
circumstances of her situation, of anything but an increase of anxiety.
Pamela writes me word to-day that her four servants--all she keeps--are
in the scarlet fever, and her eldest little girl had just begun with it,
and she has had, ever since Lucy’s death, a sort of nervous pain in her
throat that prevents her swallowing anything but liquids, and is grown
very weak. I am telling you a long story, but I think you are
interested about her, and it is such a melancholy situation that I can
think of nothing else. To be sure, I have, as it is, a great many more
blessings than I deserve; but it is hard that the want of a little
foolish money should keep me from the best friend I have in the world at
the only time in which I could be of use to her. However, if it had been
possible, George would have taken me to her, and there is no use in
murmuring at impossibilities. God knows I can enter into her feelings as
a sister; and now that she has so much sickness in her home, it is cruel
to leave her with a half-broken heart to struggle through it by herself.
And yet I do not see how it is to be managed. Pamela writes but little
of the scenes she has been through. She says she cannot endure to
express her feelings in writing, though she thinks she would be better
if she could talk it over.

Captain Lyon was coming home in January, but perhaps this will prevent
him. Poor creature! What an arrival it will be if he has set off before
this news reaches him.

You are quite right. I followed you in Berkshire, and next week I am
going to Robert. It is doubtful whether his child[229] will live, and
Mrs. Eden has hardly been allowed to see it; but she wrote yesterday in
the greatest spirits saying there had been a great change for the
better, and the baby was then in her room; so I trust now it must be
thought out of danger. What a horrid piece of work a lying-in is! I am
more and more confirmed in the idea that a life of single blessedness is
the wisest, even accompanied, as Shakespeare mentions, by the necessity
of chanting faint hymns to the cold lifeless moon, which, as I have no
voice, rather discomposes me. I shall astonish the moon, poor fellow,
when I set off, but as for going through all my sister-in-law has done
this fortnight, I could not, and would not, for all the Roberts in

I cannot come to Knightsbridge just now, I am sorry to say. It is highly
flattering, my sisters are all fighting for me, and with a very superior
cool air I allow them to divide me.

I will not say anything about Sarah; she is too bad, if she knows what
she is about. Poor Mr. Robinson was summoned back from Wrest[230]
yesterday, where he had been amusing himself three days. She sent him
word she was dying, and when he arrived in the greatest haste yesterday,
she was gone out airing. He was very cross, but too late. It relieves
Sister from a very fatiguing attendance, and that is all the good I

I shall probably have to unsay all I have said of Newton, for George has
discovered he thinks him pleasant, which is an unexpected blow. Do not
twit me with inconstancy if I say so too. Your most affectionate


     [Lady Sarah Robinson was the daughter of Robert, 4th Earl of
     Buckinghamshire. Her mother died in 1796. Three years later her
     father married Eleanor Eden, who proved to be a good, hard-working
     stepmother; Lady Sarah gave her constant employment in that
     capacity even after her marriage to Mr. Robinson in 1814.

     Lady Bucks saw that her stepdaughter was comfortably provided with
     clothes. Amongst other items in her trousseau, were “five beautiful
     sattin gowns all covered with lace, and twelve high gowns all
     covered with lace, and nineteen more low gowns all covered with
     lace--thirty-six in all.”

     Lady Sarah had one daughter Elinor, who, seeing the discomfort her
     mother underwent before the birth of one of her children, said she
     was “determined to have all her children before she married, and
     enjoy herself afterwards.” Elinor died, aged eleven, in 1826. A
     year later her only son was born, George Frederick Samuel, who
     succeeded his father as Earl of Ripon in 1859, and was created
     Marquess of Ripon in 1871.

     Lady Sarah was highly nervous and hysterical, and a constant source
     of amusement and irritation to her relations and friends. Her
     husband resigned after he had been Premier for five months, stating
     that his wife’s health would no longer allow him to remain in

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Sunday, 1 o’clock, October 30, 1826._

DEAR THERESA, I am sorry you had the trouble of sending for me
yesterday, for Mary Drummond settled when I arrived that my remaining
here would allow her to go home to her children, so she went home after
dinner last night and I sent up to London for my things and all here was
in such confusion, and there was so much to write that I could not write
to you. The poor child[231] is still alive, and yesterday afternoon we
had all talked ourselves into spirits about her, though Warren and
West[232] continue to repeat that they cannot allow the slightest
_expectation_ of her recovery to be entertained. Since that, my sister’s
maid writes me word this morning that she has had a most wretched night,
constantly screaming and groaning without one moment’s quiet, and that
the attendants all thought her very much worse, but that Warren did not
think her materially so, as they did.

Think what it must be to witness. Sister has not been out of the room
since seven yesterday morning, and with the exception of Tuesday night
has sat up seven nights. She sees no one, but I had a composed letter
from her last night. Sarah sat up on Friday, and from fatigue and
anxiety gave way yesterday morning entirely, and had several fainting
fits. Nobody can tell what he goes through, and he is, I think, as
nearly angelic in his feelings and conduct as it is possible for man to
be. The doctors speak of him with tears in their eyes. Fanny and I are
going to walk there now and may perhaps see him, but at all events some
of the doctors. You have no idea what it is the waiting here, expecting
every hour to have directions to have this house prepared to receive
them. They will all come here as soon as it is over. Yours

E. E.

_Lord Auckland to Miss Eden._

_October 30, 1826_.

I have not been able to hear anything about you to-day, and am almost
fearful I shall go out of town without doing so. At all events direct to
me at Pixton, Dulverton. Your last note was far more cheerful, but yet
it is a frightful and wretched state of things.[233] I saw Mrs. Villiers
yesterday, and Newton to-day; he is putting Theresa’s monkey into one of
his pictures, and goes to Knightsbridge to draw him. She seems to be

_November 21, 1826._

I saw your de Roos yesterday, and he begged me to tell you that Sir Guy
Campbell has an appointment in Ireland which will put him and Pam more
at their ease--£600 a year. It is very satisfactory.

Little Macdonald is going to be married to an Irish widow, an old
acquaintance and attachment with a very small jointure. He is going over
to be married, and returns to attend the January Sessions. John Murray,
too (you may remember him at Edinbro’), is going to be married. He was
on his way to Bowood, and passed a week at Sydney Smith’s on his road,
who had to meet him a fat Yorkshire lady of forty, with £60,000, and
rather blue. Just the thing for him, and it was all arranged, and Sydney
Smith is delighted, and expects visits from Scotchmen without end.

Lansdowne is in town, but she is not, and the Lambs are here, and the
Duke of Devonshire,[234] who says he is too poor after Russia to go to
Chatsworth. But he has a cloak of black Fox worth £500 and is happy.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Tuesday night, November 1826._

DEAREST THERESA, You will have heard before this that all is over. I
could not write sooner, and I knew you would hear. To the last the poor
dear child’s sufferings were dreadful, and she never had one moment’s

Lord Grantham[235] arrived at the moment she expired. I wrote to him on
Saturday to say he had better come, or rather to ask him if he did not
think so, and he came off instantly, and I am so glad now, for you have
no idea of the good effect it had on Mr. R.

Poor Sarah surprised me more than anybody. She cried a great deal, but
was perfectly reasonable in her grief, and has fortunately taken the
turn of feeling that it is only by her exertions her poor husband can be
supported at all, and she kept repeating all the morning how much worse
her calamity might have been, that at all events she had him left and
ought not to repine. She thanked Sister, and, in short, nothing could be
better than her conduct.

All hours come to an end at last; all griefs find, or make, a place for
themselves. Don’t you know what I mean,--how they work themselves into
the mind, and so, by degrees, the surface of life closes over and looks
smooth again, and I always think what a blessing it is in these cases
there are so many little things that must necessarily be talked over and
done. It fills up the time.

Sarah and Mr. R. come here to-morrow, and then go to Nocton[236] for the

I think this day has lasted a year, and I cannot see to read, and my
eyes are sore, and Sister cannot bear the light. In short, you must bear
with me to-night. I am tired to death in my mind, and it rests me
writing to somebody.

It was such a house of misery--the poor little French girl and the
governess crying in one room; Warren[237] with his cold sarcastic manner
talking to West, who was crying like a child. And yet he need not. He
was right from the first, and perhaps that is a painful feeling, to
think that all the misery he saw, might have been spared if he had not
been thwarted....

There is nothing I would not have given to escape the journey to Nocton.
I had a sort of cowardly wish that George would not let me go (though I
would have gone too, at all events), and I was almost sorry when his
letter began, “You are quite right, and so go.” And yet I have been
often pretending to wish that I had more positive duties to do. We are
such horrid hypocrites to ourselves. I am going to Nocton, I suppose,
from the same feelings that lead Catholics to go up the Scala Sancta on
their knees--a sort of superstition. It must be right, it is so
unnatural and disagreeable; and yet I am very fond of Sister, and Sarah
was once very kind to me, and is now again. It is very wrong; when you
praised me in your letter it smote my conscience. Almost everybody but
me has a pleasure in doing right. I have often thought how much you must
have to learn on the subject of calamity for the loss of friends, but do
not learn it before you must.

Lord Grantham has been such a comfort to them all. Your most

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Monday evening, December 13, 1826_.

Bless your foolish heart! No, child, there is nothing the matter--never
_was_ anything worth mentioning. We have ruralized some time in this
rustic Bedlam, and some of us got loose on Wednesday; but we are all
caught and shut up again, and there is no harm done except 250 guineas
gone and spent in post-horses, and we are all thin and exhausted with
anxiety and shame, some for themselves, and some for others. I believe I
sent you, at the time of Clarke’s[238] last visit, my farce of the new
“Mayor of Garratt,” with the plot made out into scenes, and specimens of
the dialogue; but a good five-act comedy has written itself since
Wednesday. Sarah is willing to laugh at it all herself now, and does so,
I hear;--and after all, poor thing, it is no wonder she is nervous about
health just now. All her fears I can excuse, with the death of her child
from mismanagement constantly weighing on her mind; and the folly she is
betrayed into, her fear is responsible for; but as she knows that her
mind is beyond her own control, the provoking thing is that from the
moment she begins to be ungovernable, she refuses to see anybody except
servants who cannot contradict her.

As long as Mr. Robinson is forthcoming that does not signify, as to a
certain degree he prevents her doing anything outrageously foolish; but
he was _took_ with a bad headache on Wednesday, such as he often has, a
regular case of Calomel and black dose which the Lincoln doctors
prescribed, and said he would be better the next day. But in the
meanwhile Sarah worked herself into such a state that she sent off at
eight in the morning two expresses, one for Clarke who lives in Norfolk,
and another for Henry Ellis, Doctor Warren, West, and I fancy any others
of the profession who chose to come. She would not see Sister, or rather
speak to her; for Sister once went into her room and found her (who has
not had her feet to the ground since I was here) walking about like
anybody else, and actually _running_ into the library to write her

Poor dear Mr. Robinson got quite well as the day went on and the dose
went off, and then Sarah began to be frightened at what she had done;
and then she saw Sister and was content to be advised, and a third
messenger was sent off to stop all the doctors he could find on the
road. He turned back Warren in his chaise and four at Biggleswade; and
West in his chaise and four, a few miles beyond. Before the express came
back, we were living in the pleasing expectation of going in to
dinner,--Sister, Anne,[239] Mary, and I--each arm in arm with a
doctor--Clarke, Warren, West, and Swan--the Lincoln man. I wanted to
make a pleasant evening of it, as there was not much sickness about, and
after dancing a quadrille with them that we should take a little senna
tea, and then have a good jolly game at Snap-dragon with some real Epsom

I forgot to mention that Sarah, with fatigue and worry, had made herself
so ill that a fourth express went on Thursday to fetch Clarke again. She
makes all these people travel in chaises and four _par parenthèse_;
Clarke came on Saturday night, and then it was to be broke to that dear
good gull Mr. Robinson that any doctor whatever had been sent for. I had
no idea before that she could have been enough afraid of him to have
kept anything from him; but he even read that paragraph in the paper
about himself and wondered what the mistake could be.

However, Sister, as usual, was persuaded to take a great deal of the
scrape on her shoulders, and Clarke, who seems clever enough, undertook
to announce and explain the rest. Mr. R. was, I heard, horribly annoyed
at first, but is resigned now, and it is all smothered up in her
dressing-room where she has shut him up, and I do not know when he will
be allowed to call himself well again.

I hear she is very low now the excitement is over, but wisely declares
she shall do just the same next time, and he begs he may go as his own
express. Poor man! he has a bad prospect before him, but I do not think
that he minds it.

She professes the degree of religious feeling that is seldom met with,
and which appears to me inconsistent with any worldly feelings whatever,
above all with her feelings for _self_. The _quantity_ of her religion
it is impossible to deny, but I doubt its _quality_ being right; and
when I see that her high-flown mystical ideas end in making everybody
round her perfectly miserable, I go back to the suspicions I have
entertained for some time that the old simple religion we were taught at
four years old out of Watt’s catechism is the real right thing after
all. “If you are good, you will go to Heaven, and if you are naughty,
etc., etc.” You ought to know your Watt’s catechism. I shall learn mine
over again, and begin quite fresh in the most practical manner.

Oh, by the bye, and another thing I have found out and meant to tell you
is, that Virtue is _not_ its own reward. It may be anybody’s else, but
it is not its own. I take the liberty of asserting that my conduct here
has been perfectly exemplary. I never behaved well before in my life,
and I can safely add I never passed so unpleasant a month.

Well, my dear, good old George arrived to-night, which is payment for
everything, and he has not blown his head off to signify.[240] There are
no marks visible by candle-light, though he looks ill from starving. I
have been very poorly myself with a cold caught by the open windows, and
what it appears is called swelled glands. I never knew anything but a
horse had that complaint or something like it, and that then they were
shot; and as far as humanity goes that is a good cure. I went stamping
and screeching about one day like an owl with the pain. If I get better
we are going to Woburn, George says; but if I continue poorly I shall
leave him there, and go home on Saturday. It is astonishing how kindly I
feel towards Grosvenor Street. I am almost wishing to be settled there,
for the first time in my life.

I am sorry to give up Sprotbro’, but if we had gone there, we must have
done Erswick first where the Copleys will be, and where there is a great
charity bazaar meeting and a ball, and all sorts of County troubles, and
George prefers Woburn.

I am sorry not to see Maria Copley; Anne and Mary are still here, and I
quite agree to all you say of Anne. I am so fond of her, and so is
Sister. Mary is very dull, but seems amiable. I cannot tell you whether
Sarah is kind to them. You must see her to understand the state she is
in; but she is not unkind to anybody, and never now finds fault with
anybody she speaks of. She very seldom speaks at all, unless she is
excited to defend some religious point.

She sometimes smiles when Mr. Robinson and I have been talking nonsense,
but does not say anything. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_December 15, 1826_.

MY DEAR THERESA, I wish to apprise you not to go in search of me in
Grosvenor Street, because I am not there. “I am very bad with the ague,”
as people must be in the habit of saying in these fenny districts. I
_’ticed_ my poor dear George out of town into this horrid place, and
here he is with nobody to play with and nothing to do, and missing his
Woburn shooting.... Still the idea of another’s bore is a heavy weight
on my mind.

You will be happy to hear that Mr. Robinson is very well. George says he
never saw him better, and he makes a point of telling him so three times
a day at least. The poor man is starving, as Sarah will not allow him to
dine except in her dressing-room at two o’clock, because, as she does
not dine down with the family, she says she cannot trust to his promises
not to eat more than is right, as she is not there. He happens to have
an immensely good appetite since his headache, and frets like a child
about this; but has not courage to dine like a man on the most
unwholesome things he can find. I would live on mushrooms and walnuts
and fried plum-pudding if I were him.

This conversation passed verbatim yesterday, but do not for your life
mention it again. He wanted to go to the stables when he was out
walking, but said Sarah had told him not. However, he went boldly to her
window and knocked at it. “Sarah, I wish I might go to the
stables?”--“No, dearest, I told you before not to go.”--“Yes; but I want
to see my horses. Mayn’t I go?”--“No, darling, you said you would not
ask it if I let you go out.”--“Yes; but one of my horses is sick, and I
want to see it.”--“Well, then, if Mama will go with you, you may.” So
Sister actually had to go with him to take care of him. She told me
this, and did not know whether he was ashamed of it; but I saw him in
the evening and he repeated it, evidently rather pleased that he was
made so much of. He is a poor creature after all, Theresa, though you
are so fond of him. Your most affectionate


       *       *       *       *       *

Anne and Mary went on Wednesday. I did not see them the last two days,
but Mr. Auckland still does not admire them. I wish Anne would be as
pleasant in society as she is alone with one. I think she is nervous.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_December 1826_.

DEAREST THERESA, There is a shameful substitution of the donkey for the
poney who ought to take these letters to post, so allowing for the
difference of speed, the letters go an hour and a half sooner than
usual! and Mr. Robinson has just sent up the frank for you, he says the
letter must go in ten minutes, so it is no use my trying to make a
letter. I have mentioned your and Mrs. Villiers’s enquiries constantly
to Sarah, and read her aloud bits of your letter yesterday. I think she
likes enquiries.

It is more than I do; I pass my life answering them still, because
people whom I never saw or wish to see, know dear Miss Eden will excuse
them if they trouble her again, etc. I don’t excuse them at all, but I
am obliged to answer their letters just as if I did.

It is difficult to know what to say.... When first we came down I
thought her really low for two days, though it struck me as odd that she
was so little attentive to him. However, I believe she thought him too
cheerful, though God knows it was the falsest cheerfulness ever was

Since Saturday she has been exactly in the state in which she was before
poor Elinor’s death. She talks and thinks of nothing but her health, and
I really believe (and I do not think it is want of charity that makes me
so, for I pity her still) that a thought of her child does not cross her
mind twice in the day.

She is absorbed in herself, and has been more animated since she has
been--or called herself--ill, for she talks of her complaint without
ceasing and without reserve. It will be said more than ever she is in
the family way, for they have sent an express for Clarke, and we are
expecting him to-night, and nobody knows what to say to him when he

I think she is a little ashamed about Clarke, and I grudge the hundred
guineas, which would be better bestowed on weavers, or the people in the
village here.

Sister tried to be candid about it last night, and said that Clarke
would probably stay a day or two when he came, and he would amuse Sarah;
I suggested that for half the money I could have persuaded several
pleasant men to come from London to stay double the time, so it must not
be defended on the plea of economy.. She could not help laughing,
because in fact she is less taken in than anybody. The cold of this
place surpasses anything I have ever felt. Yours




_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_May 21, 1827_.

Sailed at two, Saturday; landed at passage within the Cove of Cork last
night at six. All sick, but the children so good and patient. I was
quite proud of my brood, even the Baby[241] showed an _esprit de
conduite_ that edified me. Six boats came out and fought for our bodies
under the ship till I thought we should be torn to pieces in the
skrimmage. They, however, landed us whole, when another battle was
_livrée_ for us among the jingle-boys who were to whisk us to Cork. We
were stowed in three of these said carrioles called jingles, driven by
half-naked barefoot boys who began _whirrrring_, _harrrrowing_, cutting
jokes, talking Irish, and galloping in these skeleton carts till the
children caught the infection, laughed and roared and kicked with
delight. A violent shower came on. Who cares? thinks I, they must have
Irish blood in their veins, for this is very like English misery, but
they naturally think it _Fun_. We arrived in tearing spirits, very wet,
and were cheated of a considerable sum in shillings. We are in an
excellent Hotel and set off early for Limerick. Nobody dare travel late
in this poor country. Oh, Emily, it is melancholy to see the misery and
cunning and degradation of these poor people. I could cry, and I sit
looking about, having heard so much of them all, that it appears to me I
am recollecting all I see!... Such beggars! they show me such legs! and
one was driven up in a barrow, legless!

_May 29, 1827_.

Here I am settled _dans mes foyers_ in a roomy, comfortable, homely
mansion, with dark black mahogany unwieldy furniture and needlework
chairs ranged round the room in regiments, and a glowing embery turf

We have a field before the house with a walk round it; we look upon the
broad Shannon and the Clare Mountains.... We have a complete _leper_, a
Lazarus, outside our door, which gives me a sort of Dives feel, very
unpleasant to my conscience, and sumptuous fare every day, and purple
and fine linen, keep running in my head, that this very day I mean to go
and make a treaty of peace between this lame beggar and my conscience
that I may rest. I have also a stiff straight-cut schoolmaster who opens
the gate. He is of the established Church, teaches boys, makes shoes,
and was a soldier.

We have fine Artillery Barracks; we have a Lunatick Asylum not so large
as the Gaol, and serves three counties; which shows the country abounds
more in Knaves than Fools. But oh, the misery, the desolate look of the
whole country, the beggary--I shall never get used to it. And the whole
country looking as if it was capable of being the richest in the world.
This large river flowing on without a boat upon it, crowds of people
talking and sauntering about in rags, complaining of having no work....
The whole country looks sacked. However it is reckoned very quiet just

This part is reckoned very rich and prosperous. Our living is excellent,
meat, milk, eggs, and poultry, and fish so cheap, I feel as if it was
quite a pity I cannot eat more at once.

_July 6, 1827._

...We are getting a little outrageous in this county, and very much so
in T’p’rary, for we lack potatoes there, and hunger sharpens the wits,
so we just _lift_ the flour and potatoes cast for our use. Is it
possible that Lord Anglesey is to be our Lord-Lieutenant? Am I really to
pray for him, and for the sword the King puts in his hand, every Sunday
in church? Oh dear, dear! What a wretched country this is--it wearies
the spirit to see it.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Sunday, July 1827_.

I have been longing for a letter from you.

I have not seen an individual out of this house since I entered it three
weeks ago, except one day when we dined at Lord Maynard’s,--the most
melancholy ceremony, barring a funeral, I ever assisted at. Conversation
is one of the social duties not practised in Essex. Mary and I talked
our level best, and they must all have thought us either the most
delightful people in the world, or the most impudent.

The very names of the neighbours are as monosyllabic (a very puzzling
word to spell) as their conversation. Mr. Brown and Mr. Wish and Mr.
Rush and so on, so contrived, I am certain, to avoid prolixity. The work
of education goes on from morning to night. Six small Intellects
constantly on the march, and Mary, of course, is hatching a seventh
child. I own I am glad I am not married, it is such a tiresome fatiguing
life; and though as a visitor I delight in the children, yet I would
not be so worn and worried as their mother is on any consideration. I
think she fidgets too much about them, but a large family is a great
standing fidget of itself, and I suppose one would be the same under the
same circumstances.

I like this undisturbed sort of life, only the days go so fast when they
are all alike. There is a good, hard, reading library in the house, and
I am quite glad to find that when I cannot have novels I can read other
books just as well.

George seems to have found London very amusing to the last. He wrote to
me the other day after he had been supping at Lord Alvanley’s, who was
in great delight at some Paris pantaloons he had heard of,--_Peau de
Pendu_; and if the Pendu was the right size the Pantaloons fitted
without a wrinkle and without a seam of course. George is by way now of
being settled at Eastcombe. He has had a great many parties down there
to dinner, some that must have been hard trials to Sister,--Sir J.
Copley amongst others.

The B. Barings were to dine there Friday. I do not think Lady
Harriet[242] will suit Sister. Do not let it go any further, I tell it
you in the greatest confidence,--but in fact you are beginning to find
out that the Barings are rather failures--I mean as to agreeableness. It
will be some time before Mr. Baring fails in the moneyed sense of the
word; but I see you, in fact, think, of the Grange just as I
do:--charming place and family, but a dull visit, and to my last hour I
shall go on saying, as you do, and as _I_ always have said, that Harriet
is a very superior person. But nobody will ever guess how dull I think
her. I like Baring père[243] the best....

I am glad you are more just to little Mr. Wall. I tried to be so unjust
to him myself that I do not like to find anybody else so. After all, he
makes one laugh, which is a merit, and he is a warm friend, and if he is
a little ridiculous, it is no business of ours. Heaven help Mrs.
Wall--if there ever should be such a person. But there never will....

I hope we shall go to Ireland; but it seems to be in a troublesome state
and I should hate to be _piked_. If we do go, I shall be so pleased to
see your George again. You need never be the least jealous about Lady
F.[244] I like her character very much, and her society very well; but I
never should think of having for her the real warm affection I have for
you, or expect the return from her I expect from you. It is quite a
different thing,--what is called great esteem, I suppose. She does not
care a straw for me. Our Irish journey is fixed for the 29th, next
Monday week, the day we fixed when you were in Grosvenor Street, but
Mary ain’t brought to bed a bit more than she was then, and I have some
doubts whether I shall be able to go as soon as that. The doctor here
thinks my lungs are in fault, but there never was a Doctor who saw me
for the first time that did not think the same, and afterwards found out
his mistake, and I always confute them by recovering so quickly.

I cannot say half I had to say: all my moralities about poor Mr.
Canning,[245] and then I have had such an amusing letter from Pam, and
Sarah is worse than ever. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._


This is to be a simple line, because I am in what Mary Palk[246] used to
call a religious bustle, occasioned by the difficulty of being in time
for church if I write my letters. And the post-time and church-time
clash cruelly, and I have made this such a week of rest as to writing
that I am horribly in debt. I cannot help thinking George’s cold
contempt for anybody who leaves London at all, which broke out into
words the day before I left town, relieved his indignant heart, and I
think he will perhaps let me stay. I cannot understand your not liking
the country; it is an inconsistency in your character, and if I did not
spurn an argument, I might almost deign to point out to you unanswerable
reasons for hating London--as a place I mean, not as a means of seeing
one’s friends. Its effect on one’s _liver_ you will not dispute.

We sit out of doors all day. I should not like to paint myself, but I
have done some sketches of the children in that chalk style, that
certainly betray unequivocal marks of genius; inasmuch as their nurse,
who was mine in former days, declares she had no idea Miss Emily could
take them off so well, and she would not mind having them pictures for
herself--which is wonderful for her to own.

Mary [Drummond] is very well, all things considered. I wish you could
hear her play; I always think it the prettiest music in the world. She
plays a great deal now. I heard from Pam to-day; very well, and resigned
to Limerick. I wish you could manage through your Mr. Jones, or any
better way, that she might have her mother’s[247] letters from Paris
without paying 2/10 for them, which she says is the whole of her income.
Can you manage it?

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_July 12, 1827_.

Well, I had nearly seized my pen yesterday, and leaving all decorum and
propriety, throwing aside all the prudent and guarded forms and usages
of society, was on the point of writing to your brother, merely from
complete distrust of his being up to the tricks of the Goderichs. I was
going as his friend-in-law, the friend of his sister, to implore him for
once not to be a simple gentleman-like fool, not an honourable-minded
generous idiot--in short, to stand up for his rights, and not to take
the offer of 7/6 or 7/4 which Lord Goderich would in all probability
make to him for the use of the house for a week and a compensation of
the loss of the rent for the ensuing three months. He might not have
offered so much; but I merely state the case in the grand Liberal

Some obscure passages in Sister’s letter yesterday, and a very accurate
observation for many years of the manners and customs of the Goderich
tribe, led me to imagine they were trying to throw the house back on
your hands; and I wish to exhort you all not to catch it if they throw
it at you ten times a day. Charles Drummond desired me to add that as
far as £10 would go to assist in any prosecution against Sarah for
breach of contract, he should be most happy to subscribe it. However, I
waited for your letter, and am happy to see that for _once_ I was
mistaken about the Goderichs as you do not mention that any shabby offer
was ever made. Accepted, of course, it could not be. You know the usual
answer is, that everything is in the hands of the agent, and you have
nothing to do with it, and that Mrs. Villiers would of course say. _I_
still mistrust them, and cannot quite understand some of Sister’s
expressions. Her story otherwise tallies wonderfully with yours, except,
that though you were in the next house, you cannot know how very much
Sarah contrived to outdo her usual self in this instance. Sister is
fully aware how tiresome she herself was. I should like to send you her
letter, only it is so long; for it is very amusing, though it is a
shame to let anybody see the abject slavery in which she and Mr.
Robinson live.

It is quite a Fowell Buxton[248] case. They are always so kind as to
call Sarah’s horrid bad temper--excitement; and Sister says that none of
them have ever seen Sarah in such a state of excitement (such an
overwhelming rage, evidently) as she was in this time. She would not
hear of the slightest contradiction, and Sister said she had been
obliged to write every half-hour to poor Mrs. Villiers without being
able to make Sarah even listen to her representations. She was quieted
at last by a quantity of Laudanum, besides her own way to satisfy her.
The last would be a pleasant sedative to most of us.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_July 1827_.

DEAREST PAM, This may be excellent weather for the hay and corn, but it
is not good for writing, does not bring out letters in any good
quantity. I cannot write when I am hot, and besides, I have been taking
a good week of repose down here with Mary, and have carefully abstained
from any exertion greater than sitting in the shade, with a book (turned
topsy-turvy for fear I should read it) in my hand. I had so much to say
to you, too, about that breakfast at Boyle Farm[249] and your
brother--rather old news now; but as your old butter seems very fresh by
the time you have sent it over to us, it may be the same with our news
sent to you.

In the first place, your brother has made himself extremely popular
with all Lord Ellenborough’s[250] enemies, which comprise the whole of
what is usually called London society. Lord Ellenborough went to
Astley’s about ten days ago, and his own box was overstocked; so he went
to another belonging to Mr. Anson, Lord Forbes and a party of gentlemen,
your brother amongst others, but Mr. FitzGerald did not come in till
after Lord E. had settled himself there. When he _did_ come, Lord
Ellenborough chose to consider _him_ as the intruder into his own box,
and threw him several of those looks which he considers irresistible,
whether in contempt or supplication. Probably also he shook those horrid
grey locks at Mr. FitzGerald. However, early next morning he received a
note from Mr. FitzGerald that he had observed the _insolence_ of his
looks and could not submit to it, and Lord Ellenborough must either meet
him, or make him the most ample apology, not only in words to Lord
Forbes, but by letter to himself. So Lord Ellenborough _did_ make the
most ample apology in words to Lord Forbes, and then wrote a letter of
five pages to Mr. FitzGerald, four of them apologetical and the fifth,
they say, a very high eulogium of your brother’s character, courage,
morals, and all. Mr. FitzGerald observed that was all very well, but he
“should keep an eye on Lord E. to the end of the season!” They say it
was delightful to see Lord E. walking about at Boyle Farm looking so
bland and benevolent, and so well-mannered. That is the way the story is
told, and, I really believe, as little exaggerated as may be, and you
have no idea of the delight it excited. Lord E. has the advantage of
being entirely friendless, and the insolence of his look is just the
very thing that wanted correction.

I suppose you heard the general outline of the Boyle Farm breakfast, if
not, I could send you our card. Lord Alvanley, Lord Chesterfield, Lord
Castlereagh, Mr. Grosvenor, and the Sarpent[251] were the five givers;
but in fact they each subscribed £300, and the Sarpent had the
management of the whole. Mr. Grosvenor asked humbly to be allowed to ask
two friends, which was refused, tho’ he said it was really an object to
him; and upon investigation it turned out that the two friends were his
father and mother. The conversations about the invitation must have been
like those between the Triumvirate,--Lepidus Alvanley giving up an ugly
aunt in exchange for two ugly cousins of Augustus Chesterfield’s, and
these the _bassesse_ of London. It never came out in a finer manner. You
and I remember about four years ago when the Sarpent came gliding into
Almack’s--and no woman spoke to him, and he--even the Sarpent’s own
self, looked daunted; and now he sent out his cards naming on them the
pretty sister of the family, asking Lady Caroline Murray,[252] and
leaving out the eldest and youngest sister (tho’ Lady Mansfield was the
first reputable person who took him up at all); desiring 22 of the
prettiest girls in London to come in costume--patterns and directions
sent with the card--and I actually heard people of good character, who
have stooped to ask him constantly to dinner, lamenting that now he
would not look at them for fear of being obliged to ask them. He called
to ask the Barings--at nine o’clock the night before the breakfast,
apologised for not having been able to spare an invitation for them
before, and added, “the only condition I make is a new gown; I believe
there is still time for that.” They went! In new gowns! I believe there
never was a more beautiful breakfast when all was done--those sort of
men _will_ succeed! Everybody seemed pleased with it. What stories may
have risen from it have not yet transpired. And Mr. de Roos said to
Lady Jersey, he trusted the whole thing had been done most correctly--he
should be miserable if there could be even a surmise of the slightest
impropriety...! Fanny and I sent our excuse--partly from not wishing to
go, and then it would have been necessary to spend immensely on dress,
which I hate. There is such a story about the Miss Strutts[253] asking
for an invitation, too long to write, but so amusing. Your own

E. E.

     [John Wilson Croker in a letter to Lord Hertford gave the following
     account of the Boyle Farm breakfast.

“The great ‘Carousal’ of the year has been the fête at Boyle Farm on
Saturday last. I could fill three letters to give you any account of
this entertainment, and of all the impertinences which preceded and
accompanied it. It was exclusive to the last degree; the founders of the
feast, Alvanley, Chesterfield, Castlereagh, H. de Roos, and Robert
Grosvenor, balloted, it is said, for every name proposed for invitation.
The wags say that Lord and Lady Grosvenor had four black balls; on which
Robert Grosvenor said that really he could not be of it if he were not
to ask Papa and Mama. Upon this he was allowed to invite them, but on an
_engagement_ that they should not come. People who were shabby enough to
ask for invitations were well served in the answers they usually got;
the men were rejected because they were old or vulgar, and the ladies
because they were ugly.

It was really amusing to hear at the Opera the reasons which the
excluded ladies gave for being seen at so unfashionable a place as the
Opera was that night. I will not make you stare with all the fables
which are reported, roads watered with Eau de Cologne, 500 pair of white
satin shoes from Paris to counteract the damp of the green turf. More
gallons of Roman Punch than Meux’s great brewing vats would hold.
Fire-works ordered on this scale. The Vauxhall man was asked what was
the greatest expense he could go to, and then ordered to double it. And
so I need hardly add that I was not invited, but it really, and without
exaggeration, was a most splendid fête. Alex. Baring calculated the
expense at £15,000; but no one else that I have heard carries it higher
than £3000 or £3500.”]

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Wednesday, July 1827_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, If you are still in town, which I expect and hope,
call in Grosvenor Street late on Friday (after your Aunt) and you will
have the felicity of finding me, and perhaps of taking me home to

George writes me word to-day that there never was such a mistake as my
being out of London (which I cannot understand, as by his own account it
is a desert), and that he finds it quite impossible to make up his
summer plans without seeing me, and if I cannot come up alone, he must
come and fetch me. Then Mary says she shall go demented if I am not here
again by the 1st of August; so to save them both all further trouble I
shall go up Friday for a few days, hear what George has to say, see you,
take leave of the Copleys, finish up the House Accounts, claim my
allowance, pay my bills, lock up the tea and sugar, look over the House
Linen, go to the Play, call on Lady Grantham, and then come back to
stay, if George leaves me time enough, till Mary is confined. She
insists on my being with her (I mean in the house), and, of course, I
had rather too be with her if she likes it; but if an equally near
relation should happen about the same time to require my attendance on
the drop at Newgate, I should prefer that employment of the two. Shorter
and pleasanter, I guess. I am so disgusted with our foolish laws which
could not hang, could not even punish, that William Sheen[254] who cut
off his baby’s head. It appears we may all kill any child, so as we call
it by a wrong name; and as nursing disagrees with Mary, I have some
thoughts of calling her baby Peter Simkins, and cutting off his head as
soon as it is born. But I must say that our laws never are of any use
when there is a real crime to be punished.

I wonder whether you are still in town. I hope you are. If George makes
any engagement for me Friday, I might dine with you, perhaps Saturday.
George says he gives a grand entertainment at home that day, and as he
was not aware I was to be at home then, I shall probably be _de trop_,
though he does not specify whether he has asked the Professors of the
London University, or the Keepers of the wild beasts, or all his
mistresses, saving your presence. But I should like to dine with you. I
do not know what has given George this sudden fit of indecision as to
his summer. He had invented such a good plan, that he and I should take
Fanny to Knowsley, deposit her there, cross over to Ireland, make a
little tour there, see Pamela, come back by Stackpole, see
Elizabeth,[255] and then go to Norman Court and the Grange for our
shooting. It was a pretty idea of his, but then he is naturally a great
dear. However this strikes me as rather an expensive journey, so I do
not press it, and if he has thought better of it, I shall encourage his
more economical thoughts. If not, I shall be very glad.

Sister has offered us Eastcombe and the use of all her servants for the
summer, if we want it.--So good-bye for the present. Your most

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Saturday, August 11, 1827_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I do not consider that _hash_ of Mrs. Villiers’ and
yours a fair answer to my letter. You said actually nothing, and she
left off just as she was coming to the pith of her discourse. But I must
write to somebody to-day, else I shall die of a reflection of
astonishment and indignation. I shall blow up, I shall go off, I shall
break down, I shall boil over, all about Lord Goderich;[256] and yet it
is twelve hours since I have had George’s letter, and I dare not write
to him for fear I should differ entirely in my view of the subject from
him. He states facts only (cunning dog!) and not his opinion; but only
to think of Lord Goderich being Prime Minister, and Lord Lansdowne under
him; and if he is Prime Minister, what is Sarah? Queen of England at
least. I still think the arrangement will all fail when it comes to
particulars; but still the mere idea is so odd. Even at the beginning of
the session, Robin was considered highly presumptuous to aspire to being
Leader in the House of Lords, and at the end of it there was not a doubt
anywhere, I thought, of his total want of Talent. And yet he is to be
Prime Minister! All the poor little children who read History 100 years
hence will come to the Goderich administration, and as they will never
have dined in Downing Street, or lived at Nocton, they will not have an
idea what a thorough poor creature he is.

Thank Goodness, I have never been taken in by history. But our poor
King! I have pitied him all the week, and now I pity him still more,
because as he lays his old head on his pillow he must feel that he has
outlived the talent of England--that, in fact, he has not a decent
subject to produce. Hateful as those Tories are, I declare I think it
would have looked better to Foreign Powers to have produced Mr. Peel and
the Duke of Wellington again. I wonder if the King knows anything of
Sarah, and what a poor wretch Robin is? But it is so like her luck! She
has always all her life had what she wished, even to a child. Not but
what her confinement is now put off again till the middle of November,
by authority; and in the meanwhile she sees nobody.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_August 28, 1827_.

Glad to see you, my own Emmy?--I think I shall be glad indeed.... The
past four months of my life I would not wish to my Enemy’s dog, but I am
better now, and can jog on a little. Emily, it will be too much delight
seeing you here, particularly if I can have you in the house. My only
fear is that you and Lord Auckland will not be comfortable. So many
children, not a very good cook, an uncertain climate, and a Life
Guardsman who cannot wait, and to whom I dare not speak, as my
remonstrances agitate him so much. I actually hear him perspire behind
my chair.

I will not press my reflections on Mr. Canning’s death upon you, as they
probably would not be very fresh, but will you tell me why I was sorry?
Poor Lady de Roos, who has a pretty extensive system of what I call
_individual politics_, was in hopes of seeing Lord Bathurst and Lord
Melville return to the places whence they came. These two being the
very ravellings of the fag end. All idea of racketting us to Liverpool
is over, and I rather think we shall have our choice of going to Dublin,
but I do not wish to move till Spring at all events....

I know nobody here that I like or ever wish to see again, except a Miss
Ouseley, and she is gone to Dublin; so only imagine what a delight it
will be to see you, putting our original stroke of friendship out of the

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Saturday, September 1, 1827_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I ought to have written sooner, but I have been so
languid and sick. Mary’s lying-in was the most charming amusement in the
world. I believe that is one of the points on which we have argued with
all the extra-pertinacity that our complete ignorance naturally gave us,
and for once I think you were right. It is _not_ the awful business I
thought it had been. She was ill a very short time, had no nurse
(because hers did not hurry herself to arrive so much as the child did),
has recovered without a check, and I left her on Wednesday nursing Mary
the 2nd[257] with great satisfaction to herself and child.

George has been as usual all kindness--willing to give up all his
shooting, and go with me to the sea, or even _to_ sea, which did me good
when I was formerly declining; and to-day is the 1st of September, and
he is sitting here with me nursing and coaxing me up, and the partridges
are all flying about the world, and he not shooting them. I think I
shall be able to go on Wednesday, and the worst come to the worst, we
can but come back again, and I shall not feel so _guilty_ towards him
and Fanny.

As usual there are plenty of people in London, and I had as many
visitors yesterday as in the middle of June. Lady Lansdowne was here
most part of the morning, Mrs. G. Lamb, Mr. Foster, Mr. C.
Greville,[258] who heard I was sick, and came to ask if his carriage
could not take me out airing every day at any time. There is nothing
like those wicked _roués_ at heart; they are so good-natured! But what
touched me yesterday was poor Lady Grantham’s coming here for an hour
and being just as much interested about my foolish ailments as if she
had not her favourite child dying at home. Amabel was as ill as possible
on Thursday but a shade better yesterday, I never saw a more touching
sight than Lady Grantham, I have thought of nothing else since. She is
so calm and quiet and so perfectly miserable; she looked like a statue
yesterday, there was such an immovability in her countenance and such a
wan white look about her, even her lips looked quite white and still;
she still has a little hope but seems to give herself as much as
possible to preparing Amabel for _her_ great change and herself
departing with her. What would one give to save that child for her!

Sarah is, you will be happy to hear, behaving with the most perfect
consistency. She fancied she was in labour three days ago, and had all
the workmen sent off from the buildings in Downing Street--just as if
they could not all be in labour together. If it is true (and of course
it is as Shakespeare says it) that the fantastic tricks of men dressed
in a little brief authority (and the Goderich authority seems likely to
be brief enough) do make the Angels weep, what a deplorable time the
Angels have had of it lately with Sarah! They must nearly have cried
their eyes out. She has adopted a new form of tyranny with Sister; would
not let her be at Eastcombe, but makes her stay in Downing Street; and
then will not see her, but desires she may never leave the house....

I cannot tell you the stories of his [Lord Goderich’s] _ineptie_ and
which those who do not know him thoroughly might well take for unfair
dealing; but that he is not capable of. I fancy there never was a more
wretched man--so worried he cannot eat. Sister said she should hardly
know him at home. He rattles in company. Your most affect.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_September_, 1827.

I was at Knightsbridge yesterday, and trust that poor Mabby’s[259]
suffering will not be prolonged now above two or three days. Anne said
the change even in the last twelve hours was marvellous; she looked like
a different child, so drawn and deathlike. She was quite placid and
seemed sinking very quietly, except when that horrid cough came on. Her
voice was no longer audible. All the details of Lady Grantham’s conduct
are beautiful. I never loved her so well as I do now, and the adoration
Anne and Mary have for her exceed what I have ever seen, astonishing too
that they dwell constantly on the idea that they are _nothing_ to her
compared to Amabel. What is to become of her when all is over? It will
make a complete change in her whole system of life. Anne and Mary seem
to look forward to everything that can be arranged after all is over, to
alleviate their mother’s misery; they are excellent girls. Lord Grantham
was here three days ago. Unfortunately I was not well that day and could
not see him. They say he passes almost the whole day in tears.

I always forget to tell you that Sarah sent to say that if I liked to
stay at _her_ house at Knightsbridge, instead of London which disagrees
with me, I was quite welcome. I had a great mind to go, merely to pull
your things about a little. They are very civil just now. Lord Goderich
sends me game every day, and I write him facetious notes in return. Your
most affectionate,

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Monday, September 17, 1827_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I am as sleepy as a horse, or whatever is the right
comparison, but time is so scarce you must take me as you can have me.
Actually in Dublin, Miss Villiers.--Landed yesterday morning at ten;
embarked at six the evening before; cabin to ourselves; favourable wind;
silent captain; no fleas; sea smooth as glass; and I sick as a dog.

There was not the least excuse for it, but I cannot help it. I kept up
beautifully the first three hours, and then George would make me go and
look at the beautiful cabin, and taste the excellent coffee; and of
course the motion of the beautiful cabin disagreed with the excellent
coffee--and there was an end of me. We all went regularly to bed, but
that did not profit much, as there were above a hundred Irish haymakers
in the other part of the vessel, and by a singular hazard they were all
musical, and all hundred sang all night. However, George dragged me on
deck again early in the morning, and then I got better, and it was a
beautiful morning, and the bay of Dublin is (as you have probably heard)
a beautiful sight, and altogether I never made a voyage of less

We are in a very comfortable hotel, the master of which is notorious for
a passion for old plate, and everything we touch is silver, and such
beautiful embossed articles. But it is actually tiresome, everything is
so heavy and metallic. George says he never was so tired of silver
since all his early reading about Peru; but it is an odd expensive taste
for an hotelkeeper, and he has indulged it many years.

George dined at Mr. Lamb’s[260] yesterday, and seems to have met a very
amusing Irish party. I sent my excuse and went to bed, as I do not think
my health is up both to sights and society, and I like the first best.
We have had such a nice day to-day. Went early to visit Mr. Lamb and see
the Phoenix Park, and then down to Woodlands, a beautiful villa with a
famous glen, etc., then to the Liffey waterfall, which was so very
pretty, and I sat there for two hours and drew it, while George rambled
about and read, and at last found such an amusing Irishman to talk to
us, so like old Thady, or any other of Miss Edgeworth’s people. I cannot
help laughing all the time they speak (merely at the look and brogue,
not at what they say). Then we went to a cottage for some eggs and
bacon, and came back by another road to Dublin.

To-morrow we dine at Mr. Lamb’s, and the next day go for a three days’
tour to the County of Wicklow, etc.; come back here for a night, and
then go to Pamela. I do so enjoy it all. I am afraid after we have done
Pamela, and fallen into the hospitalities of Lady Glengall, Lord
Kingston, etc., who all seem most dreadfully well disposed to us, I
shall like it less....

I never saw such a jaunting-car nation. The middle ranks seem to live in
those vehicles, and the common people pass their days apparently sitting
smoking at the doors of their cabins, the children with hardly as much
cloathes on as a decent savage wears. Such groups we saw to-day! I feel
much more in a foreign country than I should at Calais, and am only
preserved from that illusion by the whistling of “Cherry-Ripe” which all
the little naked Lazzaroni keep up.

Knowsley was full of people, we were generally thirty-four at breakfast,
and I suppose more at dinner, but Lady Derby[261] would not let me dine
down above once. We had the greatest difficulty in getting away, and she
kindly invited me if I felt worse to come back and die respectably at
Knowsley. Poor Fanny was horribly low when we came away at being left;
but I have no doubt is as happy as the day is long by this time. There
is going to be a Fancy Ball, and a musical festival, and all sorts of
things, and there is no denying that our friend Lady Derby is a most
agreeable person.

I enclose a letter I have had from Sister to-day, not because you will
not have heard all about poor dear Amabel, but it contains an atrocity
of Sarah’s about the funeral, hardly credible when one thinks of Lord
Goderich this time twelve months. My four _writing_ sisters are all in
different parts of England and all expecting letters, the more because I
am travelling about and have less time to write. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_Tuesday, October 30, 1827_.

MY DEAREST PAM, We shall actually sail to-night, and perhaps it will be
economical in the long run; for I have been very sick the last three
days hearing the wind blow, and the packet talked of. But it is like
leaving you all over again. You know we never shall meet again, I know
we shan’t--I am grown quite desperate about it, and, as I cannot get at
you and cannot do without you, I am rather puzzled as to what will be
the result. I must take up the thread of my discourse where we left

I was so horribly low after you went, stayed an hour in my own room
which, as that pinafore’d housemaid had forgotten to _do it out_, is I
suppose the strongest proof of friendship I could have given. Then the
day cleared up, and my headache cleared up, and Lady Glengall[262] took
me to see the platting school. I am quite vexed you did not see that; it
is such a gratifying sight, and curious besides. While we were there, a
policeman came up to Lady Glengall: “Me lady, where will we put
Connell?” “Who’s Connell?” “Why, _the stiff_, me lady. Where will we put
him convanient for the coroner?” So she went off to make poor Connell
convanient, and I to sketch the castle, and while I was there Connell’s
procession came over the bridge. Such a howling!

Lord Arthur Hill and Mr. Carnegie dined there that day. The next day we
went to the review, after sundry demurs on the part of her Ladyship; but
I think she has at last made up her mind to make up her quarrel with the
regiment, and in proof thereof, Carnegie and Ford again graced the
festive board at Cahir with their presence. The sight of all those grey
horses and red men at full gallop, and that beautiful band which played
to us afterwards, increased my military ardour into perfect heroism. Sir
Charles[263] was more Sir Charlesey than ever! I quite agree with old
Lord Donoughmore,[264] who is a Penruddock jewel of a man, a sort of
_bourreau bienfaisant_, and who observed, when we told him Sir Charles
could not come to Knocklofty till the following day, “Well then, you
must do without a Tom-fool for one day--eh?” Make Lord Arthur show you
Lord Donoughmore--I mean _act_ him. Before we went to Knocklofty on
Wednesday, Lady Glengall drove me to Ardfinan, and there did we discuss
Brooke[265] and his intentions, and she declares he is desperately in
love with Miss Acton, and is only by way of moping at Cahir. Think of
being Brooke’s moping house!

You do not know me, Pam, you do not value me. Lady Glengall knows me
better--she is after all the friend of my heart. I never was so praised
alive as I was that day. I may have “Richard”[266] only for the asking.
In fact there is nothing wanting but just his consent and mine--absolute
trifles. I observe those ladies who have been addicted to flirting never
believe that any woman under 60 can be without some little interest of
that sort; and I cannot help thinking that I am suspected at Cahir of
being engaged to Lord Henry Thynne. It was that Brooke’s innuendos led
me to the suspicion, and something Lady Glengall said might have meant
it. However, I do not know. Only, if you hear me accused of that
crime--and she means to see a great deal of you--will you have the
kindness to mention that I am neither engaged nor attracted to poor dear
Lord Henry, or any other individual? I do not mind their saying so, if
it amuses them, but only Brooke must not go trumpeting about fancying I
am pining, or ought to be pining, for dear Lord Henry, who is an
excellent child, and if he came in my way I think his education might be
finished about the time your Pam[267] would be coming out, but in the
meantime I have never aspired to any other post than being his
confidante. Perhaps I mistook Lady Glengall’s hints, for the fact is she
seems to know so much more about me than I do about myself, that I am
quite puzzled and diffident about my own historical facts. But I think
this is a point on which I am best informed of the two. If I am engaged
to anybody it would be fair to tell me, that I might act the character
better. However, I must say I like Lady Glengall much better than is
convenient, and the girls[268] are perfect, and I liked our Cahir
visit--and she appreciates you properly.

Oh, Pam! how horrid it is to think that we parted there, because you are
such a treasure to me, and we are going to lead the rest of our lives
apart. I feel exactly as if this were my last Will and Testament. Mind
you consider it as such!

I am as low as a cat this morning. I wonder whether we shall come over
again either next year or the year after. Knocklofty was pleasant
enough; old Donoughmore is such a duck, and there were two pretty nieces
and a sub-nephew, and Tom-fool and Lord Arthur [Hill]. We stayed two
nights instead of one, as there were no post horses to be had. Lady
Duncannon[269] got home quite safe and is looking very well again--more
like Mary [Drummond] than ever amongst her nine present children, and
talking of her three absent ones, and nursing up her thirteenth. I have
quite recovered my intimacy with her, and tell her as usual of all
things. She says she was so ill at Cahir she hardly knew how to sit up.

I must go and see after that eternal packing. George says that even if
it is the _Meteor_, a packet which, as far as I understand, is in every
respect unsafe and uncomfortable, we must sail to-night. So I look upon
myself as food for fishes, and as he must be lost with me, I shall not
have the fun of gliding about as a grisly ghost and standing at his
feet.... Your own affectionate


God bless you, my darling! My love to Sir Guy--his picture has travelled
hitherto with the greatest success.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Saturday, November 3, 1827_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I never should wonder if you had thought me idle
about writing. It would have been a terrible proof of the fallibility of
your judgment if you had. I might as well have attempted to build a
house as to keep up a correspondence during the active life I have been
leading. I was once in hopes of tiring you out, and that you would write
again without waiting for me, but we know each other too well. I was
thinking the other day that it is unpleasant to reflect how well you
know me, and how thoroughly I know you. No means of taking each other
in, no little scenes, no explanations, no nothings.

My dear, such a happy six weeks as I have passed! I am so fond of
Ireland. I have made 44 sketches and an equal number of new friends, am
grown quite strong and well, and I have had nearly three weeks of dear
old Pam’s society. Besides paying her a visit, she went with us to Mount
Shannon, and met us again at Cahir, thereby taking out the sting of my
visit to Lady Glengall, who, _par parenthèse_, I must mention is now the
friend of my heart. You all of you do very well for the common
friendships of life, but in Ireland only has the whole extent of my
merit been discovered. Seriously, Lady Glengall continued to make her
house very pleasant. There was nothing she did not do to make Pamela and
me comfortable there; arranged all sorts of picturesque expeditions.
Lord Glengall gave us quite a pretty little fête at a cottage they have
on their estate; we were out every day from breakfast-time to eight
o’clock dinner, and then we had very good society in the evening--and
Lord Glengall is very civil in his own house. It seemed hardly worth
while coming to Tipperary, or County ‘Prary, as the natives call it,
when half of us belonged to Grosvenor Street and might have met at the
expense of calling a coach.

Mr. B. Greville had been at Cahir ten weeks, all the county supposing he
meant to marry Lady Charlotte, but the Glengalls all declare he is only
by way of pining after Miss Acton. I could not make it out, nor could
Pamela; only it was obvious that Lady Charlotte would not have had him
if he had asked her. She and Lady Emily are two of the nicest girls I
ever saw, and a melancholy proof of the uselessness of education--I mean
melancholy for my dear sisters, who are slaving their lives away at
education. They cannot wish for nicer daughters than the Butlers.

Altogether I liked Cahir. Killarney was one of the most satisfactory
visits we paid; the lakes far surpassed even the extravagant expectation
I had formed, and then the Kenmares[270] are such charming people.
However I will not write to you any more of my raptures; you will be
bored to death. Perhaps you had rather hear that I had three days of
extreme bore at Mitchell’s--in the midst of all this enjoyment,--Lord
Kingston’s. Last Tuesday we crossed from Waterford to Milford. Oh,
Theresa, such a passage! “If ever I do a good-natured thing again,” as
Liston[271] says. Pamela may stay in Ireland to all eternity, and she
need not ask me to come and see her. At all events, she must not mention
it for a month; I shall be at least that time forgetting my sufferings.
Even George owns to having passed a miserable night, and he has always
despised my sea terrors, and the captain called it a very rough passage,
so a very simple arithmetical process will enable you to calculate the
sufferings of the passengers. Take the sum of the captain’s assertions,
multiply by 500, etc., etc.

The Cawdors had sent out the Custom House cutter to take the chance of
meeting us, and that landed us within four miles of their house; so we
were here at half-past-two. Our carriage did not arrive till ten at
night. It was very attentive of them to send out the cutter, but if ever
I willingly go again into cutter, steamboat, barge, wherry ----. Well,
I’m alive, and that is wonderful. The Duncannons fortunately made us
stay an extra day with them, for the packet in which we were to have
crossed originally, after beating about Milford for twelve hours, was
obliged to put back again. “What a narrow escape I have had,” George
says, “of never seeing my native country again. I suppose if we had been
in that packet you would have insisted on settling in Ireland, and I
must have done so too!”

This is a very fine place and a comfortable house. It seems odd to be
restored to a quiet English country-house life. I have lost the habit of
going to sit in my own room, and cannot conceive why we do not breakfast
early and go off after some distant lake or ruin. However, Elizabeth and
I were out sketching most part of yesterday, and are going again to-day,
and George has at last had two days’ shooting. Think of his not having
had a day’s shooting till the 1st of November! And he actually looks
over my sketch-book every evening and comments upon it with the greatest
interest. In another month I should have taught him to sketch himself.

We stay here a week, and then go to Mr. Wall’s.[272] Direct to Grosvenor
Street as the safest plan. What do you say about Sarah?[273] We have all
a great deal of unbelief to repent of. She was really in great danger
for some hours, but is now as well as possible, Sister tells me in her
letter to-day. Only--Sarah does not believe it. Fanny is at Knowsley,
and they have been very gay there. No more time. I wonder where you are,
but suppose Knightsbridge to be a safe direction. What a deal we shall
have to talk about! I kept a journal, thinking as I could not write to
all my friends I would let them see my Irish ideas in that form; but it
degenerated after the first week into personalities, and is unshowable.
Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Sunday_ [_November_], 1827.

MY DEAREST THERESA, How d’ye do? I hope you have had your health better,
Ma’am. I took to fretting about your having returns of pain in your
head, but if ever I tried to say you had not been _quite_ so well,
everybody screamed out, “Oh yes, I am happy to tell you that Miss
Villiers is _quite_ well, never was so well. She has danced at a ball,
and written an opera, and is perfectly well indeed.” So I give it up.
But are you really quite well, and where are you? I shall send this to
your brother George, who is in town, as with infinite promptitude I
conjectured, from seeing him at the Play with such a regular London
party, such pomp and circumstance of hats and feathers, and Clanwilliams
and Jerseys. I did not like the looks of them after the simple unadorned
uncloathed Irish, but I did not see any of them to speak to.

Since I wrote to you, I have been to Norman Court for ten days. Such
luxuries! such riches! It is too disgusting that that little Wall should
have it all. We had a very pleasant party of gentlemen there--Mr.
Luttrell[274] amongst others, to whom I am devotedly attached. And he
was in the highest good humour all the time, thanks to the goodness of
the cook, and the comforts of his own room. No ladies, but old Mrs.
Wall,[275] who is worth ten of her son. She drives me to desperation by
being so much better, in real goodness, than any of us will ever be, and
yet very pleasant withal. I do not see that we have the least chance of
meeting her hereafter. We shall be in a very inferior class.

Then I went to Laleham where I passed a very comfortable fortnight with
the F. Levesons, and on Friday I came to town for a night and yesterday
came here. I stayed in town chiefly to see Lady Bath, heard she was very
cross about me, did not mind, went in with my most jaunty _débonnaire_
manner, stood the brunt of one little sentimental reproach, and then we
were as dear friends as ever. She is looking very well--certainly
younger than when she went away. Char[276] is decidedly plain; rather a
Montagu cut about her. Lady Bath brought me such beautiful
ear-rings--and my ears are not bored! So I was obliged to avow with as
much shame as if I had lost my ears in the pillory that I could not have
the pleasure of wearing them.

Then I went to Downing Street. Such a mess! She[277] is crosser than
ever, now she has all her wishes gratified. In short, all the stories
that we have all known of her are nothing compared to what we might know
now. Sister will not hear of her being crazy, though I have proved to
her how advantageous it would be to Sarah’s character; but at all events
it is impossible that poor weak man can be our Minister much longer. I
was rather in the Opposition Society at Laleham, and it is
extraordinary the number of good stories the Opposition letters bring of
Lord and Lady Goderich. However, all those of her meddling in Politics
are perfectly unfounded. Her attention to her own self is never
disturbed for a moment, and she does not ever ask for any public
information. Gooch is appointed her third physician in ordinary, and she
was unusually cross on Friday because he had not called before two. She
had had Clarke and Pennington, but as she observed with the sweetest
resignation, “Physicians, I believe, always neglect their dying

I have two sisters here, and about eighteen small children. I mean
_their_ children, not mine. Love to Mrs. Villiers. Ever your

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Wednesday, December 2, 1827_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Your last note was entirely dateless, and as it has
been disporting itself about the country in search of George, it must
have been written a considerable time, I guess.

I went to see Sister yesterday. She is expecting Sarah[278] at Eastcombe
on Saturday, and I really believe likes to have her there! It is lucky
there is a difference in tastes! Sarah now has _four_ physicians in
ordinary. They all met to consult a few days ago, and Pennington stood
by the fire soliloquizing and was heard to say: “Well, this is the first
time, I suppose, that we four ever met to consult when there was no
complaint to consult about.” She is too much absorbed in herself to care
even about the baby, and does not bring it to Eastcombe with her.
Sister asked me to come at the same time, which of course I declined,
and I took the opportunity of speaking my mind to her, for I think she
is nearly as much to blame as Sarah. She was not affronted or convinced,
so it all went for nothing. Your ever affectionate

E. E.



     [A few extracts are given here from Miss Eden’s _Journal_ kept in
     the early part of 1828.]

_January 7, 1828._

Stayed at Grosvenor Place on our way home to dinner, and saw Mary
[Drummond] with the three children dressed to go to the Duke of Atholl’s
for twelfth cake. Came home at 9, I suppose, to settle in town. How I
hate it! But then I have had a very excellent absence of six months from
it, and enjoyed my Irish tour, and my summer altogether as much as I
expected. Found an invitation to Cobham, to Lady Darnley, and
invitations to Madame de Lieven’s and Mademoiselle de Palmella’s[279]
parties to meet Dom Miguel.[280] Such a horrid look about these

_January 9, 1828._

Theresa Villiers came here, and Mary at five, and said that Lord
Goderich had resigned the day before, and that the King had sent to the
Duke of Wellington to desire him to make a new Government.

It was hardly possible to regret the last, it was so weak, and Lord
Goderich so inefficient and ridiculous, chiefly owing to Sarah, but the
triumph of one’s enemies is always an ugly business.

_January 12, 1828._

Lord Lansdowne dined alone with us. I never saw him in such good spirits
or more agreeable. So extremely communicative, and so delighted to have
done with office. He says the whole thing is an intrigue between Mr.
Herries and Sir William Knighton.[281] The instances he gave of Sir W.
Knighton’s influence over the King are quite wonderful. Lord Lansdowne
does not believe, as all the rest of the Whigs do, that Lord Goderich
has betrayed them. He says that at present they are all Ministers still,
and that the King had signified to them his wishes that they might still
continue so--which, as he puts it all into the hand of the Duke of
Wellington, means nothing; and that they are to wait till the Duke makes
them some proposition they cannot accede to, and then to go out.

He said Lord Goderich was very nervous when he first saw him yesterday.
Lord Melville is talked of as Prime Minister.

_January 18, 1828._

Mary lent me her carriage. Saw Sarah dressed and walking about her room,
not looking particularly ill, quite forgetting her plaintive manner. She
told me Mr. Huskisson[282] had consented to take office under the Duke,
for which she abused him in her old eager manner. Saw Lord Goderich,
looking like the poor wretch he is.

_January 30, 1828._

Dined at Lady Charlotte Greville’s. Met the F. Levesons, the Duke of
Devonshire, Lord Morpeth, Lord Ashley[283] and Mr. Talbot. A pleasant
dinner. The Duke told me he had been very sorry to resign and he was
furious with Lord Goderich, that the King told him that the day Lord
Goderich resigned one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, knowing
nothing of what had passed, asked Lord Goderich to give him a lift to
town; that the King had the curiosity to ask him on his return what he
thought of Lord Goderich, and that the gentleman said he thought him
very pleasant: he had joked and laughed till they came to Hounslow, and
then fell asleep, and this immediately after having resigned--not only
for himself, but for all his colleagues without their consent.

_February 14, 1828._

Got two places at the House of Commons, asked Theresa to go with me. Mr.
Hobhouse moved a vote of thanks to Sir E. Codrington,[284] and made a
good speech, Mr. B. a very tiresome one, Sir J. Mackintosh rather a
learned one; and Mr. Peel not a bad one, during which we came away,
almost starved to death. Dined at 11.

_February 15, 1828._

Had a place at the House of Commons again. Borrowed Lady Bath’s carriage
and went to see her first. Found Lady Francis Leveson at the House. We
were both very anxious for the explanation that was expected from Mr.
Huskisson. Mr. Peel[285] made a good speech on Finance, and proposed the
Finance Committee. Mr. Baring proposed that Mr. Huskisson’s name should
be added to it. Mr. Brougham[286] said a few words in the same sense;
then there came a silence, every one expecting Mr. Huskisson would
speak, and that somebody would ask him to explain. But nobody got up,
and Mr. Goulburn[287] moved an Adjournment which was received with a
shout of laughter, and they all rushed out. We were all horribly
disappointed, nobody found their carriages ready. Mrs. Horton’s carriage
took seven of us, and left me in Grosvenor Place.

_March 11, 1828._

Went out with Lady Harriet Baring upon trial to see if I liked her. Do
not know now. Bought a bonnet at Madame Carsan’s (not paid for).

_March 12, 1828._

Dined at Mrs. A. Baring’s,--what she calls my dinner, one she gives
every year to which I am supposed to ask the company. The B. Barings, H.
Mildmays, Theresa, H. Villiers, Mr. Labouchere,[288] Mr. Luttrell, Mr.
A. Greville, Mr. Ponsonby and F. Baring. Went on to Devonshire House,
where George and Fanny had dined.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Saturday, January 5, 1828_.

DEAREST THERESA, I have been trying by the help of the newspaper to form
the slightest guess of your movements, but I cannot make them out.

Sarah’s reform lasted nearly three days, and she is now herself again,
in the most finished perfection. Her hatred to Blackheath and her
violent love of Downing Street prove to me that she sees the time is
near when they must leave the latter abode, and the only thing makes me
doubt that he is going out, is her avowed wish that he should leave
office.[289] Her indifference about her baby, after all the fuss she
made, is so in harmony with the rest of her cross-grained character,
that I contemplate it with the fondest admiration.

I know no news to tell you. The laundry here was robbed on Tuesday,
which seems to afford the children great amusement. I have experienced
the pleasure of a robbed laundry before, and it does not amuse me
now--much. I asked Wright if I had lost anything. “Only your best cap,
and your two best frills, and your best worked habit-shirt, and your
best lace,”--none of them having been better than their fellows till
they were stolen. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

ARMAGH, 1828.

Here I am _translated_ to Armagh. I got through the journey and all the
bother wonderfully by Georgina St. Quintin’s[290] help. I parted with
her in Dublin, where I spent five days, and where I found Lady Glengall,
Mr. Villiers, Lord Forbes, Lady Erroll.[291] But I was glad to leave
Dublin; even in those few days I saw so much _tracasserie_ and fuss
about nothing, that I would not live there on any account if I could
help it. Emmy, I find that I am totally unfit for what is called the
world, or anything like it. I have forgotten its ways and its
language,--in short, I have seen too much sorrow to be up to it. I
thought Dublin itself beautiful, and Lady Glengall was most
good-natured,--crammed me into one of her own Hats and sent me to a ball
at the Castle which was beautiful. I dined with all the military people,
and came away nothing loth. The tyranny of the Few over the Many does
not strike the eye so much here, although I believe this to be the very
heart of it--the positive _pips_ of the orange.

I have seen my new General. They say he is very gentlemanlike and
good-natured. He seems to me stupid and vulgar, but pray _double-lock_
this, for we cannot afford to quarrel with another General. We are
nearly ruined by this last move, that is one of the things that makes me
low. I am not at all sure that we shall not be obliged to _sell out_
now, from money difficulties. So much sickness, and a move has thrown us
back horribly, so you must bear with me now and then, my own Emmy. When
I do not write it is because I am fretted and full of care. I keep up my
spirits wonderfully, and am quite well as to health, and Sir Guy, too,
fights on manfully. He means to try all he can before he sells, but if
he cannot manage, we _must_ sell and say no more about the matter; but
only think how much better off we are than others in the world. Write to
me, my dear Emmy, for your letters do me good and cheer me. I was quite
glad to talk about you to Mr. Villiers.\[292] He seemed to think it was
_extraordinary_ how much you loved me, and I began to think it oddish
myself, for certainly _je ne vaux pas grand chose_, when I come to

_May 27, 1828._

Will you make another attempt to find Abby, he resorts much to that
Mulligatawny fount frequented by Turtle, and on the banks of which curry
grows spontaneous,--the Oriental Club?

I do not much like this place, but we have many negative blessings--a
quiet peaceable General, an Adjutant-General full of abstruse erudition.
Talking of this man, by the bye, I want to know whether the Committee of
useful knowledge know that there are gangs of half-informed
science-mongers, who are going about quoting the information they
plunder out of the library, and bringing it out as their own topics,
without giving notice of where they have taken them. This said Colonel
Moore (nephew to Sir Graham[293]) is a nefarious pilferer, and tried to
cram the information of the Duke’s[294] Bill down my throat as his own

Emily, the day is at hand when we shall sigh for a plain fool and the
sight of a natural will be good for sore eyes. We shall, it is hardly
doubted, have a row here, for our Orangemen are frantic, and _will_ walk
and _will_ play their horrid tunes. We had a man killed in a fray a week
ago about a drum.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_June 2, 1828._

MY DEAR EMMY, You are right, there is nothing like answering directly,
but my dear child, I have nothing to tell you. Here one day certifieth
the other, and I see no one, nothing happens--lessons and walks and
eating--and now and then a bore drops in by way of a change. And the
people speak so as to be tolerably understood, and their rags are
sufficient to cover them, and there is not that variety of dislocation
among the limbs of the beggars, which now and then accorded us a topic
in the south. You might as well expect a letter from a silkworm out of
the very heart of its cocoon....

I like my house although it has only its snugness and a cheerful view to
recommend it; but the people as yet rather bore me. In short, my dear
Emmy, I return to the old song:--I don’t care _that_--for acquaintances.
I had rather have my hedge of life with its gaps and rents, than patch
it up with rubbish; and if the goodly cedars are laid low, the place
that knew them shall at least remain void, and show that such things
were. I really feel this more and more every day. I love my friends
better than ever, but making an acquaintance is positively disagreeable.
Your letters are such gleams to me. That alliance of Car[295] and her
pretty little hands with Moloch Mostyn did enchant me.

Do you know, Mrs. Vansittart’s consent ought to be more known. It is the
longest step emancipation has made this age.[296] You see, Emmy, she was
quite right about the girl’s beauty, and you quite wrong.

I wish you could see my shaved head. I look like a Greek pipe-bearer, or
Haggai himself, or something very much out of the way. But all my hair
was really coming out. They say I shall have a good crop in six months,
and be able to turn it up in a year.

We are in doubts still about our finances. I do not well know what is to
become of us, but I try not to fret. I wish you would make a friendship
with the Downshires, that would conduce to your coming to the North

Do you think Lord Auckland is to be moved this way? What people do you
see most of? Which of my deputies is filling up my place? Is it your
Bath or Maria Copley? What is become of Miss Villiers, and how is poor
Lady Grantham?... How are you yourself? Good-bye, Dearest. Ever your own


_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_August 31, 1828_.

I suppose my genius is to be cramped into this single sheet, which is
very unpleasant.

I was very glad to get your letter, as well to hear something about you,
so as to know where to write.[297] It is an excellent plan your writing
a few times at different places. Your letter amused me particularly. You
have done adventures enough now for some time, and may pursue your way
safely without any danger of shocking me with the want of incident.

No, I am not fastidious, because I _dis_like very few people (those
might be called enemies); and I like a great many for their good
qualities without liking their society (those are my acquaintances); and
then I like a great many more for good qualities, or agreeableness, or
their affection for me (those are my friends); and amongst those are a
chosen few particularly _perfect_, combining the three advantages, and
those are my intimate friends. And unless I can be with either of the
two last classes, I have not a sufficient love of society not to prefer
being alone. But I do not at all despise or dislike those I do not wish
to be with,--quite the contrary. I respect them to the greatest degree,
only I do not care about them, and I cannot praise them as I do the
others. Your system of general praise would bring you by degrees to
think it equally pleasant to meet Sir Gore Ouseley and Mr. Luttrell, Mr.
Lushington[298] and Lord Alvanley, and you would like me to say Harriet
Baring is as pleasant an incident at a dinner as yourself. No thank you;
I prefer my distinctions. The dark shadows of _bore_ bring out the
lights of agreeableness, and I like to _perceive_ a difference, even if
I do not act upon it. However, do not let us argue by letter; there is
no room for it.

My dear, my Irish journey is defunct, dead, deceased, annihilated, and I
shall follow its example if things go on so. You may, if your English
papers follow you, have seen that a man of the name of Austin[299] has
_defaulted_ from Greenwich Hospital, after having cheated it to a great
amount. It is not worth telling you the story, besides, I have thought
of nothing else till I am sick of it; but it has worried and annoyed
George, who is Auditor of the Accounts, to a degree that I cannot
express. Austin has been taken at Limerick, but that does very little
good, and only gives the additional trouble of arranging the manner of
prosecuting him, which will be a difficult business, as our laws,
according to the accurate observations I have made on them for many
years, are calculated chiefly for the protection and encouragement of
crime; and besides encouraging husbands to kill their wives, and masters
their apprentices, have had an eye to the safety of Austin, and all the
thousands of pounds that were found in his trunk cannot be touched. I do
not precisely see the justice of his taking our Irish journey, and
leaving us to settle his accounts, but I suppose it is all right. The
investigation of the whole business has been put into George’s hands,
and there is so much that is disagreeable in it, besides confining him
to the neighbourhood of Greenwich, that he has been very low, poor
fellow! But like a sensible man, he sent for me to keep up his spirits;
and we have been here the last three weeks, and shall be here a
fortnight longer, and then I fear we shall have to go to London.

Well, I hold it wrong to grumble, but I do not love London at any time,
and above all, not in September; and I grudge the loss of his shooting,
and I hate to see him so bothered.

I went to town last Tuesday, as I heard of a large covey of friends that
might be shot flying, and I saw Maria [Copley] just come from Tunbridge,
looking better but not well. Lady Grantham, looking ill, from Tunbridge
also; Coppy, freshly imported from Dieppe in great spirits; Lady C.
Greville passing on to Dublin; and various other acquaintances.

This is a stupid letter, but if you knew how much I have been worried
the last three weeks you would think it bright of me not to be stupid. I
will write again soon. Your most affectionate

E. E.

Mind you sketch all day.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Sunday, September 21_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, If I had the remotest idea what to say to you I
should like writing better, I think; but I never can write to anybody
abroad. I can’t fancy them. What are you like? Do I know you? Have I
ever seen you? Have we a thought in common? You are skipping about an
Alp, and I remain here like a post, and I give you my honour things have
entirely done happening.

I told you about our Greenwich troubles. They have not improved, and you
will have a high opinion of my fortitude and also of the extremity of
_bother_ that has obliged me to mount my mind up to the heights of
actual resignation, when I tell you that George and I are going to town
the 1st of October to settle, (October being my favourite month of the
year, and when I should naturally be disporting myself on the Giant’s
Causeway). And yet I am as meek as a mouse, and have not grumbled about
it at all, and flatter myself that George finds me as _cheery_ as
possible. It will put you in a rage, but who cares when you are 1000
miles off! But besides the motive of not plaguing him, I am kept up by a
fond hope, which indeed almost amounts to certainty, that I shall not be
in London at all next year, at least not in February. We shall let our
house and live in his apartments at Greenwich for some time--within
reach if you have anything to say.

I do not often think I do right, but I really have behaved very well the
last two months. I am glad they are over, for it has been a worrying
time and I hate to see George plagued. We have never stirred from here
except for two days to see Robert.

Panshanger[300] was full to the brim of vice and agreeableness,
foreigners and roués. It sounded awful, and I declined paying a morning
visit, which is at the best an awkward business, to twenty people all
accustomed to each other’s jokes. But Lady Cowper sent her carriage for
me the last day, so that I could not help myself. Most of the party was
dispersed, except Lord Melbourne, Sir F. Lamb,[301] and Lord Alvanley,
who was more amusing than ever. Lady Emily looked very pretty, and Lady
Cowper was as usual very agreeable.

F. Robinson’s[302] history has come to an end I think. Lady Cowper
seemed very cool about him and they have not met since in London.
Considering that those brothers and sisters are in all probability as
little related to each other as possible, they are the most attached
family I ever saw. Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_November 2, 1828_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I have been rather of the longest about this letter.
To be sure you set me a bright example. I thought you must have tumbled
off an Alp and hurt yourself, or have been run over by an Avalanche
which drove on without stopping to ask. That would have been accidental
death, with a Dividend of one shilling on the Avalanche.

I was very glad to get your letter with such a good account of yourself.
What a nice summer you will have passed. I rather hope, whether your
house is let or not, that you will squeeze out every half-penny and see
as much as you can,--which, to be sure, is highly disinterested of me,
because the convenience it would be to me to have you at home just now
is incalculable. But you are better abroad, and then, if you come home
now, there is no saying when you will be allowed to go again. It ought
to have been one of the rules of the game that one might be allowed not
to begin the _expenses_ of travelling again till the point where they
ceased before. I mean, that as you have once paid your way to Florence,
you ought to go gratis there next time, and then begin buying your
freedom to Rome.

We came to London last Monday, George and I having passed our whole
summer at Eastcombe. He still has a great deal of business at
Greenwich,[303] but is beginning to see his way through it and is, at
all events, in better health and spirits. We shall probably live only
part of the year at Greenwich, and there is a very nice house _in_ the
park belonging to George’s office, with a little greenhouse next to it,
and it may by courtesy be called a _small_ villa.[304] For my part I
shall like it extremely, but George hates the idea of it so much that I
say nothing. He is sure to do at last what he ought, and though he
declares he can never go there, we go on very quietly buying furniture,
arranging with servants, etc. You see (this is between ourselves) that
rather than be bored with this business which he has taken in utter
aversion, he would almost prefer giving up his office, thereby making
himself uncomfortably poor. I think that’s great nonsense, and that he
would repent when he had done it.

Because he has met with dishonesty once, he is not more likely to meet
with it again, and as he is always making business for himself, at the
London University or Zoological Gardens or somewhere, he cannot want to
be idle, and had better do what he is paid for, than what he is not paid
for--both if he likes it. But at all events the first is the best, so I
go on taking no notice, and he is recovering fast his usual activity.

I daresay London will be pleasant enough in a week or so. I see plenty
of stray people about it. Ladies with very _considerable_ figures, and
attentive bored husbands attending them in the short walks they are able
to take, not to be out of sight of the monthly nurse.

Lady H. Baring being one of the most considerable, and Bingham[305] one
of the most attentive, I went with them to the Adelphi on Wednesday and
was in agonies all the time. The house was so full there would not have
been room for even the smallest baby in addition.

It is very odd that the Duke of Wellington will not say one word as to
the intentions of the Government, because as it is, nothing can be more
terrific than the state of things. I begin to believe what some people
say--that he has no plan and does not know what to do. In short another
Goderich come to judgement.

The Copleys have been at Chatsworth--an immense party, private
theatricals, dancing, etc., and they were all enchanted.

It amused me that Coppy [Miss Copley] should act Antonio in the
“Merchant of Venice,” she must have been such a good figure, and somehow
the idea tickled my fancy particularly. I think she must have done it
well. Antonio is an excellent over-friendly bore, and though it is wrong
of us, you know that is the light in which Coppy strikes us.

The Duke of Portland, as usual, does not take joy in Lady Lucy’s[306]
marriage, and gives her no money. His is a good plan: he holds out his
daughters as fortunes till somebody proposes for them, and then he gives
them nothing because they accept the proposal. And then in a rage his
sons-in-law threaten to carry off their wives to some horrid climate.
Lord Howard is going to try the West Indies.

The London University has opened with most unexpected success. They have
nearly 250 students entered already, and several of the Professors have
distinguished themselves much in their introductory lectures, and there
have been crowds sent away who were anxious to hear them. George got
your brother Charles[307] a place to hear a lecture the other day among
the council. He never can make out the names of your brothers, except
George, but goes boldly on calling them all “Villiers” and then comes to
me to class them. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_November 19, 1828_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, George and I went to Norman Court about a month ago,
met a very pleasant party there, and had enjoyed ourselves nearly a
week, charmed to be out of town, delighted to be killing the poor dear
dumb pheasants, and recovering a great deal of lost health, and nursing
up an equable flow of spirits, when a letter arrived to say my sister,
Mrs. Vansittart, was taken dangerously ill. We had to set off directly,
travelled all day--such a horrid journey, particularly the last stage,
for we expected to find all was over. However, thank God! that was not
the case, though she was in the greatest danger.

You will see the Mostyns at Rome. I do not know what they will have
settled to do. There was no use in telling Car how ill her mother was.
Caroline’s recovery must be extremely slow, in fact she has not only to
recover intellect for herself, but for her husband and 13 children. She
has thought and acted for them till they cannot think or act for
themselves, and anxiety for them makes her recovery more hazardous.

It has been an unpleasant month! I saw the Lansdownes on Wednesday--just
arrived, enchanted with their tour. Only they complained bitterly of the
cold all through France and at Paris, and are astonished to find us all
so hot. There never was such a season. Very favourable weather for the
young pines. I suppose we shall grow them in the open air.

Mademoiselle Taglioni[308] is the greatest heroine in Paris--the finest
dancer ever seen. “Toutes les autres danseuses _tombent_,” Vestris says;
“Mademoiselle Taglioni redescend.” Full gowns and full sleeves are
arrived at a degree of fullness Lady Lansdowne says, which makes it
necessary for all the poor husbands to sit backwards in the carriages.

They say Fred Robinson’s marriage with Lady Emily Cowper is settled. I
heard it accidentally a fortnight ago and did not believe it, and now I
do. Robert says Fred is staying at Panshanger quite alone with the
Cowpers and he never saw anything like the love-making, rather absurd,
and a bore altogether for the Cowpers. Did I tell you how I had been
reading General Miller’s[309] “South America,” and had been taken by
it? The man himself is in London, on his way back to Peru, and George
brought him home to dinner one day. It is pleasant to hear the
adventures of an adventurer, and he is remarkably unassuming. He has one
fault, in being horribly wounded, and I am particularly weak on that
point. A common cut finger disagrees with me, and he does not seem to
have a single _whole_ finger left. However he is a hero, and I bore it
wonderfully,--kept thinking of American independence, and the cause of
liberty all over the world, and was only squeamish, not sick. We are
busy furnishing our Greenwich House, and tending fast towards the King’s
Bench. I wish you would come home; you will come just as we go. I have
not answered your last letter,--no room, but go on writing, I like it.

Love to Mrs. V. Ever your most affectionate


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_November 26, 1828_.

Emmy, are you with child? Or have you had a husband and four children in
the hooping-cough? Or have you been driven mad by Orange factions? If
none of these evils have befallen you, you might have written me a line
more. I know yours was the last letter, but think of me and all my
sufferings! And above all, the standing disappointment of not seeing
you, when I was literally airing the sheets and killing the fowls for
you. And there I was without encumbrance, a free woman, ready to go all
over the Causeway--and as I fear I am now beginning a child, I do not
know when I shall be my own woman again.

Sir Guy has literally had the whooping-cough and is not well yet, and
you who know what Lord Auckland is with a swelled face, may imagine what
Sir Guy is with a whoop rending his lungs. The children have all had it
rather lightly, but are still rather disagreeable and like a rookery. My
dear, I had a glimpse of Lady Wallscourt[310] at the Inn. I spent half
an hour with her; she is afraid of the whooping-cough and would not come
to me. I think I ought to _bénir la providence_ that bricks and mortar
stood my friends, and that she could not find a house; for truly I think
you anticipated justly that she would not exactly be the person I should
wish to spin my days with. However, I will work up a little good feeling
and liking towards her next Spring, when she may want it,--and, my dear,
I must confess to you that the slang of good society, even, is now grown
irksome to me, I suppose from want of habit, particularly when it is not
supported by any ideas.

However, my Dearest, don’t think I am bitter. Indeed I love to think of
all the good there is in the world,--not for your sake, though you are
my great link. But then I consider you as my world in itself.

I hope it will not be in the power of any swindler to keep you from me
next year, for I really cannot do so long without a clearance of ideas.
There will be such old stores to dispose of. Emily, I am ashamed to
confess to you how I have suffered from the Orange spirit of this horrid
black North. I am ashamed to tell you how wickedly irritated I was, I am
getting better now. The fearful evil I feel of this party spirit is, it
is so catching. It kindles all the combustibles of contradiction and
retaliation within one, till, though it was _injustice_ that irritated
me, yet I fear I should not have dealt justly towards them. I am not
sanguine, I think nothing will be done; and I wish I thought better of
the Association.[311] I am constantly told _indirectly_ that the friends
of the Catholics should fear their ascendancy, for if they begin a
_massacre_ they will cut down _friend_ and foe. Pleasant little
images!... It is such a comfort to me that by leaving the world one can
get rid of its taint to a certain degree; for I do not think I could
bear to hear one half of the things I used to think nothing of at all
some years ago.

I cannot tell you how kind to us Lord Gosford[312] has been. We spent a
few days with him in his remnant of a house. I never would cut up my old
gown till I had another to my back, which has been his case. He pulled
down three-quarters of a liveable house and began a large granite
Castle, and inhabits the gore of the house. However, we were very merry
in the Lambeau. I think he does seem the most good-humoured person I
ever saw....

I am quite glad Lord Gosford liked me, because when I am very long away
from you I am afraid you will find me so rusty and grown shabby. He is
very pleasant. It was quite refreshing to be in a green liberal
atmosphere at Caledon. I like him[313] too; he is such a plain
matter-of-fact man, and I think there is a good deal of steady ballast
of that sort wanted on the Liberal side, because it gives twice as much
confidence as talent. Lady Caledon knew something of you but not right.
I was obliged to teach her a good deal, she thought you so devoted to
the world. You see--you know what I mean. Now I was dying to tell her
that it was the world loved you. The children behaved well, which was a
relief to me. It is the first time they have been let loose in company.
Fanny[314] is really a very nice girl, and has very good manners, and I
am quite pleased that seven years’ toil should really be rewarded so
well, so much beyond my hopes.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_December 6, 1828._

I believe in this world it is always _surest_ and safest to write to
those we love best, when life weighs heavy on our spirits; we have many
more chances of hitting the right string. Alas, how often I delayed
writing to you when I felt low and anxious, and had fears and fits of
depression because I would not darken your page; and when I felt lighter
I wrote a letter which, after all must have jarred upon you Dearest,
when you were still in the _slough_![315] ... I like your Greenwich plan
much. I think it will suit you and do you good. I know I shall live to
see you a real saint. Then where we are to put Lord Auckland I cannot
well make out, unless he ripens into a sort of Wilberforce, but my
imagination does not yet carry me so far.

I have been reading Jebb’s _Sacred Literature_. I like it although one
is obliged to hop over a good deal of Greek etymology.

Oh, how I want you to talk to, for it is such an age since we really
cleared our minds, and you know, Emmy, we do belong to one another upon
some Geometrical System of fitness that we cannot well describe. But my
idea is that by finding out what E.E. is to P.C., you ascertain what
P.C. is to E.E.



_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Wednesday, April 30, 1829_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, How attentive we become! frightened to death at the
idea of our near meeting, _unwritten_ to. I had your Genoa letter three
days ago in the leisure of Hertingfordbury, where I have been Eastering,
and could have _drawn_ my pen on the spot to answer you, but I thought
some account of the Hatfield theatricals would be more diverting than
pure unadulterated daffy-down-dillies and cowslips.

Robert and I went over to Hatfield on Monday, which was the second
repetition of the plays. The 1st piece was “A Short Reign and a Merry
One.” Mr. Phipps the chief performer; Major Keppel very good; Mr.
Egerton clever; Lady Salisbury[316] herself I thought the only failure,
but some people thought her good, so perhaps I was wrong. Her dress
disfigured her cruelly. The second piece was Lady Dacre’s[317]
translation of the _Demoiselle à Marier_--Lady F. Leveson, Mr. J.
Wortley, and Lord Morpeth the chief performers; and it was impossible
anything could be better. In short, the whole evening has lowered my
opinion of the merits of professional people. I went expecting to find
the _gentlefolk_ all tolerable sticks on the stage, awkward, affected,
and only helped through by an indulgent public, and I found I never had
laughed more heartily, never had seen a play really well acted in all
its parts before, and Lady S., whom I thought the least good, was only
objectionable because she was like an actress on the real stage.

The singing was very pretty. Mr. Ashley, Mr. Wortley, Lady F. Leveson,
all distinguished themselves. At the end of the first piece, each of the
performers sung a little Vaudeville couplet, and Jim Wortley sang one to
the Duke of Wellington, who was in the front row, that was applauded and
_encored_ and applauded again, and chorussed with great noise. It
turned, of course, upon the hero, and the double crown, and Waterloo,
and Catholics--you know how these little ideas are dished up--and there
was an allusion to the same effect in the Prologue, also received with

The Duke seemed very much pleased, and told George to-day the Hatfield
theatricals were very good fun. I meant to make this only a half sheet,
but I see a long stream of untouched topics before me, so here goes for
a whole sheet and rather wider lines.... The Duke of Norfolk, Lord
Clifford, etc., took their seats yesterday under the auspices of Julia,
Lady Petre,[318] and the two Miss Petres,[319] and several Catholic
ladies grouped under our Protestant throne, and now there only remains
to come the introduction of that wily dangerous Edward Petre into the
House of Commons, and England must fall, and then, I suppose, will get
up and begin again.

Poor Lady Derby[320] died on Friday after great sufferings and a very
long illness. I think it ought to be made a rule of the odd game we all
play here that those old attached couples should die together Baucis and
Philemon fashion. The survivor’s is a hard place.

Fanny has been, of course, very anxious and unhappy, and has certainly
lost a very kind friend in Lady Derby, who expressed the greatest
affection for her to the last.

We shall not be the least settled at Greenwich, or near it, when you
come back. A fortnight ago when we went there the workmen said they
thought they would be out of the house in ten days. George went there
yesterday, and they said they thought in about a _fortnight_ more they
should have done! A month hence, perhaps, they will ask six weeks
more--that is the way painters generally go on. However, our wonderful
weather excuses them. It is colder than Christmas and rains eternally.
As far as we are concerned it has done its worst. We could not let this
house till we find another to go into, and we shall not easily find a
tenant after this week, so you will find us here, and here we shall
probably stay till the 1st of June.

I only came to town yesterday, so I know little London news. People are
dying rather than otherwise. I do not know whether there is much else
going on. There is the Drawing-room to-morrow. Malibran has been rather
a disappointment to the musical world, I hear, but I have not seen her.
F. Robinson pays unremitting court to Lady Emily Cowper. I cannot
conceive anything so tiresome, particularly at her age, when, as I
remember, the pride of one’s life was to be distinguished by older
people than oneself.[321] Moreover, that dear good-looking bore, G.
Cole, holds it to be his duty to stick by Frederick and flirt _en tiers_
as well as he can. We have grown to be a very depraved set of
incendiaries, and it makes me perfectly miserable to think of the peril
of our beautiful cathedrals. York Minster gone, and two days ago an
attempt was made to set Westminster Abbey on fire. The fire was put out
without much harm being done, but no clue has been found to the man. The
country is too full; a great deal of distress; great national debt; a
redundancy of Spitalfields weavers; and in the course of a good hanging
they might hit on these incendiaries, and no sacrifice would be too
great for Westminster Abbey.

You know I let your house for three weeks, and the Vansittarts liked it.
It seemed odd and unpleasant visiting anybody but you there. Come home
soon. God bless you. Love to Mrs. V. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Monday evening, July 8, 1829_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, There never was such provocation, such a combination
of untoward events. I was in town to-day, went up to return Maria Copley
to her home, could have brought you back with me; and Lady
Buckinghamshire’s carriage which goes up to town to-morrow morning would
have taken you home again. I just ask you, “Did you ever?” _Songez-y un
peu!_ Such a plain path so entirely missed. I like you to know the
worst, because there is no use in my ranting and raving about as I have
this evening, if you do not do your share. I wonder when you wrote to
me. If only last night, the thing could not have been helped. You never
could have had an answer in time, but if you wrote on Saturday, which I
should think was more probable, I just ask you if it is not a little
provoking? Now we shall have no talk at all, ever again, our minds must
be so over-loaded that writing will be of no earthly use, and you will
not see our home while it is new and pretty--in short, there never was
such a misfortuneable occurrence. I went on hoping till eight you would
come. If it had happened yesterday I should not have wondered. Till that
unfortunate day we had all been happier here than we ever had been in
our lives, but yesterday was “a day of misfortunes,” like Rosamond’s day
in Miss Edgeworth’s book. The footman was suddenly laid up by a violent
attack of gout; one of the maid-servants was taken dangerously ill; one
of the horses took to kicking _itself_, of all the things in the world!
and hurt itself very much, which it deserves, but it is very
inconvenient to us; the cream was sour at breakfast; we got quite wet
through going to church, and again coming back; the puppy and kitten
fought; there was no mint sauce to the lamb at dinner;--in short, “it
was a sight worthy of the gods to see a great man (or, as in my case, a
great woman) struggling with such calamities.”

We preserved our cheerfulness wonderfully. I wish you had seen our
house; we are all so fond of it. My friends have exhausted themselves in
presents _with_ their names, and have now begun again anonymously. I
brought from Grosvenor Street a box to-day directed to me, containing a
lamp for the drawing-room, and now it is hung up I should be glad to
know who sent it.

I went to wish Lady Bath joy a week ago.[323] I never was so pleased
with any marriage as that. Is Lord Henry[324] settled or not? I
understood he went down to the Grange meaning to propose, and on
Wednesday I heard a long account of his visit, of Mrs. Baring’s agonies
of fidget because he did not speak out, and of Harriet’s confidence in
his intentions, and how they both grew hourly more shy and more silent.
But he had let all the rest of the party disperse, and was staying on
alone at the Grange, and was expected to have stayed with the purpose of
proposing without so many witnesses. Poor fellow! He seems to have been
shyer than ever. I know you will again think it odd of me, and I am sure
I cannot explain it, but by dint of hearing so much of their anxieties,
and knowing what his must have been, I grow fidgetty as one does reading
a story, that the catastrophe should be happy.

It will be a shame if he makes her unhappy. Otherwise, I do not know
that they will suit very well. Lady Bath asked me about it, and did not
seem very anxious for it,--said he required animation. I hardly knew
what to say when she said she was afraid by what she heard of Miss
Baring that was not the line, etc. I rode off on her amiability, good
sense, £50,000, etc. I hope Lady Bath may take a fancy to her; she will
want something to replace Char, but I rather doubt it.

Where am I to direct to you? I could be at home all the week in case any
of your other engagements should fail, only come in time to prevent my
dining at Eastcombe or elsewhere. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_August 1829._

I took a solemn oath that if the post brought me any letter this morning
I would, on the first sight of Bidgood with the silver waiter _orné de
lettres_, tear myself from my drawing and give up the rest of the
morning to this detestable writing employment; and, you brute, there
_is_ a letter from you, and a good letter too, and I must answer it.
And yet if you were to see my drawing! I got up at half-past eight this
morning that I might have a long enjoyment of it, and of course have
been interrupted every five minutes, though I was drapering a red velvet
cloak with all sorts of beautiful catching lights and carmine and ultra
marine and all the lovely colours in the world mixed up in it. My black
heads are framed and hung up in George’s room. I do not like to say how
_they_ look, but the room is evidently improved within the last week. I
have been at Putney from a Saturday to a Wednesday, my dear--“a
_procédé_,” as Mr. de Roos would call it, a friendly attention, but
extremely inconvenient, and moreover I think it bored me ever so
little--not much--but it did not amuse me. I like the girls, of all
things, and wish for nothing better than a talk with Anne, but there is
a want of sense about Lady Grantham which becomes wearisome in a very
long _tête-à-tête_, and we had several. Lord Henry stayed a whole week
at the Grange, but nothing came of it. Let us fondly hope the
discouragement came from her side. I do not fancy the woman ever being
made the victim; and perhaps she found him duller than she expected, and
Mr. Baring probably found him poorer. Anyhow, it might not have
answered, and I daresay it will all do very well as it is; or he may, in
a thoroughly _manly_ spirit (by which I mean the usual conduct of a man)
have settled that though he could propose any day, he could go out
grouse shooting only on the 12th of August, and that the grouse might
grow wild, while she would remain tame (I have only put that in for the
love of antithesis, not from pique or attraction), and so that he had
better attend to the grouse first, and come back to the Grange
afterwards. Lady Bath said he met her and the Buccleughs at Longleat and
was in great spirits, and she believed did not care a straw for Miss
Baring, but she _knew_ nothing from him of it....

I passed all Wednesday afternoon with Lady Bath, who was in the highest
good-humour, and the whole family resplendent with happiness, except
dear old Bath, who handsomely avows his joy was a mistake, and he has
not the least idea what is to become of him. I saw Char, and the Duke
too; and after they all went out riding Lady Bath and I went poking all
over the house, looking for the presents he had given her. Such
quantities of pretty things! And these were only his little daily gifts,
for the jewels were not finished. “The diamonds and emeralds will both
be superb,” Lady Bath said; “but I think the pearls the handsomest set I
ever saw.”

Think of that little Char with all those things! And she looks as simple
and unaffected as ever,--very shy and very happy.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_October 19, 1829._

MY DEAREST THERESA, Lady Harriet [Baring] says she wrote to you
yesterday to announce that we were going to talk you over. I think it my
duty to write to-day to announce that we have talked you over,--done our
_devoirs_ bravely. The substance of our comments you would not of course
be curious to hear. Having thus obviously made you thoroughly
uncomfortable, and this being Sunday evening and consequently to be
devoted to works of charity, I add from pure benevolence that Lady
Harriet has said nothing that is not in your praise, confirms the
remarkable fact that the heads of the Baring Clan are all turned by you,
and if it were not for that circumstance, which, as she says, must be
provoking to her, it appears to me she is as fond of you and Mrs.
Villiers as it is possible to be. She is very charitable and very
pleasant to-day.

I was not the least taken in by all your paltry evasions about not
writing to me. You never care a straw for me when you can have Louisa
Baring.[325] I am constrained to avow that Harriet Baring and the Red
Rover have always been my successful rivals with you and everybody else.
Please the Fates, I will set up some new friends for myself, and occupy
myself so exclusively with them that you shall not be able to get a word
from me for a month.

Well, I have no doubt Harriet Baring has every merit under the sun, only
you never will persuade me she is amusing. There is no merit in being
amusing, so that is not against her. I am glad she is in good spirits;
and it seems that neither she, nor her family, nor Lord Henry Thynne,
nor his family, wished for the marriage. It is rather lucky than
otherwise that they did not marry, though as the Barings want
connection, and he wants money, it was a natural marriage for all the
world to insist upon,--a clever idea, though it did not work well.

I passed such a nice morning yesterday, though my ulterior object was to
go to town to try on some gowns. But George and I began the day early,
and went to visit Chantrey,[326] who showed us quantities of beautiful
things, amongst others a monument to Bishop Heber[327] that is quite
beautiful, is not it? I tried to sketch it for you and failed, but he is
blessing two kneeling Hindus who, to the best of my recollections, have
not a stitch of clothes on (the climate is warm, you know), but the
dearest bald head you ever saw, with one long lock from the top. They
are so graceful--I mean seriously. Then we saw the Colossal statue of
Mr. Pitt, he has just cast in Bronze, and he gave up a whole hour, in
which he could have chipped a bit of covering to those poor Hindus, to
explaining to me, who am fussy and dull if anybody begins an _entirely_
new subject, how a bronze statue is cast, and how the weight of the
least moisture in the cast is ascertained even to the 1000th part of a
grain, and how the original cast is made. In short, I was quite learned
about it yesterday, and as his clay models disgusted me with mine, I had
some thoughts of turning the library into a foundery, and of melting
down all the saucepans, and casting a statue of George in his shooting
jacket, 14 feet high; but I have forgotten to-day how to do it. Chantrey
was so good-natured, and gave me excellent advice about modelling, and
is having some tools made for me, and I am always to have as much clay
from him as I like, which will be a vast advantage, for his clay must
have a habit of twisting itself into good shapes, and probably the raw
material I obtain from him will be more like a human figure than
anything I shall ever build myself.

I had some luncheon with Lady Harriet, met a considerable quantity of
acquaintances all prowling about the quiet streets, finished up my
wardrobe, bought some _company_ work, paid a few bills,--in short, bored
myself as much as was good for me. Miss Kemble’s[328] reputation goes on
increasing, which delights me. I have not seen anybody that does not
think her very superior to anything we have had for years, and if they
will leave her alone, and all the Magnates of the land will not insist
upon marrying her instantly, she will be a great treasure. C. Kemble was
giving a very touching account of her the other day to some cousins of
mine. Her resolution to go on the stage was taken only a month before,
at the time of his great difficulties, and he had never seen her
rehearse but twice. He says there never was such a daughter, and he
thinks her very clever.

I wish you had not done your Longleat. I had always meant you to be
there with us--quite reckoned on it. Can you insinuate to Lady Bath that
it is possible we may come two or three days sooner than I said at
first, if she lets us. The Lansdownes are going to Brighton for a month,
and want us to make Bowood on our return, instead of the time we
mentioned. I shall be very glad to see Lady Bath, but if I might be
excused the trouble of moving from home, I should not fret much. I gave
Mr. Hibbert[329] Lady Bath’s invitation, but he fears he must now stick
to his business, though as it cost him ten shillings a day in
hackney-coaches to transport his lame self to the city, I have proved to
him that it would be an economy to the firm of Hibbert, if he went by
the stage to Longleat. I always wonder what those West Indians do up in
Leadenhall street. What is the use of their going from the west to the
east of London to write about a plantation in Jamaica. If you were to go
from Longleat to Newcastle to write directions about your garden at
Knightsbridge it would be as sensible. I have often tried to make Mr.
Colvile tell me what he does in Leadenhall Street. I believe they eat
tamarinds and _cashew_ nuts (I do not know how they are spelt) and
ginger all day there. Good-bye. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._


(_Friday_). I began this two days ago, and you see how far I went. I
have a passion at the moment for modelling in clay, an accomplishment I
am trying to acquire from an old German who lives on Blackheath. The
interest of the pursuit it is impossible to describe. I cannot imagine
why I ever did anything else; it is the worst _engouement_ I ever had,
and so entirely past all regulating, that I think the best way now is
to tire it out, so I model from morning to night. I wish I were not
obliged to write to you, you uninteresting, unfinished lump of clay.
George interests himself in the art, and with his usual amiability
stepped up to town and brought me some tools. Think of our going to sit
down to dinner the other day, in our accustomed domestic manner, soup
and a mutton-pie; and Lord and Lady Jersey, F. Villiers, and Lord
Castlereagh arrived _at_ seven for dinner. No entrées, no fish, no
nothing, and the cook ill. However, it turned out very pleasant.

I believe Lady E. Cowper will end by marrying Lord Ashley. She says she
never has felt a preference for anybody, and will do just what her
mother wishes. Lady Cowper is sorely puzzled, and he is in a regular
high-flown Ashley state, wishing he had never proposed, that he might
have watched over and adored her in silence.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Monday [October 1829]._

MY DEAREST THERESA, I do not find this visiting system good for the
growth of letters. I have less to say when I see fresh people and fresh
houses constantly, than at home, where I see the same every day. Your
last letter, too, gave me an inspiration to answer it on the spot, but I
had not time then, and so it subsided. You poor dear! Are you still
liable to be haunted by recollections and tormented by the ghosts of
past pleasures--youthful but weak? I have _had_ so many feelings of the
sort you mean, that your letter interested me particularly; but then it
must be at least five years since the last ghost of the last pleasure
visited me, so imagine the date of the pleasure by the date of the
ghost--and the remains of _youthful_ interests do not disturb me any
longer. It is always _childhood_ I return to, and exclusively the sight
of Eden Farm[330] and aught connected therewith that swells my heart to
bursting, and _that_ I never see now. Everything else is mended up
again, and for the life of me I cannot understand how I ever could have
been so sentimental and foolish as it appears I must have been.[331] I
say no more; but my old extract book has thrown me into fits of
laughter. Calculate from that fact the horrid and complete extinction of
sentiment that has taken place. You will come to it, and be surprised to
see what a happy invention life is. I am afraid I like it too much. We
have been at Shottesbrook. Caroline Vansittart is so uncommonly well;
there are hardly any traces of her illness. The dear children will be
children till they die of old age.

Then we went to Ewehurst which the Drummonds have rented from the Duke
of Wellington. It is a very fine place, but an old house, and so cold.
All the children had colds, and all the Aunts caught them, of course;
only, instead of catching one cold I caught six, and have done nothing
but sneeze ever since.

We stayed there a week and came here this day sen’night, found the house
more luxurious and comfortable than ever after the cold of Ewehurst, and
Mr. Wall in great felicity. Old Mrs. Wall I think much the most
delightful old lady I ever knew. Lady Harriet we found here, and the
Sturts, and the Poodles,[332] and Mr. Pierpont, and latterly we have had
a Doctor Daltrey, a very clever man who has thrown a pinch of sense into
the very frivolous giggling conversation we have sunk into.

It has been rather amusing. Lady C. Sturt[333] and Lady Harriet are
rather in the same style of repartee. We all meant to dislike the
former, but found her, on the contrary, very pleasant. She amused George
very much, and Mr. Sturt was an old friend of ours. We should have gone
on to Crichel,[334] but our time and theirs could not be brought
together. Lady Harriet is in her very best mood, and I always think it
is a very pleasant incident, such excessive buoyancy of spirits. She is
full as fidgety about Bingham as any wife would be, even any of my own
sisters, who have a system of fidgeting about their husbands. I think he
will arrive to-day. In fact he could hardly have come sooner if he set
off even the very day he meant to. She insists upon it he is naturalized
in Russia and has taken the name of Potemkin, and she is teaching the
child[335] to call him so:--“Come, dear; say Potemkin. Come, out with it
like a man! Potty, Potty, Potty--come Baby!”

To-day we are to have a dinner of neighbours, chiefly clergy; two
Chancellors of different dioceses and various attendant clergy, besides
dear little Arundell who dines here every day. We flatter ourselves
there will be great difficulties of precedence when we go into dinner,
and have at last settled that the two Chancellors go in hand in hand
like the Kings of Brentford, and that we must divide the inferior clergy
amongst us--take two apiece.

Mr. Wall sometimes gets frightened at our levities and fancies we shall
really say to his guests all that we propose for them.

George still gets into hysterical fits of laughter when I mention your
idea of his being in love with Lady Harriet, which was unlucky at that
time, for it did so happen that he could not endure her then, and he
went up to town the day she came to stay at Greenwich, because he
thought her so ill-natured. She happened to abuse, in her ignorance,
_the_ lady of the hour. But even he likes her here, thinks her very
amusing, and much better-hearted than he expected, and he, like you, no
longer wonders why I like her. Altogether this visit has answered.

Sister has been to Wrest, where the old stories are going on:--doctors
sent for the middle of the night. In her last letter she said she
believed that the Goderichs were going off at an hour’s notice, and that
she should be left alone at Wrest, till she could alter all her plans.
In the meantime there is nothing really the matter with the child.

You never tell me where to direct. I shall try Saltram.[336] Love to
Mrs. Villiers. Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._[337]

MELBURY, 1829.

I am sorry to write to you on paper that has evidently been in bad
health for some time, but I cannot find any without this bilious tinge.
Lady Bath told me that you were the giver of that pretty lamp in the
drawing-room at Greenwich Park. I am so glad to know who it is I am to
thank, and very glad that “who” is “you.” I tried a little of gratitude
on two other friends who seemed obtuse about it. The pride of my life is
the quantity of pretty things that my friends gave me when we settled. I
like your name to be found in the list.

I suppose you are still in Ireland, and I direct my letter on that
supposition. I have not written to any of your family for a long time. I
cannot write while I am travelling about, as I hold it “stuff of the
conscience” to comment on the owners of the houses I am in, and it would
not be the least amusing to hear they were all charming people.

However, I must say that about Lord Ilchester, as I believe you do not
know him, so it is news to you; and he certainly is the most amiable
being I ever beheld. He has given up his own happiness as a lost case
since the death of his wife,[338] and his whole life is spent in trying
to make other people happy. I never saw so _gentle_ a character, and am
no longer surprised at George’s attachment to him. It has lasted ever
since they were at school together; and as I had never seen much of Lord
Ilchester at home, and he was nothing shining in society, I used to
wonder why George was so very fond of him. But I see how it is now.

To be sure, an inch of amiability is worth yards of cleverness for the
real wear and tear of life. Lord Ilchester’s spirits have been
thoroughly bent down once by the loss of his wife, and though he has
mended himself up again to a certain degree, yet he is all over chinks
and cracks, that shake on the slightest touch. I could not bear to
allude before him to the possibility of any husband liking his wife, or
any mother educating her children. The quantity of _célibataires_ that I
bring forward in conversation is incredible. I hope he is quite
convinced that there is not such a thing as a married man left in

Mr. Corry, who is here, does not intend that the race shall be extinct.
He is desperately in love with Lady H. Ashley,[339] so desperately that
he can think of nothing else, and I believe talks of little else; but
between his brogue and the confusion of his ideas I am not always sure
what he is talking about. He never sleeps, but writes half the
night--whether sonnets to her, or pamphlets on the state of Ireland, he
will not tell me. But he is in a constant state of composition, writing
notes all the evening to be arranged into sense at night. From the dark
romantic hints he throws out for our information, I imagine he has
hopes of marrying her in the course of next year. I hope he will not be
disappointed. I like anybody who is so really in earnest as he is.

We paid a long visit at Longleat--very successful, inasmuch as Lady Bath
was in the highest of good humour, and Tom Bath is dearer to my heart
than ever. Lord Edward was at Longleat the latter part of our visit, and
a great addition. He is totally unlike all the Thynnes I ever saw--full
of fun and dashes out everything that comes into his head, astonishes
them all, but governs the whole house. They all laugh the instant he
opens his lips.



_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Saturday, January 1830._

MY DEAREST THERESA, I _did_ write the day I had your first letter. To be
sure you were not bound to know it, for I put my letter by so carefully,
that at post time it was entirely missing. Then I was _took_ with a
cold, and took to my bed, and by the time I was well enough to institute
a successful search for my lost letter, it had grown so dull and dry by
keeping that it was not worth sending.

So you are snowed up at an inn. Odd! Your weather must be worse than
ours, though that has been bad enough, but no great depths of snow. I
think you sound comfortable. I have the oddest love of an Inn; I can’t
tell why, except that I love all that belongs to travelling; and then
one is so well treated. I have nothing to tell you, as I wrote a very
disgustingly gossipy letter to Lady Harriet [Baring] which was to serve
you too, and I have seen nobody since, except the Granthams. I suppose
there are live people in the provinces; there are none in town--no
carriages--no watchmen--no noise at all.

We had four London University professors to dinner on Thursday (and Mr.
Brougham was to have come, but was, of course, detained), proving that
madmen were sane or some clever men mad--I forget which. However, our
Professors were _very_ pretty company. I did not understand a word they
said, but thought them very pleasant.

Have you read Moore?[340] So beyond measure amusing! It is abused and
praised with a violence that shows how much party feeling there is about
it. The vanity both of the writer and the writee is very remarkable, but
it does not prevent the book from being very amusing, and I think it
altogether a very _fair_ piece of biography. Moore was not bound to make
Lord Byron’s faults stand out; there are plenty of them and striking
enough without amplification, and he mentions them with such excuses as
he can find.

George goes to Woburn to-morrow for the last week of shooting. Lord
Edward Thynne’s marriage went off--because the butcher would not be
_conformable_ about settlements.[341] I am sorry, for I liked Edward
very much when we were at Longleat. He is quite unlike the others, so
lively and easy. I wish he had not equally bad luck in the line of
fortune-hunting. Dublin must be going into deep black for your brother,
to judge by the papers.[342] I wonder whether Popular mourning is like
Court mourning--the gentlemen to wear black swords and fringe, and the
ladies chamois shoes--two great mysteries to me. I am so glad he has
been so liked. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Thursday, April 1830._

MY DEAREST THERESA, Observe how we write! Not a moment lost, and I shall
have the last word, but I meant to write to you yesterday, because the
very morning after my last letter, I found by a confidential advice from
Longleat that I had forwarded to you a regular London lie about Edward
Thynne, and that his marriage, so far from being off, was negotiating
with great success. However, it was a secret then; but Lord Henry came
yesterday to tell me it was declared, and to-day I have a letter from
Lady Bath, apparently in ecstacies: “Write and wish me great joy. You
are the first, the _very first_, to whom I have written my dear Edward’s
marriage, and I know you will be pleased. Write to me directly.”

I am not at all pleased, and have not an idea what to write. I think if
Edward had been thirty-three instead of twenty-three, had _wearied_ of
the world, as the Scotch say, and been disappointed in love several
times, as all people are by that time, it would not have been unnatural
that he should have married for an establishment; but a boy of that age
has no right to be so calculating. I cannot quite make out the story. I
heard from a great friend of the family who had been employed in the
negotiation that it is the sick plain sister[343] Lord E. marries; that
he did not pretend to care about her; supposed if he saw her once before
their marriage it would be enough--and so on, which was disgusting.

Lord Henry yesterday carried it off better--said she was rather pretty,
well educated, well mannered, and that Edward was in love, and all the
right things. Perhaps he is right. I did not know what to tell you about
Longleat, it was so long ago. I do not think _your_ Barings[344] will
like Lord Henry’s present pursuit. The same name and the other family;
but do not for your life say a word of it to them, as I vowed the
deepest vows to him yesterday that I would not do him any mischief. Not
that I know how I could, and I would not if I could, but I presume he
dreads family communications which, as the A. Barings and H. Barings do
not speak, I laboured to convince him yesterday were not to be dreaded.

I am quite alone here, George went to Woburn Monday, and Fanny to
Eastcombe. I have just cold enough left to excuse myself from dining out
with my attached friends and family, so that I see a few morning
visitors and have the evenings all to myself. The pleasure of it no
words can express. I never can explain what is the fun of being alone in
the room with the certainty of not being disturbed; but that there is
something very attractive and pleasing in the situation it is impossible
to deny. I feel so happy, and sit up so late, and am so busy about

I had a remarkably pleasant set of visitors yesterday. Your brother
George, amongst others, followed Lord Henry, and as usual I was
enchanted to see him.

Good-bye dearest. I wish you were come. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Thursday evening, May 1830._

DEAREST THERESA, Thank you for writing to me. Your letter told me many
particulars I had wanted to know, though the one melancholy fact of her
deplorable condition[345] Lady F. Leveson wrote to me yesterday. I never
was more shocked or grieved. I wrote to Lady Cawdor last night, but
begged her not to write, as nothing is so trying as writing in real
anxiety. Poor Lady Bath! It is melancholy to think we are not to see her
again. After all, we all thought about her and cared about her opinion
more than for most people’s; and she was more of an object to us than
anybody out of our own families. She was a very kind friend to me when
first I came out and when I knew nobody and nobody cared about me, and
I cannot name anybody from whom I have received so much gratuitous
kindness, particularly at times of trial, and we all of us, you as well
as I, never could bear being in a scrape with her. We fretted and were
affronted and so on, but there was no _bassesse_ I did not condescend
to, to make it up again. I liked her society, and altogether loved her
very dearly, and the idea of her present situation poor thing, is very,
very painful. I hardly wish her recovery, because it seems doubtful if
it would be complete, and the recovery of bodily health alone is not to
be wished.

Poor Lord Bath; it will be a dreadful loss to him. I shall really be
very glad if you will write again, whatever happens. Once more thank
you. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_Wednesday, August 1830._

I know I did not answer your last letter. I wrung it from you, and it
enchanted me, and at first I would not answer it for fear of plaguing
you, and after a time I would not answer it for fear of plaguing me--and
so on--and latterly I have done nothing but work in the garden--and how
can you expect a day labourer, a plodding operative, to write? Shaky
hands, aching back, etc.; but on the other side, hedges of sweet peas,
lovely yellow carnations, brilliant potentillas, to balance the fatigue.
George and I have quarrelled so about the watering-pot, which is mine by
rights, that for fear of an entire quarrel he has been obliged to buy. I
wish you could see our house and garden, “a poor thing, but mine own.” I
am so fond of it, and we are so comfortable.

I wonder whether you really will go to the Ionian Isles. I have just as
good a chance of seeing you there as in Ireland, so if you need it I
should. We shall never move again, or if we ever did, I should have a
better claim to go after you to the Ionian Isles, where we have never
been, than again to Ireland.

Mrs. Heber,[346] the Bishop’s widow, has just published two more Vols.
of her first husband’s life, and finding it lucrative, has taken a
second husband, a Greek, who calls himself _Sir_ Demetrie Valsomachi,
and he has carried her off to the Ionian Islands, where you will find
her collecting materials for the biography of Sir Demetrie.

We think and talk of nothing but Kings and Queens. It adds to the
oppression of the oppressive weather even to think of all the King does.
I wish he would take a chair and sit down. We have only been up once to
see him, at that full-dress ball at Apsley House, where he brought
brother Würtemburg,[347] and the whole thing struck me as so tiresome. I
could not treat it as a pageant--only as a joke.

However, tho’ our adored Sovereign is either rather mad or very foolish,
he is an immense improvement on the last unforgiving animal, who died
growling sulkily in his den at Windsor.[348] This man at least _wishes_
to make everybody happy, and everything he has done has been benevolent;
but the Court is going to swallow up all other society. It is rather
funny to see all the great people who intrigued for court places,
meaning to enjoy their pensions and do no work, kept hard at it from
nine in the morning till two the following morning--reviews, breakfasts,
great dinners, and parties all following each other, and the whole suite
kept in requisition.

[Miss Villiers, who had been so much admired and the centre of
attraction in her circle at Kent House, now became engaged to Mr.
Lister of Armitage Park. They were married in November 1830. Mr. Lister
was described by one of his contemporaries as “a refined and
accomplished gentleman with literary tastes.”]

_Miss Eden to Miss Villiers._

_Wednesday, September 1830._

MY DEAREST THERESA, How idle I have been about writing, have not I? But
then Hyde[349] told me about the daily packets that he forwarded from
Staffordshire and from Devonshire, and so I thought in the bustle I
should not be missed, and the real truth is I have been very unsettled
the last ten days. George and I went to Hertfordshire to see Mary Eden
before her confinement, and from the bore of moving, put it off so long
that we came in at last for the beginning of her catastrophe. She was in
the greatest danger, poor thing, at last, but thank God is quite safe
now, and her boy[350] too.

We went to pass a morning with Lady F. Lamb at Brocket, and saw a great
deal of the Panshanger tribe. The Ashleys are as happy as I suppose the
Listers mean to be, only I think you must be a shade less demonstrative.
Lord Ashley seems to do amazingly well with all the uncles and brothers,
and Lady Cowper dotes (or doats, which is it?) on him.

We came back to Greenwich for one day, and then with the utmost courage,
the greatest magnanimity, Fanny and I stepped into a Margate steamboat
and set off on a visit to Mrs. Vansittart at Broadstairs. George stood
on the steps of Greenwich Hospital, left, like Lord Ullin, “lamenting.”
We were so late we could with difficulty persuade the steamer to take
us in; but at last we boarded her and took her. To my utter surprise I
was not the least sick.

This is a nice little place. We know nobody here but Lady G. de
Roos,[351] and she is in the same predicament, so we see a great deal of
each other.

Caroline ought I believe to account for 14 children, but she has somehow
contrived to disperse and get rid of all of them but two very small
things of five and six. I ask no questions. I hope the others are all
safe somewhere, and in the meantime she is remarkably well and happy. We
have a room apiece, and one for our maid, and she must have been
terribly afraid we should be bored by the quantity of excursions she has
planned for us. We have been to Margate and Ramsgate, and are to go to
Dover, and if George comes, perhaps to Calais. But that I think
foolhardy. To-day she and Fanny are gone sailing off to some famous
shell place. I prefer dry land, if it is the same thing to everybody, so
I stayed at home, and I have a fit of sketching on me that amounts to a
fever. The day is too short. I am so glad we like being here so much,
which sounds like a foolish sentence, but Caroline really has been so
kind and active in arranging everything and was so bent on making us
come, and is so hospitable now we are here, that I should have been
doubly sorry if it had turned out a failure. I was only sorry to leave
George, but perhaps he will come and fetch us.

The day we went through London to Hertfordshire your George went to the
play with us, and I was afraid we should have to carry him out. He went
into strong hysterics at the _Bottle Imp_, which is certainly one of the
most amusing things I ever saw.

Maria[352] wrote so kindly and affectionately to me about your marriage.
You would have been pleased with her letter. And old Lansdowne wrote
also in such terms about both of you and his delight at the marriage of
two people he liked so much, that I do not see why we should not always
meet you at Bowood, except the fear that Mr. L.’s domestic peace may be
endangered. People were talking of the possibility of a revolution in
England the other day, and what they should do for their livelihoods,
and Lord Alvanley said, “If it comes to that I know what I shall do;
keep a disorderly house and make Glengall my head waiter.” That is a bad
story to end with, but I have no time for a better.

Two more letters to write; and a lovely day and fine autumnal weather
makes me so happy I cannot bear to lose a moment of it. Ever your most

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._

_Thursday, October 1830._

MY DEAR LADY CHARLOTTE, Your note reached me only yesterday, as it made
a little detour to Middleton in search of George; but with all that
delay it was the first intelligence I had of Lady F.’s[353] safety. The
_Morning Herald_ never mentions anything pleasant, and Charles Drummond,
whom I had charged to make due enquiries of Mr. H. Greville, of course
forgot it. How glad I am she has a girl at last![354] I think we all
deserve some credit for it, for all her friends have gone on day by day
so duly wishing for a young lady for her, that I cannot but think we may
have great pride in the result. It is unknown the trouble Lady G. de
Roos and I gave ourselves about it all the time we were at Broadstairs.
My sisters, who are learned in those matters, assured me Lady F. would
have a girl this time, she was so long about it. Did you know that
girls, with that tact and penetration we all have, shew a greater
reluctance to coming into this bad world than boys do, who are always
ready for any mischief? Girls put off coming into this world as long as
they possibly can, knowing what a difficult life it is. Just mind, as
you are on the spot, that this little concern is like its Mama. I should
like her to be exactly the same, should not you?

We enjoyed our Broadstairs so very much, and all the more, because it
was not Ramsgate. I took the look of Ramsgate in great aversion. We knew
nobody at Broadstairs but Lady G. de Roos, who was without her husband,
and therefore very glad to be a great deal with us. The quiet and
_dowdiness_ of Broadstairs is a great charm. We were out all day,
sketching or poking about for shells. I wonder whether you went to
Shellness, a little creek whose shores are covered with shells--not a
stone or a bit of sand--all shells. I never saw such a curious place. We
made one long expedition to Dover, and if ever I went to the sea on my
own account, I mean not on a visit to anybody, I should pitch my tent at
Dover. It is so very beautiful and so cheerful looking. We stayed a
fortnight at Broadstairs.

George seems to have a very diplomatic party at Middleton:
Esterhazy,[355] Talleyrand,[356] Madame de Dino, the expectation of the
Duke of Wellington, etc., etc. Colonel Anson, I suppose you know, has
ascertained that he has _£_15,000 less than nothing, which would be an
uncomfortable property to settle on, and Lord Anson says he can do
nothing for him but give him a living. If he ends by taking orders, I
think Thorpe will find his congregation fall off considerably; there
will be such a press to hear that popular preacher Anson.

[Illustration: _Mrs Lister

(Lady Theresa Lewis)

from a painting by G.S. Newton R.A._]

Lady Cowper has written to ask us to Panshanger next week, but I believe
George will not be able to go; he has a shooting-engagement in another
direction. However, till he comes back from Middleton, I do not know. I
am not ambitious to move again, as we must so soon go to that vile
London for that foolish Parliament, and our little garden is so full of
flowers, and gives so much occupation in collecting seeds and making
cuttings, that I grudge leaving it, even for a day. In all the
reproaches that are lavished on these Ministers, I wonder nobody has
ever written a biting pamphlet on their only real fault, which is
bringing us all to London the end of October--a sort of tyranny for
which a Minister would have been impeached in better days. I am
dreadfully at a loss for some political feelings. I cannot find anybody
to wish for, and, upon the whole, am in the miserably dull predicament
of _rather_ hoping things may remain as they are. I suppose that mean
Huskisson set are coming in, which is unpleasant, but as they were sure
to _fourrer_ themselves in somehow or anyhow, I am prepared for it. I
never hear from Maria. I suspect they are bored at Sprotbro’, as she is
always silent when she is bored.

My best love to Lady F. with my entire approbation of her conduct about
this little girl. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Thursday evening, November 1830._

MY DEAREST THERESA, It is particularly clever of me to write to you
to-night, because it does so happen that there is not a pen in the house
and the shops are all shut. There was _one_ pen this morning, but I
suppose dear Chiswick has ate it. That comes of having stationery for
nothing; as long as we had to pay for it, I had heaps of pens and
paper. George[357] has found a quill in one of the drawers, and I, who
never could mend a real ready-made pen, have cut this raw material, this
duck’s feather, into an odd-shaped thing. But it marks pretty well, only
it is great fatigue to drive it along, because I could not make a slit
in it.

I want to know if you and Mr. Lister cannot come and dine with us while
we are here. I never should have thought of asking anybody in such
weather, but I had _offers_ from three friends this morning to come here
next week, so that it is quite allowable to ask all my other friends. I
daresay you did not think I had above three in the world, but I have.

When will you come? I know you can’t the beginning of next week, because
I have just had a note from Lady Salisbury asking us to meet you at
Hatfield, but after that perhaps you can come. We cannot go to Hatfield.
The Chancellor[358] has offered to take me to the Lord Mayor’s dinner on
Monday, and I think it will be amusing and mean to accept.

Sarah Sophia[359] says she proposes to take her food here on Tuesday.
She never allows us an option. I wonder when it will be time to quarrel
with her about politics or something else? Is not it _due to ourselves_
to have some explanations with her? I do not know what about, but a note
or two ought to pass, first dignified and then pathetic, and then end
with a dinner. I have no idea of the dinner without the explanation
first. She has treated everybody but us with one.

My garden is very flourishing and I have had the delight of sowing seeds
to a great amount since Monday. I wish gardening were not so fatiguing.
I like it so very much, but I am dead tired every night, and moreover
there has been a _reform_ in our Society for visiting the Poor, and they
have changed our plan of visiting, and given me a district at the
farthest end of the town. A mile off at the least. Such a bore, and I
have quite a new set of people to make acquaintance with. However, the
acquaintance is soon made. I visited eight poor women this morning, and
they had each had ten children, and had “buried the last, thank God,
last year,” and they had all had beds to sleep on once, but had pledged
them for rent, and they all could get nothing from the parish, and they
generally ended with, “and if it would please God to take my poor old
man, I could go home comfortably to my own parish.” “But _is_ your
husband ill?” I asked. “No, Ma’am, not particular ill, but it may please
God to take him and then I can go home.” I can see how extreme distress
must destroy all affection, and how those very poor people must think
that their children who die young, have made a great escape. You cannot
imagine the misery of these pensioners’ wives. The husbands are well
taken care of in every respect, but the wives have actually nothing. We
seldom find above one in three with bedding or any furniture whatever.
We are shamefully well off, Theresa. I always think of that frightful
parable, “Remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good
things,” etc. It is an ugly thought, is it not? And we have so many good
things. I am always so happy here that it frightens me. So good-night, I
am sleepy and will not think about it. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Wednesday [end of November 1830]._

DEAREST THERESA, I shall take it as a great compliment being asked to
dinner anywhere by anybody, but as a matter of choice I should prefer
dining with the Lord Mayor habitually--not from any gourmandise, I beg
to mention, for in my days I never saw such uneatable food. The soup had
been saved, I imagine, from the day that the King did _not_ dine at the
Guildhall, and consequently a little salt had been thrown in every day
just to preserve it. The preservation had been effected, but how many
pounds of salt had been used it is difficult to guess. Nobody offered me
anything else but a slice of half-cold peacock, whose tail feathers were
still spread and growing. However, though as mere dinner it was a
failure, the flow of soul was prodigious. We were so unanimous, so fond
of each other. Dear Don Key[360] himself in such spirits, and Mrs. Key
and all the small bunch of Keys so polite and attentive. “What curious
creatures we are,” as that old _Machy_ in _Destiny_[361] (have you read
it?) keeps observing; and all the forms of civic life are more curious
than the rest. The Lady Mayoress receives all her guests without
stirring from her chair, though it is obvious from her old habit of
attending to her shop that she is dying to get up to _serve_ them all.
The Lord Mayor walks in to dinner before all his visitors, leaving the
Duke of Sussex,[362] etc., to take care of themselves, and then he and
his wife sit by each other without the relief of a third person. Their
domestic felicity has, I fear, received a check for life, because every
time Key got up to speak his sword hitched in his wife’s blonde, which,
of course, was very unpleasant. It made the blonde all fuzzy. However,
he is a good Lord Mayor, and so polite to His Majesty’s Ministers that
they were some of them in agonies of fright he was going to propose all
their healths individually, and it was only prevented by Lord
Grey’s[363] getting up from dinner before one-third of the toasts had
been given. That sort of audience is very alarming, I believe. Lord Grey
said he never felt so frightened in his life, and Lord Lansdowne, whom I
sat next to, told me that if his health came next, he had not an idea
what was to be done. He felt sure he could not say a word. I quite
understood it. An audience of ladies whom they all knew well, and who
were all likely to laugh, besides 500 other people all staring at them
as a show, must be rather trying.

It was great fun to see the Chancellor looking demure and shy while he
was _loué vif_ by the Lord Mayor. He is very amusing with his
popularity. Of course we were rather late at the Mansion House. The
Chancellor always is five minutes too late everywhere. However, we
arrived in solitary grandeur after all the other carriages had gone
away, and were received with unbounded applause by the mob. I wonder
which of us they meant to approve of. I am disappointed in the
magnificence of the city. The whole set-out is _mesquin_ to the greatest
degree. Nothing but common blue plates and only one silver fork apiece,
which those who were learned in public dinners carefully preserved. I
lost mine in the first five minutes. The city ladies are so ill-dressed
too; such old gowns with black shoes, etc. I went back to Grosvenor
Street at eleven, moulted my feathers and changed my gown, and got home
at twelve.

George had a holiday yesterday, and worked in the garden from breakfast
till dinner. You have no idea what a good collection of plants we are
making. We quarrel very much about the places in which they are to be
put, and pass the evenings in tart innuendoes about my Eccremocarpus
which you liked, and my Ipomaea seed which you sowed, and which has
never come up. But the general result is great amusement.

I do not think four horses will be able to drag me back to town; I like
this so much better. Your brother George wrote me word he had the gout.
Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Monday [November 1830]._

MY DEAREST THERESA, I was not at all in the mood to write, and was
almost glad you did not write to me because of that dreadful bore of an
answer which you would expect; and I have been so _very_ ill! Besides
that, I have been a fortnight at Eastcombe _tête-à-tête_ with Sister,
and forbidden to speak on account of my dear little lungs which had been
coughed to atoms, so conversation did not give me much help to a letter.
Moreover, they gave me all sorts of lowering medicines--hemlock and
henbane, or words to that effect (I never can remember the names of
drugs)--and made me so languid that the weight of a pen was a great deal
too much for my delicate frame. However, I believe they have nearly
cured me, and it does not signify now it is over, though I still think
that if there were an inflammation on the chest to be done, it would
have been more for the general good that O’Connell[364] should have it
instead of me. Anything to silence that dreadful tongue of his, which is
frightening the Isle from its propriety most rapidly. They say that he
said to Lord Anglesey[365] at one of his levées, “I shall give you some
trouble yet, My Lord,” to which Lord A. answered, “Yes, I know you will,
but I shall hang you at last.” It is a neat dialogue, and the story is a
good one, and certainly would have been true if O’Connell had been at a
levée. As he has not, there is of course no foundation for it, but we
can believe it all the same.

Barring Ireland, which I do not fret about, because we have been in the
habit of conquering it once in every thirty years and it is time now for
a fight, things are looking more prosperous. Our revenue they say is
good, and our manufactories are flourishing to the highest possible
degree. George saw some of the silk people on Saturday, who told him
that several of the great silk houses had refused to take any more
orders, having as much to do as they can this year. Birmingham is very
busy; the wool trade is in the greatest prosperity; in short, if
Parliament were never to meet again, if that were to be _the_ reform
Lord Grey would propose, we should do very well.

It is very unlucky that we never can have what we want all at once. If
corn is plentiful, there is not a morsel of loyalty to be had for love
or money, and when the market for wool is good, morals are at their
lowest pitch.

I was rather sorry to come home again, for when I am out of town I
forget all my party feelings; but I was obliged to come back as soon as
I was strong enough, for George has not a chance of getting out of town
even for a day.

Have you seen the 2nd Volume of _Lord Byron_? It is a wicked book, and
having made that avowal it is unlucky that I feel myself obliged to own
that it is much the most interesting book I ever read in my life--much.
I never was so amused, and the more wickeder he is in his actions, the
more cleverer he is in his writings. I am afraid I like him very
much--that is I cannot bear him really, only I am glad he lived, else we
should not have had his _Life_ to read, to say nothing of his poetry. He
had some good points; such extreme gratitude to anybody who ever showed
him kindness; and if he had lived I still think that he would have been
converted, and that once a Christian, there is nothing great or good he
would not have been equal to. He had such magnificent talents--an
archangel ruined--and I think he regretted the height from which he had
fallen. Still the book is a bad book. I was obliged to stop yesterday
and recall _mes grands principes_ before I could remember that it was
not wrong or ill-natured of Guiccioli to insist on his wife’s[366]
separation from Lord Byron. Moore talks about it as an unprincipled
disturbance of Lord Byron’s domestic felicity, and with such
earnestness, that he very nearly took me in.

I wish I had seen you act. Lord Castlereagh’s epilogue was in the
papers, with a few lines added, _not_ with a view of pleasing him. Your

E. E.



_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

[_October or November_] 1831.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I would take a larger sheet of paper, but it does so
happen that ever since we have nominally had stationery for nothing, I
have never been able to find anything in the nature of paper, pen, or
sealing-wax; indeed, for some time one pen served the whole house. It
never came to my turn to have it, as you perceived, and I scorned to buy
one. The country may yet afford a quarter of a hundred of pens, at least
I suppose so.

You were quite right, I really did look at the end of your letter for
your signature. The date, and your beginning, “You must have forgotten
who I am,” and your writing such a simple hand, put me out, and I said
to George, “This must be some Carnegie or Elliot cousin, by the token of
Edinbro’, whom I ought to remember.” I was so pleased when I found it
was you; though your expecting an answer is odd, not to say troublesome.
However, anything to please you.

What a delicious tour you have had. I cannot imagine anything much
pleasanter. The two articles in your letter that disappoint me are, that
it does not appear you are intensely bored by the Scotch, considered as
members of society; nor that you are sufficiently mad about the beauty
of Edinbro’. I think the old town so much the most picturesque thing I
ever saw, and the scenery all about it so beautiful. In short, such a
slow drawly people have no right to such a romantic capital. They are
very tiresome, poor dears! but I suppose they cannot help it; else, if
they would speak a thought quicker, and even catch even the glimmer of a
joke, and give up all that old nonsense about Chiefs and plaids and
pretenders and so on, I should grudge them that town less.

I have been living here very quietly nearly three months, I think--that
is as quietly as is compatible with the times; but it has been an
eventful summer. What with the opening of bridges, crowning Kings and
Queens, and launching ships, I have seen more sights and greater masses
of human creatures than usual; and then there has been some talk of a
Reform in Parliament, a mere playful idea, which may not have reached
you, but which has occasionally been alluded to in conversation here.
What a business they all made of it last week.[367] They speak amazingly
well, those dear Lords, but they are not so happy at voting....

I could quite understand those Tories if I could find one who would say
the Bill is thrown out for good, but I have not seen one who does not
say it must pass in three months, so why refuse to consider it now?
London has been an ugly-looking sight. We drove up to it most days to
see George, and to take him down to the House, because I like to see him
safe thro’ the crowd.

Women in London have made themselves so extremely ridiculous and
conspicuous, by their party violence, and I have no reason for thinking
I should have been wiser than others, if I had been in the same state
of excitement. Besides, it is such a bore to be very eager, it tires me
to death, and yet one catches it, if other people have the same

The gardener has taken up all the geraniums. That is not a light
grievance, it portends frost and spoils the garden. I wish you had seen
it this year, I am certain there never were so many flowers in so small
a space.

Anne Robinson[368] came here for three days, and took a fancy for
gardening, but I am afraid it did not last. She paid us such a nice
visit I asked Lord Morpeth to meet her, thinking that a proper
_procèdé_. Then somebody who had been dining at Putney[369] told me I
was quite wrong, and that Mr. Villiers was the person to ask. So I
_driv_ up to town like mad and caught him before dinner-time. I thought
as he had a Dawkins-Pennant to look to, it was rather hard to interfere
with Lord Morpeth’s chance, but I need not have had that delicacy about
a fair division of fortune.

Lord Morpeth came here for a longer visit the following week, and I do
not think he has the remotest intention of making up to Anne, or any
other person. He is absorbed in politics, and says it would bore him to
change his situation. Your ever affect.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Thursday_ [_January 1832_].

MY DEAREST THERESA, Not the least affronted. It never crosses my mind to
invent any other cause for anybody’s silence, but the simple fact that
the bore of writing a letter is almost intolerable, and I never fancy
anything, either that they are affronted or ill, or _hurt_ (don’t you
know how many people are delighted to feel hurt), or dead; but I simply
suppose they are not in a writing humour....

I am glad you liked Bowood. I saw her on Monday on her way through town,
quite enchanted with Paris and with the fuss that had been made with
them. She likes your brother Edward[370] very much, and seemed to have
seen a great deal of him. I have not seen Lord Lansdowne yet, but he is
to stay on in town some days longer. I wish there were any chance of our
meeting you at Bowood, but I fear it is not very likely. In the summer
they said they hoped we would come in the winter, but I never go there
without a renewed invitation for some special time, because it is always
a doubt, I think, whether she likes all the visitors he asks, and I hate
to go in uncertainty.

I have been passing a fortnight at Panshanger--went with George for
three days, and then Lady Cowper made me stay on. It is a most difficult
house to get away from, partly because it is so pleasant, and then that
her dawdling way of saying, “Oh no, you can’t go, I always understood
you were to stay till we go to Brighton,” is more unanswerable than all
the cordiality of half the boisterous friends, who beg and pray, and say
all the kind thoughts that they can think of.

We had heaps of people the first part of my visit: Lievens, Talleyrand,
Madame de Dino, Lady Stanhope, Palmerston[371] and Mahon, George, Lionel
Ashley, Fordwich, and William Cowper (who is a great dear), and heaps of
people who acted and danced, and it was all very pleasant.

People are wonderfully clever, I think, and as for Talleyrand I doat
upon him. I have been dining with him since at his own house, and
elsewhere, and could listen to him for any number of hours. There _are_
weak moments in which I think him handsome, just as it used to cross my
mind sometimes whether the Chancellor was not good-looking--decidedly
pleasanter to look at than that young Bagot, who walks up Regent Street
quite miserable that it is not wide enough for the crowds that he thinks
are looking at him.

My last week at Panshanger I was alone with the family, which is always
pleasant. I do like Lady Cowper’s society so particularly; in short, I
like _her_. She may have a great many faults, but I do not see them, and
it is no business of mine anyhow; and so everybody may reproach me for
it if they please, but I am very fond of her.

As for your plan for me--kind of you, but it won’t do at all. He was
there all the time, and I left him there, and he always honours me with
great attention, but by the blessing of Providence I do not take to him
at all. I am too old to marry,[372] and that is the truth. Lady Cowper
remained convinced of that fact, and told me one day that if I were
younger I should be less quick-sighted to Lord M.’s[373] faults, which
is true enough. I do not think him half so pleasant as Sir
Frederick,[374] whom I met the time before, and probably just as wicked,
and he frightens me and bewilders me, and he swears too much. However,
we ended by being very good friends, which is creditable under the
circumstances, and though I am sure it is very kind of my friends to
wish me married, and particularly kind that anybody should wish to marry
me, yet I think now they may give it up, and give me credit for knowing
my own happiness. “We know what we are, but not what we may be,” as
somebody says, _Ophelia_ I believe; and I know that I am very happy
now, and have been so for some years, and that I had rather not change.
If I change my mind I shall say so without shame, but at present I am
quite contented with my position in life and only wish it may last. If I
were younger, or less spoiled than I have been at home, I daresay I
could put up with the difficulties of a new place; but not now. I cannot
be blind to the faults of the few men I know well, and though I know
many more faults in myself, yet I am used to those, you know, and George
is used to them, and it all does beautifully. But in a new scene it
might fail.

I can derive but little vanity from Lord Melbourne’s admiration. I stand
very low in the list of his loves, and as for his thinking well of my
principles, it would be rather hard if he did not, considering the
society he lives in. And he has found out that I am not clever. I like
him for that, and for saying so.

Lord Alvanley is utterly ruined again, has given up everything, and his
creditors allow him £1200 a year. Poor Colonel Russell[375] leaves
£35,000 of debt. What horrid lives of difficulty those men must lead.

We settled in town a week ago, as the drives from Greenwich were
becoming cold and dark for George. There are several people in town I
know. Maria is looking very well and seems pleased and
contented--neither in great spirits, nor otherwise.

We have seen Colonel Arden very often lately; he and Mr. Warrender
having been kept in town for the hopeless purpose of arranging Lord
Alvanley’s affairs. I suspect dear Alvanley is after all little better
than a swindler. He writes beautiful letters to Lord Skelmersdale, one
of his trustees, and says he feels he deserves all the misery he is
suffering, which misery consists in sitting in an arm-chair from
breakfast till dinner-time cracking his jokes without ceasing. He has
taught his servant to come into the room and ask what time his Lordship
would like the carriage, and what orders he has for his groom, because
he thinks it sounds cheerful, though he has neither carriage nor horses.
But it looks better. When Brooke Greville was describing to him the
beautiful gilding of his house in Hill Street, which is a wonderful
concern, Lord Alvanley said, “My dear Brooke, if you would carve a
little more, and gild a little less, it would be a more hospitable way
of going on.” Yours ever

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Thursday evening, April 18, 1832._

MY DEAREST THERESA, I should not much wonder if you _were_ coming to the
crisis; that feeling so well is suspicious. Never mind; “all things must
have their end,” as _Isabella_ says in the Tragedy, and “all things must
have their beginnings,” as your child[376] will probably say if you will
give it an opportunity. I quite forgot to mention to you to let it be a
girl, I like girls best. I see Mrs. Keppel, to save all disputes, has
brought both a boy and girl into the world; but that is such an
expensive amusement, you would not like that. If it is a boy, you ought
to call it Arlington[377] as a delicate attention to Mr. Lister. I
mention these little elegant flatteries out of regard to your domestic
peace, as from various observations I have lately been driven to make
amongst my acquaintances, I do not think wives pay half enough attention
to their husbands, though this does not apply to you.

Yes, as you say, that division is satisfactory to Lord Grey,[378] but
still if there were a shadow of an excuse for making a dozen Peers
without affronting two dozen who _are_ made, I should be glad.

The division was a pleasing surprise to me. I had been awake since four
that night, and at last had settled that George must have come home and
gone to bed, and that nobody had voted for us but just the Cabinet
Ministers, and then I heard the house-door bang, and knew by the way in
which he rushed up stairs how it was. Now it is over, and that our
enemies have not triumphed, I am left with a sort of wish--that is, not
a wish, but an idea--that it might have ended (just for fun) the other
way. I should so like to know what would have come next. It is all so
like a game at chess, and I was anxious to know how Lord Grey would get
out of check. However, I am delighted with the game as it is; only it
_would_ have been a curious speculation, wouldn’t it? I see we are to
have longer holidays, which makes me dote upon them all, both Greys and
Salisburys, for so arranging it, and George is enchanted with it. He
comes to-morrow, which is good for my gardening tastes and bad for my
church-going habits.

There are lectures at the church every evening by an excellent preacher,
and when George is in town, Fanny and I dine early and go to them. But I
behaved so ill last night. I was shown into a large pew, a _voiture à
huit places_, where there were seven old ladies, highly respectable and
attentive, and four of us sat opposite to the other four. The clergyman,
the curate of the parish, made a slight allusion to his superior
_officer_, the rector, who happens to be ill, and made a commonplace
remark on his own inferiority, etc., whereupon one of the old ladies
began to cry. The next, seeing that, began to cry too, and so it went
all round the pew, but so slowly that the last did not begin to cry
till a quarter of an hour _at least_ after she had heard of the rector’s
illness, and till the sermon was fairly directed against some of the
difficulties of St. Paul. Their crying set me off laughing, and you know
what a horrid convulsion that sort of suppressed laughter, which one
feels to be wrong, turns into. I hope they thought I was crying.

Our hyacinths are too lovely; quite distressing to see how large and
double they are, because they will die soon. If they were only single,
poor little wretches, it would not signify their lasting so short a
time. I think the great fault of the garden is the constant flurry the
flowers are in. Perhaps you have not found that out, but fancied they
were quiet amusements; but that is an error. They either won’t come up
at all, or they come at the wrong time, and the frost and the sun and
the rain and the drought all bother them. And then, the instant they
look beautiful, they die. I observe that a genuine fancier, like George,
does not care a straw for the flower itself, but merely for the cutting,
or the root, or the seed. However, I must say he contrives always to
have quantities of beautiful flowers, hurrying on one after the other.

God bless you, dearest. I have not much to say, but my sisters all tell
me to write just before they lie-in--that anything does for an amusement
then; so I suppose it is right. Shall I have “Arlington” to-morrow, do
you think? Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Friday evening, 1832_.

DEAREST THERESA, I shall be charmed to see you any day you like, the
sooner the better. Two or three stray people have suggested themselves
for various days next week, but I am not sure who are the people, or
what days they mean to come. I do not mean anything _pert_ to George,
but if he has a fault, it happens to be a total disregard of all notes
and messages confided to him. However, I do not know of anybody coming
that you would think objectionable. I should have suggested Monday
because, as Caroline Montagu (Lord Rokeby’s sister) is coming to pass
the day with Fanny, she might have brought you, and returned you, which
you would probably prefer; but then what is to become of Mr. Lister?
George cannot be here, and though you and I going one way, and Fanny and
her Caroline the other, and all meeting for dinner would do very nicely,
Mr. Lister would be bored out of his life. But any day you please will
suit me, so as you can let me know in time to cook a bit of vittals for

I went to town yesterday to see Maria[379] and do my congratulations,
and I passed a long time with her, and am quite satisfied that she is
unfeignedly happy and that she really likes him. Sir Joseph[380] cannot
control his joy at all, and was very amusing with his account of his own
manner to Lord Grey and of Lord Grey’s to him. That angel of a man
Charles Greville[381] (quite a new light to see him in) gave himself a
degree of trouble that astounded me to procure places for us to see
Taglioni[382] last night, and he succeeded in fixing us in Devon’s box
with the Harrowbys and found us a carriage--in short, there never was
anything so good-natured. So we stayed and saw her, and drove down here
after it was over.

What a wonderful invention she is. I am satisfied now that she is not a
mere live woman; but probably she is, as she insinuated in the ballet
_La Sylphide_. Monsieur de Voisins sat next to us, and his ecstacies
and Bravos, and the rapturous soliloquies he indulged in, have left me
with a strong impression of his domestic felicity. To be sure, it is a
miracle in our favour, that there should be a man in the world, who is
enchanted to see his wife flying about a theatre with no cloathes on,
and that that individual should have married Taglioni! Your ever affect.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Thursday evening, July 2, 1832_.

DEAREST THERESA, I found your note when we came home late last night
from Richmond, where we had been to pass the day and dine with the G.
Lamb’s; consequently your party was dispersed and you were in a sweet
sleep before I knew you had been “at home,” and I was in a sweet sleep
too, five minutes after I got home, and shall be so again, I hope, as
soon as I have sealed this note. These days in the country are wholesome
in that respect. We came here very early this morning, did our Churches
like good Christians, and have given a dinner like Ditto, for we have a
highly conservative party down here, at least what would have been
conservative if, as my housekeeper justly observed about the
gooseberries, the season for conserving was not gone by.

We have had the Jerseys, Lord Villiers, Lord Carnarvon, and dear C.
Baring-Wall, besides the smart tassel of young Jersey children. George
was as happy as a King with all his old friends, so I am delighted they
came, and after all Lady Jersey is very good-humoured.

Lord Carnarvon[383] has a pouting-pigeon way of talking, which is rather
amusing, but upon the whole I find Tories rather less lively, or perhaps
a shade more dull, than Whigs. They growl more, and do not snap in that
lively way I should have expected. However, I am no judge: “man delights
not me nor woman either,” as dear Hamlet had the candour to observe. He
had seen something of society. I daresay he longed to be left to his
flowers and his Chiswick, and a comfortable chair under the portico. To
be sure his father made a bad business of sleeping in the garden, but
then it could not have been so sweet or so full of flowers as ours.

We go back to town to-morrow afternoon, but I begin to see the time
coming when we shall settle here. I wish you would take to treat
yourself entirely as a sick person for a fortnight. But you won’t, so
there is no use saying anything about it. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Viscount Melbourne[384] to Miss Eden._

_August 13, 1832_.

MY DEAR MISS EDEN, Many thanks for your kind enquiries. I have been laid
up for a day or two, but am much better, and in tearing spirits, which
is always the consequence of being laid up. Abstinence from wine and
regularity of diet does me much more good than the malady does me harm.

I hope I shall get into the country soon, for I quite pine for it.
Robert, I am told, is the only man in Hertingfordbury who has
registered. Has Lady Francis written to him for theological arguments? I
understand that she has been simply defeated in religious dispute by an
Atheist of the neighbourhood--a shoemaker, or something of that
sort--and has been seeking everywhere for assistance. The man argued for
Natural Philosophy for so long, that she was not prepared to

Do not the Malignants pour somewhat less malignance, or are they more
irritated than ever? Adieu. Yours faithfully,


_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Wednesday_ [_December 1832_].

DEAREST THERESA, I had meant to have written you a long letter, but have
been interrupted in a thousand ways till it is too late; but perhaps a
line will be better than nothing. I was so much obliged to you for
writing me that long letter. It told me exactly all I wanted to know
about you--your health, your feelings, and also the little particulars I
have no means of ascertaining. I never had courage to ask Mr. Villiers
even how you are. Don’t you know the difficulty there is of approaching
even in the slightest degree _the_ subject that one is most anxious
about, and as the _surface_ with him is quite calm, I am always careful
not to venture even on a word that might disturb it. He and Mr. Edward
Villiers dined here yesterday. George is very anxious to have your
George here as much as possible, and thought they had better come for
their Christmas dinner as their own family is away, so he asked them
both, and I was very glad to renew my acquaintance with Edward, though
in some respects, from likeness of voice and manner, which probably you
would not be aware of, it was painful to see those two come into the
room together.

However, they must be a great comfort to each other. I never saw _my_
brother George so occupied with another person’s grief as he is in this
instance. He is asking and thinking every day what can be done for Mr.
Villiers.[385] God knows there is nothing; but still I always recollect
that in those horrid times of trial, affection from anybody is soothing,
if it is nothing more, so I am glad when it is shown.

I was at Oatlands when your letter came, and Lady Charlotte [Greville],
who is a kind-hearted person I always think, was most anxious to know
all about you and Mrs. Villiers. I thought her very well, all things
considered. Lady F.[386] seemed to me particularly out of spirits, and
all her letters have been so since her father’s death. I imagine, that
in addition to any other trials, they are in some trouble about their
affairs, or that Lord F. thinks so, and makes himself unhappy, which
troubles her.

The Gowers have taken Bridgewater House off their hands. Maria Howick is
come back from the North. Everybody talks of her low spirits and
constrained manner. Though I do not think her in high spirits, I do not
think _I_ see much difference in her. She is probably timid with her new
family and her new position, but whenever I see her alone I am quite
convinced she does not think herself unhappy, and when she is quite at
her ease again I think other people will think so too.

God bless you, my darling Theresa, I will write again in a few days.
Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Thursday, December 1832_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, I fear that Lord Ribblesdale’s[387] death must be to
you and Mr. Lister an additional grief, as I recollect you were fond of
her, and she seems to have had not the slightest warning of this
calamity. It was very kind of Mr. Lister to write to me, for I was in a
state of great anxiety about your health and with no near means of
hearing anything about you. What can I say to you, dearest? My love for
you and my deep, deep pity for your bereavement you cannot doubt, and as
for any attempt at consolation, who can be sure that even with the
kindest intentions, they may not aggravate the grief they wish to
soothe. I always felt in calamity that though I seemed to want kindness
from everybody, yet that all they did was like the work of surgeons, the
most skilful made the pain of the wound more evident; and I think I may
hurt you if I dwell on your loss, or seem neglectful if I do not, and
yet I know so well all you must be feeling.

I was reading yesterday a book of extracts, etc., that I wrote when I
lost my own darling brother.[388] As there were several things in it
that I thought you might like, and though I did not want anything to
remind me of feelings that seem as _true_ on that subject as they were
years ago, yet it made me better able to follow you in your present
hours of trial and to know what you are going through. With a mother,
husband, and child with you, and all the rest of your family, whom you
love so dearly, assembled about you, you have more earthly support than
many can have to look to; and the consolations of religion none are more
likely to find than yourself. Indeed, that is a subject on which I think
a stranger intermeddleth not, for God alone can comfort the heart He has
cast down, and He, I trust, forgives the repinings which He alone knows.

I wish you would make the exertion of writing one line to me. I love you
very dearly, and never feel it more than when you are in grief. Your

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._

_December 24, 1832_.

MY DEAR LADY CHARLOTTE, ...London is so particularly thick and sloppy
that it would not surprise me if I slipped out of it again soon.

I have got that invitation to Panshanger I wanted, but as I would rather
not go into Hertfordshire till the ball season is over, that will do
later, and Eastcombe is open again now.

I am broken-hearted about the Essex election, and the only gleam of
cheerfulness I have had has been occasioned by half a sheet of notepaper
which I filled with the beginning of my new novel. I wrote nearly a
sentence and a half which I composed in two days. Mr. Sale, the singer,
called here this morning, which he often does, and used to give me
lessons gratis, which was kind but tiresome. To-day he could not,
because there is no pianoforte in the house, so we talked about Mrs.
Arkwright’s[389] songs, which he says he teaches to numbers of his
scholars (there is no end to his pupils). But there are great faults in
the scientific parts of her compositions, which he could correct in five
minutes--in short, he talks of a mistake in counterpoint as we do of
breaking one of the Commandments, and when I said she was a great friend
of mine, he said he should be quite delighted to correct anything she
sent to the Press, and always without touching the “air,” and he was
very polite about it. Do you think it would affront Mrs. Arkwright if I
asked her, or that she would not take it as it was meant, as a kindness,
from such a lump of science as Sale is? Shall I ask her? Yours

E. E.

_Hon. Mrs. Norton[390] to Lord Auckland._

[_July 1833._]

DEAR LORD AUCKLAND, As you are the only person in your family who have
not “cut” me, perhaps you will allow me to apologise _through_ you, to
your Sister, for my rudeness last night.

Say that, as far as concerns her, I consider my conduct on that occasion
vulgar and unjustifiable, and that I beg her pardon. Yesterday was a day
of great vexation and fatigue--which of course is no excuse in the eyes
of strangers (whatever it may be in my own), for rudeness and want of
temper. I am very sorry. My apology may be of no value to her; but it is
a satisfaction to _me_ to make it. Yours truly,


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_October 25, 1833._

DEAREST EMMY, Eleven years ago we were together. To-day is Edward’s
birthday, and I still see that house in Cadogan Place, and the window at
which I sat watching for you, my own dear Friend. I like to think how
long we’ve loved each other without a shade of alteration between us;
_du reste_, I need dwell on such things to smooth my mind after other
rugged bits of life. Your godchild[391] is a good, peaceable, fat lump,
with black eyelashes and a pretty mouth, which is all I can make out of
her yet.

I recovered tolerably well the first fortnight, since that I have been
but poorly. Anxiety and worry keep me back. However, it is all over now,
for our matters are pretty nearly arranged. Sir Guy sells out; it is
our only resource; it is the only way of paying what we owe, getting rid
of debt....

I conclude you are now sitting with your own goldfish under your
fig-tree, you who live under the shadow of your own old Men.[392] By the
bye, with your blue pensioners, I am sure you will feel for us in the
dispersion of our red pensioners. There was a great cry heard in the
Hospital, Kilmainham weeping for her old men, because they are no longer
to be! However, they are respited, for my enemy Ellice[393] put his pen
through their existence, and Mr. Littleton[394] too, and ordered even
the fashion of their dispersion, but forgot to enquire particulars, and
they have stumbled upon an Act of Parliament, and so must wait till
another Act breaks through it. Ellice dropped his pen, and was obliged
to pick it up again. Your affectionate


_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Sunday, December 15, 1833_.

DEAREST THERESA, I have just had a letter from your brother George,[395]
and though probably you heard from him by the same opportunity, yet it
is always a pleasure to know that one’s brothers are heard of by others
as well as oneself. It makes assurance doubly sure, which that clever
creature Shakespeare knew was not once more than enough, in this unsure

Mr. V. seems very happy and very well, and will probably be more
personally comfortable when he is the owner of a few tables and chairs.
It was such a relief _off_ my mind (as a friend of mine says when
anything is a relief _to_ her mind) to find that he had received an
enormous letter I wrote to him some time ago, a thing like the double
sheet of the _Times_ in private life, and which had been so long
unacknowledged, that I felt sure that it had been captured, and that I
should see a horrible garbled translation of it copied from a Carlist
paper, and headed “Intercepted Correspondence,” whereupon I must simply
have changed my religion, gone into a convent, and taken the veil. The
_propriety_ of my letters surpasses all belief, so I should not have
been ashamed in that sense; but when I write to your brother, or to Lord
Minto, or to that class of correspondents, I always rake together every
possible anecdote and fact--or what is called a fact--and write them all
down just like a string of paragraphs in a newspaper. I always suppose
nonsense would bore them, so the horrid letters are made up of proper
names, and if there is an unsafe thing in the world to meddle with it is
a proper name, and that is the bother of a letter that goes abroad,
particularly to such a country as Spain. I saw George was just as fussy
about a letter he had written to your brother; but now we know our
little manuscripts have found their way safely, we mean to write
again--at least I do, the first time I find anything to say. At present
I am out of that article.

We have been living here rather quietly, not very though,--at least I
dined in town at several great dinners, at the Lievens, etc., that
fortnight the Ministers were all in London, and we went up several times
to the play with the Stanleys, and several of them came and dined here,
and so on during November. Then, George has been frisking about the
country at Woburn, Brocket, etc., shooting; and on Saturday he and I are
going to run down to Bowood for a week. It is an expensive amusement and
not worth the trouble, barring that it is worth while acknowledging the
kindness of the Lansdownes. He rode down here from London to ask us,
but I never go on his invitations. But, however, he wrote again as soon
as he got back, and then Lady Lansdowne wrote to insist on our fixing a
day. So, though I know she never wishes her invitations to be accepted,
yet if she will write, she must take the consequences, and so we are
going. I hear the Nortons[396] are to be there, which will be funny. I
do not fancy her, but still she will be amusing to meet for once.

We settle in town after that, at least Fanny and I do. George is going
to a great meeting of Ministers at Goodwood. I think it such a good
thing, the Ministers have all taken to go shooting about in a body. It
prevents their doing any other mischief. That is the way an enemy might
state it. I, who am a friend, merely presume they must have brought the
country to a flourishing state, since they seem to have so much leisure
for amusing themselves.

We have two of Robert’s boys staying with us while Mrs. Eden is
recovering from her sixth lying-in. The eldest of the five younger
children is just five years old. Pleasant!

I send this to the Council Office as you desire, and have a vague idea
that C. Greville will read it, and throw it into the fire--officially of
course, I mean. Ever, dearest Theresa, your affect.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_Tuesday_, [1837].

DEAREST PAM, Thank you just for giving me a push off--not that of all
the days in the year I could have chosen _this_ for answering you. I am
in long correspondence with Louisa (Mrs. Colvile) about that
flirtation,[397] that little interesting love story I imparted to you,
and, as usual, the young people are to be very miserable, because that
£100 a year which has been left out of everybody’s income, when incomes
were created, is not forthcoming; and as usual again, I take the grand
line of “all for love and my niece well lost.” Moreover, I think a small
income in these days is as good as a large one twenty years ago; and
that anything is to be preferred to a disappointment. But all
this--together with due attention to dignity one side and love the
other, and no two people ever understanding each other--keeps me writing
at the rate of twelve pages a day. I am quite tired of the manual
labour, and as I feel convinced that three months hence they will be
married, I grudge these _protocols_.

What fun your visit was to me, and I shall always think that last sin of
your drive to Greenwich and back was the best spent wickedest two hours
we ever passed. I have been twice for a few days to Eastcombe. Saturday
and Sunday we pass at Greenwich. George gardens for about fourteen hours
on Sunday, which I suppose is wrong, only that is his way of resting
himself. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_March 26, 1834._

DEAREST EMMY, I daresay the very sight of a letter from me frights you.
I was very sorry after I had written the nasty bitter letter. When I
wrote that, I was ill-tempered too! and one always writes harder than
one feels. However, my own Emmy, I had rather have written it to you
than to any other, tho’ you may not thank me for _la préférence_, if any
one can bear with me it is you, however. You mistook me if you thought
that I thought that either dear Lord Auckland or the Lansdownes had not
done their utmost for us! God knows I feel far more sure of Lord
Auckland’s kindness to me than of my own Brother’s. But there is much
danger in our sort of distress of getting embittered, my Darling. I pray
against this temptation, and strive against this most fervently, and I
do trust my cheerfulness has never flagged, and that I blame no one. We
have done all we can, and I will not fret....

Your little Godchild is a dear child, with immense eyes and four teeth.
She is wise, clever and quiet, and all your Godchild ought to be, but
not so pretty as some of her sisters. As they say the commodities are
always in proportion to the demand for them, I expect a great cry for
girls in a few years.

I have been to our Court but twice. I was told it was imposing, and I
did think there was a good deal of imposition. He[398] is sharp and
clever and does work like a horse, but I do think one man about him very
dangerous, and that is Blake the Remembrancer. I cannot help thinking
that man very double, nay, triple. There are no bounds to the gossip of
our little Court; the master likes it and is fed with it. I do not think
he is very popular, but that does not signify; here, the way of flesh
and all parties seems to be discontent, and murmur and grumble. Think of
the Wilt[399] being married,--_Ciel_!... Your own


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._


I am over head and ears in your affairs. I have so much the bump of
speculation and lottery in my soul that I am decidedly of your opinion,
and would at once keep Greenwich and the Thames, than put my head under
that very excellent and comfortable extinguisher of the Exchequer,
particularly if my head were as _bien meublée_ and well arranged as your
George’s small crop-eared shaven little crown. We always dressed our
heads alike _outside_, no curls. I would most certainly take my chance
and not dowager myself into the Exchequer....

I suppose Government, to hold together, must go upon the principle of
each Minister bringing a certain quantity of sense and an alloy of
folly. Now, surely, some of your colleagues bring a peck of dirt and
very few grains of reason. Are you obliged to eat it all?... My dearest,
tempt me not with the sound of pleasant books, I am all day at Latin and
Greek with the boys, I very nearly wrote your name in Greek letters.

Write to me; it cheers me, and I want cheering often, dear Emmy. I
grieve at your account of Lady Lansdowne.[400] She has not the
constitution for the illness of being cured by the London physicians, I
am very sure. Solomon, after he had taken all the physic in the world,
exclaimed: “Vanity of vanities.”

Your Godchild has a mouthful of teeth. Tell me something of your
Sisters, of William Osborne, of that marriage of your niece, and
particularly of the fate of those _orchises_ we took down that day we
ran to Greenwich, did they ever come up?

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell_.


...I do not really care about my position in this short life, but I like
to be actually _posished_, don’t you? I believe we shall end by
remaining at Greenwich, influenced chiefly by the enormous price of

I am sorry Lady Lansdowne writes in bad spirits, for barring the
melancholy circumstances attending Kerry’s marriage, I should not have
thought this a troublesome year to her. The Wilt himself seems full of
attention to her, and if she hates London society, this is a charming
year, as such an article does not exist. You have no idea how odd it is.
Except herself, no person ever thinks of giving either ball or party. I
own I think it quite delightful; no hot rooms, no trouble of any sort,
and a great economy of gowns and bores.

We thought much of the Unions[401] for ten days, but they are going by.
There never was such luck as the Tailors starting by such ridiculous
demands. The middle classes, even down to servants, took against them,
and there seems to be very little doubt that, in a very few weeks, they
will be totally beat and the whole Union fund exhausted.

It is rather amusing to see them wandering about the Parks, quite
astonished at the green leaves and blackbirds. There were about fifty of
them playing at leap-frog the other morning. Only conceive the luxury of
going home after that unusual exercise, and after beating their wives
for making such good waistcoats, sitting down cross-legged to rest
themselves. They cost the Union £10,000 the first week, and £8,000 the
second, and as the whole amount of the Union fund is £60,000, it is easy
to guess how long it may last. It will end in frightful distress. The
great tailors are getting foreigners over, and employing women with
great success.

I have been in a state of agitation with a touch of bother added to it,
which would have made my letters very _hummocky_. That giving up
Greenwich was nearly the death of me, and our glorious promotion[402]
was inflicted on us on a particular Thursday, Epsom race day, which
George and I had set apart for a holiday, and a _tête-à-tête_ dinner,
and a whole afternoon in that good little garden. We went all the same;
but, as for gardening, what was the good of cultivating flowers for
other people’s nosegays! So there I sat under the verandah crying. What
else could be done, with the roses all out, and the sweetpeas, and our
orange-trees, and the whole garden looking perfectly lovely; and George
was nearly as low as I was.

And then we had two or three days of bother for our future lives,
because, though I now never mean to talk politics, and to hear as little
of them as may be, yet I suppose there is no harm in imagining just the
bare possibility that the Government _may_ not last for ever.[403]
However, he is assured now of a retiring pension. If he chooses to play
at the game of politics, he must take his chance of winning or losing;
and moreover, this would not have been a time for separating from poor
Lansdowne, who has behaved beautifully all through these troubles. So
now we are fairly in for it, and after the first troubles are over, I
daresay it will do very well. It is the kind of office he likes, and he
is, of course, flattered with the offer of it, and Lord Grey has been
uncommonly kind to him.

We went on Tuesday to see the Admiralty, and I believe we shall be
moving into it the end of next week. It is a vast undertaking. The
kitchen is about the size of Grosvenor Square, and takes a cook and
three kitchen-maids to keep it going, but the rest of the establishment
is in proportion, which is distressing, as I look on every additional
servant as an added calamity. I will trouble you with the idea of _this_
house--your old acquaintance--with a bill stuck in its window, “To be
sold,”--rather shocking! Looks ungrateful after we have passed our best
days in it; but still I cannot fancy being much attached to _any_ London
house, so I do not mind about this. Our idea is to get a villa
sufficiently small to be adapted to our income, whenever the day of
dignified retirement comes; to move our plants and books to it, and
gradually to furnish it, and then to make it our only home for the rest
of our lives. I should like that better than any other life. Ever your

E. E.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden_.

_Tuesday, June 10, 1834._

How do you do, and how do you feel? How does one feel when one becomes
sister to the Admiralty?... Stanley[404] seems a terrible loss, but at
this distance I cannot judge, of course. You will think me, of course, a
Radical, but I think he is wrong, for the Irish Church always did strike
me like a Hot-bed for raising Horse-Beans,--some would tell you for
raising thistles, but I don’t go quite so far. I saw Mrs. Ellice, she is
in such a Grey fermentation, it might be dangerous, but she foams it
away in such long talk that it is very safe.

I saw Mrs. Foggy[405] as she is called; pleasant, merry, and going on
very well; people begin to get accustomed to her ways, and, I think,
like her on the whole! Darling dear Foggy is in good humour, and all
seems right. She is amusing, certainly, but certainly _elle parle gras_,
as the French say, when people speak improprieties. I always think part
of her education must have been carried on in the Canal boat, like _Vert
Vert_, when he got away from the nuns.

The Protestants are bristling all over this unfortunate country since
the Reform. I have seen nothing like the excitement among them. The
Catholics do not appear so excited. This is plain enough. The loss to
200,000 is immense, whereas the gain to 8,000,000 is comparatively

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._
_Tuesday, July 23, 1834._

Yes, it is very odd--absolutely curious. But tho’ you and I live in two
different islands--two different worlds--yet your letters always are
just what I think, and know, and say, and they fit into my mood of mind,
and you carry on the story I am telling--and you know all I did not tell
you, and say all I did not know--and the whole thing amalgamates. That
Littleton creature![406] Is not there an unity in that story of him with
all I know? Let’s write his life. Did not I meet him at dinner the very
week after the stramash, when everybody crossed the street if they saw
him coming, they were so ashamed _for_ him? It was at a dinner at the
Chancellor’s, the first given after Lord Melbourne’s appointment,[407]
and he was there, and Lord Lansdowne, and several others, and Charles
Grey[408] as sulky as possible. And next to him sat Mr. Littleton--and
the first thing he chose to begin talking about across the table was
something about “one of the _tustles that O’Connell and I have had_.” It
set all our teeth on edge, everybody being naturally with a
predisposition to _edge_-ism, and none of the ferment of the change
having had time to subside--and he the guilty author of it all! I really
would not have alluded for his sake to the letter O. I said to Lord
Lansdowne: “Well, I am surprised at him, for I have refrained from
talking about him, from really expecting his mind must give way, and
that there will be some horrid tragedy to make us all repent having
abused him.” And he said, “That is exactly my feeling. I look at him
with astonishment; I can hardly believe he is what he seems to be.” I
suppose it really was true, and that he did not mind. We tried, for two
or three days, I remember, to declare he looked very ill, but now you
say he had not lost a night’s rest, I give up that point. It never was
very tenable.

The young Greys have all been pre-eminently absurd, Lord Howick more
than all the rest. He told me he had been to all the clubs, and calling
at all the houses he knew, to spread every report against the Chancellor
he could think of, and coming from him, of course, it was set down as
coming from his father, who is as unlike his sons as he well can be. I
do not wish to entrench on Mrs. E.’s[409] province--how tiresome she
must be!--but she can say nothing of Lord Grey I don’t think. He is the
only great man I ever had the good luck to see--consistent and
magnanimous--two qualities that I never met with in any other
politician. I have closed my political accounts with him.... I am sure I
cannot tell you generally anything about the Government. Politics have
answered so ill to me in my private capacity that I gave them quite up,
and can only tell you these private gossipries of the time. I have not
read a debate since last Easter, and can only wonder how I could be so
foolish three years ago as to think politics and office the least
amusing. I suppose to the end of our days we shall all wonder at
ourselves three years ago. But I have had such a horrid uncomfortable
year this year; I never was so tired, so out of breath, so bored. You
may well ask where we lodge. At a little cottage on Ham Common, hired
by the week, without a scrap of garden, but where by dint of hard
labour, a doctor, and quantities of steel draughts, I have recovered a
little of the health I lost entirely by being kept eight months in
London, frying over the coals.

I declare I believe I have lived ten whole lives in the last ten months;
we have been so unsettled, which is the only state I cannot abide. First
George was to have that Exchequer place with Greenwich, and we made up
our plans for that, and were to part with Grosvenor Street; then
Greenwich was cut off from the Exchequer, and we prepared to give that
up; then the Government found it convenient to make him keep the Board
of Trade, and we went back to be as we were.

Then came the Stanley secession and we thought we were all to be out,
and reverted to the Exchequer, and looked at every villa round London.
Then came the Admiralty, and George sent me to Greenwich to pack up and
sell and give up everything, (the only spot of ground I care about in
the world).

Well! That was done, and as the goods were on their road, just turning
into the Admiralty gate, and just after we had paid Sir James Graham for
_his_ goods, and stuck up a bill in Grosvenor St. “To Be Sold”--out went
dear Grey.

Then for two or three weeks we did not know what to do. And then in all
that hot weather, at last we settled to move, and the arrangement of
that great Admiralty was enough to murder an elephant. Then, when George
set off on his Tour of the Ports, we came here, and just as we got
settled, a Mr. Brogden bought Grosvenor Street, so that I had to go up
and pack that up, and rout out the accumulated rubbish of sixteen years,
and move all the books, etc.

However they have done their worst now, we have parted with both our
houses, and all our goods, and when we are turned out, must live in a
tent under a hedge.

I have got a little black King Charles’s spaniel of my own, that I mean
to boil down, and make into a comfortable “sup of broth” when we come to
that particular hedge “where my tired mind may rest and call it home.”

I somehow feel as if I were sitting by watching George’s mad career, and
wondering where it will end.

I never set eyes on him--you have no idea what the labour of the
Admiralty is--he never writes less than 35 letters every day in his own
hand, besides what the Secretary and all the others do.

Every Levée is a crowd of discontented men who would make an excellent
crew for _one_ ship, he says, but as they each want one, he is obliged
to refuse 99 out of every 100. However he is as happy as a king, I
believe, only he has not had time to mention it. He likes his office of
all things.

The Admiralty is a splendid home to live in, but requires quantities of
servants, and the more there are the more discontented they are.
Everybody says what fortunate people we are, and I daresay George is,
but my personal luck consists in having entirely lost his society and
Greenwich, the two charms of my life; in being kept ten months of every
year in London, which I loathe; and in being told to have people to
dinner--without the means of dressing myself so as to be always in
society. I wish Government would consider that, tho’ a man be raised
high in office, yet that the unfortunate women remain just as poor as

Louisa (Mrs. Colvile) has just had her seventeenth child; Mary (Mrs.
Drummond) her ninth; and Mrs. Eden is going to have her seventh.

Lord Melbourne[410] made a good start in the House of Lords as far as
speaking went. I do not know what ladies have hopes of him, but the
“Fornarina,”[411] as he calls her himself, has him in greater thraldom
than ever. I see him very often and confidentially, but both of us
without any sinister designs.

_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._

_Friday [October 1834]._

MY DEAR LADY CHARLOTTE, I sent a note to thank you for my beautiful
purse down to Mr. Spring-Rice to frank, not knowing he was away from
home, and now that is come back to me I may thank you also for your
account of Lady F.[412] I am so glad the business is over at last; it
was very hard upon her to have it hanging over her so long, and I
congratulate you on being at ease about her. As for another
grandchild--your _grand quiver_ is so full of them already, that I
suppose you hardly have room for any more. I think it would be such a
good plan, if after people have as many children as they like, they were
allowed to lie-in of any other article they fancied better; with the
same pain and trouble, of course (if that is necessary), but the result
to be more agreeable. A set of Walter Scott’s novels, or some fine
china, or in the case of poor people, fire-irons and a coal skuttle, or
two pieces of Irish linen. It would certainly be more amusing and more
profitable, and then there would be such anxiety to know _what_ was
born. Now it can be only a boy or a girl.

I expect and hope that Lady F. in about ten days will be walking about
looking younger and stronger than ever.

My purse is quite perfection, and I cannot thank you enough for it. I am
only afraid it is still more attractive than the last you gave me, which
so took the fancy of one of those men who sell oranges in the street,
that he snatched it off the seat of the carriage in which I was sitting
and ran away with it. Your ever affectionate


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._


Tell me any old news you have by you, for I never see a newspaper by any
chance, and live in the wilds,--woods I would have said, only we are
scarce of trees. I hear news once a month from Mrs. Ellice. I think she
seems Lord Wellesley’s Madame de Pompadour, and so happy! She is quick
and lively, but _furieusement intrigante_ I should imagine, from what I
hear of her; and her vanity has such a maw that she swallows the rawest
compliments. She was recommended to me by Mrs. Sullivan,--not merely
introduced to my acquaintance, but fairly confided to my heart. Well, my
dearest, I went with my friendship in my hand, ready to swear it before
the first magistrate, expecting to find a warm-hearted _étourdie_ full
of talent and genius. Well, we met, and I knocked my head against the
hardest bit of worldly Board you ever met with. Full of business, with a
great deal of the grey claw and _accaparage_. So I buttoned up my heart
to my chin, and we talked good harsh worldly gab, and we are charming
persons together.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Monday evening, October 28, 1834._

DEAREST THERESA, I am kind to write to-night, for Fanny and I poked out
an old backgammon board of the General’s[413] and began to play, and I
beat her two single games and a gammon, so that in coming to my letter
I am probably leaving “fortune at the flood, and all my after life will
be bound in flats and shallows.” All your fault.

Our cottage is a real little cottage, belonging to an old General Eden
who, on the score of relationship, let us have it for almost nothing. It
is very clean and old bachelorish, and he lets with it an old housemaid
who scolds for half-an-hour if a grain of seed drops from the bird’s
cage, or if Chance[414] whisks a hair out of his tail; we are grown so
tidy and as she is otherwise an obliging old body, she has been an
advantage to us. We took the house only by the week, and as my health
has entirely recovered the complete break-up it came to, from our long
detention in London, and as his Lordship is living alone at that
Admiralty, we depart on Wednesday to settle ourselves there till the
Government changes, or I am ill again. However, I do not mind London so
much in cold weather. I have been very busy this last week _setting up_
house, as the Ministers will be most of them in town next month without
their families, and George has announced an intention to make the
Admiralty pleasant to his colleagues. I have but one idea of the manner
in which that is to be achieved, and hope the cook may turn out as well
as Mr. Orby Hunter’s recommendation promises. Oh dear! I dread the sight
of their dear old faces again, and of that “full of business” manner
which they get into when they meet in any number.

I wish I could write like Mrs. Hannah More, and have money enough to
build myself a Barley Wood,[415] and resolution to go and live there. I
am so taken by that book and amazingly encouraged by it, for she was as
dissipated and as wicked as any of us for the first half of our life, so
there is no saying whether we may not turn out good for something at

We have been here eleven weeks, quite alone, but walking and driving
eternally, and very few interruptions except an occasional visit from,
or to, the F. Egertons and W. de Roos’s, and a royal dinner, luncheon,
and party at the Studhouse, which always turns out amusing. The King is
so good-natured that it does not signify his being a little ridiculous
or so; it is impossible not to love him. The Albemarles[416] do the
thing in the handsomest manner as far as the dinner, establishment,
etc., goes, and I think the Studhouse a charming possession. She always
gets all the King’s Ministers that she can find to meet him, and it
charms me to hear her _judgments_ of people:--How unlucky that the
Spring-Rices should _look_ less well at a dinner than the Stanleys; and
what luck she was in in having such a showy person as Lady Bingham last
year in the neighbourhood; not adverting to the possibility that one
person may be pleasanter than the others, and admitting that, their
position being changed, they do not amount to being _persons_ at all.

I suppose that things are going on well, for I never saw people in
greater glee than the Ministers are. Lord Melbourne is in the highest
state of spirits, which seems to me odd for the Prime Minister of the
country. They all went off from the last luncheon at the Studhouse
early, leaving only the W. de Roos’s, Fanny and me and Lord Hill[417] to
go round Hampton Court Palace with the King,--a long and curious
process, as he shows it just like a housekeeper with a story for each
picture. It was pitch dark, so it does not much matter if the pictures
were as improper as the stories, for I saw none of them, but it lasted
two hours, and in the meantime the Ministers, having had their dinner
so early, had set fire to the two Houses of Parliament just for a _ploy_
for the evening.[418] That is the sort of view the Tories take of it,
and it sounds plausible, you see; and from Lord Hill’s staying to see
the Palace it is clear he had not been let into that plot.

No, I did not see the fire,--wish I had--will trouble them to do it all
over again when there are more people in town. Is Lord Fordwich the new
Under Secretary? I asked George and he said he did not know, and I asked
Lord Melbourne and he said he could not tell me--both very good answers
in their way and such as I am used to, but it leaves the fact of
Fordwich’s appointment doubtful, and I heard from Lady Cowper three days
ago and she said nothing about it.

There was a great _sough_ of India for about a fortnight, but I always
said it was too bad to be true, which is a dangerous assertion to make
in most cases, it only hastens the catastrophe. But this was such an
extreme case, such a horrible supposition, that there was nothing for it
but to bully it; and the danger is over now. Botany Bay would be a joke
to it. There is a decent climate to begin with, and the fun of a little
felony first. But to be sent to Calcutta for no cause at all!! At all
events, I should hardly have got there before George got home again, for
I should have walked across the country to join him, if I had gone at
all. I think I see myself going into a ship for five months! I would not
do it for £1000 per day.

Good-night, dearest Theresa. I see _Ann Grey_ is out, and rather expect
that will turn out to be yours too. Is it?[419] Your ever affectionat

E. E.

[In November 1834 the King dismissed Lord Melbourne, and sent for the
Duke of Wellington, who advised that Sir Robert Peel should form a
Government. Peel’s return from Italy did not take place till December 9,
and the Duke in the meantime assumed control of various offices, thereby
giving offence to the Whigs. He became Foreign Secretary under Peel.]

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Monday, November 23, 1834._

MY DEAREST THERESA, Yes,--you see it all just in the right light; but
what will come of it nobody can say.... The truth is, till Sir Robert or
his answer comes, they have not the least idea themselves what they are
to do, or to say, or to think, and I should not be the least surprised
if he were to refuse to come, and many people think that from the
ridicule of the Duke’s position and conduct now, the whole thing may
crumble away before Sir Robert can arrive.

The King is said to be very cross about it, and at the unconstitutional
state of affairs. It has been the oddest want of courtesy on the Duke’s
part insulting the Ministers for his own _in_convenience. Mr.
Spring-Rice’s[420] _keys_, besides his seals, were sent for two hours
after the Duke kissed hands on Monday, so that he could not remove his
private letters even, and has never been able to get them since. He is
naturally the _gentlest_ man I ever saw, but is in that state of
exasperation that he would do anything to show his resentment.

On Friday the Duke sent to Lord Conyngham to say he begged he would
dispose of no more patronage, to which Lord Conyngham answered very
properly that he had resigned, and was keeping the office solely for the
Duke’s convenience (it is a patent office), and that he would leave it
with pleasure the next minute, but as long as he remained there he
should certainly do what he thought best with his patronage. The
Chancellor[421] was to have given up the seals on Saturday, when he
would have cleared off all arrears and closed the courts, etc., and this
was understood at the beginning of the week; but on Thursday the Duke
wrote to him that he must give up the Great Seal on Friday morning. It
appears that nobody but the King has a right to ask for the Great Seal,
so the Chancellor wrote to tell the Duke what was the proper
_étiquette_, and at the same time wrote to Lord Lyndhurst, with whom he
is on the most amicable terms, saying that the Duke, besides being three
Secretaries of State, President of the Council, etc., was now going to
be Lord Chancellor, so he should give notice to the Bar that the Duke
would give judgment on Friday afternoon, and sit to hear Motions on
Saturday morning. He came here quite enchanted with the serious answer
from Lord Lyndhurst, saying the Duke had no such notion, etc.

I suppose anything equal to the ill-treatment of Lord Melbourne never
was known.

The Tories go on asserting, in the teeth of his _advertised
contradiction_ (for he was driven to that), that he dissolved the
Government, and advised the Duke, etc. There is not a _shadow_ of
foundation for that. He went down to Brighton to propose the new
Chancellor of the Exchequer, not anticipating any difficulty. His
colleagues were all dining here that day, and were expecting him back
perhaps in the evening, as he had so little to do! He found everything
he said met by objection, and at last the King asked for a night’s
consideration, and on Friday put a letter into Lord Melbourne’s hand,
very civil personally to him, but saying he meant to send for the Duke.

Lord Melbourne never expressed any difficulty about carrying on the
government; never complained of difficulties in the Cabinet, which do
not exist; never advised a successor,--in short, it was as great a
surprise to him as to the rest of the world, and as the Court Party go
on saying the contrary, I mention this.

The truth is that that party--Lady T. Sydney, Miss D’Este, the Howes,
Brownlows, etc., have all been working on his, the King’s, fears, and
exacted a promise that when Lord Spencer[422] died the King should try
the Tories, which he has quite a right to do; but he should not have
forced Lord Melbourne to take that office of great responsibility and
then have dismissed him without any reason, or without Lord Melbourne’s
making any difficulties, and he made _none_. I could convince you of
this by several notes from him, besides the fact being now generally
known. He says in one note: “I do not like to tell my story; I cannot.
Besides, I hate to be considered ill-used; I have always thought
complaints of ill-usage contemptible, whether from a seduced
disappointed girl, or a turned out Prime Minister.” So like him! Our
people have all been very cheerful this time, and it has been
_privately_ an amusing week.

Ours is the only official home left open, and as the poor things were
all turned adrift, with nothing to do, and nowhere to go, they have
dined here most days (I have found _such_ a cook!), and several others
have come in, in the evening.

Our plans are beautifully vague. We have no home, and no place, and no
nothing; but as we have a right to a month’s residence after our
successor is gazetted, and as he cannot be appointed for a fortnight,
there is time enough to look about us. George leans to a place in the
country large enough to give _him_ some amusement, and that is cheaper
than a small villa which I should rather prefer, but either would do
very well. In short, I do not much care so as he pleases himself. We
have _esquivéd_ India, a constant source of pleasure to me, though I
keep it snug, as he is rather disappointed at having missed it, so I
must not seem so thankful as I am. I should like to go abroad for a few
months, but the session will probably be an interesting one and he would
not like to be out of the way. Your ever affectionate

E. E.



_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_July, 1835._

I HAVE really escaped with my life--_I ain’t dead yet_, but such a big
monster of a girl![423]--a regular Megalonia of a female, that if you
happened to find a loose joint of hers you would think it must belong to
an antediluvian Ox. Je vous demande un peu what am I to do with a
seventh girl of such dimensions?

Well, my own darling, your letter came just as I was allowed to read,
and it cheered me and delighted me, because you know we cannot help
thinking just the same, and my weak sides shook with laughter, and then
I cried because I do love you so much that I take a pining to see you,
and I am sure you do long to have me within reach of your Ship Hotel or
Ship Inn, for you are too wise to look upon it as more than your

Do you remember how we always liked a maxim? I like a maxim, and I like
a good stout axiom, and a good compact system laid out straight without
any exception in any rule, a good due North and South argument, and
without any of your dippings of needle and variation of the compass. All
this we had in the Tories--but, alas, where are they now? _Ils ne sont
plus ces jours_, and I believe _we are_ the Tories. I think that Lord
Winchester, _e tutti quanti_, must feel like the old woman after her
_réveil_ when she found her petticoat cut off above the knee by that
most clever pedlar Peel.

Do you ever see him now? What a fight Peel made of it, and as
Plunkett[424] said to me, “Alone he did it,” and I forgive him two or
three sins, because, that tho’ he is a bad Chancellor, he loves the

My dear, I grieve to say what a _desperately good_ Chancellor Sugden
made.[425] Couldn’t we hire him? All parties liked him except the
ultra-radical dreg of the canaille. He is vain and pompous; but he
amused me because his vanity is of such a communicative nature that he
would talk his character out to me by the hour, and I like any
confession, even a fool’s. But a clever man’s is very amusing, and I
pick out a bit of human nature and human character as attentively as I
see botanists pick petals and pistils.

It is very good of Lord Auckland to stand for my girl. I really believe
she is harmless, for she could knock me down, but she is merciful! What
shall we call her? I had some thoughts of Rhinocera. She was born the
day the Rhinoceros landed, or Cuvier,[426] because I was reading his
life and works just before she was born, and took a passion for him.

Might she not be called Eden?--Her other name is to be Madeline--her
Godmother’s name....

My baby was christened Caroline Frances Eden, and I constantly call her
Eden. I think it sounds very feminine and _Eve_-ish.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_July 1835._

MY OWN DEAREST PAM, George wrote to tell you of the awful change in our
destination,[427] and I have been so worried, and have had so much to do
with seeing and hearing the representations of friends, and taking leave
of many who are gone out of town and whom I shall never see again, that
I could not write.

Besides, what is there to say, except, “God’s will be done.” It all
comes to that. I certainly look at the climate with dread, and to the
voyage with utter aversion. Then, we leave a very happy existence here,
and then, worst of all, we leave my sisters and a great many friends.
But still, there is always another side to the question, and I suppose
we shall find it in time. One thing is quite certain, I could not have
lived here without George, so I may be very thankful that my health has
been so good this year that I have no difficulty on that account, as to
going with him. And as other people have liked India and have come back
to say so, perhaps we shall do the same.

What I would give for a talk with you--that you might put it all in a
cheerful light. It makes no difference in our affection or _communion_
that has stood the test of such long absence that 14,000 miles more will
not break it down.

I am going to-morrow for ten days to Mary [Drummond]; she is in a
desperate way about our plans....

By all means stick an “Eden” into your child’s name. Your most

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell_.

_[August] 1835._

MY DEAREST PAM, Our letters crossed, and yours was just what I wanted,
and you are as great a dear as ever, only I am never to be allowed to
see you....

A week ago we began our preparations. You do not and cannot guess what
that is--and I have despaired of writing you even a line--I never knew
before _really_ what it was to have no time. And besides the deep-seated
real Indian calamity, you cannot think what a whirl and entanglement
buying and measuring and trying on makes in one’s brain; and poor
Goliath himself would have been obliged to lie down and rest if he had
tried on six pairs of stays consecutively. We sometimes are three hours
at a time shopping, and I could fling myself down and scratch the floor
like a dog that is trying to make a feather bed of the boards when I
come home.

It is so irritating to want so many things and such cold articles. A
cargo of _large fans_; a _silver busk_, because all steel busks become
rusty and spoil the stays; nightdresses with short sleeves, and net
nightcaps, because muslin is too hot. Then such anomalies--quantities of
flannel which I never wear at all in this cool climate, but which we are
to wear at night there, because the creatures who are pulling all night
at the Punkahs sometimes fall asleep. Then you wake from the extreme
heat and call to them, then they wake and begin pulling away with such
fresh vigour that you catch your death with a sudden chill. What a life!
However, it is no use thinking about it.

My present aim in writing is to ask whether there is not anybody in or
near Dublin who can make a sketch of you, something in the Edridge[428]
or Slater line, not very extravagant in price, and if you do not mind,
sitting for it for me. I will send its price by Lord Morpeth, when he
goes, and you must send it me either by a private hand, or if not, we
can have it sent under cover to George, if it is carefully packed. Will

What do you think of the Lords? It is hardly possible to conceive such
hopeless folly, and it is clear that they are the only living animals
that cannot learn experience.

We shall be off in less than a month I believe, not that I believe
anything somehow,--I feel too dreamy and bewildered. Your ever affect.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to her Sister, Mrs. Drummond._

_Saturday [September 1835]._

MY VERY DEAR MARY, Your note was a sad blow to me; but perhaps it is
best that we should so have parted, and I am very thankful that we
should have had this week together. I am thankful for many things--that
we love each other so entirely; that you have a husband who has been so
invariably kind to all of us, and whom I can love in return; and then,
that your girls seem to me like real friends, and almost like my own
children. All these are great goods and absence cannot touch them. God
bless you, my darling Sister. Your ever affectionate


_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_September 1, 1835._

I fear there is no good sketcher in Dublin, but there is a man who does
paint something like a miniature, and does catch a likeness, and it
shall be done for you next week, my darling. I never have you out of my
mind a minute, and I always thought I should not be sorry if a change
sent a Tory out instead of you.... I feel cheerful about you because you
are doing what is right, and only think what you would have been
suffering now if you were seeing him prepared to go without you....
Shall we take good in this world and not take the evil, _our old
compensations_? You might have lived years without either you or George
knowing how much you loved each other, and is there not an utter delight
in this feeling of devotion twice blessed?

Let me know how I am to write to you, and how to send my letters. How
little did I imagine when I read of India, and looked on those hot,
misty, gorgeous Indian views, that I should ever garner up part of my
heart there. I am staying here.[429] I always like them, but there is a
want of colour and life and impulse. There are many positive virtues
present, and an absence of all vice and evil, but yet something is
wanted. There is the dreaminess of Sleepy Hollow upon them.

Send me a bit of your hair, my darling, and always bear me in your
“heart of hearts, as I do thee, Horatio.” I cannot believe it yet, nor
do you, dearest, in spite of the preparations, and it is best you should
not believe it till it is over....

It must be done, and so it had best be well done! and I will not hang to
your skirts and make it harder for you to go forward and do right, only
I felt all the love I have borne you for all these years choking me till
I sobbed it well out, you whom I loved as my own sister.... I was not
surprised at it; I felt it would be, it was so like life--such a horrid
piece of good fortune, such a painful bit of right to be done.

How right the Wise Men were to come _from_ the East! Only, I should not
have been particular about going back again; I had rather have stayed
and sat in Herod’s back-parlour for the rest of my life.

When once it is over you will be very busy and very amused. Emmy, I mean
to open an account with you. I mean to keep a letter always going to
you, and so tell you every week what I am thinking about, because, you
know, in India, without any vanity, I may be very sure my letters will
be valuable. It will cool you to read anything coming from the damp
West.... I have been so eager about the Corporations, for Corporation in
this Country means abomination! And when I heard them all spitting and
scratching about the Tithe Bill, I thought what will they say to the
Corporation Bill that sweeps so much farther.

There is a great deal of rage and fury fermenting here, but I think
there will be no explosion. I own I am sorry to see that the fury of the
Orangemen, tho’ it may not drive the lower orders of Protestants to
fight, will, by making him fancy himself ill-used, persuade him to
emigrate. Thousands are preparing to emigrate.

I do not hope to see Ireland better in my time, and it often makes me so
sad, for I do love it with the love one feels towards the child that is
most weak, most sick.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_Thursday, September 1835._

MY DEAREST THERESA, I was very near you yesterday, and at the time I had
appointed, but my heart failed me about taking leave for so long a time,
and as I took one of those fits of lowness which sometimes come over me
now (partly from real bodily fatigue), I saw I should do nothing but cry
if I went to you, and that would be hard upon you and tiresome withal.
Besides, taking leave is at the best of times a hateful process, so I
would not go to you. And now, God bless you and yours, my very dear
friend. I daresay when I come back I shall find _you_ just what you are
now, and _yours_ very much increased in number and size.

Be sure to write to me a fortnight at the very latest after you see our
departure announced, and put your letter under cover to Lord Auckland,
Government House, Calcutta, and put it in the common post, if that is
more convenient to you. Otherwise, if you can find anybody to frank it
to Captain Grindlay, 16 Cornhill, he is our agent, and will at all times
take charge of letters and parcels for us. Pray give my best love and
wishes to Mrs. Villiers. Ever your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_September 1835._

MY DEAREST THERESA, I have received your pretty bracelet with tears,
which is a foolish way of accepting what is very dear to me, but every
day my heart grows more sore, and I look with greater despondency to an
utter separation from such kind friends as mine have proved themselves.
I did not need anything, dearest, to remind me of you. Our friendship
has happily, as far as I remember, been entirely free from even those
little coolnesses and irritations which will mix sometimes with the
closest intimacies. I cannot recollect the slightest _tiff_ between us,
and therefore I have no fears of the _effect_ of absence, but still the
absence itself is most painful. And your bracelet will then be an actual
comfort to me, and besides thinking it so particularly pretty in itself,
I am glad that it is one that I may wear constantly without fear of
injuring it. I have put it on my arm, and there it will stay, I hope,
till we meet again.

I am just setting off to Eastcombe to fetch home Fanny, who will be
delighted with your recollection of her. To-morrow we are to go to the
_Jupiter_ to settle the arrangements of our cabins, but Wednesday, late
in the day, we will go to Knightsbridge.

God bless you, my very dear friend. Many thanks for this and all the
many kindnesses you have shown me. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Lord Melbourne to Miss Eden._

_September 24, 1835._

My Mother always used to say that I was very selfish, both Boy and Man,
and I believe she was right--at least I know that I am always anxious to
escape from anything of a painful nature, and find every excuse for
doing so. Very few events could be more painful to me than your going,
and therefore I am not unwilling to avoid wishing you good-bye. Then God
bless you--as to health, let us hope for the best. The climate of the
East Indies very often re-establishes it.

I send you a _Milton_, which I have had a long time, and often read in.
I shall be most anxious to hear from you and promise to write. Adieu.


_King William IV. to Miss Eden._

_September 26, 1835._

The King cannot suffer Miss Eden to quit this country without thanking
her for the letter she wrote to Him on the 24th inst., and assuring her
of the satisfaction with which He received it.

His Majesty has long been aware of the sincere attachment which exists
between Lord Auckland and his amiable Sisters, and of his anxiety for
their Welfare and happiness, and he gives him credit for this exemplary
feature of his character, not less than He does for the ability and
correct zeal with which he has discharged his Public Duties.

Lord Auckland’s conduct at the Admiralty has indeed been so satisfactory
to the King, that it is impossible He should not regret his Removal from
that Department, though His Majesty trusts that the Interests of the
Country have been consulted in his nomination to the high and important
Situation of Governor-General of India, and sincerely hopes that it may
conduce to his own advantage and satisfaction.

His Majesty is not surprised that Miss Eden and her Sister should have
determined to accompany so affectionate a Brother even to so remote a
destination, and He is sensible how much their Society must contribute
to his comfort, for the uninterrupted continuance of which, and of their
welfare, He assures them of His best Wishes.


     [The end of September 1835 Lord Auckland, his two sisters, his
     nephew William Godolphin Osborne, their six servants, and Chance
     the dog, started on a five-months’ voyage in a sailing-ship to
     India. Miss Eden described in her book, _Letters from India_, their
     many adventures on board ship, and her impressions of life in
     Calcutta. Her water-colour sketches of Funchal, Rio in Brazil, Cape
     Town, and her “Portraits of Princes and Natives,” make excellent
     illustrations to all the long letters written during her six years’
     absence from England.

     In 1916 an Exhibition of Miss Eden’s paintings, chosen and arranged
     by Mr. F. Harrington, was held at Belvidere, Calcutta, the first
     sketch mentioned in the catalogue being that of Chance.

     “I had such a pretty present this morning, at least rather pretty.
     It is a baby-elephant, nine months old, caught at Saharanpur by the
     jemadar of the mahouts, and he has been educating it for me, and
     offered it by way of Captain D., his master. William and I have
     been looking about for some time for a gigantic goat for Chance to
     ride on great occasions, but a youthful elephant is much more
     correct, and is the sort of thing Runjeet’s dogs will expect. It
     just comes up to my elbow, seems to have Chance’s own little bad
     temper and his love of eating, and is altogether rather like him.”]

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

N. LAT. 17, LONG. 21,
_February 18, 1836_.

MY DEAREST PAM, I got William to write to you from the Cape, as we were
in a flurry of writing, visiting, and surveying Africa, and he had more
time, having been there before. We have had a very smooth sea, and I can
read and draw and write, and as we all are perfectly well, there is not
much to complain of, except of the actual disease--a long voyage, which
is a very bad illness in itself, but we have had it in the mildest form
and with every possible mitigation. At the same time I cannot spare you
the detail of all our hardships, and I know you will shudder to hear
that last Saturday, the fifth day of a dead calm, not a cloud visible,
and the Master threatening three weeks more of the same weather, the
thermometer at 86 in the cabin,--tempers on the go and meals more than
ever the important points of life,--at this awful crisis the Steward
announced that the coffee and orange-marmalade were both come to an end.

No wonder the ship is so light, we have actually ate it a foot out of
the water since we left the Cape. “Nasty Beasts,” as Liston says. Your
lively imagination will immediately guess how bad the butter is, and I
mention the gratifying fact that two small pots of Guava Jelly and the
N.E. Monsoon sprung up on Monday, and we hope their united forces may
carry us to the Sandheads.

I never could like a sea life, nor do I believe that anybody does, but
with all our grumbling about ours, we could not have been 19 weeks at
sea, with so few inconveniences. Captain Grey is an excellent seaman,
and does more of the work of his ship than is usual. The officers and
midshipmen have acted several times for our diversion, and remarkably

The serious drama, _Ella Rosenberg_, was enough to kill one. Ella’s
petticoats were so short, and her cap with her plaits of oakum always
would fall off when she fainted away, and a tall Quartermaster, who
acted the confidant, would call her Hella, and never caught her in time!

Some of the sailors were heard talking over the officers’ acting, and
saying, “They do low comedy pretty well, but they do not understand how
to act the gentleman at all.”

How little we thought in old Grosvenor Street days, when we sat at the
little window listening to the organ-man playing “Portrait charmant”
while the carriage was adjusting itself at the door, that we should be
parted in such an out-_sea_-ish sort of way. That in the middle of
February, when we ought to be shivering in a thick yellow fog, George
and I should be established on a pile of cushions in the stern window of
his cabin, he without his coat, waistcoat, and shoes, learning
Hindoostanee by the sweat of his brow. I, with only one petticoat and a
thin dressing-gown on, a large fan in one hand and a pen in the other,
and neither of us able to attend to our occupations because my little
black spaniel will yap at us, to make us look at the shark which is
playing “Portrait charmant” to two little pilot-fish close under the

I should like to go back to those Grosvenor St. days again. I have had
so much time for thinking over old times lately, that I never knew my
own life thoroughly before. I can quite fancy sometimes that if we could
think in our graves (and who knows), my thoughts would be just what they
are now--the same vivid recollections of former friends and scenes, and
the same yearning to be with them again. There is hardly anything you
and I have talked over, that has not come to life in my mind again, and
I could wring my hands, and tear my hair out, to go back and do it all
over again.

The cottage at Boyle Farm, W. de Roos’s troubles, Henry Montagu, the
Sarpent,[430] even that old Danford[431] with the wen, Mrs. Shepherd and
the Hossy Jossies. Dear me! Did I ever have jollier days with anybody or
love anybody better?

Do write and tell me all about yourself now, and your children--I don’t
half know them. There is a tassel of small ones, like the tassel at the
end of a kite’s tail, that I know nothing about--not even their names.
Tell me all their histories. There is an Emily,[432] I know. What shall
I send her from Calcutta if we ever arrive there? It is now five months
since we have been travelling away from letters, and I feel such hot
tears come into my eyes when I think of....

_Monday, February 29, 1836._--I thought we should have been coming home
with our fortunes made by this time, but we are still within a hundred
miles of the Sandheads. At this precise moment we are at anchor in
_green_ water, so different to the deep blue sea, near some shoals,
which is advantageous, because we can pick up our petticoats and pick
our way to land.

_Thursday. In the Hooghly._--At last, by dint of very great patience and
very little wind, we have arrived, got the pilot on board early
yesterday morning, saw Saugur, which looks as if it had been gnawed to
the bone by the tigers that live on it. We are surrounded by boats
manned by black people, who, by some strange inadvertance, have utterly
forgotten to put on any cloaks whatever. We have a steamer towing us, a
civil welcome from Sir C. Metcalfe;[433] a Prince of Oudh, who has been
deposed by an undutiful nephew, and deprived of several lacs of rupees,
asking for his Excellency, well knowing that the first word even in
Hindoostanee is valuable, which is so much his Excellency’s opinion,
that he wisely refuses to hear it, and, above all, we have received a
profusion of letters from home, ten fat ones for my own share. Nothing
unpleasant in them, which, considering some are dated five weeks after
we left England, is something to be thankful for.

Cecilia de Roos’s[434] marriage; and poor old Lady Salisbury,[435] it
somehow seems as if nothing but fire could destroy her. I am going down
to look over the box that contains the dresses in which we are to appear
at our first Drawing-room to-morrow, and my blonde gown may, and in all
probability will, come out quite yellow and fresh-patterned by the
cockroaches. Your most affectionate


_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_March 24, 1836_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, In the utter bewilderment in which I live, from
having more to do in the oven than I could get through comfortably in a
nice bracing frost, I quite forget whether I wrote to you on my first
arrival. I sent off so many letters, necessarily precisely like one
another, that I have forgotten all about them, except that they
announced our arrival after a five months’ voyage, and that we were in
all the nervousness of a first arrival in a hot land of strangers.

We have been here three weeks to-day, and are so accustomed to our way
of life that I cannot help thinking we have been here much longer, and
that it is nearly time to go home again. It is an odd dreamy existence
in many respects, but horribly fatiguing realities breaking into it. It
is more like a constant theatrical representation going on; everything
is so picturesque and so utterly un-English. Wherever there is any state
at all it is on the grandest scale. Every servant at Government House is
a picture by himself, in his loose muslin robes, with scarlet and gold
ropes round his waist, and his scarlet and gold turban over masses of
black hair; and on the esplanade I hardly ever pass a native that I do
not long to stop and sketch--some in satin and gold, and then perhaps
the next thing you meet is a nice English Britschka with good horses
driven by a turbaned coachman, and a tribe of running footmen by its
side, and in it is one of the native Princes, dressed just as he was
when he first came into the world, sitting cross-legged on the front
seat very composedly smoking his hookah.

Then, after passing a house that is much more like a palace than
anything we see in England, we come to a row of mud-thatched huts with
wild, black-looking savages squatting in front of them, little black
native children running up and down the cocoa-trees above the huts, and
no one appearance of civilization that would lead one to guess any
European had ever set foot on the land before. The next minute we may
come to a palace again, or to a regiment of Sepoys in the highest state
of discipline, or to a body burning on the river-shore, or another body
floating down the river with vultures working away at it. Then, if
George is with us, we may meet a crowd of white-muslined men who begin
by knocking their heads against the ground, and then give their long
petitions (asking for some impossibility) in the Hindustani language, or
else an English petition, which is apparently a set of words copied from
some dictionary. No sense whatever--otherwise an excellent petition.

I have described our Calcutta house and household so often that I cannot
do it again. It is all very magnificent, but I cannot endure our life
there. We go there on Monday morning before breakfast. We have great
dinners of 50 people, “fathers and mothers unknown,” to say nothing of
themselves. Every Monday and Wednesday evening Fanny and I are at home
to anybody who is on what is called the Government House List. What that
is I cannot say; the Aides-de-Camp settle it between them, and if they
are the clever young men I hope they are, they naturally place on it the
ladies most agreeable to themselves.

On Thursday morning we also receive any people who chance to notify
themselves the day before. The visiting-time is from ten to one in the
mornings, and we found it so fatiguing to have 100 or 120 people at that
time of day that we have now chosen Tuesday evenings and Thursday
mornings, and do not mean to be at home the rest of the week. There are
schools to visit, and ceremonies half the week. Yesterday we had an
examination at Government House of the Hindu College, and the great
banqueting-hall was completely filled with natives of the higher class.
Some of the boys in their gorgeous dresses looked very well, reciting
and acting scenes from Shakespeare. It is one of the prettiest sights I
have seen in Calcutta. On Thursday afternoon we always come here, and a
prodigious pleasure it is. It feels something like home. It is sixteen
miles from Calcutta, on the river-side. A beautiful fresh green park, a
lovely flower-garden, a menagerie that has been neglected; but there is
a foundation of a tiger and a leopard and two rhinoceros’, and we can
without trouble throw in a few light monkeys and birds to these heavy
articles. It is much cooler here, and we can step out in the evening and
walk a few hundred yards undisturbed.

Then, though we ask a few of the magnates of the land, and a wife or a
daughter or so each time, they are lodged in separate bungalows in the
park, and never appear but at luncheon and dinner, and are no trouble.
We are so many in the family naturally, that seven or eight more or less
make no difference at those times, and I take a drive or a ride on the
elephant alone with George very regularly.

I never see him at Calcutta except in a crowd. In short, Barrackpore is,
I see, to save me from India. I believe the Aides-de-Camp and
secretaries all detest it, but there is no necessity to know that.
George has made William Osborne Military Secretary, which gives him a
very good income, and plenty to do. He has talent enough for anything,
luckily likes occupation, and is very happy. Captain Grey is living with
us, but the _Jupiter_ sails the end of next week. I am afraid he will
have a tiresome journey home; he takes back many more soldiers than the
ship can conveniently hold, and not only that, but such quantities of
wives and children.

I hope you have written to me; you would if you knew the ravenous
craving for letters that possesses the wretches who are sent here. They
are the only things to care for; you cannot mention a name that will not
interest me, whereas I can never find one that you have ever heard
before. Fanny desires me to say she wears your brooch constantly. I need
not mention that of my dear bracelet. I hope in a few weeks we shall
find something to send home, but hitherto we have found nothing but very
dear French goods. Please write.

Give my love to your brother George when you see him or write to him.
Now that I am dead and buried I sit in my hot grave and think over all
the people I liked in the other world, and I find nobody that I knew had
more community of interests and amusements with their kind. I often long
for a laugh and talk with him, but it would be too pleasant for the

Tell me an immense deal about yourself, and do write, there’s a duck.
Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_August 16, 1836_.

MY DEAREST PAM, Your long, dear letter has actually found its way
here--came in last week quite by itself, having travelled 15,000 miles
with nobody to take care of it, and it arrived feeling quite well and
not a bit altered since it left you. I cannot sufficiently explain the
value of a letter here; rupees in any number could not express the sum
which a letter is worth, and I do not know how to make you understand
it. But, you see, the scene in India is so well got up to show off a

I was suddenly picked up out of a large collection of brothers, sisters,
and intimate friends, with heaps of daily interests and habits of long
standing, devoted to the last night’s debate and this morning’s paper,
detesting the heat of even an English summer, worshipping autumn, and
rather rejoicing in a sharp East wind, with a passion for sketching in
the country, and enjoying an easy life in town--with all this we are
sent off out of the reach of even _letters_ from home, to an entirely
new society of a most second-rate description,--to a life of forms and
Aides-de-Camp half the day, and darkness and solitude the other
half--and to a climate!!

Topics of interest we have none indigenous to the soil. There is a great
deal of gossip, I believe, but in the first place, I do not know the
people sufficiently by name or by sight to attach the right history to
the right face, even if I wanted to hear it, and we could not get into
any intimacies even if we wished it, for in our _despotic_ Government,
where the whole patronage of this immense country is in the hands of the
Governor-General, the intimacy of any one person here would put the rest
of the society into a fume, and it is too hot for any super-induced

The real _calamity_ of the life is the separation from home and friends.
It feels like death, and all the poor mothers here who have to part from
their children from five years old to seventeen are more to be pitied
than it is possible to say. And the _annoyance_ of the life is the
climate. It is so very HOT, I do not know how to spell it large enough.

Now I have stated our grievances, I must put all the per _contras_ lest
you should think me discontented. First, George is as happy as a King;
then our healths, as I said before, are very good, though we look like
people playing at Snap-dragon--everybody does. And though it is not a
life that admits of one doing much active good, some is always possible
in this position, and then it is a life of great solitude, which is

Then, as a set-off to discomforts peculiar to the climate, we have every
luxury that the wit of man can devise, and are gradually acquiring the
Indian habit of denying ourselves nothing, which will be awkward. I get
up at eight, and with the assistance of Wright and my two black
maids--picturesque creatures as far as white muslin and
scriptural-looking dresses can make ugly women--contrive to have a bath
and to be dressed, and to order dinner by nine, when we meet in the
great hall for breakfast.

When I describe my life, you must take for granted the others are all
much the same, except that His Excellency’s tail is four times longer
than ours at least. Well, I have all my rooms shut up and made dark
before I leave them, and go out into my passage, where I find my two
tailors sitting cross-legged, making my gowns; the two Dacca
embroiderers whom I have taken into my private pay working at a frame of
flowers that look like paintings; Chance, my little dog, under his own
servant’s arm; a _meter_ with his broom to sweep the rooms, two bearers
who pull the punkahs; a sentry to mind that none of these steal
anything; and a Jemadar[436] and four Hurkarus,[437] who are my
particular attendants and follow me about wherever I go--my tail. These
people are all dressed in white muslin, with red and gold turbans and
sashes, and are so picturesque that when I can find no other employment
for them I make them sit for their pictures.

They all make their salaam and we proceed to breakfast which is in an
immense marble hall, and is generally attended by the two Aides-de-Camp
in waiting, the doctor, the private Secretary, and anybody who may be
transacting business at the time.... At six the whole house is opened,
windows, shutters, etc., and carriages, horses, gigs, phaetons, guards,
all come to the door, and we ride or drive just as we like, come home in
time to dress for an eight o’clock dinner, during which the band plays.
We sit out in the verandah and play at chess or _écarté_ for an hour,
and at ten everybody goes to bed.

The week is diversified by a great dinner of fifty people on Monday; on
Tuesday we are _at home_, which was originally meant for a sort of
evening visiting, but it is turned into a regular dance, as the hotter
it is the more they like dancing. Thursday mornings, Fanny and I are
also at home from ten to twelve for introductions, people landing or
coming from up the country, and for any others of society who wish to
see us.

It is very formal and very tiresome. They look very smart, come in
immense numbers, sit down for five minutes, and, if there are forty in
the room at once, never speak to each other. But it is a cheap way of
getting through all the visiting duties of life at one fell swoop. On
Thursday evenings we used to go to Barrackpore to stay till the
following Monday, but now we only go once a fortnight. We are an immense
body to move if it happens to be a pouring day--about four hundred

Barrackpore is a really pretty place. I am making such a garden there,
my own private one, for there is a lovely garden there already, but a
quarter of a mile from the house, and nobody can walk half a quarter of
a mile in this country.

It seems so odd to have everything one wants, doesn’t it, Pam? I wanted
a vase for fish in my garden; a civil engineer put up two.

The other day we ordered the carriage at an undue hour, and there were
no guards, and there was such a fuss about it--the Military Secretary
writing to the Captain of the Body Guards, and he blaming the
Aide-de-Camp in waiting; and I thought of the time when the hackney
coach _adjusted_ itself to the Grosvenor Street door, and of William de
Roos’s sending Danford away from the play that the hack might seem an
accident, as if the carriage had not come.

Those were the really jolly days. I wish we could go back to them. You
cannot imagine how I enjoyed your history of your children, those are
the letters to send to India. Other people or papers tell public news.
What a pleasure it is to have a letter!

I am so glad you like Lord Morpeth,[438] I always did love him; I wish
you would tell him to write to me in that odd cramped hand. Poor Mrs.
Beresford, she goes on Wednesday next; I shall be glad when she is
safely off. She takes a box for you, with a gown George gives you which
I thought would be useful for your Castle drawing-rooms, and some
handkerchiefs William sends you, which I have had worked for him by an
old native, with a long white beard, who works like an angel. I mean to
send my godchild a present the next opportunity. Yours,

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_August 24, 1836_.

MY DEAREST THERESA. After I wrote you that long letter of upbraiding for
never having written to me, your Edinburgh letter, which had reached the
respectable age of ten months, was forwarded to me, it having been
mislaid with a large packet of other letters, and remained four months
in the Custom House! So pleasant when one is almost stamping with
impatience for letters--or rather, would be so, if the climate did not
prevent those active expressions of feeling.

I think I told you how the American edition of _Dacre_[439] had been one
of my first purchases here, and I read it over with considerable
pleasure. I do not know exactly what I mean, but I do not think you and
your book are like each other. I do not mean any disparagement to
either; there may be a very pretty fair mother with a very pretty dark
child, both good in their way, but not like, and I cannot put your voice
to any of the sentences in your book, or say to any part of it, “So like
Theresa!” I am glad of that. I hate those _banale_ likenesses of books
to their author. Why did you not tell me the name of your new book? I
daresay everybody has read it and discussed it in England, and _I_ don’t
know its name. And to think of you writing about it in that vague way to
me, 15,000 miles off!

The English editions of novels are to be had here for about three
guineas apiece. They charge rupees for shillings, and a rupee is about
two shillings and a penny. I have bought quantities of American editions
of English books; but then it is a bore waiting till a work is two years
old before one reads it. The Americans are valuable creatures at this
distance. They send us novels, ice, and apples--three things that, as
you may guess, are not indigenous to the soil. I own, I think the apples
horrid, they taste of hay and the ship, but the poor dear yellow
creatures who have been here twenty years, and who left their homes at
an age when munching an unripe apple was a real pleasure, and who have
never seen one since, fly at this mucky fruit and fancy themselves young
and their livers the natural size, as they eat it. The first freight of
apples the Americans sent covered the whole expense of the ship’s
passage out.

We are all so grieved to-day for poor Mrs. Beresford, whom you may
remember as a Miss Sewell, going out with Mrs. Hope. Colonel Beresford
is the Military Secretary to Sir H. Fane,[440] and came here just a year
ago. She has always declared the climate disagreed with her, and as she
hated this place and its inhabitants, they did not like her, and said
her ailments were all fancy. I never thought so; and she has proved the
climate really disagreed with her, by having a violent fever that has
lasted two months. The doctors said there was nothing for it but a
return to England. Colonel Beresford came out with Sir H. Fane by way of
bettering his fortunes, but as they have been here only a year, they
have not yet got over the expense of coming out, so there was nothing
for it but her going alone. She is one of those people entirely
dependent on her husband’s care. I hardly know such another attentive
_servant_ as he is to her--weighed her medicines, carried her about,
etc.--in short, been what she could not find here for millions--an
excellent English nurse.

On Tuesday she was to have gone on board, and I wrote to offer her
carriage, assistance, etc., and got back a wretched note from him saying
a sudden and rapid change had come on, and she was not expected to live
an hour. However, she has lived on, and the doctors still say that,
though they do not think she can live, the only chance for it will be
going to sea; so she is to be carried on board this afternoon with her
little girl, who is a dear little thing, but wants a cool climate too. I
cannot imagine a more painful time for Colonel Beresford than the next
few months, for as he is obliged to go up the country with the
Commander-in-Chief, and _The Perfect_, her ship, may not speak another
till they get to the Cape, it may be six months before he hears if she
survives the first week of change. If she does, I think she will
recover. I am so sorry for them; and here, where we are a limited set
who know each other at all, one thinks more of these stories.

I never could take to the Calcutta society, even if there were any, but
there is not. Almost everybody who was here when we landed five months
ago are gone either home or up the country. They come to Calcutta
because they are on their way out to make their fortunes, or on their
way home because they have made them, or because their healths require
change of station, and they come here to ask for it.

To-day was our _receiving_ day. We receive visits from eleven to one
every Thursday morning, and out of seventy or eighty people there were
few who were not new introductions. “Have you been here long?” “Only
just landed from the _Marianne Webb_--a tiresome voyage.” “Did you
suffer much at sea?” And so on. “Did you come in the same ship?” “No, we
are just come from Lucknow.” And then there comes all the story about
the hot winds up the country, and whether it is worse or better than
Bengal. So tiresome! I rather like to see the new arrivals, if they do
not put off calling for more than a week, as they arrive with a little
pink colour in their cheeks which lasts nearly ten days, but I heard one
of our visitors to-day, who has been in India twenty years, declare
seriously that he hated that colour; he thought it looked unnatural and
like a disease. I begin to see what he means.

God bless you, dearest Theresa. I want to send this by _The Perfect_,
and am so tired with our visits I cannot write any more. I hope you have
written again and sent yours. I hoped to send you something pretty by
this ship, but (it is not a mere _façon de parler_) in this rainy season
there is not an item of any description to be bought in Calcutta. Nobody
opens even the packages that arrive by mistake, as twenty-four hours
spoils everything, but when the cold weather begins, they say that the
merchants will have plenty of scarfs, silks, etc., from China and up the
country. I want something Indian. We have written to China for any or
everything, in the meantime. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to ----._

_November 3, 1836_.

Your last letter came to me by a Liverpool ship, so I think it right to
write by the same conveyance, and the more so because our stock of
London ships is low. Only one in the river, and she came only two days
ago, and I suppose it will be six weeks before she will be well stocked
with mosquitoes and cockroaches, and quite comfortable for passengers

It is what is by courtesy called the “cold weather” now, and it is
charming to see some of the old Indians wrapped up in rough white
great-coats, rubbing their withered hands, and trying to look _blue_,
not being aware that their orange skins turn brown when there is the
least check of circulation. You have no idea what sallow figures we all
are, and I mention it now because in another year I suppose the real
Indian blindness will have come over me, and I shall believe we are all
our natural colour.

The new arrivals sometimes stagger us, but we simply say, “How coarse!”
and wait with confidence for the effects that three weeks’ baking will
have, and a delicate tender yellow is the sure result.

With all the fine cold weather they talk of, I have not been able yet to
live five minutes, night or day, without the punkah, and we keep our
blinds all closed as long as there is a ray of sun. I do not mean to
deny that the weather is not improved, but when the chilly creatures who
have passed forty years here say triumphantly, “This must remind you of
an English November,” they really do great injustice to my powers of
recollection. I should like to show them a good Guy Fawkes, with the
boys purple with cold, beating their sides, and the squibs and crackers
going fizzing along on the frosty ground.

This is our gay season. The Tuesday balls at Government House have
become the fashion and are popular with the young ladies, and there is
going to be a fancy ball given by the bachelors of Calcutta, which we
not only condescend to go to our noble selves, but Fanny and I have
organised two quadrilles, dressed them in remarkably unbecoming dresses,
assured them that they are quite the right thing, and have made the
whole scheme delightful by agreeing to their wish to meet at Government
House without their chaperons, and go with us.

My quadrille consists of eight young ladies, and if the care with which
I have selected their partners does not settle at least six of them
happily, I shall think it a great waste of trouble, red velvet, and blue

_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_December 29, 1836_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Doctor Bramley is sending a little delicate offering
in the way of Chinese wood-carving to Lady Morley, so I take that
opportunity of sending you a scarf of Dacca muslin, worked at Dacca, and
which is considered the best specimen of the kind of thing here; but
then we have lost all knowledge of what is really pretty, I believe. I
am almost certain we are very nearly savages--not the least ferocious,
not cannibals, not even mischievous--but simply good-natured,
unsophisticated savages, fond of finery, precious stones and tobacco,
quite uninformed, very indolent, and rather stupid.

I wish the holes in my ears were larger, that is all, for I have lately
seen in my drives some Burmese with large wedges of amber, or a great
bunch of flowers, stuck through the holes of their ears, and I think it
has a handsomer effect than our paltry European ear-rings. Besides this
silver scarf, I see that I must write to you about Mr. Lister’s
appointment[441] which I _lit_ upon accidentally in a heap of English
papers, and which will, I hope, be a great and permanent addition to
your comfort. I cannot say how glad I was to read it; a patent place
sounds comfortable, and as all you wanted in life was a little more
income, you may guess that I am very really happy one of my best friends
should have just what she wanted.

We have no letter of so late a date as the papers, so I must wait for
particulars till another ship vouchsafes to sail in.

How odd it will be if we all end our lives comfortable _rich_ old folks
and near Knightsbridge neighbours. If we live to come home, we shall be
very much better off than we could ever have expected to be, for there
is no doubt that the Governor General’s place is well paid. It may well
be, for it is a hard-working situation and a cruel climate. But still,
it is all very handsomely done on the part of the Company, and it is so
new to us to be in a situation in which it is possible to save money,
that the result of the month’s House Accounts is a constant surprise to
me. Not more surprising than that our House Accounts should be of that
extensive nature that it requires a Baboo, an aide-de-camp, and myself,
to keep them correctly.

I wonder whether you have seen our Knightsbridge house.[442] I hear it
is very pretty and I often think what fun it will be settling there.

I should like to know what you think of Mrs. Bramley supposing you know
her, because I cannot make out why she does not come out to join her
husband. He is a very delightful person, I should say almost without
comparison the pleasantest man here, more accomplished and more willing
to talk, and with very creditable remains of good spirits. She has a
sharp little sister, a Mrs. Cockerell, here, almost pretty and very
ill-natured, at least so they say, but we have not found her so the
little we have seen of her. She and her husband are going tiger-shooting
to the Rajmahal hills, for, impossible as it seems in this
endless-looking plain, there _are_ hills, 150 miles off. “Cock Robin”
and “Jenny Wren,” as the little Cockerell couple are familiarly termed,
make one of these excursions every year, and Fanny and William mean to
join the party, with two or three others. It will be a very good change
of scene for her, and something out of the common course of life.
Travelling in the marching fashion, which is the way they mean to go, is
slow but amusing for a little while. Two sets of tents, one to live in
on Monday, while the other is carried on twelve miles, so as to be ready
on Tuesday. Everybody in India has their own set of servants, who are no
more trouble travelling than living at home. They find their own way
from station to station, cook for themselves, sleep on the ground, and,
in short, are quite unlike the fussy lady’s maid and valet who dispute
every inch of the imperial and expect tea, beer, feather beds, etc., at
every bad inn on the road. But then, to be sure, it takes about fourteen
natives to do the work of one English servant. I suppose William and
Fanny could not march without thirty servants of their own, besides
guards, elephants, etc. All these, they say, make excellent sketching,
which is one of the amusements I look to, when we set off on our great
march next year.

I keep up my drawing, but entirely in the _figure_ line, as there is no
landscape in Bengal, and also the glare is so great that nobody could
draw it if there were; but every servant in the house is a good study,
and I shall very soon be sending home some sketches. I wish your book
would come out. I want a new novel very much. My best love to Mrs. V.
Ever, dearest Theresa, your most affectionate

E. E.



_Miss Eden to her Sister, Mrs. Drummond._

_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._

_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

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._

_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

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

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

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,


_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._

_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,


_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_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


_Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._

_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

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

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

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._

_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

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._

_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

I must nearly have bored you to death, so good-bye. Please write again.
Yours most truly,


_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._

_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.

_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

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

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


_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._

_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

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._

_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]._

_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

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

_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._

_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




_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._

_March 13, 1840_.

MY DEAR MR. GREVILLE, I give it up; I succumb; I see clearly I was all
wrong; generally am, quite mistaken, very sorry, very stupid, etc. But
you and every friend I have will do me the justice to say that since the
first year we passed here I have mentioned openly that I was regularly
twaddling, that I hardly remembered a proper name, and _never_ knew what
was meant for jest or earnest. I have written it home twenty times, and
it is not a complaint peculiar to me, but common to everybody who has
passed a hot season or two in India. Their brains are fairly stewed down
into a harmless jelly; and it is a merciful dispensation that, as they
have not bodily strength to laugh at a joke, they have not wit left to
understand one. I still think that your irony was too fine even for
England--I mean, I might have been puzzled there; here, of course, I
took it all _au pied de la lettre_. I should not have minded it so much,
if just at the moment when George had hazarded himself in a line that
must have ended in success or in impeachment, he had not been turned
upon by almost all the Indian authorities, and every paper without
exception. I did not care for their opinions, wretched little buzzings
of Indian mosquitoes, but when an imposing English hornet came down upon
me with the same small Toryisms, as I thought, I could not stand it.
However, I see it all clearly now, so let us make it up. “Hostess, I
forgive thee: look to thy servants. Wash thy face. Come, thou must not
be in this humour with me.”

I rather expect the next overland may bring out a copy of William’s
book; it is just the sort of thing which will make a great sensation
here. Everybody makes a point of fainting away if their names are
mentioned in the public prints; they have simple hysterics if they are
merely mentioned in a list of passengers by a steamer, etc.; but if
their names are coupled with a comment on their conduct or promotion,
they fall into a dream. Therefore a book upon a subject that may be
connected with politics, by a Military Secretary to the
Governor-General, will be too much for their nerves. I depend upon your
Preface for annihilating them. We are really looking to it with great
anxiety, and considerable prospect of amusement. The papers will wrangle
for a month if you have made any mistake as to the various members of
the Singh family, of which they know nothing themselves. Then _the_
Prinsep,[482] who wrote a book about Runjeet, which you have probably
made use of, is now a Member of Council, the greatest bore Providence
ever created, and so contradictory that he will not let anybody agree or
differ with him. If you have made any use of his book, I mean solemnly
to assert that I _know_ from the best authority you have never heard of
it or him, that it was a great pity you had not, etc.

Your friendship with Mary [Drummond] is certainly rather funny, but once
begun, I think it will go on progressing. Please to let me know if you
see the slightest inkling of a flirtation for either of the girls. They
are the greatest dears I know, and though I had rather they should not
marry till next year, that I may be by to approve, still I should like
to hear of it too.

We came up here this week to see if it were cooler than Calcutta (vain
idea!), and to receive the visits of the station, which, as there are
eight regiments at Barrackpore, were numerous and dull. We had two hours
of fat generals and yellow brigadiers clanking in and out of the room
yesterday; but one visit was rather amusing. The lady was like Caroline
Elliot in her young days; married to come out here; landed a month ago;
is in perfect horror at India; and evidently the poor husband has lost
any charm he ever might have had by his guilt in inveigling her out
here. I asked if she had got into her own house yet. “I have not seen a
house at Barrackpore. Tweddell has taken a barn for me, but I am not in
my own barn yet.” “Have you found a good Ayah? She would help you.” “I
have got some black things Tweddell calls servants. I do not understand
a word they say.” She said she went to bed immediately after dinner, and
I asked if she dined late. “How can I tell? There is no difference in
the hours. Always shut up in a prison to be stung by mosquitoes. And
then Tweddell told me I should be a little Eastern Queen. Oh, if I could
go back this last year.” She was dressed up to the last pitch of the
last number of the _Journal de Modes_, which, poor girl, will not be of
much use at Barrackpore, where the officers are too poor even to dine
with each other; and I own, I think Tweddell has a great deal to answer
for, and _is_ answering for his sins in a wearisome life. But to the
by-standers who have not seen a fresh English girl nor a hearty English
aversion for some years, she was an amusing incident.

Did you know much of Lord Jocelyn[483] at home? He has seen his Agra
and Delhi since he left us, is now doing a bit of tiger-shooting, and
then is coming down as fast as he can to join this Chinese expedition.
His regiment does not go, but George has got Captain Bethune to take him
as a guest. I think I should like to go marauding to Canton. We found at
Calcutta a box of bronze curiosities, etc., that we had ordered before
this little painful misunderstanding with Lin, etc., and they give a
great idea of what might be picked up by an experienced plunderer. Yours


_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._

_Sunday, April 19, 1840_.

MY DEAR MR. GREVILLE, The March overland is just come in, and they say
that if we send an express to Calcutta, to overtake the _other_ express
which was going off with George’s despatches this afternoon, everything
will come straight at Bombay. In my own mind I see nothing but a long
train of innocent Bengalese running after each other, each with a letter
in his hand, the thermometer at 150, and the head man of the train
waving the small quantity of muslin he deigns to wear to a distant puff
of smoke in the Bay of Bengal.

However, as our friendship has had such a frightful _secousse_ and wants
steadying, I pay you every possible little attention, so I write this
hurried line to say that the few letters which have yet arrived, and two
stray papers, all speak in the highest tones of The Book, and of its
success, and how well it is got up, and we are longing for a copy of it,
and George is politically at ease from its being spoken of as a
_personal_ narrative, and altogether it seems like an amusing incident.
William is full of gratitude for all the trouble you have taken about

We have subsided from the interests of Afghan politics into the daily
difficulties of keeping ourselves from being baked alive. I may say we
have _risen_ to this higher pursuit, for it is much the more important
of the two, and of much more difficult achievement. China promises to be
amusing; they are arming themselves and fitting up little innocent
American ships, and collecting war junks; and my own belief is that they
are so conceited and so astucious that they will contrive some odd way
of blowing up all our 74’s with blue and red fireworks, take all our
sailors and soldiers prisoners, and teach them to cut out ivory hollow

Lord Jocelyn is staying with us, but will sail in about ten days in the
_Conway_. He goes merely as a volunteer with representatives of the
Dragoons, and George has arranged that he is to be passed into any ship
that is likely to see most service. He has great merit in the ardour
with which he looks about for information and for service, and I hope
the Chinese will not take him prisoner.

So the dear little Queen is now Mrs. A. C. I hope she will be happy; and
they may say what they like of her, but she certainly contrives to
conduct herself wonderfully, through a great many trying
ceremonies,--never awkward, and yet just shy enough, and I like her so
for being so affectionate to Aunt Adelaide.

Pray tell Mrs. Drummond I have had her letter and Theresa’s journal,
much to my heart’s content, and I would have written her another line,
but I am horrified at the price of letters. Not but what I guessed my
journal would cost a great deal too much--but £2. 8. 0! I am horrified
in the English sense. Here that would be dog cheap--24 rupees. I never
speak to anybody for less.

The long hand of my watch caught in the other, and the watchmaker
charged 20 rupees for bending it up a hair’s breadth. But still, £2. 8.
0 for a letter! I flatter myself your office pays for this. Good-bye.
Ever yours,


_Miss E. Eden to Mr. C. Greville._

_July 6, 1840_.

_My dear Mr. Greville_, At last a copy of _The Court and Camp_ has
reached Calcutta, and was picked up by an alert Aide-de-Camp, who was in
the shop when it arrived. It is immensely well got up, and altogether, I
think, a pretty little book, and more of a book than I expected. It is a
pity more copies did not come by one ship, for there are quantities
bespoken. But in the meanwhile everybody is borrowing this, and they all
delight in the introductory chapter, because, of course, not one of them
has the least idea of the _history_ of the Sikhs as connected with
India, nor of India as connected with anything else, so they are all
delighted at learning it so cheaply, and they look upon you as a prodigy
of Eastern learning. There are one or two misprints in the book, which
do very well for England, but is the sort of thing they will take up
here, where their intellects are below mistake par, but just up to a
misprint; and I should imagine that the Agra Akbar will wonder at the
ignorance of the aristocracy who can call a thermantidote a
phermantidote, and that the _Delhi Gazette_, which is courtly, will say
it ought to be phermantidote, and that they could give the Greek
derivation, only they have no Greek type.

I think you ought to feel a sort of paternal interest in the Sikh
dynasty, and would like to know that Kharak Singh[484] still retains
the name of King, and Mr. Clerk (the Governor-General’s agent) says that
Noormahal’s attentions to his father in public increase in proportion as
he deprives him of all power. He says Noormahal all through the Durbar
is occupied in wiping the dust from Kharak’s band, when not a particle
has settled, or with a Chowry in driving away flies from his father’s
hand, which they never approach, and that Kharak, though a fool, is wise
enough not to like these demonstrations of tenderness.

The fleet left Singapore for Macao on the 30th May; the fear of bad
weather prevented their waiting any longer for Admiral Elliot. William
Osborne and Lord Jocelyn seemed very well satisfied with their
accommodation in the _Conway_, and were gone on in her. William asked
some of the Chinese at Singapore whether their way of making war was
like ours, and they said, “Much the same, only more guns and less drum.”
He asked what they thought of the steamers, which were, in fact, quite
new to them, and they said, “Oh, plenty at Pekin; only little smaller.”
I am in a horrid mood of mind at all these requisitions from home that
are to keep us here another year; and have turned rank Tory on the spot,
and can think of nothing but the quickest means of turning the Ministry
out, and then of rushing down to the river-side and beckoning to the
first ship. But surely we never shall be kept here. I don’t think the
people at home have an idea what a place it is, but they _will_ know
hereafter, if they go on behaving so in this life. And as for the idea
that any Governor-General is to stay till everything is quite quiet and
peaceable in this great continent, you might as well ask the fish to
stay in the frying-pan till they have put out the fire.

There always must be some great piece of work in hand here. In the
meantime, life is passing and friends are dying, and we are becoming so
old that it will be impossible to take up the thread of existence again
with the young things like the Drummonds, etc., whom I had looked upon
as the supports of my old age. It will never do to stay.

We are to have at dinner to-day a son of Theodore Hook’s, just arrived.
He does not look as if he could improvise, or do much better if he
_provised_; but I never saw the father, so he may look stupid, too,
without being so. I see there are two of T. Hook’s novels published
lately, and trust the son may have partially brought them out.[485]

I have become a great whist player upon the one-eyed monarch principle.
Nobody else can play at all, and when the Governor-General and the
Commander-in-Chief dine together, it is obvious that they must have
their rubber, and so I and the Aide-de-Camp or the Doctor play with
them. Can’t you see the sort of thing? Shocking whist, but it helps the
evening through. I play much better than Sir Jasper,[486] but worse,
George says, than anybody else he ever saw. Ever yours,


_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_July 17, 1840_.

MY DEAREST PAM, Your friend Mr. Taylor arrived this week with the letter
you gave him ten months ago--perhaps not bad travelling for a letter of
introduction, though not exactly rapid as a means of receiving
intelligence. However, a letter’s a letter, and I am the last person in
the world to complain.

George has seen your Taylor, and says he is very promising, and I have
asked him to Barrackpore for love of you and in the strongest reliance
on your Edward’s[487] judgment. Otherwise, there _is_ a brother of his
in this country now (thank goodness up the country) that used to drive
me demented--just the opposite to all you say of your friend--not
good-looking, not a “chap” at all, and rather a black sheep--though,
poor man, I should not say so. But you cannot imagine the provocation of
his manner or the excess of his conceit. It induced a freezing sort of
snappishness in oneself that was, however, utterly unavailing; it only
made him more affable and jocose. And, to crown all, he shaved his head
after a fever, or his doctor shaved it to tease him, or something of
that sort, and he came dancing about in a little velvet skull-cap.

I think my health has been so good this year at Calcutta because Pearce
Taylor was not there.

No, dearest, I never blame you for not writing. I always feel that I
know you just the same as ever, and that it is not your fault if your
children take up all your time. I only regret that the world should be
such a very large, thick, slice of bread, and that butter should be so
scarce that they should have been obliged to spread us at the two
opposite ends. We should have been much happier in the same butter-boat,
but I suppose it could not be helped. My side of the bread too, is
turned to the fire and I am half-roasted, which, if I do not write twice
to your once, is my _set off_ against the claims of your children.

I have always wondered how much you liked Mrs. Fane. You mentioned her
in one letter as liking her very much, and she is a good-natured little
woman, but not _one of us_, is she, Pam? I think she must have felt Sir
Henry’s death.[488] He was always very kind to her in his way, without
putting her at her ease.

Our George has done very well in India, has he not? You know we always
thought highly of him even in his comical dog days.... Now I think he
has done enough, and might as well go home, but none of the people at
home will hear of it, and this month’s despatches have made me
desperate. Moreover, I cannot stay away another year from Mary and her
girls, and fifty others. I do not like anybody here, and if we try to
get up a shade more intimacy with any lady, then all the others are
cross, and her husband or brother wants something, and that makes a
story, and so on.

William Osborne is gone with the China expedition, which is a sad loss
to poor Fanny. However, I believe that will be a very short business,
and that he will soon be back again. The Chinese have already begun to
say they hope there will be much talkee before fightee, which does not
promise much fightee. William says that at Singapore they saw quantities
of little dogs fattening regularly in coops for the table, and their
captain’s steward was looking at them, which gave Lord Jocelyn and
himself an alarm about their future dinners.

Your little picture is still such a pleasure to me. Mind you keep like
it, that I may know you again. None of the children know me, which is
shocking and foolish. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Lady Campbell to Miss Eden._

_September 27, 1840_.

Just so my darling. I am rather glad you wrote before you saw the Taylor
I sent, for fear he should be a beast in spite of Edward’s good word.
Emmy, this other year seems harder to swallow than all the rest. But I
will not touch upon it; it is too raw. There has been a talk of our
asking for something in India; I thought it just probable that we might
pass each other at sea! However, we should have to leave so many
children they said it would not pay, and I could have hugged them. One
man I can scarce bear to look at who put it into Sir Guy’s head at
first, and how much we were to lay by, and how charming the climate was,
and how I should marry my daughters!

Yes, Sir Guy’s Fanny is married and very happy. Captain Harvey[489] is a
very handsome, nice person; they have not much money at present, but
that cannot be helped. Pam[490] has been with her for the last month at
Carlisle, where Fanny is quartered. Pam was very ill with ague, so I
sent her to the Napiers. She comes back to me next week. I long to show
her to you--not for the beauty, for she is no beauty, tho’ nice-looking.
But, Emmy, she is quite, quite one of us--I need not explain how
pleasant, how good, how full of sense and fun. She is such a comfort to

The next, Georgina,[491] is very pretty and very dear, but not so gentle
and patient as Pam.

I had my sailor boy for two blessed months. This boy, Guy,[492] came
home so improved, so gentle and affectionate, and delightful from sea. I
felt so thankful, as I rather feared the sea. It is a dreadful life to
be the mother of a sailor; so hard to bear. Wind always to me was a sad
sound, but now I can hardly help crying. All the rest are good little
nice things, and I have no governess, so I have a good deal of their
company more or less. We are quaking for the Brevet, but I will not
entertain you with my hopes and fears, and want of pence, or what you
call _Pice_, don’t you?...

I like Lord Ebrington, and he seems to like you all so much. I get on
much better with him than with Lord Normanby. However, he does not give
dinners and balls and parties enough, and the _trade_ complain. Dear
Lord Morpeth is coming to dine with me to-day, and won’t we talk of you?
He is such a charming person, and my most particular friend. You gave
him to me, you know, when you went away. Mary will have told you how we
had settled I was to go over and see her. Her girls are so nice, and she
herself dearer than ever, and all the better from going out more. For a
little while she really ensconced herself inside the high wire nursery
fender, and one saw her in the uncomfortable way in which when we were
bairns you may remember we used to see the fire, never getting at it
enough. I was sorry she gave up poor Grosvenor Place. I like all those
old Grosvenors; I could have cried when I looked at No. 30! _Du reste_,
I rather like getting old; there is wonderful repose in it; it saves one
so much trouble--so much of the work done. I am so glad you are getting
fat, so am I, and I combine also the grey hair which you mention George
has assumed. I am very grey; fat and grey sounds like an old cat, but
what does it signify? when once we meet, how young we shall feel then.
Emmy, do you remember your aversion to mittens? My dear, I was in
advance of my age. When I wore them, like Bacon and Galileo I appealed
to posterity, and posterity made haste, and everybody wears mittens,
morning, noon, and night. The only chance you have is, that they will
have burnt out before you come back, and my hair too. Everybody _lisse_
and banded, and they little know that George and I were the only two
people that wore close heads in our day.

[Illustration: Omery Galber

Eleanor, Countess of Buckinghamshire.]

The Lansdownes spent a week here. She is looking well, and in much
better spirits, and her countenance so much softer and gentler, that I
think her more loveable than I ever knew. I never knew how much I loved
her till I was with her in her grief.[493] Louisa[494] looking well
for her, and ready to talk and be pleased. Lord Lansdowne rather older.
I was wondering what made him look so well and distinguished and
conversable, and I found he was set off by Lord Charlemont, who rejoices
in a brown natural hair wig, which made Lord Lansdowne in his nice grey
hair look quite beautiful.

I have got a nice two-year-old[495] baby just _pour me désennuyer_; such
a nice duck! The youngest after six girls. Pam says he is doomed to wear
all the old bent bonnets out, and accordingly I found him in the hay
with a bonnet on.

_Tuesday, September 20, 1840._

I wrote all this Sunday and I must just add one word. Lord Morpeth dined
here early with me and the children, and was to start by the eleven
o’clock train to the packet for to sail for England to attend the
Cabinet Council, _as we vulgar_ imagine, upon peace or war, _rien que
ça_. However, my delicacy was such I did not pump at all. He is a real
good soul, and I have scruples about pumping him. Old Berkeley Square I
always make a point of pumping till the handle has come off in my hand
often, but very little water ever! Yours ever,


_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_January 15, 1841_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, After a long cessation all our letters came to
hand--all from September to November 4th. You had been doing your
_Mimms_, which I never think sounds comfortable. Indeed, I remember
seeing the place once and thinking it very melancholy, damp, and

Yes, as you say, as long as Chance is alive there is a wall between
Dandy and death; but then you know spaniels live longer than terriers,
and at all events it would be a sort of preparation to Dandy to
insinuate to him that Chance has lost his last tooth, which the faithful
Jimmund, his servant, has had set in a silver ring.

You have never mentioned that you have a new clergyman of the name of
Hazlewood at Greenwich. You never tell _me_ anything in confidence
whatever, after so many years; and after all, I don’t see the use of
making such a mystery of it. “But I have often observed a little spirit
of nonsense and secrecy,” as Mrs. Norris says, about your clergyman,
that I would advise you to get rid of. Your Hazlewood (you see I know
his real name) is brother to our Captain Hazlewood, commonly called
Harum Scarum. Hazlewood Scarum got a letter by this last post saying:
“Lady Buckinghamshire, who is a constant attendant at my church, is, I
find, a sister of Lord Auckland’s. You cannot imagine how much I wish to
make her acquaintance. I think our mutual interests in India,” etc.,

Probably by this time you may have seen him. Our Hazlewood is going home
next week in the _Hardwick_. The wounds he received at Ghazni[496] were
very severe; and he rattles about, and dances and rides, and proposes
and breaks off his engagements, and altogether he has never let himself
get well, and has suffered so much from his arm lately that his general
health is beginning to give way, and Doctor Drummond has ordered him
home. A man who goes home on a medical certificate has his passage paid
by the liberal Company, and gets £50 a year while he is in England; so
that upon the whole a slight wound is not such a bad thing. I am rather
on the look-out for a generous adversary who will wound me just up to
the pitch of being ordered home, and having my passage paid, but not a
bit more. Poor Hazlewood’s is much more than that; but the voyage will
probably set him up, though he will never have the use of his arm again.
As he will go to Greenwich to see his brother, I have given him a line
to you. It will not entail upon you more than a dinner, and he is a very
good-humoured, obliging creature, and not at all vulgar. There is not
the slightest chance of his spoiling the view at Eastcombe by setting
that little wretched stream the Thames on fire; though I have no doubt
he will try, as he always must be busy about something. He may give you
a flourishing account of us, as we are all going on very well, I think.

The Admiral[497] has made a shocking mess of China--at least he has done
nothing, and the force and the ships and the money have all been wasted,
leaving things just as they were a year ago. Now he has given up the
Command, writing most pitiable accounts of his being in a dying state
from disease of the heart, with no chance of reaching home alive; and
for the last ten days we have been believing this and pitying and
defending him. And now to-day George has a letter from him, written on
board his son’s ship, saying they were all on the way home; that he
thought he had mistaken his complaint, which was now merely liver, and
that he felt nearly well again. It is an unhappy bit of his career, and
such weakness is rather odd in such a stern, stiff-looking man as G.

Charles[498] is now left sole Plenipotentiary, and if he can but keep to
his own mind two days running is clever enough to do very well; but he
is terribly vacillating. She wishes very much that she was with him
just now, and I can fancy she might be of use in keeping him up to the
mark; but she cannot go during the present monsoon, and except for the
pleasure of seeing Charles again, I think she will be very sorry to
leave Calcutta. Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Mr. C. Greville._

_January 17, 1841_.

MY DEAR MR. GREVILLE, I am grieved you were so troubled with the gout
when you wrote, as I have never been of the opinion that a fit of gout
is a matter of that perfect indifference which people who are not
sufferers from it claim to assert. I think you had better come out as
Lord Auckland’s successor, if you cannot come and visit us. Nobody has
the gout in India. I suppose it is _perspired_ out of them. And even
General Elphinstone,[499] who was a wretched victim to it when we met
him going up to Meerut--almost the worst I ever saw--has, I hear, lost
it quite during the hot season. He is going to succeed Sir W.
Cotton[500] in Afghanistan, and does not like it on account of the cold
climate.... Ever yours most truly,

E. E.

_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_February 6, 1841_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, I am just come back from doing a bit of duty, so I
may as well try whether writing to you will not be a bit of pleasure in
this dark half-hour before dressing.

The little Nawâb of Moorshedabad has anchored his fleet of boats just in
front of this house, on his way up the river home. He is the convoy of
the late lamented Captain Showers, who has gone and married himself to a
very plain, unpleasant young lady, and has consequently left us, and
George has given him the care of this boy’s education. George took the
little Nawâb a drive, and I have been, with Rosina[501] as an
interpreter, to see the Begum in her Pinnace, and it strikes me that it
is very lucky I was not born a Mussulmannee. I am sure if they shut me
up in that fashion I should have got into a thousand scrapes, and
probably some very bad ones; and moreover, I should have gone out of my
mind with bore and heat. She was in the centre cabin of the Pinnace,
with three or four antechambers made of curtains, so arranged that there
was no possibility of her being seen when one was opened. All the
jalousies of the cabin were shut, and it was so dreadfully hot that I
was obliged to ask for a breath of air; and then there was such a fuss:
Captain Macintosh and the boats that brought my servants requested to
keep off--sentries on deck thrown into a fuss--and then when a
fishing-boat came by, such a rush to shut up one wretched bit of blind
which nobody could see through--and if they had, I think they would have
been very much disappointed. “I am not the lovely girl I was,” and the
Begum, though rather pretty, is so extremely small I don’t think they
could see her at all without a glass. Her women were shut up in another
dark cabin, and her visible attendants were all of that class (saving
your presence) who are allowed to wait on Eastern ladies.

Visits to native ladies are much more amusing when I go with Rosina,
than when there is a stiff secretary translating from the other side of
the punkah. The Begum was delighted with some English flowers that I
took her, and began asking Rosina about England, and amongst other
things, she and her attendants having ascertained that it was really
true that we walked out in London, wanted very much to know if we did
not wear veils and loose trousers on those occasions. Rosina made them
all laugh very much, and the Begum gave her £5 when we went away. I
should think a laugh must be cheap at the money. I am quite sure I
should have gone wrong, particularly wrong, if I had been one of these
shut-up ladies, out of mere spite. It might have been difficult to
contrive it, but I think I should have been a very profligate Begum.
They say this little lady was. Now she is not more than twenty-six, and
having lost her husband has lost her power, and is under the control of
a strict mother-in-law, and her chief occupation is to _cook_ for her
son. She never lets anybody else cook for him for fear he should be

_February 9, 1841_.

No more decisive news from China. Charles Elliot still goes on
negotiating--or as the people there call it, _no_-gotiating. The navy,
army, and merchants are all equally dissatisfied. By the last letter, he
declared Sir Gordon Bremer[502] was to attack the Bogue forts the next
day if the Chinese did not sign the treaty, but he has said so so often
that nobody will believe it till they see it, and even when they do it
is impossible not to regret that it was not done a year ago. Mrs. Elliot
has rather a hard time of it, I fancy, as the society here is chiefly
mercantile, and they all consider themselves ruined by all this weakness
and procrastination, and the papers, too, are full of abuse. She bears
it better than most people would, but fidgets about his vacillation, I
suspect. She talks of sailing in about ten days.... This day twelve
month how sea-sick I hope to be. Yr. most aff.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_April 6, 1841_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, I did not write to you last month. I daresay you
never found it out, only I am so honest I tell. But I had a large arrear
of friends to bring up, and as Fanny said she had written you a double
letter, I thought you would not miss me if “I just stepped out for a

I am sure you would pity me at this moment. Just fancy yourself trying
to be fond of Dandy’s successor, and in the still lower position of
finding that successor refusing obstinately to be fond of you. As for
ever caring for a dog as I did for poor dear Chance, the thing is
impossible. I do not believe there ever was so clever a dog, and very
few equally clever men; and then, after eight years of such a rambling
life, we have had so many recollections in common, and he was such a
well-known character in India. I had no great fancy to have another; but
we are alone so many hours of the day that a pet is almost a necessity,
and a Doctor Young, who is just come from England, hearing I had lost
Chance, very politely sent me a little English spaniel he had brought
with him.

The gentlemen all say it is a perfect beauty, with immense ears, and a
short nose, and all the right things. It may be so; unluckily it is not
even the kind of beauty I admire, and in all other respects I think I
may safely say I never hated a small dumb beast so much in all my life.
It is wild and riotous and foolish, and whines after its old master
half the day; or else runs off like a mad thing, and the servants, who
cannot pronounce its name, Duke, are streaming about the house after it,
calling Juck, Juck! That name is its only merit. I suppose nobody ever
had a dog called Juck before. Everybody says it will grow tame, but I
know better. I have had it eight days, and I think in another week it
will be lawful to return it to Doctor Young, and say I cannot deprive
him of it--such a treasure, such a Juck!

Your account of Dandy barking at the Southwark police particularly
amused us. Fanny’s dog flies at all the natives who happen to have
stepped out without their clothes just in that way, and George longs to
murder him for it, as a dog frightens them out of their senses.

We have just had the very Chinese news that George has anticipated all
along--indeed, so certainly, that two months ago he luckily sent his own
orders to stop all of the convoy and fleet that C. Elliot had not
dispersed. The Emperor would not even listen to that treaty, bad as it
was, so now it is a declared war, and the Bogue forts have been taken,
which was easily done, as the garrison all ran without firing a shot.

That was what George advised, and indeed ordered as far as he could ten
months ago, when the expedition started in full strength. Now the ships
are half-dispersed, half-crippled, and an immense proportion of the
soldiers dead or disabled, and it is evident that Charles[503] now does
not know what to do. In the meanwhile, in his odd mad way, he had sent
orders to have Chusan evacuated without waiting for a ratification of
the treaty, and he has been obliged to withdraw the few soldiers that
had garrisoned Hong Kong, his great hobby of an acquisition, because
they were wanted on board ship. So we literally have not an inch of
ground or a single thing gained by all this immense expenditure. The
Chinese actually ordered us out of Chusan before they would give up one
of their few prisoners, and we obeyed. The sort of fun they must make of

I have had a line from Mrs. Elliot, who met the news at Singapore and
was much out of spirits. But George has not yet heard from Charles. It
is lucky he is what he is, totally blind to his own folly, for I am sure
half the men in his position would be driven to some act of desperation.

_April 14._

No more tidings from Charles Elliot. William is gone off on a
tiger-hunting expedition with a Mr. Larpent. It is a dreadfully hot time
of the year for this sort of work, but I believe tiger-shooting is that
degree of exquisite pleasure that makes up for all inconveniences, and
the mere idea did him a great deal of good. He has been in one of his
_meandering_ states of spirits ever since the excitement of the races
were over, living very much alone and looking utterly broken-hearted;
but this new excitement has roused him again, and he went off quite
happy with the thermometer at about 95, I suppose, out of doors.

Juck has subsided a little, but is a positive misery, and very
uninteresting. I am getting on very fast with a collection of drawings
and flowers, those that are not common in England. I sketch them and put
in the colours, and I have hired two natives by the month who sit in the
passage and paint them. I think you would rather like to see them (the
drawings, not the natives), but I know what you will say--Very pretty,
my dear, but they are all red and yellow. You must have had a sad want
of blue flowers,--and I don’t exactly know how I can contradict you.
Some of the parasite plants, tho’, are very beautiful. I have been
gradually making a new garden in front of the house, rather in the large
round chumpy line, but the size of the house requires that bold style,
and by the time we go it will be very pretty, and quite ready to be
destroyed by the next Lady.

Lady Amherst[504] made a magnificent garden all round the house, which
stands in the centre of what we call a huge compound. Lady William[505]
[Bentinck] said flowers were very unwholesome, and had everything rooted
out the first week. I never thought of restoring it till last year, and
now it is all done very economically, and only on one side of the house,
and at a considerable distance, so that the doctors can’t have the
conscience to object, etc. I am just finishing two little fish ponds.

All the bamboo fences will be covered with creepers after the next
rains, and then, as I said, the next lady may pull them all up, and let
the ground lie fallow for her successor, and so on. Whatever she may
think of the garden, I am sure she ought to be obliged to me for
clearing up the house. It was all left in such an untidy state. You must
recollect those old looking-glasses that had been put in the ball-room
by Lord Wellesley. I think they must have lost all their quicksilver
when Lord Wellesley was a little boy. I sent them all to the auction
last month, as we are not up to re-silvering glass in India, and they
actually fetched £400; and with that I am going to have the ball-room
gilt in a very elaborate manner, and I think it will be a great

We have lost Captain Hill, who succeeded Major Byrne in the management
of the house and its expenses, whether ours, or the Company’s. He was
taken so alarming ill that he was obliged to go off to the Hills,
nominally on sick leave, but I fear there is no chance of his returning.
And it was all so sudden that he had no time to instruct his successor.
However, Gales is a very efficient House Steward, and I am carefully
educating Captain Macintosh in the Company’s interests. It often strikes
me that a very extravagant Governor-General might puzzle the Directors
very much; he can order any expense whatever, and as it is, the
establishment is enormous. Of course they can recall him when his
accounts go home, but there is nobody to check him here.

They say Lord Elphinstone has been in a horrible scrape with them for
his Durbar expenses--money spent on his house and furniture. They ought
to think highly of my little looking-glass economy, and if they would
send us out just a dozen very large looking-glasses, etc. However, I am
going home, at least I hope so. I expect this will find you under a Tory
Government--wretched, ill-governed creatures! The last hope of elections
seems fatal, and China news will be a good grievance to have the
Government out upon. I wish our successor were named. It is quite time
he should be, as George wishes to see him here before we go. Do name him
at once.

Ever, dearest Sister, your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to her Brother, Robert Eden._

_April 12, 1841_.

MY DEAREST ROBERT, There is no particular good news to send you this
time, though nothing much the reverse from India; but I think if the
Opposition did not take advantage of C. Elliot’s first absurd peace,
they may turn the Ministry out on finding it is no peace at all, and
that, moreover, he has not left himself the means of carrying on a war.
There never was such a man, if he were not a positive fool. I really
think he would go mad when he looks back on all he has done this year.
The last act of giving up Chusan, without waiting to see if the Emperor
would ratify the treaty, is the crown to all his absurdity. We have not
a foot of land left of their territory, and they actually ordered the
last soldier out of Chusan before they would give up their few
prisoners. Everybody wonders what will be the next news. Probably, that
he will prevent Sir Gordon Bremer from taking Canton, for fear it should
hurt the feelings of the Chinese, and the Emperor will probably send
down orders that our sailors are to wear long tails and broad hats, wink
their eyes, and fan themselves, and C. Elliot will try to teach them. I
don’t think my national pride ever was so much hurt.

Everybody is curious to know what the orders from home are. I have a
horrible fright that if the Whigs are still in, they will send out full
powers to George to take the business in hand. That _might_ interfere
with our going home, which would be much more distressing than any
national offence, and also it would be very inconvenient to him just

The Punjâb remains so unsettled that all the spare troops are obliged to
be kept on that frontier; and then Major Todd[506] has brought Herat
into a mess, and though I think that is nearer to you than to us, it
makes great difficulties in this direction. Then Singh and his army
cannot get on at all. Runjeet’s death has been so like the death of
Alexander, and of half those great conquerors in ancient history that we
used to read about, and believe in. His army was a very fine thing, and
his kingdom a good kingdom while he was there to keep his one eye upon
them, but the instant he died it all fell into confusion, and his
soldiers have now murdered all their French (I began on a half sheet by
mistake) and English officers, and are marauding wildly all over the
country. It is not actually any business of ours, but it interrupts our
communications with Afghanistan; and, in short, it is obvious that it
might at last furnish one of those pretences for interference England
delights in, and when once we begin I know (don’t you?) what becomes of
the country we assist--swallowed up whole.

Anyhow, I wish you would bestir yourself about our successor. It is high
time he should be named; moreover, my stock of gloves is exhausted, so
at all events I must come home. Do you think you could buy me instantly
from Fownes a dozen of long white gloves, ditto of short, and send them
off by some ship that is actually in full sail, not lying in that
dockyard where Grindlay locks up all the ships.

I suppose Fanny has given you most of our private history, so I have
given you this little touch of our public history. William is gone
tiger-shooting. Our new doctor is, I think, a very remarkable boxer, and
does not suit George at all. However, he is a good-natured man, and if
he would leave off cutting little melancholy jokes and making a face
like a rabbit when he laughs at them, and if he would not ask such a
quantity of small questions, there would be no harm in him. Your

E. E.

_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_May 6, 1841_.

MY DEAREST SISTER, Fanny means to write to you a line herself before the
post goes, and indeed may probably be strong again before the express
starts; but in the meanwhile I may as well begin a regular letter, as
she will not be able to do much. I am convinced we are all many hundred
years old, and barring that I have lost my hair, and my teeth, and my
eyesight, and I rather think my hearing, and am quite yellow and
probably stoop a little, I am very juvenile, and I must own never had
such good health in my life.

Between ourselves, our doctor is a perfect calamity, and George had
nearly yesterday made up his mind to get rid of him, but it would be a
strong measure. He has taken all the pains he could about Fanny, but he
is evidently an ignorant man on the subject of medicine, which is a
little unlucky for a doctor, and in other respects the greatest bore I
ever encountered--a sort of thing that makes one wag one’s ears and
stamp, he is so tiresome and slow.

What has knocked him up with George is his treatment of the natives.
Nothing will induce him to take the slightest charge of the servants and
their families, and he and I came to a grand blow up on the subject
yesterday about a boy who had been bit by a mad dog. George wanted to
get rid of him on the spot, but I thought it would be supposed he had
been sent away on account of Fanny’s protracted illness, which would be
ruin to him in his profession, and it must wait. But Macintosh added up
the case as it really stands: “The man is a brute to the natives, and I
am very glad that I have hated him ever since he entered the house, and
we all do the same.”

Yesterday we sent for old Doctor Nicolson, the Sir H. Halford of
Calcutta, whom everybody abuses and yet they all send for him, and the
other doctors mind every word he says. I have no faith in him myself,
except perhaps in these Indian cases, which he has seen enough of the
last forty years, and at all events he has put Fanny in better spirits
about herself.

Certainly the body is quite as inconsistent as the mind. I remember
laughing so the first two years at people going out, even in the cold
weather, with shawls on, and thinking it affectation. All the last week
I have dined with two shawls on, and George with his great cloth cloak,
and both of us declaring the evenings were delicious, only too chilly. I
imagine the kitchen at Eastcombe would be an ice-pit in comparison. Last
night at cards I asked Captain Macintosh if he had any return of ague,
and he said no, but that he and Captain Hollyer were both so dreadfully
cold they wanted to have the jalousies shut. The thermometer was at 79,
but I was quite as shivery as they were. I hope we shall brace ourselves
up on the voyage home, otherwise you will think us very tiresome and

I still think my new dog a great bore, thank you. I knew you were going
to ask, and I do not suppose I am capable of an infidelity to Chance’s
memory, for everybody says this is a perfect treasure. I have had the
promise of another, more after Chance’s pattern, but it is ill, and as
dogs always die in this country as soon as they are ill, it never may
reach me. But, in the meanwhile, I am not obliged to attach myself to
Juck. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_June 1, 1841._

MY DEAREST SISTER, You can hardly have the cruelty to expect a poor
creature to write after three weeks of the most desperate weather ever
felt in India, and no signs of a change. Even the natives are completely
beat by it. The Baboos say they can’t write, and the tailors can’t sew,
and I see the man who is pulling the punkah has a large fan in the other
hand with which he is fanning himself. Even George owns to falling
asleep over his work; and then the evenings are so hot we cannot drive,
which is unwholesome for him. Under these circumstances it is rather
difficult to write.

Fanny left a letter for you before she went. They have been gone a week
to-day, and therefore ought to be at Singapore to-morrow. I heard from
her on Wednesday evening when the pilot left them, just gone to sea, and
she said she felt better, though the heat had been dreadful in the
river, and that it was the quietest ship she had ever been in, and that
William [Osborne] was very contented, etc.; and Sir Gordon wrote word
she was in excellent spirits. If they find a ship ready to start from
Singapore they may be back in less than five weeks, and at all events in
six, and I am sure they will have had a blessed miss of any part of this
month. I rather hope they will make a week’s more delay, and go and see
Penang when they are about it. Everybody says it is so beautiful.

In the meanwhile, I take it we are going to bring her and Sir Gordon and
the whole ship’s company into the Supreme Court, I believe, and probably
transport them all. The captains of three several ships have all come
storming up the river, declaring that Sir Gordon fired upon them because
they did not salute his pennant quick enough to please him; and one
captain has brought two _balls_, one of which passed between him and his
pilot, and the other went through the cabin full of passengers. As they
were arriving from England, not thinking of finding a Commodore, and
certainly not expecting to find him on board a steamer tugging another
ship, it is rather sharp practice firing at all; but firing loaded guns
is quite a new idea. I hope it will not be proved that Fanny has been
popping away out of her cabin on these unsuspecting new arrivals. Sir
Gordon is always amazingly on the alert about his dignity; and having
detained _The Queen_ a day in order that he might attend the birthday
ball, went to bed before supper. It was supposed from some jealousy
about the Members of Council taking precedence of him.

I cannot think Charles Elliot and he, by clubbing all the intellect
they have, will ever be a match for one Chinese, even of a very
pale-coloured button, or indeed an unbuttoned Mandarin, if there is such
an improper character.

Our Queen’s ball was very magnificent, and, as I fondly hope it is our
last, I am glad it went off so well. I _wore my diamonds!_ I think that
sounds well, so the particulars will remain a mystery, but they really
looked very well, and George bought a beautiful row of pearls the other
day which he _lends_ me. We had Dost Mahomed and his sons and suite at
the ball, the first time he had ever seen European ladies in their
_shameless_ dress; but he did not see the dancing; George took him into
another room. He is a very kingly sort of person, and carries off his
half-captive, half Lion position with great tact. By way of relieving
George part of the evening, I asked him to play at chess, and we played
game and game, which was rather a triumph, considering the native chess
is not like ours, and he kept inventing new rules as we went on. I
somehow think if he were not a Dost it was not quite fair.

I opine this weather is having an excellent effect on George’s mind. The
most opinionated Governor-General never could dream of staying another
year after having been done to a turn--I may say rather overdone now,
and I cannot think that he _is_ thinking of it, only the letter from
England frightened him. But he declares that he wrote home for a
successor two months ago. Mr. Colvin, who is as anxious to go home as I
am, was in his room when I went there just now, and we made an invited
poke, which elicited an explicit answer that he meant to go home,
barring any extraordinary accident. I do not know how there could be any
accident more extraordinary or more fatal than our staying here another
year, and I feel we shall go.

Whenever I am too much beat by the weather even to take a book, I find
I am always thinking of packing and tin cases, and whether the railroad
from Portsmouth is not a horrid conveyance; and I never dream of
anything that is not purely English.

Law! Sister, there is such a gale of wind it has actually blown open a
window by breaking an iron bar, and the rain is coming down like smoke,
and I rather think, but cannot be sure, that I am coming to life. Of
course it is not the actual rains, but they must come in a fortnight,
and this is a blessing for an hour.

My new dog is a total failure. I still call him mine, but Captain
Macintosh takes care of him. I have been offered another, but I know
nothing will do after Chance.

Take care of Dandy and yourself. Ever your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_July 18, 1841._

MY DEAREST SISTER, At first I scorned your spiteful imputation that I
had not written to you by the April mail, but upon looking back into my
littel boke of dates, I found it was true, and now I only wonder how you
found it out. I see that it is for some years the first month I have
missed writing, and for fear the case should occur again, I strongly
advise that you should seal up two or three of my old Indian letters, if
you can find them; and desire Streeton to bring one in on a silver
waiter at the proper time. You will be quite taken in, for I have a deep
conviction that my letters have all been copies one of the other, so one
on the old pattern will seem quite natural to you.

Those horrid English letters of June 4 came in yesterday. They always
give me a low day, but this was worse than ever. I had made up my mind
that the Whigs were to be out and the Tories naming another
Governor-General. I do not now think the dissolution will help them
much, but others say it may, and now they have sent out full powers to
George to try and mend up that Chinese mess, and he thinks that if the
Whigs stay in, that he will be obliged to stay on. However, I did
nothing but cry about it yesterday, and now to-day I see it all quite
differently. I don’t think they will stay, nor he, nor we, and so I
won’t bother you about it till I see things more dispassionately. We are
to have another post in before ours goes, and that will show the turn
the elections are going to take, and I think--I am not sure--but I
_think_ I can live on in the hope of that post settling our return. I
always believe for the best, and this would be such a disappointment
that I have a sort of faith it _cannot_ happen, and so let us talk of
something else.

I am glad Hazlewood’s visit was not very fatiguing. He is a good-hearted
creature, and a shocking martyr to his wounds, but he has not half an
idea in his head, and I rather thought it a bold thing to introduce him.
But I daresay the pleasure to him was greater than the bore to you, and
that is the way to balance those things. And then, all Indians dote on a
live Countess. A stuffed one they would look up to, but a live one is
really a treat.

How is Dandy? Zoe, my new dog, is decidedly a treasure, marked just like
the lamented Chance, but smaller, and she does not interfere with my
respect to his memory, as she has no talents and no temper, but is
_creepmousey_, and cares for nothing and nobody but me, and requires
constant petting--a familiarity Chance did not admit of. She is
unluckily not used to the climate, and Brown, our coachman, who is
probably disgusted at having to doctor her so often, said to me
yesterday, “She is a nice little pet, ma’am, but I think the delicacy
of her health will give you a great deal of trouble.” Just as if it were
a delicate baby.

We had a sad incident amongst the pets yesterday. Captain Thurlow was in
William’s room, and was looking at some of his daggers and playing with
William’s great bloodhound. William was called out of the room, upon
which Nero laid hold of poor Captain Thurlow’s nose and bit it quite
through. They say he would have bit it off, if he had not been _in
play_. But in the meanwhile Thurlow is bit and Nero sent away, an event
that delights George, who always thought him an unsafe pet.

_August_ 11, 1841.

Think of that being written three weeks ago, and Thurlow was at
Barrackpore three weeks ago in attendance on his General, and his nose
so dreadful that, though he only appeared by candle-light, and that for
the first time since his accident, his poor dear nose made me so
squeamish I could not touch a morsel of dinner. However, they say it
will come right in time, but if it had been Thurlow’s dog and William’s
nose, George was wondering when he should have heard the last of it.

You will see our China news, which George thinks very good as far as it
goes. Charles Elliot is supposed again to have interfered too much
_against_ fighting, and to favour the Chinese pride as much as ever, and
the Army and Navy are both as bitter against him as the merchants; but
George is so thankful that our 2,000 men should have got out of the
scrape of attacking 47,000 without utter destruction, that he is rather
pleased. And then the million and a half of our money is a great point,
the more so that he has just heard that four million and a half of
dollars will be here in a week, just when money was most wanted.

I have had a long letter from Mrs. Elliot who had been at Canton before
this attack, and out shopping where no English lady ever shopped before.
She has picked up some curiosities of an expensive kind for George, and
some smaller ones for me, and Fanny has got a boxful from an American to
whom she gave a commission, and just because we want to unpack our
little goods, it is a Hindu holiday and the Custom House is shut. Do the
Hindu holidays annoy you much? But of course they do; we always felt

Poor Mrs. Elliot has had a trying life of it lately. She seems pleased
with this Canton business, and it is the best point at which Charles
could meet his recall. I imagine from some letters of his which George
showed me that it will not be a surprise to him, and he means to show
the world, etc., how right he has been. I foresee a long life of
pamphlets, don’t you?

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._

_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

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.

There is an old blind General of 98 at Barrackpore, and his wife (who is
84) has just been couched, and sees with one eye, which is the only eye
they have between them, and now the old man is going to be couched, and
their pet doctor is ordered off with one of the marching regiments. They
applied for an exchange for the doctor, which Sir Jasper refused, and
the old lady came crying about it to Barrackpore last week; but I did
not think I could well ask for it. However, she wrote a moving letter
yesterday, and it is so hard at 90 and 80 to be thwarted in one of the
very few wishes one can form, that I took courage, and set off this
morning and expounded the case to Sir Jasper, who is very good-natured,
and I rather think will do what they want. Sir Henry Fane would have
snapped anybody’s nose right off who had asked him for any favour of the
sort. It will make the old Morleys very happy. The glare was so great
that I think I shall have to be couched too; but that, of course, the
doctor will do gratis. My eyesight is shockingly bad--I mean even for my
age--and I have a strong and decided preference for large print.

I quite forget what one does of an evening in England. Here we dine at
eight and go to bed at ten, so a short game at cards after coffee fills
up the time, and nobody can read by the flickering lights here. Perhaps
you will play at Beg-of-my-Neighbour with me; and then we shall step
out, and smell the night-blooming stock in that little round border by
the breakfast-room, and listen to the nightingales, and then go to bed,
and I hope you will tell the bearers not to go to sleep when they are
pulling the punkah in the company-room, because that wakes me.

Dear me! I sometimes feel very English just now, but ungainly, and with
an idea that you will all laugh at us. I remember so well seeing all the
Lowry Coles[509] debark at Lord de Grey’s from the Cape, and they were
very unlike other people, and had very odd bonnets on.

_September 15._

This must go. We have had a hard-working week,--a great farewell dinner
to the Nicolls, and then to attend a play which Sir Jasper bespoke, and
which lasted till near one. We luckily did not go till ten, but the
audience who had sat there since eight were nearly dead, and we were all
horribly hard-worked. Then I have been making a sketch of Dost Mahomed
and his family, and he set off this morning for the Upper Provinces,
leaving me with one of his nephews unsketched. So this morning, with
immense activity I got up early, and Colvin abstracted the nephew from
the steamer and brought him to sit for his picture before breakfast. The
nephew is very like the picture of Judas Iscariot. They are all very
Jewish, but he is a fine subject, and considering Colvin had had no
breakfast, he seemed to talk Persian with wonderful animation. Ever,
dearest Sister, yours most affectionately,


_Miss Eden to the Countess of Buckinghamshire._

_October 8, 1841._

MY DEAREST SISTER, It is time to be writing again. Only three, or, at
most four times more. It makes me yawn and stretch, with a sort of
nervous shivering--just as one used to feel as a child the morning
before going to the play with the idea that by some particular mischance
_that_ day never would come to an end, or that the theatre would tumble
down, or somebody take our box. I have those theatrical misgivings and
yearnings about the next three or four months, and I wish the September
post would come, just to make sure that the new Governor-General[510] is
a man of active _packing_ habits. I want to go in February. They say now
that going in March makes such a long voyage. I think it is rather lucky
that this month’s news did not go home by last month’s mail. That sounds
Irish, because, as you justly observe, it is not so easy to advance a
month’s news as it might be a month’s allowance; but there is George
with his predatory habits up to the ears in preparation for a Burmese
war, and if that news had got home in time, the Court of Directors would
probably have made a strong objection to a change of rulers at the
beginning of a war.

It may still go off, but the villain [illegible] who is almost a savage,
has suddenly moved down to within 24 hours’ distance of our territories
with a horde of fifty thousand men, plenty of guns, boats, etc., and in
short, he looks full of mischief, all the more that he is egged on by
the Chinese. He may change his mind and take fright at the last minute,
but in the meanwhile he gives just as much trouble as if he had declared
war, and George has had a very busy week, ordering off regiments, taking
up transports, buying stores, etc., and as usual, if a thing has to be
done in a hurry, he has to _see to it_ all himself. He lives in a rage
with the slowness of the people whose real work it is, but by dint of
_aggravating_ them, he gets them through their work. I see the necessity
of sending out a fresh English head of affairs, with the English
constitution and habits of business, every five or six years. He keeps
all the poor languid Indians moving.

George was to have come up here yesterday, but he found the Captain of
the man-of-war and the Colonel of the regiment that are to start first
were making out that they could not possibly sail on Monday; so he sent
for them in the morning and made a row, and then asked them to dinner in
the evening to keep up the impression, and got some knowledgeable people
to meet them, and I suppose he will get them off in time. The Chinese
news is already better since Charles and Sir Gordon came away. Sir H.
Pottinger[511] began in the right way. The Chinese Commissioner wanted
to see him at Canton; he said it was the Commissioner’s place to come to
him at Macao. Now there is an expedition gone to Amoy. The Chinese by
their proclamations seem thoroughly frightened. The General and all the
Navy people seem to be in ecstasies at having somebody who will not stop
all their fighting, and I should not be the least surprised if Sir H.
Pottinger finished it all in six months, by merely making war in a
common straightforward manner.

I suppose Fanny has told you of all Mrs. Elliot’s anger, and her
expectations that Charles is to have titles and governments, etc., the
instant he lands in England. She is quite right, poor thing! to take his
part, though foolish to announce such expectations. But the change of
Ministry may be of use to him. Otherwise, there never was a man, meaning
well--which I really suppose he did--who has left such a fearful
character behind him with everybody but the Chinese, who profess the
greatest gratitude to him, as well they may. Your most affectionate

E. E.

     [In March 1842, Lord Auckland and his sisters left India. After
     their four months’ voyage they settled down in a little whitewashed
     villa, Eden Lodge, Kensington Gore.

     Lowther Lodge was built subsequently on this site, now occupied by
     the Geographical Society.]



_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lister._


MY DEAREST THERESA, I can write to no one in all the nervous flurry of
these first meetings but yourself, my poor afflicted friend. Amongst all
the happiness of others your hard trial[512] haunts me, and shocked me
more, much more than I can say, when I heard it at Southampton.

I had dwelt so much on seeing you, as I was told you were unaltered, and
then to hear of this! I will not write more now, but even the first
moments of arrival cannot pass away without my telling you how heartily
I feel for you and love you.

We are all well. Your most affectionate


_Miss Eden to Lady Francis Egerton._

_Tuesday [1846]._

MY DEAREST LADY F., I have been meaning to write to you constantly, but
once caught again in the trammels of civilised life the thing was

We spent a great deal of time (very pleasantly, so there is nothing to
repent of) at Penrhyn Castle. We went there for two days last Thursday
week, and somehow stayed on till yesterday. Every time we talked of
pursuing our Welsh researches, Colonel Pennant[513] declared that that
particular sight was one of the drives from the Castle, and there came
round a jaunting-car with four great black horses, and we went off to

There was no end to the sights, besides the Castle itself, which I think
one of the finest things I ever saw. The arches over the staircase
looked just like so much guipure lace carved in stone. Every table and
cabinet is carved either in slate, marble, or oak, till it is a
curiosity of itself. I slept in the State room, an enclosed field of
blue damask and carved oak. The bed, which I should imagine did not
cover more than an acre and a half, is said to have cost _£_1500. I
never had an opportunity of judging whether there was work enough for
the money, having slept generally near the edge.

Old Mr. Pennant spent _£_28,000 a year for twelve years in building this
Castle, and died just as it was finished. Everything from the Keep to
the inkstand on the table was made by his own Welsh people; and I never
saw a more wealthy-looking peasantry, and I suppose he spent his money
well according to Miss Martineau’s principles of doing good; that of
getting as much work done for one’s self as one’s money will pay for. I
daresay that is all right, but it always sounds like a suspicious
system, and against all the early ideas of self-denial and alms-giving
that were so carefully dinned into one; but the result in the instance
of Penrhyn Castle has been highly satisfactory, and I do not really mean
that he did not do a great deal of good besides. There never was a more
charitable man.

The present Col. Pennant, too, seems very anxious to do all that is
right, but he is oppressed, I think, by his immense wealth, and is not
quite used to it yet. He seems quite wretched still for the loss of his
poor little heiress of a wife. I like him for that, and also for that,
having like Malvolio had greatness thrust upon him, he has not set up
any of the yellow-stocking men or cross-garters Malvolio thought
necessary, but is just as simple and unpretending as he was in his poor

We had a very large party and a pleasant one, Edwin Lascelles amongst
others. What a man! If there happens to be any one day in which he does
not say or do anything absolutely rude, everybody takes a fit of
candour, and says: “After all, _I_ like Edwin Lascelles. I think we are
all wrong about him; he did not shut the drawing-room door in my face
when I was coming across the hall, and if you observed, he said before
he shut all the windows that he hoped nobody minded a hot room. I do not
think him selfish.”

We came here yesterday; rather a change from Penrhyn Castle. The house
was built in the reign of Henry the Sixth, and furnished, I should
suppose, by his own upholsterer, and has not been touched up since
apparently. And there is a window from which Henry the Seventh escaped,
and another at which Oliver Cromwell looked out, and in short, every
window has its legend, but none of them have any shutters or curtains,
and the doors are all _on the latch_ and never shut, and the weather has
turned cold, and in short, it is a relief to my feelings to say that I
am bored to death and wretchedly uncomfortable, and think seriously of
following Henry the Seventh’s example, and of escaping out of one of the
windows, to which my interesting legend will henceforth be attached.

It is very wrong, I know, to say I am so bored, but it is only to
you--and I might have an illness if I did not mention it--and though it
is extremely kind of them to have us here, I wish they wouldn’t, and we
had never meant to come. But when we were on our way yesterday to
Pengwern (Lord Mostyn’s) this Mr. and Lady H. Mostyn[514] brought him
over here, and then sent out letters and ordered post-horses to bring us
too, and I always knew how it would be. However, it is so very dull it
is almost amusing, particularly when I look at Lord Auckland, who has
always declared he should like the Mostyns. Indeed, he was the only one
of us who knew them, and I am happy to say that he sank into a sweet
slumber after coffee, from which he was roused with difficulty at
bed-time. One good of age and of hard practice in India is that one does
not mind being bored so much as one did in youth, though then, to be
sure, it hardly ever happened. The sediment at the bottom of the cup is
decidedly thicker whenever I am reduced to swallow a spoonful; but
still, I am more used to the taste of it, and as Dickens says of orange
peel and water, if you make believe very much, it is not so very nasty.
I am in a strong course of mutiny between them. But there is the
luncheon bell happily; that is always a cheerful incident. Ever your

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._[515]


Our post goes out now about half-past one, and we have had an immensely
long sermon against the poor Babylonians, who have all been dead and
gone so long that I for one have quite forgiven them their little
errors; but the preacher here is always having a poke at the poor
sinners in the Old Testament. It can do them no good, and it does none
to us, and he preaches an hour extempore, and altogether I think he had
better not be so spiteful.

Our Bonchurch has been a most successful experiment, and I have not
enjoyed a summer so much for the last ten years. We have a beautiful
little cottage in pretty grounds of its own. The country about you know
well, and I must say it is a very kind dispensation that as the wear of
life takes away or deadens the interests that seem so exciting in youth,
and many of which are artificial, the love of nature becomes more
intense. I am quite happy with shadows and clouds passing over beautiful
hills. I wish I could read Wordsworth, but the actual food itself I
cannot swallow.

Fanny has certainly been very much better since she came here. She is
one of the people who cannot exist without constant excitement, and
then, though it makes her quite well for the time, it affects her
spirits still more afterwards. She never from a child was happy in a
quiet home life, though with such high spirits in society, and of course
that tells more in her present state of health. When the Bingham Barings
and Lady Morley[516] were at Bonchurch for a week, she was in good
spirits, and then seemed quite languid and thoroughly _cheerless_, and
then all of a sudden went over to Ryde for two days, and George says
walked and drove and paid visits, dined out both days, and seemed quite
as well as ever, and she certainly looked all the better for it. Now
again, she has sunk into a listless state, and I am afraid there will be
no amusement she will care about for the rest of our stay. We have the
R. Edens and 7 of their children perched on their little hill. Lady
Buckinghamshire was nearly three weeks perched on hers, quite delighted
with her life here. She had never before been on a railroad, nor on the
sea since 1793 (when my father was Ambassador in Holland), and she left
her carriage in England and rumbled about in a fly. She delights in
pretty country and astonished us by her activity.

Then Maurice Drummond[517] suddenly appeared, walking about the Island
with a young Grenfell, and they took a cottage for a week at Shanklin;
and it is certainly satisfactory, as Mary says, to see how innocently
the young men of the present day can amuse themselves. These boys walked
about 20 miles a day and were in such a fuss to keep their expenses
down,--ordering 4 lb. of mutton, and cutting off wine at luncheon, and
really happy in a good, joyous, young way. And they settled when they
went away that they should have a pilgrimage next year to their dear
Rose Cottage--such a little hole you never saw.

Maurice made no allusion to the state of his affection, but he does not
seem to pine. With a little mellowing he will turn out very agreeable;
he has so much natural fun. We wanted him to stay on with us, but he had
not time. Your most affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Tuesday [1850]._

MY DEAREST THERESA, Many thanks for your long amusing letter. I do not
wonder you are pleased, both with the Election itself and the manner in
which it went off; and I am not at all sorry you were spared the
presence of F. O’Connor.[518] Even though he could have done no harm, I
can’t abide these Chartists, and hate to be convinced that they are
real live people, and particularly wish that they never may come between
the wind and my nobility.

Of course you will drive about in London for a few months with your
carriage as it appeared in the streets of Hereford, and by the courtesy
of the real member, you will be favoured with the real bouquet used on
that occasion. Great attraction, immense crowds, etc.

I know nothing more of Macaulay except that he unfeignedly rejoices at
an opportunity for getting out of office,[519] an escape that he has
unluckily wished to make for some time. There is of course a great
struggle made to keep him, but I can imagine office must interfere
materially with the pursuits and pleasures of his life.

I think Edinburgh,[520] which affects all sorts of classical and
pedantic tastes and enthusiasm, turning off one of the first orators and
cleverest men of the age for a tradesman in the High Street (both men
having the same politics), must feel slightly foolish now it is over.
They say the prejudice against Macaulay was entirely personal; he never
would listen to a word any of his constituents had to say, which is
hard, considering his demands on other people’s ears; but still they may
look a long time before they find a member so well worth listening to. I
wonder whether Cowan is agreeable.

I am really better, thank you, and able to walk about the garden. But
the quiet system has answered so well in bringing back my strength, that
I am willing to go on with it a little longer. It is said about
Elections that the Liberal cause has gained ground, that the Government
has lost ditto, which is as much as to say that four Ministers have been
defeated and we have a very rough Radical Parliament. If Sir George
Grey[521] is beat, I think a fifth loss of that kind would lead to some
decided change. Yesterday everybody said his success was quite certain,
and as every Election has gone exactly against the assertions made in
London, I presume he is beat by this time.

My Lord[522] is very busy at Portsmouth reviewing, sailing, firing guns,
surveying, giving great dinners at bad Inns, and doing everything that
is most unnatural to a quiet landsman; but he seems very happy, and it
is more wholesome than that eternal writing. To-morrow, he is by way of
sailing to Jersey and Guernsey. I never understand men in office, and
cannot catch an _aperçue_ of the motive which induces them to take
office or keep it; but I presume if this stormy sort of weather
continues, he will hardly persist in that little dutiful party of

We have been reading Lamartine’s _Girondins_--interesting, as that
eternal French Revolution always is, but most painful reading, and I do
not like Lamartine’s style. It is too epigrammatic and picturesque, and
his sentiments drive me mad. He tries to make out that Robespierre was
humane, Pétion _homme de bien_, Madame Roland virtuous, the Revolution
itself glorious. It gives me a great deal of exercise in my weak health,
for I throw the book away in a rage, and then have to go and fetch it
again. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Tuesday [January 6, 1848]._

MY DEAREST THERESA, How tiresome it is that you are out of town just
now! And such an unexpected blow, because we have acquired this year the
right to expect to find each other in London.

To-morrow being Twelfth Day, seven of Robert’s[523] children drink tea
here, and Mrs. Ward’s[524] nineteen youngest come to meet them; so I
scoured London yesterday morning to secure a conjuror for their
diversion, but there is an awful run on conjurors this month. Spratt of
Brook Street is engaged every day till the 19th; Smith of St. James,
ditto; but I worked my way steadily up from conjuror to conjuror through
all that tract of land lying between No. 1 Brook Street and 32 Fleet
Street; and there I finally grabbed Farley, who _says_ he can pound
watches into bits, and put rings in eggs and so on, though I rather
doubt it. Then from Fleet Street I drove straight and madly to Kent
House, determined to insist on the loan of Déjazet, and of Villiers and
Thérèse[525] too; if they were not above it; and “I tumbled from my
high” when I heard you were in the country till Thursday. What can be
the matter? Where is the country, and why are you there? However, if any
sudden change in your plans occurs, recollect that our innocent little
pleasures commence at 7 to-morrow evening.

Bowood was very agreeable. We stayed there eight days.

The Greys and Lady Harriet were in their best moods, and very pleasant.
Bingham kills me, dead; he is so tiresome, that it almost amounts to an
excitement. Macaulay quite wonderful, and I rather like him more for the
way in which he snubs the honourable member for V. Even the last
morning, when we four were breakfasting together by candle-light to come
up by an early express train, he made a last good poke at him. I asked
Mr. Dundas for some coffee, and he said he was shocked and he had just
drunk it, upon which Macaulay said: “What with your excess and your
apologies, Dundas, you put me in mind of Friday, who, when his father
asked for a drop of water, began thumping his breast and saying,
‘Friday, ugly dog, drank it all up.’” Mr. Dundas clearly did not like
the epithet--indeed so little, that he was obliged to laugh outrageously
and to say: “One of the happiest quotations, Macaulay, I have heard you

As a general rule, I should not recommend travelling habitually by the
railroad with Mr. Macaulay. The more that machine screeches and squeals,
the louder he talks; and when my whole soul is wrapped up in wonder as
to whether the stoker and the guard are doing their duty, and whether
several tenders and trucks are not meeting in between my shoulders, the
minor details of the Thirty Years’ War and of the retreat of the 10,000
Greeks lose that thrilling interest they would have in a quiet
drawing-room. There is a sort of aggravation in knowing that 10,000
Greeks died ignorant of railway accidents; and there is no use in
bothering any more about them, poor old souls!

Your cousins the Duff-Gordons[526] were at Bowood. I think her anything
but agreeable, but I strongly suspect that instead of our cutting her,
she was quietly cutting all of us, merely because she thinks women
tiresome. At least, I think there is so little good done by being rude
to anybody, that I try to be civil to her, but was repulsed with immense
loss. She came down to luncheon every day in a pink striped shirt, with
the collar turned down over a Belcher handkerchief, a man’s coat made of
green plaid, and a black petticoat. Lord Grey always called her the
Corsair; but she was my idea of something half-way between a German
student and an English waterman, that amounts to a _débardeur_. Whatever
that may be, I do not know.

London seems quite empty, the 4th Nr. of Dombey has given me infinite
pleasure, and I think even you must like that school. Just Villiers’s
case at King’s College.

I presume you are at the Grove. Love to all there--at least not all, but
a selection. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

[_Monday, 1848_].

MY DEAREST THERESA, I was not _standing out_ this time for the sake of a
letter; but, in the first place, I thought you were to be in town again
before this, and then I have been so poorly that writing was a great
exertion. It is five weeks to-morrow since I have had a breath of fresh
air, and now I have taken entirely to the sofa, and do not attempt
sitting up, even to meals. When I do, the second course generally
consists of a fainting fit, or some little light delicacy of that sort.
So now you see why I did not write; it would not have been _égayant_ for
your holidays. And illness always seems to me such an _immediate_
visitation from God that it never frets me as many other little
_travers_ do, which might have been avoided by a little more sense or

Lord Auckland seems quite satisfied with the efficient state of the
Navy, notwithstanding the loss of that poor _Avenger_.[527] I saw such
an interesting private letter to-day from the gunner who was saved,
stating so simply his escape and difficulties, not making half the fuss
that we should if the carriage had been overturned and we had had to
walk half a mile home.

I do not feel alarmed by the Duke’s[528] or Lord E.’s letters, but I do
not imagine they tell the French anything they did not know before, and
as the English never know anything till they have been told it twenty
times, it is perhaps not amiss that they should be so far frightened as
to make them willing to pay for a little more protection. They would
like a very efficient army and a great display of militia, but I doubt
whether they will like a shilling more of income-tax.

I always keep myself in good heart by all the axioms on which we were
educated, the old John Bull nonsenses--that one Englishman can beat
three Frenchmen; that the French eat frogs; and the wooden walls of old
England, and Britannia rules the waves, and Hearts of Oak, and _parlez
voos_--all most convincing arguments to us old warriors who lived in the
war times, and who went up to the nursery affecting complete
insouciance, but fearing that the French would arrive just while Betty
Spencer the nurse was down at supper. I quite remember those terrors in
1806; and then came all our victories, and the grand triumphs which
reassured me for life. I feel a dead of certainty that before the French
had collected twenty steamers, or had put twenty soldiers on board any
of them, Sir Charles Napier, or somebody of that sort, would have dashed
in amongst them and blown up half ships.

Still it might be as well to have a few more soldiers, if the Duke of
Wellington wishes for them, nor do I much object to his writing a
foolish letter. He has written a good many in his life.

I go on believing that if the use of pen and ink were denied to our
public men, public affairs would get on better. Johnnie[529] writes
foolish letters, and Lord P.[530] does not seem to have written a wise
one to Greece. Lord John called here last Thursday in good spirits, and
his visits are always as pleasant as they are rare. I do not mean that I
blame him for their rarity; it is more surprising that he should be able
ever to call at all. But as I have been so shut up for nearly a year, I
have seen but little of him, and I must say a little _snatch_ of him is
very agreeable and refreshing. Ever, dearest Theresa, your most

E. E.

_Miss Eden to her Sister, Mrs. Drummond._

_January 1848._

MY DEAREST MARY, George came home yesterday--a journey from Bowood; a
Cabinet yesterday afternoon; another long one this morning; and a Naval
dinner which we gave yesterday.

He says Macaulay has quite recovered his spirits, and there was not a
break in his conversation at Bowood. Lord John paid me a late visit
yesterday, and the servants wisely let him in, though I had said not at
home. But it was good-natured of him, as he was only in town for a
night, to walk down because he knew I was ill. “So I told them they must
let me in.”

I must say that when he told me particulars of the letters that had been
written to him, to the Queen, etc.--particulars he did not wish to have
repeated--and of the organised conspiracy it has been to try the
prerogative of the Crown, he is quite justified in any _twitness_ of
letters himself. It is a great pity that some of Dean Merewether’s
letters,[531] and of Lord John’s begging him to withdraw them, were not
published. He wrote to say that if he might have Hereford, or, as he
expressed it in a post-boy fashion, “If the Government gives me this
turn, which is my due, there would be no objection raised to their
giving Doctor Hampden the next Bishopric.” So it shows the Bampton
Lectures had not much to do with it.[532]

As for the Bishop of Oxford,[533] the odd intrigue he has been carrying
on would have been hardly credible in Louis XIII.’s time in a Cardinal
who hoped to be Prime Minister himself. However, I won’t say what I was
told not to say. But there is that to be said for our Queen and Prince,
that their straightforwardness is a very great trait in their
characters, and that they never deceive or join in any deceit against
their Minister, but always are frank and true, and repel all intrigue
against him. George thought the Prince very clever and well-informed at
Windsor; and his character always comes out _honest_. I take it that he
governs us really, in everything.

Somebody said to Lord John, “The Bishop of Oxford could be brought
around immediately if you would only say a few words to him,” and he
answered, “I suppose he would, if the three words were ‘Archbishop of
Canterbury.’” He did not seem at all bitter against him yesterday, but
said he had been made a bishop too young for such an ambitious man, and
that he had taken to court intrigues in consequence.

I am so glad _Daughters_ interested you.[534] I have heard such teasing
stories about that Lady Ridley--quite incredible. I am sure a few
mothers’ and daughters’ books are wanted just to make them understand
each other. If mothers would take the same pains not to hurt their
children’s feelings, that they do not to hurt other people’s children,
it would make homes much happier. They should not twit them with not
marrying, or with being plain, etc., and they should enter, whether they
feel it or not, into their children’s tastes. The longer I live, the
more I see that if the old mean to be loved by the young, and even on a
selfish calculation they ought to wish it, they must think of their own
young feelings and susceptibilities, and avoid all the little
roughnesses from which they suffered themselves. One of the remorses of
my life is not having loved my mother enough, because she was a most
excellent mother; but she rather teased me, and held up other girls, and
roused bad feelings of jealousy. And my father we all worshipped, though
I think he was particular with us, but then it was all done with so much
tact. I heard a great deal more about Mrs. Fry[535] and her daughter,
which set me thinking over all these things. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Friday_ [_April 1848_].

MY DEAREST THERESA, It is impossible to say anything in your favour as a
correspondent, so don’t expect it. But you may have other good points. I
do not know that you are entirely depraved. To make an example: You
might hesitate to stew a child--one of your own, perhaps. But as a
constant letter-writer, you are decidedly and finally a failure. I could
not imagine what had become of you, and it was a beautiful trait in my
character not writing; because nothing is so tiresome as a letter about
a long recovery.

I am better, but not well, and the more shame for me, for Ramsgate was
charming, everything that it ought to have been, delicious weather for
anybody who could not walk much, or drive at all. As it was warm enough
to sit out half the day, we had a small house quite close to the sands.
Not an acquaintance to disturb us. Ella[536] and I suited each other
admirably. I was not equal to company, and yet should have been sorry to
drive my _young_ lady to a dull life. But it is what she likes best, and
she really enjoyed her quiet life, found plenty of amusement for
herself, and was quite sorry when our five weeks were over. I do not
know any sea place I could like better than Ramsgate; it is so dry and
so cheerful, and such quantities of vessels are constantly coming in and
out. There were Greek, Russian, Dutch, Swedish, Spanish and French ships
in _quantities_; and the most picturesque-looking people always walking
about in the shape of foreign sailors.

We came back on Monday, having a very smooth sea for our voyage, and a
remarkably thick fog for our reception, which has lasted till this
morning. It is fine now.

No, I cannot say I have worried my intellect much with endeavours to
understand the monetary crisis. I am sorry Parliament is to meet, being
well aware that a country cursed with a House of Commons never can have
any liberty or prosperity; but I suppose it is unavoidable. I was rather
glad the Government did something; because even if it is a losing thing,
I think the country is better satisfied when the Government seems to try
and help it, and it is more creditable to all parties. But it seems to
me that the measure has hitherto had a good effect, and has done no

May not I now allude to the “Secret of the Comedy,” and wish you joy of
Mr. Lewis’s new office,[537] which is one I should think he would like,
and I should think you would too. It is interesting work, without being
dull slavery, as many offices are.

To be sure, there never was anything like the character Lord C.
[Clarendon] is making for himself; and if he could make one for that
desperate country he is trying to govern, Solomon would be a misery to
him. But what a people! I quite agree with Carlyle, who says: “If the
Irish were not the most degraded savages on earth, they would blush to
find themselves alive at all, instead of asking for means to remain so.”
But everybody agrees in saying they never had such a Lord-Lieutenant

I always meant to tell you about your brother Montagu. Two old gentlemen
were sitting near me at Ramsgate and talking of the difficulty of
finding a seat at the church there, and one of them said: “It is just as
bad in London. I sit under the Hon. Villiers, and what’s the
consequence? I never go to church because I can’t get a place.” The
friend, who was slow, apparently said, “Ah, and it’s much worse if you
sit under what’s called a popular preacher.” “Why, sir, that’s my case.
The Honourable Villiers _is_ a popular preacher, the most popular
preacher in London, and I say that’s the worst of a popular preacher,
nobody ever can get in to hear him.” I see Montagu preaching a splendid
sermon to himself, and his congregation all sitting glowering at him
because there is no room for them in church! But the idea is flattering.
The most remarkable marriage in my family is W. Vansittart’s.[538] He
has been ten years in India, lost his wife, has two children, on whom he
settled what little money he had. His furlough was out, and now he has
found a Miss Humphreys; good looking, pleasant, well brought up,
thirty-four (his own age), and with _more_ than £100,000, and a
beautiful home in Hyde Park Gardens, who is going to marry him, settled
all her fortune on him, and of course he has not now the least notion
where India is, unless towards Paddington perhaps. There is another
sister, much younger, if you know of any eligible young man. Your ever

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Sunday_ [1851].

MY DEAR THERESA, I was quite sorry you took all that trouble in vain for
me, but I had already let in Lady John and Lady Grey.... But what
crowned my impossibility of speaking any more, was an extra visit from
Locock.[539] I am a beast for disliking that man, only everybody has
their antipathy born with them. Some don’t like cats, some frogs, and
some Lococks. But he is grown so attentive, I repent, and he came on
Friday of his own account, and he did not scold me for not being better,
and he would not take his guinea, and was altogether full of the most
agreeable negatives. I am glad to have seen a doctor once refuse a fee.
I felt as if I had earned a guinea. Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

ADMIRALTY, _Saturday, December 1848_.

MY DEAREST THERESA, Your letter has come in at an odd time of day, not
leaving much time to answer it; but that is as well, as I cannot make
out a long letter. Lady Ashburton[540] is undoubtedly dead after twelve
hours’ illness; but nobody seems to know much about it, and that family
always forget to advertise their own deaths, so that one keeps thinking
they may recover long after they are buried. The Miss Barings went to
Longleat the day after their mother’s death, and the Ashburtons[541]
came to town for two nights, and then went to the Grange. I have written
twice to her but have had no answer, and I never know exactly how she
will take grief; but I should think she must feel all those rapid deaths
of friends and relations very much.

C. Buller[542] is such a loss to her society as well as to herself, and
it will make a great difference in her parties. He is so very much
missed by those who knew him well. We had seen a great deal of him this
year, and it was impossible not to be fond of him--he was so amiable and
good-natured and so light in hand.

I always felt Lady Ashburton would not long outlive Lord Ashburton; she
never cared much for anybody else, and was just the woman to fret
herself to death. Your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Tuesday evening_ [1851].

MY DEAREST THERESA, I was very glad to see your hand of write again,
though you might have given a better account of yourself and Thérèse if
you had wished to please. And then poor Bully! That was melancholy; but
however, he has been a pleasure to you for years, and that is something,
as life goes. I am glad you are up to Lord John’s tricks, because in a
general way that very artful young man takes you in in a manner that
astonishes me, who sees through him with wonderful perspicacity, and
when the Duke[543] told me he was going to Harpton[544] _on his way to
Knowsley_, I thought he was going to try to seduce my boy Sir George
[Lewis] from the paths of rectitude.

I wrote so much to your brother of all the Duke of Bedford said of the
old statesman being of use to the young one, and the young statesman
taking to the old one (words on which he rings the changes till he makes
me sick), that I can’t write it all over again; but by dint of
positively declining to understand, and by being so intensely stupid as
to ask which Lord Stanley he meant (perhaps _he_ of Alderley), and by
writing him short, savage notes in the intervals of the weekly luncheons
he takes here, I hope I have rather enlightened that slightly damaged
article--his mind. It is a good old mind, too, in its little bald shell;
but Lord John had evidently persuaded him that new combination of
parties was necessary, and that Lord Stanley was, as he always calls
him, the young statesman of the age. William Russell has succeeded Lord
John at Woburn, and had evidently snubbed the Duke about this alliance,
as his tone was quite changed about it, and he was anxious to prove that
the friendship began here. Your affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Sunday_ [1851].

MY DEAREST THERESA, I may as well write a line while I can, just in the
stages that intervene between the pains of my illness and the pains of
my cure; the last being decidedly the worst and the most destructive; my
courage has gone for pain.

How are you and yours, and what do you hear from Dublin? I have heard
nothing about them since they went. London is this week entirely empty;
otherwise there has always been an allowance of a visitor a day--Lord
Grey, Lord Palmerston, Lord Cowper, passing through, and so on; and
while Lord Auckland and Fanny were at Bowood, my sister, Mrs. Colvile,
abandoned in the handsomest manner her husband and children in the wilds
of Eaton Place, and came and lived here. I was very unwell at the time,
and she is the quietest and best nurse in the world. Poor thing! she
well may be.

The report of Lord Godolphin’s[545] marriage to Lady Laura gains ground,
and though I feel it is not true, it is too amusing to dispute. Ditto,
C. Greville’s to Mrs. H. Baring.[546] I see his stepchildren playfully
jumping on his feet when gout is beginning. Henry Eden is so happy about
his marriage, and so utterly oblivious of the fact that he is fifty,
that I begin to think that is the best time for being in love. Miss
Beresford has £20,000 down now, more hereafter; and as the attachment
has lasted twelve years, only waiting for the cruel Uncle’s consent,
which was wrung from him by Henry’s appointment to Woolwich, they ought
to know what they are about, and luckily when they meet they seem to
have liked each other better than ever. But twelve years is rather an
awful gap....

Macaulay’s book has unbounded success.[547] Not a copy to be had, and
everybody satisfied that _their_ copy is _the_ cleverest book in the
world. Don’t tell anybody, but I can’t read it--not the fault of the
book, but I can’t take the trouble, and had rather leave it till I can
enjoy it, if that time ever comes.

Good-bye, dearest Theresa. Love to Mrs. V. When do you come to town? How
goes on your book?[548] Yours affectionately,

E. E.



_Miss Eden to Lady Campbell._

_Tuesday evening, 1849_.

MY OWN DEAREST PAM, I hear to-day that you too are bereaved of what was
most dear to you;[549] and it has roused me to write, for if any one has
a right to feel for and with you, through my old, deep, unchanged
affection, early ties, association in happy days, and now through
calamity,--it is I. Dearest, how kindly you wrote to me in my first
bitter hours,[550] when I hardly understood what comfort could mean, and
yet, your warm affection did seem to comfort me, and I wish I could now
say to you anything that could help you.

You have children, to love and to tend, and yet again, they may be fresh
sources of anxiety. I have heard nothing but that there was a long
previous illness; and though you may have had the anxiety of much
watching, still I think that it is better than a sudden rending of the
ties of life.... We came here Friday, but I have not been able to go out
of my own room. This reminds me of you as well as of him. Your ever

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Saturday, December 1849_.

Thank you very much, my dear old friend, for thinking of me and my
sorrows in the midst of all your gladsome family, and your happy
Christmas. I earnestly hope and trust you will have many as happy, and
even more so as your children grow up around you, and become what you
have tried to make them.

The paper-knife is beautiful, and if it were not so I should have been
pleased at your thinking of me; and considering how long I have tried
the patience of my friends, it is marvellous how little it has failed.

It was a twelvemonth yesterday since he left me to go to the Grange. I
had got out of bed and was settled on the sofa, that he might go off
with a cheerful impression of me, and we had our luncheon together; and
he came in again in his fine cloak to say good-bye, and I thought how
well he was looking. And that was the close of a long life of intense
affection. I do not know why I should feel additionally sad as these
anniversaries come round, for I never think less or more on the subject
on any day. It is always there. But still this week is so burnt in on my
mind that I seem to be living it all dreamily over again.

I wish at all events to be able to keep (however cold and crushed I feel
myself) the power of entering into the happiness of others, and I like
to think of you, dear Theresa.... Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Wednesday_ [1853].

MY DEAREST THERESA ...I do not know whether you have heard of dear
little Mary Drummond’s marriage to Mr. Wellesley.[551] He is a really
good, sensible young man, the greatest friend her brothers and sisters
have, much looked up to in his office; and though he might have been a
little richer, they will not be ill off, and there is a tangible sum to
settle on her, and altogether I think it is a cheerful event. Their
_young_ happiness will do good to all our old unhappinesses, and I think
Mrs. Drummond’s letters are already much more cheerful from her having
all the love-making, trousseau, etc., to write about instead of her
health. Little Mary is such a darling--so bright and useful and
unselfish, and so buoyantly happy, that I do not see how they are to get
on without her. Her letters make me feel almost youthful again. She is
so thoroughly pleased with her lot in life.

Maurice[552] and Addy are taking their holiday at Broadstairs. I had
never seen them in this sort of intimate way, and I did not expect to be
so pleased as I am with both of them. His manner to her is perfect--not
only full of tenderness and attention, but he is very sensible in his
precautions about her health, and takes great care of her in every way.
She looks fearfully delicate. He is very attentive to me too, and as
they came in this direction partly to see if they could be of use to me,
I am glad it has all turned out so well. My health is in a very poor
state, and I am obliged to give up going down to the Baths, but a
cottage always has room for everything; and we are turning what is by
courtesy called a Green-house, into a bath-room, opening out of my
sitting-room. I like the place, and its quiet and bracing air and its
busy sea. It is always covered with ships, and I do not regret the move.
Your ever affectionate

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Dover._[553]


Your letter, dearest, was by some accident delayed on the road, and when
I received it the life you were all watching so anxiously was then only
to be numbered by hours, and I did not like to break in on you. Your
poor sister![554] From my heart I grieve for her, and from the very
beginning of this severe trial I have had almost daily accounts of her.

I would have written to you sooner about your own child’s[555]
happiness, but I was very ill when I heard of it. It is one of the
marriages that seems to please everybody, and as I do not think anybody
would have been satisfied with a moderately good son-in-law for you, or
a commonplace husband for Di, I am quite convinced that all that is said
of Mr. Coke must be true.

I sometimes hope that when your child is married, and your poor sister
can spare you, that you and Lucia[556] might be tempted to come here for
a few days. The journey is only three hours, and it is such a quiet
little place to stay in. The hotel is only a little village inn. I do so
long to see you.

Lord Carlisle talked of coming here for a day or two, but then I was not
allowed to see anybody. I wish you would tell him with my love how much
I should like to see him at any time, when he can leave his family and
his public duties.

Lady Grey kindly came here on Saturday, and is gone back to-day, and I
had a visit from the Ellesmeres last week, for which I had been
anxiously looking, as I was obliged once to put them off, and I wanted
much to see her. She is looking very thin, and is much depressed; but
still it always does me good to be with her, and to see such a
well-regulated Christian heart as hers. The second day she talked
constantly of her boy,[557] and as it was her own volunteering I hope
the exertion may have done her good. Lord E. is particularly well. The
suddenness of the poor boy’s death preys on her, and much as your sister
has witnessed of pain and illness, I still think that it is the sudden
grief which breaks the heart-strings. It is the difference between the
avalanche which crushes and the stream which swells gradually and has
time to find its level. But perhaps every one that is tried finds the
readiest excuse for their own especial want of resignation.

My health does not improve. They say the last attack a fortnight ago was
gout in the stomach. I trust God will spare me a recurrence of such
suffering, for I am grown very cowardly; but, at all events, every
medical precaution has now been taken, and I am not anxious as to the
result, though shamefully afraid of pain.

God bless you. Yours affectionately,


_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._


There is nothing I like so much as a letter, dearest Theresa, but I am
so often unable to answer them that, of course, my correspondents are
disheartened, and I cannot wonder at it. Just now a private letter is
invaluable, for when I woke up after six days of agony, which cut me off
even from a newspaper, I found that there had not only been various
Ministries formed and destroyed, but that _The Times_ had become
perfectly drivelling. Its baseness and inconsistency did not shock me,
and we have been brought up to that; but it writes the sort of trash
that a very rheumatic old lady who had been left out of Lord John’s
parties might indite. It really worries me, because I cannot make out
who or what it is writing for or about, or what it wants. There is no
use in commenting on your letters. I am very sorry for all that is past,
because I like Lord John, and he seems to have played a poor part. This
last abandonment of the Papal Bill[558] is to my mind the falsest step
of all, and I think the most ruinous to his character and the country,
and totally unlike him. I always keep myself up by setting down
everything wrong that is _done_ to the Attorney-General,[559] and
everything foolish that is _written_, to C. Greville. Quite unjust; but
I have never forgiven the Attorney-General that Park history, and C. G.
tried to do as much mischief as he could in _The Times_ last year about
foreign politics, and this year about the Pope.

Anyhow, it is an ugly state of things, and cannot last long. I heard
from a person to whom Sir James Graham said it, that he would not serve
_under_ Lord John, but that he would under Lord Clarendon; and I cannot
imagine that Lord Clarendon will not be Prime Minister before three
months are over.[560] I am afraid he is papally wrong, but I give that
point up now. The Pope has beat us and taken us; and when once a thing
is done there is no use in grumbling. England will be a Roman Catholic
country; and I shall try and escape into Ireland (which will, of course,
become Protestant and comfortable eventually), unless I fall into the
hands of Pugin,[561] who has built a nice little church and convent,
with an Inquisition home to match at Ramsgate. I suppose we shall be
brought out to be burnt on the day of Sanctus Carolus,[562] for the Pope
cannot do less than canonise Charles Greville.

I did not admire Lord Stanley’s speech as many Whigs did; there was the
old little-mindedness and grudging testimony to adversaries in it. I
always think Lord Lansdowne comes out as a real, gentlemanlike,
high-minded statesman on these occasions. However, I know nothing about
it really, for I have not seen a human being this fortnight.

Eden Lodge had been let to what seemed an eligible tenant, a rich widow
with one daughter, but three days before she was to have taken
possession she said her friends had frightened her about the Exhibition.
I do not suppose anybody will take it this year, which is inconvenient
to me, in a pecuniary point of view; but it cannot be helped. You do not
mention the children--is Villiers grown up? married? Prime Minister or
what? Your book looks imposing in the advertisements.

Love to Mrs. Villiers and to Lord Clarendon when you write. Your

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Saturday, March 1856._

MY DEAREST THERESA, Such a fascinating bullfinch! Mr. Whittaker’s
assortment arrived two days ago, and he brought six here this morning
in small wooden prisons; and the scene was most interesting. All of them
clearing their throats and pretending that they had taken cold and did
not know whether they _could_ sing; and all swelling into black and red
balls, and then all bursting at once into different little airs; and
Whittaker, who partakes of the curious idiosyncrasy which I have traced
in Von der Hutten and other bird dealers, that of looking like a
bullfinch and acting as such, going bowing and nodding about to each
cage, till I fancied that his coat and waistcoat were all _purfled_ out
like bird’s feathers; and I, lying on the sofa, insisting in a most
stately manner that some of the birds did not bring the tune down to its
proper keynote, though it was impossible I could tell, as they all sang
at once. However, I chose one that sings to command (a great merit).
“’Tis good to be merry and wise,” and now I have him alone, I am
confident you will like him. If not, the man will change him. I shall be
so pleased, dearest Theresa, if he gives you even a moment’s pleasure,
and I am certain from sad experience that in a settled deep grief,[563]
it is wise to have these little adventitious cheerfulnesses put into the
background. It is good for those who are with us, at all events. And
there is something catching in the cheerfulness of animals, just as the
sight of flowers is soothing.

You must find Harpton looking pretty for March, particularly if it is
suffering under such a very favourable eruption of crocuses, etc., as my
garden is. I never saw them in such clumps.

I have been fairly beat by Miss Yonge’s new book, _The Daisy Chain_,
which distresses me, as I generally delight in her stories; but if she
means this Daisy Chain to be amusing, it is, unhappily, intensely
tedious, and if she means it to be good, it strikes me that one of
Eugène Sue’s novels would do less harm to the cause of religion. The
Colviles are very angry with me for not liking it; and, above all, for
thinking Ethel, the heroine, the _most_ disagreeable, stormy, conceited
girl I ever met with. Starting with the intention of building a church
out of her shilling a week--which is the great harrowing interest of all
Puseyite novels; finding fault with all her neighbours; keeping a school
in a stuffy room that turns everybody sick, because she cannot bear
money that was raised by a bazaar by some ladies she disliked; and
always saying the rudest thing she can think of because it is _her way_.
I read on till I came to a point when she thought her father was going
to shake her because she was ill-natured about her sister’s marriage;
and finding that he did not perform that operation, which he ought to
have done every day of her life, I gave it up. The High Church party are
all going raving mad!

That pretty Mrs. Palmer[564] has had herself taken to a hospital as a
sort of penance in illness, and has left her most excellent husband and
five little children to take care of themselves. She has, moreover,
taken a vow of six hours’ silence every day during Lent, but will write
an answer on a slate. If I were her husband I should take advantage of
that vow and give her my mind for six hours at a time. She may not
answer again. Ever your affectionate


_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._


MY DEAREST THERESA, Will you tell me what I am to think about the India
Bill?[565] I believe I think with Roebuck, that it is claptrappy, and
generally that it would make a mess of India, but I have not the least
idea what it means, and will you tell me what effect it had?

I am still so much occupied in rearing up Sir George Lewis to be Leader
of the House, that I have hardly time to write. May I ask you to make
his holidays advantageous, by pointedly contradicting everything he
says, or does not say, while you are at Harpton; allowing him to argue
in defence of his opinions, but continue to contradict him in the
pertest and most offensive manner. I am afraid, too, I must trouble you
to allow him to find fault with everything you do--from ordering dinner,
downwards; because, though I hope this India Bill will finish the
Derbyites, still my Leader must be up to his Opposition duties. After
the recess, the House will continue his education, and your domestic
felicity will be more complete than ever for this little sacrifice to
the public good. You are quite wrong, my dear, about Lord John. A
charming individual in private life, but not fit to govern a country or
lead a party. So please attend to the above directions. Your affect.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to her Niece, Lena Eden._

[_October or November 1858_].

MY DEAREST LENA, It is pitch dark to-day, so that I have not been able
to attempt my newspaper. I am afraid you will have to go out as a daily
governess when I die, for I am spending my whole fortune in coats. Lady
Georgina Bathurst’s[566] letter was very amusing, but it is clear that
her friend Bennett[567] makes himself generally odious, and that poor
Mrs. Bennett suffers as much from it as she did formerly. I am sick of
the High Church clergy’s cant about respect for their Diocesan, etc.,
when they always do everything they can that is rude and disrespectful
to their Bishop; and it always surprises me that a sensible woman like
Georgina can be taken in by them. But she always was in extremes. In her
political days she did not think it possible that a Whig soul could be
saved, and may think so still....

The seagull pigeon is sitting. I am so glad I am not married to a
pigeon; they are such teasing, tyrannical husbands. Yours

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Tuesday evening_ [1862].

DEAREST THERESA, Sorry you did not come; hope for better luck Thursday.
I have had a _passage at arms_ with old Bentley, who has dawdled over
the “Auckland Correspondence”[568] till he says it is now too late for
the publication this season, and it will not appear till October; but
that this is the best time for a work of fiction, and he wanted mine
instantly. I wrote him a coldly savage letter, conveying all sorts of
reproaches in political terms, and saying that, as of course he could
not undertake a second book till he had done with the first, and as I
was in a hurry, I must accept the offer of some other publisher (I have
had several offers). Whereupon he rushed down here early this morning
and told Lena he was “a persecuted victim,” that he would bring out the
_Semi-Detached_[569] in a month, and that he must have it, etc. He
offered only _£_250, and I really will not take less than _£_300. Lena
told him so afterwards, and he said he dared to say that there would be
no difficulty about terms if he could talk it over with you. So mind
you stick to £300 and a very early publication. I really do want the
money, for poor Richard Wellesley has been obliged to resign, and they
are ordered to winter abroad for the winter and will have some
difficulty in managing it, so I want to be able to help them.

Dear little Mary is a greater darling than ever. Ever your affectionate


_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._

[_August_] _Saturday, 1859_.

So like you, dearest, to think of sending that review, which I thought
very flattering. Lena had already picked it up at a neighbour’s house,
and I am told it is a great help to a book to be reviewed by the
_Globe_. A review in _The Times_, even unfavourable, is supposed by
publishers to ensure a second edition, but _The Times_ does not stoop to
single volume novels. “Semi” has had more success than I require, and
considerably more than I expected.

It gave me real pleasure to think that I had amused you. That, and a
kind note from Lord Lansdowne, who said that the book had been a great
amusement to him in his convalescence, gave me intense gratification.
Altogether, people have been marvellously good-natured about it, and if
ever I write another story, which is not very likely, I shall call it
“The Good-natured World.” I really do think that, though we all carp in
a petty childish way at each other, that there is an immense amount of
solid _bienveillance_ in constant circulation; only we do not think
about the kindness we meet with, till we actually want it, and then we
see the amount and the value of it.

I wrote my congratulations with very great ease to the Buccleughs. That
marriage seems to give universal satisfaction, and Char was in such a
fidget to have her son[570] married, that she would have put up with a
very inferior article in the way of a daughter-in-law. I am more puzzled
with my letters to Theresa Lewis. Lord Clarendon had cut him[571] on
account of his writings, and Theresa Lewis had never asked him to Kent
House, so you see there is rather a mess to be cleared up before
congratulations come out in a clear brilliant stream.

However, Lord Clarendon has been extremely amiable about it, which he
was sure to be, and Thérèse was so regularly and thoroughly in love that
I think T. Lewis was quite right to make no objections on the ground of
poverty. After twenty-one, young people may surely choose for
themselves, whether they will be rich or poor.

Do you want a perfection of a little dog to _égayer_ you? Lady Ellesmere
knows my little Manilla silk dog, a small bone run through a large skein
of white floss silk, full of wit and affection. I feel certain it would
be a happiness to you and no trouble, except that you would have to coax
it fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, and then strike for thirteen

Love to Lady E. Ever your affectionate

_E. Eden._

The Duke of Bedford was here yesterday. He is looking very thin but in
good spirits, and happily satisfied that Lord John is the best Foreign
Secretary we have ever had, and a _juste milieu_ between Lord
Palmerston’s extreme French, and Lord C.’s extreme Austrian views.

_Lord Lansdowne to Miss Eden._

_August 22_ [1862].

MY DEAR MISS EDEN, Many thanks for your very kind letter. You will see
from the date of this I have advanced a step, and tho’ not quite well
yet, am at least convalescent, and just in a state fully to appreciate a
pleasant letter or a pleasant book; the _Semi-Detached_, innocent as it
is, did indeed amuse me greatly. I only wish all people could be made
half as agreeable. You have been able to hurry on a catastrophe without
the assistance of one villainous couple.

I am much disposed to be seduced by your view of Napoleon III.; no man
ever committed such mistakes and knew so well how to get out of them. A
friend of Mme. de Staël once said to me that she had an irresistible
propensity to throw her friends into the river; but that it was relying
upon her skill _pour les repêcher, l’un après l’autre_. This is somewhat
the case with him. He would not run so voluntarily into blunders if he
did not feel confident of extricating himself. Believe me, always,
affectly yours,


Pray read B. Osborne’s speech at Liskeard. One can afford to forgive
impudence when it is so amusing.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Monday evening_ [1862].

MY DEAREST THERESA, This has been a great “Semi” day, concluding with
your letter which is just come; and I began the morning with four
closely-written pages from Locock, who generally throws very cold water
on any of my little pursuits. But he says the grandest things of “Semi,”
which he had read on Saturday evening, and says that a bystander would
have thought him quite mad; he was screaming with laughter by himself,
and that he is ashamed to add that in church next day it _would_ come
back to him. “It really haunts me.” He was longing for Monday to read it
loud to Lady L., and he says that he must, at all events, be a good
judge of a confinement. _Blanche_’s lying-in is so thoroughly true.

I enclose a bit of Mary Auckland’s[572] letter, which also came to-day,
and which is the third she has written about it. All the family from
Wells have written in the same strain, and Robert, who is painfully
punctual, was missing at breakfast the morning after “Semi” arrived; and
was discovered in bed, peremptorily declining to get up till he had
finished his book. We look upon this as a great compliment, as he never
looks at a word. Anne Cowper is equally civil; but then these are all
friends, and would say anything that would encourage me to fill up my
sedentary sick life with any occupation; so any little word that you
hear from strangers is more valuable as a genuine judgment.

To be sure--the luck of having you as my editress, my shield, my sword,
my everything. You know everybody, and are good friends with them all.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Monday_ [_August_ 1859].

MY DEAREST THERESA, The important enclosure arrived safely this morning,
and I sent Ellis forthwith to get the money and pay it in at Drummond’s,
for fear Bentley should fail to-day. But my belief is that he is a
wealthy Bentley; and he has behaved like a gentleman, and evidently is
not discontented with his bargain. And so, all’s well that ends well,
even if it be only a Semi-Detached House.

Thank you again and again, dearest Theresa, for all the successful
trouble you took. Nobody but you could have brought the affair to such a
good end, and I now fondly think that between this and November you will
work up the Harcourt income to _£_4000 a year! You made _£_100 out of
the _£_25 I expected, therefore, etc., etc.

You all sound very happy at Harpton, and Lord Clarendon had given me the
same account, and said how much his girls[573] were taking to their new
cousin, and how pleased they were with Thérèse’s perfect happiness.

The house in Pont Street is a good idea. Thérèse will be so handy for
you to fetch and carry, and it will be such a mere step for her to Kent
House. I do not mean to settle yet what my little offering is to be. I
want to choose it myself when I go back to town. And then I have rather
set my heart on a china dessert service, but if anybody else steps in, I
can easily set my heart on something else. There are so many duplicates
in wedding presents; such unnecessary quantities of inkstands and cream
jugs; that I think it better to wait a little and hit the spot at the
end. I began life by giving my sister Mary a dessert service when she
married on _£_900 a year, and settled in that little cottage at Neasdon;
and in all their after wealth Mr. Drummond never would have any other,
but went on filling up the breakages in the old pattern to the end. And
so it has been my usual wedding _cadeau_ since, and I gave one to J.
Colvile[574] when he went to India, and as I look on Thérèse as a niece,
I should like to go jogging on in the old dessert fashion; so, if
anybody consults you, say _that_ is bespoke. So Mr. Harcourt may have
one. But you will let me know in the course of time. The Sydney Herberts
called here yesterday. They had slept at the Grenville farm and he came
very good-naturedly to assure himself, he said, that I was aware of the
complete success of “Semi,” which seems to have taken his fancy
prodigiously. He said it had become a sort of byword in London, and that
if anybody talked of taking a house, the answer was, Semi-detached, of
course. I have not seen him for 12 years, and he is not the least
altered in looks. They were going to dine with Florence Nightingale[575]
at Hampstead, or rather at her house, for she has come quite to the last
days of her useful life and is dying of disease of the heart. Every
breath she draws may be heard through her closed doors, but when she can
speak she still likes to talk to Mr. Herbert of soldiers’ hospitals and
barracks, and to suggest means of improving them. Ever your affectionate


_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Saturday evening, November 1859._

MY DEAREST THERESA, Between Lena,[576] and Lady Ribblesdale,[577] and
Eddy and Theresa, and all the maids in the house, I am mistress of every
detail of the wedding, and I am so very glad that it all went off so
beautifully. Lena says it is the most interesting wedding she has been
at; there was so much feeling and family affection floating about; and I
hear dear Thérèse looked very pretty and very pale. But it is _you_,
my old dear, that I have been thinking of all day--thinking so much that
I am obliged to write to get the subject off my mind. I am so sorry for
you, but only just at this moment. And, after all, the wedding is not so
bad as the day of proposal to the mother. Then you had nothing to look
to but her going away; and now your next prospect is her coming back;
and in the meanwhile you have done all in your power to secure her

[Illustration: The Hon. Emily Eden

from a drawing by George Richmond, R.A.

Emery Walker Ph. sc.]

God bless you, dear. This does not require an answer, but I could not
resist writing, and I thought you would like to know that I was as well
as could be expected; after the fatigue of being at Mrs. Harcourt’s
wedding this morning. I really feel as if I had been there. Your


_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Monday evening_ [_October 1860_].

MY DEAREST THERESA, It is just bedtime, but I must write a line of warm
congratulation on the advent of the grandchild and our dear Thérèse’s
safety;[578] I missed the announcement in _The Times_ this morning, and
it was not till the middle of the day that Lena, with a railroad sort of
screech, made the discovery, and then with infinite presence of mind I
said, “Then Theresa cannot be come to town and I shall hear from her
this evening.” And so I did.

What a discovery chloroform is. By the time we are all dead and buried,
I am convinced some further discovery will be made by which people will
come into the world and live through it and go out of it without the
slightest pain.

Don’t you think that if Thérèse continues to go on as well as she has
begun you will be able to drive down here? Lady Clarendon sometime ago
got an order for Lena to see Strawberry Hill, but as Lena only returned
from Wells on Saturday I made no use of it till to-day, and then we
found Lady Waldegrave was living there. However, an imposing groom of
the chambers showed us the pictures, and Lena saw the rest of the home,
while I was all the time longing to ask him if he knew anything about
Thérèse, but felt too low in the scale of creation to propound such a
question to him.

My best love to her. Do come here. Your affectionate


_Miss Eden to Lady Charlotte Greville._

_October_ 24 [1863].

MY DEAREST LADY CHARLOTTE, A sudden wish has seized me to write to
you--not that I have an atom of a thing to say except the old hacknied
fact that I am very fond of you, and also that I heard constantly of you
when I was at Richmond through your sons,[579] and the Flahaults,[580]
and that now I do not see how I am to hear of you at all, except
somebody at Hatchford (not you) will have the kindness to write to me.

Barring the loss of the view, and the drives in that beautiful park, I
do not miss my Richmond so much as I expected.

There is always something intensely comfortable in home, and my own
books and things, and I am very busy with a new sitting-room that I have
made upstairs, by throwing two small bedrooms into one. It has made a
very pretty warm room, looks clean and bright, and then there is the
fun of furnishing it. It is painful to look out of the window. Those
dreadful Royal Commissioners have cut down all the fine trees belonging
to Gore House[581] and are running up a blank wall 20 feet high, for
their new garden.

My own trees are the only ones left in this neighbourhood, and though
the blank wall is better than another row of houses staring into my
garden, the general effect is that of living just outside the King’s
Bench Prison. I look upon a man who cuts down a large tree in London as
capable of committing murder, or any other crime, and have a vague idea
that the Road Murder[582] might be traced home to Prince Albert and Lord
Granville, or one of these Commissioners.

It will interest Lady Ellesmere to know that Lena[583] has returned to
her navvies, and has been greeted with the greatest warmth. Indeed, I
should prefer a little more coolness in her place, as they all insist on
shaking hands, and I imagine washing is a virtue they do not practise
more than once a week. However, they are an interesting race, very
grateful in their rough way; and the Controller and Clerk of the Works
both say that there is a great improvement in their habits, and are very
eager now to encourage the readings. A great deal of the work in these
gardens has now passed into the hands of London bricklayers and
carpenters. They steadily declined listening to Mr. Ward, the
missionary, and were very rude to him.

He was very anxious Lena should try and tame them, so she began by
collecting the débris of her navvies, and sitting down with them under
the old tree (which they have killed of course), and some of the
bricklayers gathered round and began to laugh, so she told them very
quietly that they need not come out of their shed to listen to her if
they did not like it, but that if they came out she could not allow any
laughing at such a serious subject. And they took it very well and said
they did not mean to jeer, and that if she would come to their shed,
they would listen if they might smoke; and the navvies in their
gentleman-like way advised her to go, and said they would go with her,
and they made a path with planks and put up a sort of seat, and showed
the bricklayers how the little lady, as they call her, was to be
treated. And it all went well. She read them a tract called Slab Castle,
which always touches them, and when she came to the chapter on the
Bible, half of the bricklayers were in tears, particularly the ones who
had laughed, and they conveyed her to the gate, begging she would come
again, and clamorous for copies of Slab Castle--which I advise her to
decline giving for the present. But they have been extremely civil and
attentive since, and she has certainly heard such satisfactory accounts
of her old congregation, that it is an encouragement to go on. My love
to Lady or Lord E., and believe me ever, dearest, your affectionate


I hope Alice will not insist on my liking Miss Yonge’s new book.[584] It
is more unintelligible than “The Daisy Chain,” though not quite so
tiresome. But she brings in too many people. There are four generations
of one family, and her moral is quite beyond me. Those that are well
brought up turn out wicked, and the worldly family produce a crop of
saints. I am proud to say I am quite incapable of construing the slang
she makes her ladies talk.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_Monday_, _December_ [1863].

MY DEAREST THERESA, It is obvious that I must write and wish you and
yours a happy New Year, and a great many of them, and one happier than
the other; but barring that I do not see that I have anything else to
say. London is so utterly empty during Christmas week, everybody
thinking it right to go to somebody else’s house, and it is always the
most solitary week of the year to me. But I feel so comfortable in the
thought that I am not passing it in bed as I have for the twelve
preceding years, that it seems to me a singularly merry Christmas.

I suppose you are all rehearsing and acting. Lady Derby writes word that
she hears Alice[585] is well enough now to think of acting on the 11th,
so I hope she has made great progress in health since she got home. Lady
Derby gives rather a poor account of him; he gains strength so slowly,
but she says that after being confined to his own room for three months,
he was now able to get about the house at times....

The only two people I have seen this week have been Lord Brougham and
Sir C. Wood.[586] Lord Brougham was only in town for two nights on his
way to Cannes. He is quite enthusiastic about my father’s papers, and
has written something about them in the _Law Review_, and he was rather
good-humoured and pleasant. But on going away he always cries so much at
the prospect of our not meeting again, that he leaves me in a puzzled
state of low spirits. All the more, that I have not the remotest idea
whether it is his death or mine that he is crying over; but he looks so
well, I think it must be mine.

By the bye, your old Dean Milman[587] came hobbling into the room on
Saturday, full of abject apologies to Lena, whom he chose to suppose he
had affronted, and taking great care to ignore his real grand sin of
abducting the papers without asking leave. However, he came to say that
he was most agreeably surprised that Mr. Hogge has done his part
well,[588] and that he and Mrs. Milman had been greatly interested,
etc., which she amply confirmed. I like her very much, and she is still
so handsome.... Good-bye, dearest. I did not write sooner, as I had just
written to the Grove when your letter came, and as everything is public
property there, this counts for a letter to Lord Clarendon as well as to
you. Your affectionate


_Miss Eden to her Niece, Mrs. Dickinson._[589]


MY DEAR MRS. DICKINSON, I am charmed with your letter, I wanted to have
one from you. Dear old Longleat! I should so like to see it again. I
passed so much of my youth so very happily there, and I do not think I
ever attained loving anybody more than Lady Bath,[590]--not this
one[591]--but her mother-in-law, and the daughters pay back to me the
affection I had for their mother....

I suppose they told you about the Horticultural Fête? I saw and heard
nothing but the crash of carriages, and linkmen went on screaming for
them till nine at night. I have not heard linkmen screaming for the last
thirteen years.

Yesterday Lena got leave from one of her friends working in the garden,
to bring me in thro’ a little obscure door into the great conservatory,
which we had to ourselves, and I really could hardly believe the flowers
were real, they were so unearthly beautiful, particularly the geraniums
and roses, great round stools of flowers of the brightest colours. Some
day I have a fancy that I shall be well enough to go down and visit you,
my old pet. What a bore for you! Your aff.

E. E.

_Miss Eden to Lady Theresa Lewis._

_March_ [1865].

MY DEAREST FRIEND, I would rather write to you myself. I am so thankful
I saw and took leave of dear Mary. She wished it so much herself, and
was as loving and as dear as ever. You know we had always been the
greatest friends of the family, and till I went to India, we had never
missed for a single day writing to each other. It was an intimacy that
only two sisters nearly of an age can have, and she referred to it again
on Tuesday, and told me still to be a mother to her children. They
always _have_ been like my own children. But I am most thankful I was
able to witness such a really happy deathbed as hers, so calm, so
peaceful, and her mind as entirely clear as it ever was in its best
days. And to see those six tall sons, four daughters-in-law, and her
three daughters all round her bed, the sons more overwhelmed even than
the daughters, and she thanking them, and saying how happy they had made
her, it was a scene that quite comforts me for her loss, and her poor
daughters had quite the same feeling. I saw them yesterday after the
case was hopeless and they were quite calm.

Dearest Theresa,[592] I do not think it good for you just now to go
through more melancholy scenes, otherwise you are one of the few I
should like to see. I _depend_ on you so much. Is it not strange that
with my health I should have outlived my six sisters--all, except Lady
Godolphin, in perfect health when I came from India? Ever, dearest, your


_Miss Eden to Mrs. Dickinson._


I have been out only four times since I came to London. The very
ordinary looking women who inhabit London at this time of year, with
last year’s dirty little bonnets put at the back of last year’s dirty
little faces, and with dirty gowns to match spread over absurd hoops,
make me quite uncomfortable.

The “Semi-Attached Couple” was written in that little cottage at Ham
Common. I do not exactly know who Mrs. B. was at this moment, but all
our Camp ladies were always lying-in, and it is a very easy business in

I do not exactly see unless I turn back, and grow young again, that I
shall ever visit you at Berkley,[593]--Richmond is looked upon by
doctors as an immense journey for me. I am very much pleased my book
altogether amused you. I have such quantities of old letters of thanks
for it, from people I had forgotten. I had a grand letter from Lord
Houghton (Monckton Milnes) in praise of my pure facile English, among
other things _Slang_ was not invented in my day.

You are quite right to make your children’s childhood happy, and as
merry as possible, but please do not spoil them. Life does not spoil
anybody, and so teach them early to take it as it comes--cheerfully.
Your aff.

E. E.

[Miss Eden died in August 1869: her friend Lady Campbell three months


Abby, Mr., 161

Abercromby, James, 50

Aberdeen, George, 4th Earl of, 352

Acton, Miss, 150

Adderley, Mr. and Miss, 82

Adeenanuggur, 300

Adelaide, Queen, 323

Admiralty House, 235, 240, 243, 246

Albemarle, William, Earl of, 244

Albert, Prince Consort, 372, 399

Allahabad, 292

Almack’s, 134

Alvanley, Lord, 102-3, 128;
  Boyle Farm breakfast, 134-5; 164, 167, 201;
  ruined, 216-17

Amherst, Sarah, Countess, 340

Amherst, Lady Sarah, 279

Amherst, William Pitt, 1st Earl, 279, 295

Amoy, 357

Anglesey, Henry, 1st Marquis of, 127, 208

_Ann Grey_, 245

Anson, Colonel, 202

Anson, Viscount, 202

Apsley House, ball, 198

Arden, Colonel, 91-2, 216

Arkwright, Mrs. Robert, 226

_Arlington, note_ 217

Ashburton, Alexander, 1st Baron, 377

Ashburton, Lady (Mrs. Alexander Baring), 376-7

Ashburton, Lord and Lady (Bingham Baring), 377

Ashley, Hon. Lionel, 214

Ashley, Lord, 157, 187, 199

Ashley, Lady Harriet, 191

Ashley, Mr., 177

Astley’s, 91, 133

Atholl, Duke of, 156

Auckland, Eleanor, Lady (wife of 1st Lord Auckland), 1-2, 10-11, 16-18

Auckland, George, 2nd Lord, created Earl of, 2;
  Melbury, 4, 7, 10;
  Dropmore, 12; 13, 18, 32;
  the Drummonds, 36, 37; 54, 58;
  Middleton, 59; 87;
  Bowood, 98;
  Tunbridge, 101-2; 104, 110, 113;
  Nocton, 121; 128, 136-7, 139-40;
  Ireland, 143-4, 148;
  Stackpole, 151, 159; 163;
  Greenwich Hospital, 165-6, 168; 172, 175, 187;
  Lady C. Sturt, 189;
  Lord Ilchester, 191; 199;
  Board of Trade, _note_ 204; 207, 218;
  death of Mr. Hyde Villiers, 223;
  letter from Mrs. Norton, 227; 232;
  the Exchequer, 233;
  Park Lodge garden, 235;
  Admiralty, 239-40; 251;
  Indian appointment, 252;
  departure, 259;
  journey, 261;
  Calcutta, 265-6; 268-9, 271;
  Simla, 296;
  Mission, 301; 310, 322;
  Burmese War, 356-7;
  return, 358;
  Naval Reviews, 366; 369, 371;
  death, _note_ 380

Auckland, Mary, Lady (wife of the
Bishop), 394

Auckland, Robert, 3rd Lord Auckland
(Bishop of Bath and Wells), 394. _See_
Eden, Robert

Auckland, William, 1st Baron, 2

Austin, Thomas, 165

_Avenger, The_, 369

Bagot, Mr., 215

Baring, Alexander (1st Lord Ashburton), 106, 128, 136, 158, 182, 196.
  _See_ Ashburton

Baring, Mrs. Alexander (Lady Ashburton), 35; 159;
  her daughter’s love affairs, 181; 184;
  death, 376-7

Baring, Alexander Montagu (son of Bingham Baring), 189

Baring, Bingham (2nd Lord Ashburton), 159, 169, 189, 363, 367, 377

Baring, Lady Harriet (Lady Ashburton), 128, 159, 164, 169;
  praise of Miss Villiers, 183; 185, 188-9, 190, 193, 367, 377

Baring, Mr. F., 159

Baring, Miss Harriet (Marchioness of Bath), 181, 183, 184, 402

Baring, Henry, 195-6

Baring, Mrs. Henry, 379

Barings, Miss, 134, 377

Barrackpore, 263;
  menagerie, 266; 270, 284;
  native school, 286; 321

Bath, Thomas, 2nd Marquis of, 183, 192, 197

Bath, Isabella, Marchioness of, 32, 59, 77, 153, 158; 163;
  her daughter’s marriage, 180-81, 182-3; 186, 190;
  Longleat, 192;
  her son’s marriage, 195;
  death, 196, 402

Bathurst, Lady Emily, 17

Bathurst, Lady Georgina, 17, 80, 389-90

Bathurst, Lord, 139

Beckenham, 12

Bedford, Francis, 7th Duke of, 378, 392

Bedford, Georgiana, Duchess of, 49, 75

Begum, the, of Moorshedabad, 335-6

Belvidere, exhibition of pictures at, 259

Bennett, Rev. W. Early Bennett, 389

Benson, Mr., preaching at Tunbridge, 20

Bentinck, Lady Lucy Cavendish, 170

Bentinck, Lady William, 340

Bentley, Richard, 390, 394

Beresford, Colonel, 272-3, 297

Beresford, Mrs., 271-3, 297

Beresford, Miss, _note_ 91, 379

Berkley, 404

Bessborough, 145

Bethune, Captain, 322

Bexley, Lord (N. Vansittart), 1, 4, 11, 17, 93-4

Bigods (Mr. Drummond’s house), 127

Bingham, Lady, 244

Bogue, forts, 336, 338

Bonaparte, Napoleon, 13, 74

Bonchurch, 362

Bonnington, 57

Bowood, 5, 47, 50-52, 62, 99, 108, 229, 367

Boyle Farm, 38, 97, 132-3, 262

Bramley, Doctor, 276; death, 284

Bramley, Mrs., 277

Bremer, Sir James Gordon, 336, 342, 346, 357

Broadstairs, 199, 202

Brougham, Henry, Lord Brougham and Vaux, 158, 193, 204, 207, 215, 237-8,
      247, 315, 401

Buccleuch, Walter, 5th Duke of, marriage, 182-3; 392

Buccleuch, Charlotte, Duchess of, 153, _note_ 180, 181;
  her son’s marriage, 392

Buckinghamshire, Robert, 4th Earl of, 82

Buckinghamshire, Eleanor, Countess of (Sister), 35, 36-7, 81;
  Strathfieldsaye, 81-2; 87, 93;
  her attendance on Lady Sarah Robinson, 100, 113, 114;
  Nocton, 122-3; 128, 131-2;
  Downing Street, 141-2; 145, 152-3, 154;
  Wrest, 190;
  Dandy, 332;
  Bonchurch, 363

Buller, Rt. Hon. Charles, 377

Burgh, 38

Bushy, 40

Bute, Isle of, 57, 62

Bute, Lord and Lady, 64, 66-7

Butler, Lady Charlotte, and Lady Emily, 148-50

Buxton, Sir Thomas Fowell, 132

Byng, George, 188

Byrne, Major, 288-9, 340

Byron, George, Lord, 1, 3;
  Moore’s _Life_, 194, 209-10

Byron, Lady, 1, 3, 19.
  _See_ Milbanke

Cabul, 314, 318

Cahir, 147-8, 149-50

Calcutta, 245, 262, 265;
  society, 273

Caledon, 174

Caledon, Catherine, Countess of, 174

Caledon, 2nd Earl of, 174

Calne, 97

Campbell, Caroline Frances Eden (Mrs. Percy Wyndham), 250-51, 252

Campbell, Miss Christina, 68

Campbell, Edward, 227, 326, 328

Campbell, Lady Elizabeth, 32.
  _See_ Cawdor

Campbell, Emily, 227, 232-3, 262.
  _See_ Ellis

Campbell, Fanny, 174;
  marriage, 329

Campbell, Miss Frances (sister to Sir Guy), 84

Campbell, Frederick, 331

Campbell, Georgina, 125, 329.
  _See_ Preston

Campbell, Sir Guy, 60-62, 64-6;
  description of General Way, 67-8; 69-70, 71, 73, 76, 83, 84;
  Crambo at Bowood, 98;
  appointment in Ireland, 115; 148;
  Armagh, 160; 172, 228, 329, _note_ 380

Campbell, Lady (Pamela FitzGerald), her aunt’s illness, 32-3;
  Mary Drummond, 37, 38;
  her pig, 39;
  Mr. Rose, 40;
  Mule drive, 44;
  Lansdowne family, 47-53;
  Lady Mary Ross, 57;
  opinion of the Scotch, 58;
  marriage, 60;
  her husband, 61;
  the Scotch, 63;
  _The Times_, 64;
  Mount Stuart, 66;
  Emily Eden’s hysterics, 69;
  Lady Jane Paget, 70;
  Lord and Lady Foley, 71;
  Mr. de Roos, 72;
  Queen Caroline’s funeral, 74;
  Arques, 76;
  Whig vice, 79;
  Mr. de Roos’s marriage, 83;
  Strathfield Turgess, 84-5;
  Lucy’s marriage, 96;
  Lucy’s death, 97;
  Bowood, 97-9;
  scarlet fever, 111-12;
  journey to Ireland, 125-7, 130;
  Limerick, 139; 144, 149-50;
  Armagh, 160-63, 172-5;
  her daughter Emily, 227, 231-3;
  _The Sunny Baby_, 250-52;
  Carton, 254-6;
  her children, 328-31

Campbell, Guy Colin, 329

Campbell, Pamela (Mrs. Charles Stanford), 79, 99, 147, 329, 331.
  _See_ Stanford

Campbell, Mr., of Stonefield, 72

Canning, Rt. Hon. George, 129, 139

Carnarvon, 2nd Earl of, 105, 221

Carnegie, Mr., 146

Carton, Maynooth, 254

Cassiobury, 86, 306

Castlereagh, Viscount, 134-5, 187, 210

Cator, Mr., 13

Cavendish, Lady Catherine, 311

Cavendish, Mrs., 90

Cawdor, Countess of, 32, 59-60, 137, 151, 196

Champneys, Captain, 295

Chance, 240;
  India, 259-61, 269;
  his suite, 286-7, 332, 337-8, 345, 349

Chantry, Sir Francis, 184;
  statue of Mr. Pitt, 185

Charing-Cross, 42, 50, 63

Charlemont, Francis, Lord, 331

Charlton, Kent, 19

Chatsworth, 89, 90, 169

Chesterfield, Lord, 134-5

Chichester, Lord, 75-6, 88

Chichester, Lady, 87-8

Chilvers, Mr., 69, 71

Chinese Expedition, 322, 328, 333

Chusan, 339-42

Clanwilliam, Lord and Lady, 152

Clarendon, George, 4th Earl of, 306-7;
  marriage, 309, 310;
  Ireland, 375, 385;
  Mr. Harcourt, 392;
  Harpton, 395.
  _See_ Villiers, George

Clarendon, John, 3rd Earl of, 310, 313

Clarendon, Maria, Countess of, 313

Clarke, Dr., 118-19, 124, 154

Clements, the, 74

Clerk, George Russell, 316

Clifford, Lord, 177

Cockburn, Sir Alexander, _note_ 385

Cockerell, Mrs., 277

Codrington, Sir E., 158

Codrington, Captain, 317

Coke, Hon. Mrs. Edward, 383

Cole, Mr. G., 178

Cole, Sir Galbraith Lowry, 355

Colvile, Mr. Andrew Wedderburn, 13, 186

Colvile, Eleanor, 86, 87

Colvile, Sir James, 395

Colvile, Hon. Mrs. (Louisa Eden), 18, 42, 59, 61, 63, 79;
  Eyam, 89;
  daughter’s marriage, 231;
  seventeenth child, 240; 379, 388

Colvin, Sir Auckland, 316

Colvin, John Russell, 290, 316, 347, 355

Conyngham, 2nd Marquis, 246

Cootes, the, 40, 74

Copley, Sir Joseph, 91, 128, 220

Copley, Maria, 86, 87, 91, 121, 163, 165, 179;
  marriage of Miss Villiers, 200; 203, 216;
  marriage, 220.
  _See_ Howick, Lady

Copley, Miss, 86, 91, 165, 169-70

Corry, Mr., 191

Cotton, Sir Willoughby, 306, 334

_Court and Camp of Runjeet Singh, The_ 324

Cowan, Mr. C., 365

Cowper, Amelia, Countess, 6, 107, 167, 187, 199, 214-15, 245

Cowper, Anne, Countess, 394. _See_ Robinson, Anne

Cowper, Lady Emily, 167, 171, 178, 187. _See_ Ashley

Cowper, William, Earl, 214, 379

Cray, 80

Crichel, 189

Croker, Mr., 100;
  Boyle Farm breakfast, 135

Cust, Captain, 28

Custs, Miss, description of, 29

Cuvier, George, 251

_Dacre_, 271

Dacre, Lady, 176

Daltrey, Dr., 189

Danford (Lady S. FitzGerald’s servant), 54, 262, 270

Darnley, Countess of, 36, 156

_Daughters_, 372

Dawkins, Captain, 318

Delancey, Lady, 13-15

Delancey, Sir William, 13-15

Derby, Elizabeth, Countess of, 145, 177-178

Derby, Emma, Countess of, 401

D’Este, Miss, 248

_Destiny_, by Susan Ferrier, 206

Devonshire, 6th Duke of, 5, 89-90;
  Fox cloak, 116, 157

Dickinson, Hon. Mrs. Edmund, 402, 404

Dino, Madame de, 202, 214

Donoughmore, Earl of, 146, 148

Douglas, Lady K., 16

Douglas, Mr., 28

Dover, Lady, 383

Downing Street, 138, 141, 153, 159

Doyle, Sir Charles, 146

Dropmore, 2, 12

Drummond, Charles, marriage, 35-7; 38-9, 56, 131, 201, 395

Drummond, Hon. Mrs. Charles (Mary Eden), 1-4;
  Bowood, 5, 7-9;
  Melbury, 10-11;
  Dropmore, 12, 17, 18, 21, 31;
  Mrs. Baring’s ball, 35;
  Mr. Drummond, 35; 37;
  party at Burgh, 38; 40, 42, 49;
  dromedaries, 50; 52;
  Charing-Cross, 63; 70, 96, 114;
  children’s education, 127-9; 130, 132;
  Bigods, 136-7, 140, 148;
  Grosvenor Place, 156; 240, 252, 320, 323;
  children, 326, 328, 330;
  Mary’s marriage, 382;
  death, 403

Drummond, Doctor, 300, 332

Drummond, Edward, 46, 70

Drummond, Ella, 374

Drummond, Lady Harriet, 77

Drummond, Mary Dulcebella, 140.
  _See_ Wellesley, 382, 391

Drummond, Maurice, 364, 382

Drummond, Hon. Mrs. Maurice, 382

Drummond, Theresa, 323, 396

Dudley, John, Earl of, at Bowood, 98

Dumont, Pierre Louis, 48

Duncannon, Viscountess, 75, 148, 151

Duncombe, Mr., 28

Dundas, Mr., 367-8

East Combe, Charlton, Kent, 23, 28, 74, 93, 333

Ebrington, Viscount, 40, 329

Ebrington, Viscountess, 40

Eden, Hon. Emily, letters from Eden Farm, 1-18;
  her sister Mary, 3-5;
  sattin gown, 12;
  steam-party, 17;
  visit to Lady Grantham, 21-30;
  Longleat, 31;
  Rogers the Poet, 35;
  Mary’s marriage, 36;
  Drummond party, 38;
  Duchess of Bedford, 75;
  George Osborne, 87;
  Chatsworth, 89-90;
  water-party, 91;
  Gog Magog, 93;
  Hertingfordbury, 95;
  education, 107;
  Bowood, 109;
  Lady Campbell’s troubles, 111;
  Nocton, 117;
  Lady Sarah Robinson, 118-24;
  Bigods, 127;
  Barings, 128;
  Goderich tricks, 131;
  Boyle Farm, 132-4;
  Ireland, 143;
  Knowsley, 145;
  Lord Henry Thynne, 147;
  Lord and Lady Goderich, 154;
  _Journal_, 156;
  Panshanger, 167;
  Greenwich, 168;
  Hatfield theatricals, 176;
  Mrs. Baring’s fidgets, 181;
  love affair, 188;
  Lady Bath’s death, 196;
  energy at Court, 198;
  district visiting, 205;
  Guildhall, 206; 214-15;
  Church lectures, 218;
  Admiralty, 235;
  India, 252;
  voyage, 260;
  Barrackpore, 264;
  Calcutta, 267-84;
  journey up country, 288;
  camp life, 293;
  Simla, 298;
  Runjeet Singh, 300-2;
  the Begum, 335;
  Chinese expedition, 341-2;
  home, 358;
  tea-party, 367;
  illness, 369;
  Lord Auckland’s death, 380;
  bullfinches, 387;
  navvies, 399

Eden, Hon. Fanny, 31, 46, 97, 103, 135, 137;
  Knowsley, 145; 152, 159;
  Lady Derby’s death, 178; 196;
  Broadstairs, 199; 220;
  Ham Common, 242; 244, 266, 277;
  drawings, 303; 328;
  Chinese expedition, 346;
  Bonchurch, 363

Eden Farm, Beckenham, Kent, 5, 27, 188

Eden, Henry, Admiral, 91;
  marriage, 379

Eden, Henry Johnes (son of the Bishop), _note_ 199

Eden, Lena, birth, 112; 390, 396, 398;
  her navvies, 399; 402

Eden Lodge, Kensington Gore, 277, 358, 386

Eden, Hon. Morton, 5, 11, 28, 225

Eden, Rev. the Hon. Robert (3rd Baron Auckland, Bishop of Bath and Wells),
      11, 13, 74, 82-3;
  Eyam, 88-90;
  marriage, 92-3;
  Hertingfordbury, 95; 99, 103, 167, 171, 222, 230, 363.
  _See_ Auckland

Eden, Hon. Mrs. Robert, 112, 199, 230, 240.
  _See_ Auckland, Lady

Eden, William, General, 242

Edgeworth, Miss, 144, 180

Edridge, Henry, 253

Egerton, Lady Francis, 241, 244, 384, 392, 399.
  _See_ Leveson and Ellesmere

Egerton, Mr., at Hatfield, 176

Eldon, Lord, 43, 46, 107

Ellenborough, 1st Earl of, 133;
  Governor-General, 356

Ellesmere, Harriet, Countess of, 384, 392, 399

Ellice, Rt. Hon. E., 228

Ellice, Mrs., 236, 238, 242

Elliot, Sir Charles, 333, 336;
  Chusan, 338-9, 341-2, 346, 350-51, 352, 357

Elliot, Mrs. Charles, 336, 339, 350-51, 357

Elliot, Admiral Sir George, 13, 325, 333

Elliot, Mrs. George, 14

Elliot, Rt. Hon. Hugh (Governor of Madras), 62, 69

Ellis, Mr., 28

Ellis, Hon. Lucia Agar, 383

Ellis, Mrs. Charles (Emily Campbell), 227, 232-3, 262

Elphinstone, John, 13th Lord, 315, 341

Elphinstone, William G. Keith, General, 334

Erroll, Elizabeth, Countess of, 34, 160

Esterhazy, Prince, 202

Ewhurst, 188

Eyam Rectory, 88

Fane, Sir Henry, 272, 306, 327, 354

Fane, Mrs., 327

Fane, Miss, 303

Fazakerley, Mr., 51

Feilding, Caroline and Horatia, 70

Feilding, Captain and Lady Elizabeth, 5, 6;
  their children, 7; 26;
  fuss, 66

FitzClarence, Elizabeth, 34, 160.
  _See_ Erroll

FitzGerald, Edward, 33, 56, 132-3

FitzGerald, Lady Edward, 76, 130

FitzGerald, Lord Henry, 39, 85

FitzGerald, Lucy, 33, 36, 39, 40, 45;
  rabbits, 46; 49, 51, 52;
  Mount Stuart, 66;
  gingerbread, 68; 69, 70, 74, 82;
  marriage, 96; 97;
  death, 111

FitzGerald, Pamela, 32-4, 36-41, 43-58, 60.
  _See_ Campbell, Lady

FitzGerald, Lady Sophia, 32-3, 37-9, 44-6, 53-6;
  in the grumps, 62; 66, 73

FitzMaurice, Lady Louisa, 7, 15, 331

Flahault, Comte de, 398

Foley, Thomas, Baron, 71

Foley, Cecilia, Lady, 71

Fonthill, 78

Forbes, Lord, 133, 160

Fordwich, Viscount, 214, 245

Forester, Hon. Isabella, 96

Foster, Mr., 90, 141

Foster, Mrs., 236

Frognal, 21

Fry, Elizabeth, 373

Garrett, Mr., 75

George IV., King, 139, 157-8, 198

Glenelg, Lord, 299

Glengall, Countess of, 144, 146-9, 160

Glengall, 2nd Earl of, 149, 201

Goderich, Lord (Right Hon. R. Robinson, 1st Earl of Ripon), 101, 113, 118-22,
  Prime Minister, 138-9, 142-3, 156-7

Goderich, Lady (Lady Sarah Robinson), 131;
  her rage, 132;
  her husband Prime Minister, 138; 139;
  behaviour in Downing Street, 141;
  son’s birth, 151, 153-4;
  cause of her husband’s resignation, 156-7; 159-60;
  Wrest, 190, 204.
  _See_ Robinson

Godolphin, Lord, 379

Godolphin, Lady, _note_ 379, 404

Gog Magog, 22, 93

Gordon, Lord Henry, 295-6, 310

Gordon, Lady Henry, 279, 295

Gordon, Sir Alexander Duff, 3rd Bart., 368

Gordon, Lady Duff, 368

Gore House, 399

Gosford, 2nd Earl of, 174

Goulburn, Rt. Hon. Henry, 159

Government House, Calcutta, 265-7, 271;
  balls, 275

Graham, Mr. (Sir James Graham of Netherby), 23-4, 27, 239, 385

Graham, Mrs., 23

Grange, The, 104, 109, 180;
  Lord Henry Thynne’s visit, 181-2;
  Lord Auckland’s death, _note_ 380, 381

Grantham, Thomas, 3rd Lord (2nd Earl de Grey), his theatre, 24, 25, 116, 118;

Grantham, Lady, 21, 23-6, 47, 54;
  liking for London, 61;
  child’s illness, 141-2, 163, 165, 182

Granville, 2nd Earl, 399

Granville, Harriet, Countess of, 59

Gravesend, review of Tide-waiters, 103-4

Greenwich, 11, 165-7;
  Park Lodge, 168, 178, 183, 197;
  pensioners, 228, 231;
  departure from, 235

Greville, Mr. Brooke, 147, 150, 217

Greville, Lady Charlotte, 102, 157, 166, 190, 224, 226, 398

Greville, Charles, 141, 220, 230, 379, 385-6, 398

Greville, Henry, 92;
  cross, 96; 398

Grey, Captain, 261, 266, 351

Grey, Charles, 2nd Earl, Guildhall, 206, 207; 209;
  Reform Bill, 218;
  son’s marriage, 220, 235, 237-8

Grey, Rt. Hon. Sir George, 2nd Bart., 366

Grey, Henry, 3rd Earl, 367-8, 379

Grey, Maria, Countess, 376, 384

Grindlay, Captain, 257, 343

Grove, The, 58, 369

Grosvenor, Lord and Lady, 135

Grosvenor, Hon. Robert, 134-5

Grosvenor Street, Lower, No. 30; 28, 41, 262

Guiccioli, Countess, 210

Ham Common, 239, 242, 404

Hampden, Renn Dickson (Bishop of Hereford), 372

Hampton Court Palace, 244

Harcourt, Rt. Hon. Sir William Vernon, 392, 396

Harcourt, Mrs., 397-8

Harpton, 377, 387, 389, 395

Harrington, Mr. F., 259

Harrowby, Lord and Lady, 17, 40, 220

Harvey, Captain, 329

Hatchford, 398

Hatfield, theatricals, 176; 204

Hawkins, Mrs., 290

Hay, Lady Isabella, 13

Hay, Lord, 13

Hayley, William, 85

Hazlewood, Captain, 332-3, 349

Heaphy, Mr., 15

Heber, Bishop, 184

Heber, Mrs., 198

Herat, 299, 342

Herbert, Hon. Sydney, 396

Herries, Rt. Hon. J. C., 157

Hertingfordbury, 93-5, 106, 176, 222

Hibbert, Mr. George, 186

Hill, Lord Arthur, 146, 148

Hill, Captain, 340

Hill, Lady Charlotte and Lady Mary, 62

Hill, Rowland, 1st Viscount, 244-5

Himalayas, the, 290, 297

Hindu College, 265, 281, 284

Hobhouse, Rt. Hon. John Cam, 27, 158

Hogge, Mr. George, 402

Holland, Lady, 49

Hollyer, Captain, 345

Hooghly, the, 262, 287

Hook, Theodore, 326

Hope, Mr. and Lady Elizabeth, 71

Hope, Sir G., 17

Houghton, Lord, 404

Howard de Walden, Charles, 6th Baron, 170

Howick, Lord, _note_, 220, 238, 367-8, 379.
  _See_ Grey, 3rd Earl

Howick, Lady (Lady Grey), 224, 376.
  _See_ Copley, Maria

Huskisson, Rt. Hon. W., 157-8, 203

Ilchester, Earl of, 8, 32, 191

Ilchester, Dowager Countess of, 8, 10

Jacquemont, Victor, 304

Jekyll, Mr., _note_ 154

Jersey, Countess of, 6, 59, 75, 135, 152, 187, 221

Jocelyn, Viscount, 321, 323, 325, 328

_Jupiter_, the, 258, 266

Kemble, Charles, 185

Kemble, Fanny, 185

Kenmare, Earl and Countess of, 150

Kent, Duchess of, 102

Kent House, Knightsbridge, 367, 392

Keppel, Major, 176

Keppel, Mrs., 217

Kerry, Earl of, 7, 47, 232, 234

Killarney, 150

Kingston, 5th Earl of, 144, 150

Knighton, Sir William, 157

Knocklofty, 146, 148

Knowsley, 137, 145, 152, 378

Kurnaul, Nawáb of, 314-15

Labouchere, Mr. Henry, 159

Laleham, 153-4

Lamb, Lady Caroline, 3

Lamb, Sir F., at Panshanger, 167, 215

Lamb, Lady F., at Brocket, 199

Lamb, Hon. George, Westminster election, 27, 90, 116, 221

Lamb, Mrs. George, 88, 141

Lamb, Hon. William, 3, 144.
  _See_ Melbourne

Landseer, Mr., 75

Langley Farm, Beckenham, Kent, 36, 58

Lansdowne, Henry, 3rd Marquis of, 7;
  Bowood, 47-50, 52-3, 63, 73;
  Fonthill, 78; 80, 81, 109-10, 157, 201, 207, 214, 229, 232, 234-5, 237-8;
  looks, 331; 386, 391;
  letter to Miss Eden, 393

Lansdowne, Lady, 6-7, 15, 46-7, 49, 52, 63-4;
  Bridget, 76;
  kindness of, 99; 110, 141, 171, 214, 233;
  Lord Kerry’s marriage, 234;
  sister’s death, 330

Lascelles, Lady Caroline, _note_ 383

Lascelles, Hon. Edwin, 361

Lascelles, Mr., 28

_Last of the Mohicans, The_, 100

Leinster, Duke of, Lady Foley’s extravagance, 71

Lennox, Lady Georgina, 83.
  _See_ de Roos

Lennox, Lady Louisa, 80

_Letters from India_, by E. Eden, 259

Leveson Gower, Lady Francis, 102, 105, 129, 153, 157-8;
  Hatfield, 176-7; 196;
  her daughter’s birth, 201, 222, 224, 241, 244, 384, 392, 399.
  _See_ Egerton, Lady Francis; and Ellesmere

Lewis, Mr. George (Sir G. Cornewall Lewis), 374, 378, 389

Lewis, Lady Theresa, 392, 403.
  _See_ Lister, Mrs.; and Villiers, Miss

Lieven, Madame de, 156, 214, 229

Limerick, 126

Lister, Alice Beatrix (Lady Glenesk), 312

Lister, Mrs. (Lady Theresa Lewis), 199;
  her brother’s death, 225; 257;
  death of Lady John Russell, 306;
  becomes Lady Theresa, 309; 312;
  death of Mr. Lister, 359.
  _See_ Lewis

Lister, Mr. Thomas Henry, 199, 201, 204, 217, 220, 224-5, _note_ 245, 276

Lister, Thérèse, 367, 395, 397-8.
  _See_ Harcourt, Mrs.

Lister, Thomas Villiers (Sir), birth, 217; 307, 367, 369, 386

Liston, John, 150

Littleton, Rt. Hon. Edward, 228, 237

Liverpool, Lord and Lady, 17-18

Locock, Sir Charles, 376, 393-4

London University, Professors, 137, 170, 193

Londonderry, Lady, 80

Longleat, 31, 62, 186, 192, 194, 195, 377, 402

Lushington, Mr., 17, 164

Luttrell, Mr. Henry, 153, 159, 164

Lyndhurst, Lord, 247

Lyon, Captain George, 96, 112

Macao, 325, 357

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 365;
  Bowood, 367-8, 371; 379

Macdonalds, the, 50

MacGregor, Captain, 300-1

Macintosh, Captain, 335, 341, 344-5, 348

Mackintosh, Sir James, 158

MacNaghten, Mr., 300-1

MacNaghten, Mrs., 290

MacNiel, Mr., 300

Madden, Mr., 16-17

Mahomed, Dost, 299, 302, 314;
  attends Queen’s ball, 347; 355

Maitland, Sir P., 299

_Malachi_, 100

Manchester Square, 305

Mansfield, Countess of, 40, 134

Markhams, Miss, the, 23

Matthews, Thomas, the actor, 55

Maynard, Viscount, 127

Mayor, Lord (Alderman Key), 206-7

Meerveldt, Count, 5

Melbourne, Lady, 3

Melbourne, Viscount, 167, 215-16, 222, 237, 240, 244-5, 246-8;
  letter to Miss Eden, 258.
  _See_ Lamb, W.

Melbury, 2, 4, 7, 10, 190

Mellish, Miss, _note_ 195

Melville, Lord, 139, 157

Melville, Lady, 26

Merewether, John (Dean of Hereford), 371

Metcalfe, Sir C., 263

Middleton, 5-6, 52, 202

Miguel, Dom, 156

Milbanke, Anne, 1, 3, 19.
  _See_ Byron, Lady

Mildmay, Sir Henry and Lady, 159

Miller, General, 171-2

Milman, Dean, 402

Mimms, 331

Minto, Earl of, 229

Mitchell’s, 150

Montagu, Hon. Caroline, 220

Montagu, Edward, 40

Montagu, Hon. Henry, 62, 262

Montagu Hall, 359

Moore, Colonel, 162

Moore, Sir Graham, 162

Moore, Mr. (Lord Bute’s agent), 67

Moore, Mrs., 5

Moore, Thomas, 110;
  _Life of Lord Byron_, 194, 210

More, Hannah, 42, 43, 243

Morley, General, 354

Morley, Lady, 276, 296, 363

Morpeth, Lord, 157, 176, 213, 254;
  chief secretary, 271; 330-31

Mostyn, Hon. Mrs., marriage, 163, 171

Mostyn, Hon. Edward, 362

Mount Shannon, 149

Mount Stuart, 65, 69, 71

Muir, Mrs., 58

Murray, Lady Caroline, 134

Murray, Lady George, 9

Murray, Mr. John, 115

Napier, Sir Charles, 370

Napier, Miss Louisa, 80

Napier, Mrs., 82

Napoleon III., Emperor, 393

Nawâb of Moorshedabad, 334

Newton, Mr. (the artist), 106, 109, 113, 115

Nicholls, Sir Jasper, 326, 353-5

Nicolson, Dr., 344

Nightingale, Miss Florence, 396

Nocton, 58, 117-18, 138

Noor Mahal, 325

Norfolk, Duke of, 177

Norman Court, 78, 102, 152, 170, 187

Normanby, 1st Marquess of, 329

Norton, Hon. Mrs., 227, 230, 241

Oatlands, 224

O’Brien, Lady Susan, 8

O’Connell, Daniel, 208, 237

O’Connor, Feargus, 364

Ogilvie, Mr., 45, 46

_Oliver Twist_, 303

Osborne, Charlotte, 93

Osborne, Lord Francis Godolphin, 3, 21, 88, 93.
  _See_ Godolphin, 379

Osborne, Lady Francis Godolphin, 2;
  Gog Magog, 93.
  _See_ Godolphin, Lady

Osborne, George Godolphin, 3;
  marriage, 87-8

Osborne, Godolphin, William, 3, 10, 233, 259-60;
  Military Secretary, 266, 271, 277, 279, 286-8;
  Sikh Mission, 300-1;
  his _Court and Camp of Runjeet Singh_, 303-4, 320;
  Singapore, 325, 328;
  tiger-shooting, 339, 343, 346, 350

Osborne, Ralph Bernal, 393

Ossory, Lord, 79

Oudh, Prince of, 263

Ouseley, Sir Gore, 107, 164

Ouseley, Miss, 107, 140

Ouseley, Lady, 107

Paget, Lady Jane, 70-71

Palk, Mary, 129

Palmella, Mademoiselle de, 156

Palmer, Mrs. Edward, 388

Palmerston, Henry, Viscount, 214, 352, 371, 379, 392

Panshanger, vice and agreeableness, 167, 214-15, 226

Parliament, Houses of, 245

Parry, Captain, 81

Paul, Sir George, 8, 10-11

Peel, Lady Jane, 105

Peel, Lawrence, 105

Peel, Rt. Hon. Robert (Sir), 139, 158, 246, 251, 299

Peel, Right Hon. W., 34

Penge Common, 15, 18

Pengwern, 362

Pennant, Colonel Douglas, 360-61

Pennington, Dr., 154

Penrhyn Castle, 360-61

Percival, Mrs., 5

Petre, Edward, 177

Petre, Lady, 74, 177

Petre, Miss, 177

Petre, Mr., 28

Phipps, Mr., at Hatfield, 176

_Pickwick_, 298

Pidcock, Dr., 92

Pierpont, Mr., 188

Pinjore, 313

Pitt, William, statue of, 185

Plunkett, Lord, 251

Ponsonby, Mr., 159

Portland, Duke of, 170

Pottinger, Sir Henry, 357

Preston, Mrs. T. H., 125, 329

_Pride and Prejudice_, 104

Prinsep, Henry Thoby, 320

Pugin, Mr., 386

Punjab, the, 308, 342

Quintin, St., Mrs. Darby, 81, 97, 160.
  _See_ Wellesley, Georgina

Rajmahal Hills, 277

Reform Bill, 212

Ribblesdale, Emma, Lady, _note_ 306, 396

Ribblesdale, Thomas, 2nd Lord, 224, _note_ 306

Rice, Rt. Hon. T. Spring, 241, 244, 246

Rhinocera. _See_ Mrs. Percy Wyndham, 251

Riversdale, Lady, 12

Road Murder, 399

Robinson, Hon. Amabel (Lady Grantham’s child), 141-2, 145

Robinson, Hon. Anne, 25;
  Nocton, 119, 121, 123;
  sister’s death, 142, 182;
  Greenwich, 213.
  _See_ Cowper, Lady, 394

Robinson children, 31

Robinson, Elinor (Lady Sarah Robinson’s daughter), 113-14;
  death, 116, 124

Robinson, Rt. Hon. F. G., 101, 113;
  Nocton, 118-22.
  _See_ Goderich

Robinson, Hon. Frederick W., 25, 167;
  Lady Emily Cowper, 171, 178

Robinson, Hon. George (1st Marquis of Ripon), 113

Robinson, Hon. Mary (Mrs. Henry Vyner), 25, 119, 121, 123;
  admiration for Lady Grantham, 142

Robinson, Lady Sarah (Lady Goderich), 2, 18, 30, 36, 81;
  behaviour in Downing Street, 100;
  Wrest, 113;
  her child’s illness and death, 114-17;
  Doctor’s party, 118-20;
  Nocton, 121-4, 129.
  _See_ Goderich

Rogers, Mr., the poet, 35

Romilly, Sir Samuel, 26-7

Roopur, 304

Roos, Hon. Arthur de, death, 97

Roos, Hon. Cecilia de, marriage, 263

Roos, Charlotte, Baroness de, 139

Roos, Lady Georgina de, 83, 85, 200-202

Roos, Hon. Henry de (Lord de Roos), 134-5, 262

Roos, Hon. William de, 72;
  marriage, 83-5, 99, 105, 115, 182, 244, 262, 270

Rose, Mr., 40-41

_Rosenberg, Ella_, acted on board the _Jupiter_, 261

Ross, Lady Mary, 57, 71

Russell, Lord Charles, 75

Russell, Eliza, 75, 94-5

Russell, Francis, Col., 216

Russell, George, Captain, death, 94-5

Russell, Lord John, 306, 371-2, 377-8, 385, 389, 392

Russell, Lady John, death, _note_ 306

Russell, Lady John (Lady F. Anna Maria Elliot), 376

Russell, Lord William, 378

Ryder, Lady Mary, 40

Sale, Mr., 226

Salisbury, Emily, Marchioness of, 263

Salisbury, Frances, Marchioness of, 176-7, 204

Sandheads, the, 262

Sarpent, the (Hon. Henry de Roos), 134-5, 262

Saugur, 263

Selkirk, Earl and Countess of, 14, 15

_Semi-Attached Couple_, the, 404

_Semi-Detached House_, the, 390, 393

Seymour, Lady Mary, 279

Seymour, Mrs., 33

Shelley, Mr., 75

Shottesbrook, 2, 5, 12, 44, 111, 188

Showers, Captain, 335

Simla, 295, 302-5;
  gaiety at, 311

Singapore, 328

Singh, Kurruck, Maharajah, 308, 325

Singh, Runjeet, Maharajah, 260, 300-304, 308, 320, 342

Singh, Shere, 308

Skelmersdale, Lord, 216

Skelmersdale, Lady, 401

Smith, Sydney, 115-16

Spencer, Earl, 248

Sprotborough, 86, 92, 203

Stackpole, 137, 149

Stanford, Mrs. Charles, 79, 147, 329.
  _See_ Campbell, Pamela

Stanley, Hon. Edward (Lord Stanley), 236, 244, 303, 378, 386

Strangways, Giles Fox, 53

Strangways, Hon. William Fox, 53

Strangways, Lady Theresa, 9

Stratford Place, No. 2; 46

Strathfieldsaye, 81, 85

Strathfield Turgess, 80, 83-5

Strawberry Hill, 398

Strutt, Lady Charlotte, 73

Strutts, the, 74, 135

Studhouse, 244

Studley, 24

Sturt, Lady Charlotte, 188-9

Sue, Eugène, 388

Sugden, Rt. Hon. Sir Edward, 251

Sullivan, Mr., 43

Sullivan, Mrs., 242

Sussex, Duke of, 206

Sydney, Lady T., 248

Sydney, Viscount, 21

Taglioni, Mademoiselle, 171, 220

Talbot, Mr., 290

Talleyrand, Charles, Marquis de, 202, 214

Taylor, Letitia, 17

Taylor, Mr., 326, 328

Taylor, Mr. Pearce, 327

Thames Ditton, 36, 38, 43, 52, 73, 97

Thurlow, Captain, 350

Thynne, Lady Charlotte, 153;
  marriage, _note_ 180, 181, 183.
  _See_ Buccleuch

Thynne, Lord Edward, 192, 194-5

Thynne, Lord Henry, 91, 147;
  Miss Baring, 180-82, 184, 195

Thynne, Lady Louisa, 32.
  _See_ Cawdor

_Times, The_, 385, 391

Todd, D’Arcy, Major, 342

Torrens, Mr. See _note_ 290

Townshend, Miss, 21

Truval, 62

Tunbridge Wells, 101, 105

Tweddell, Mrs., 321

Union, Trades, 234

Valsomachi, Sir Demetrie, 198

Vansittart, Hon. Mrs. Arthur (Caroline Eden), 44, 96;
  daughter’s marriage, 163;
  illness, 170-71; 179, 188;
  Broadstairs, 199, 200

Vansittart, Caroline, marriage, 163.
  _See_ Mostyn

Vansittart, Henry, 316

Vansittart, Miss, 11, 17

Vansittart, Rt. Hon. Nicholas, 1, 4, 11, 17.
  _See_ Bexley

Vansittart, William, 375

Verulam, Countess of, 310

Victoria, Queen, 288, 323, 372

Villiers, Mr. Charles, 170

Villiers, Mr. Edward, 214, 223

Villiers, F., 187

Villiers, George (Earl of Clarendon), 91-2;
  dealings with the Goderichs, 131; 152, 160, 161, 170;
  popularity in Dublin, 194; 196, 200, 208, 213;
  his brother’s death, 223;
  in Spain, 228; 267, 294.
  _See_ Clarendon

Villiers, Hon. Mrs. George, 89, 92, 115, 131-2, 138, 184, 224

Villiers, Lady H., 310

Villiers, Mr. Hyde, 199

Villiers, Lord, 221

Villiers, Rt. Rev. the Hon. Montagu (Bishop of Durham), 375

Villiers, Miss (Lady Theresa Lewis), 58, 109, 115, 143, 156, 159, 163;
  Italy, 167-8;
  marriage, 198.
  _See_ Lister

Voisins, Monsieur de, 221

Vyner, Miss, 20

Wade, Claude, Captain, 300

Waghorn, Lieut., 285

Waldegrave, Frances, Countess, 398

Wall, Baring (son of Charles Wall), 78, 91, 101, 104, 128, 151-2, 188,
     189, 221

Wall, Mrs. Charles, 153;
  her charm, 188

Wallscourt, Lady, 173

Ward, Mr., 399

Warren, Dr., 114, 117, 119

Warrender, Sir George, 17

Waterloo, 13-15

Way, Lady, 69-70

Way, General Sir Gregory, 67, 69

Wellesley, Arthur, 81

Wellesley, Georgina, 81, 97.
  _See_ Quintin, St.

Wellesley, Rev. the Hon. Gerald, 81

Wellesley, Mrs. Richard (Mary Drummond), birth of, 140

Wellesley, Richard, _note_ 382, 390

Wellesley, Mary (Lady Cadogan), 81

Wellesley, Richard, Marquis Wellesley, 232, 242, 340

Wellington, Duke of, 139, 156-7, 162, 169;
  Hatfield, 177;
  Ewhurst, 188, 246-7, 370

Wesley, John, 94

West, Dr., 114, 117, 119

Westminster Abbey, fire, 179

Weymouth, Viscount, 32

Whishaw, Mr., 8, 10-11

Wilberforce, Samuel, 372

Wildman, Mrs., 27

William IV., King, 198, 244, 246-8;
  letter to Miss Eden, 258

Williams, Sir Charles Hanbury, 8

Wilson, Mrs., her school, 282

Winchester, John, Marquis of, 251

Winyard, Mr. and Mrs., 30

Woburn, 52, 75, 194

Wood, Rt. Hon. Sir Charles, 401

Worcester, Lord, 77

Wortley, Mr. J., 176-7

Wrest Park, 113, 190

Wright, Miss (Miss Eden’s maid), 96, 160, 268, 282

Würtemburg, King of, 198

Wyndham, Hon. Mrs. Percy, birth, 250, 251

Wynn, Mr., 22, 24

Wynn, Miss, 22

Yonge, Charlotte M., 387, 400

York, Duke of, 59


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       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

opiniated, cold, and prejudiced=> opinionated, cold, and prejudiced {pg

Children of Thomas Adderly=> Children of Thomas Adderley {pg 82}

Stacpole, Pembrokeshire.=> Stackpole, Pembrokeshire. {pg 109}

Mme. de Stael once said=> Mme. de Staël once said {pg 393}

Sue, Eugene, 388=> Sue, Eugène, 388 {index}

       *       *       *       *       *


[1] _Life and Letters of the Fourth Earl of Clarendon_. by Sir Herbert
Maxwell, Bart.

[2] William and his seven brothers and three sisters, were brought up by
their mother, his father having died when he was only eleven years of
age. (Lady Eden was the daughter of W. Davison of Beamish Park, Durham.)

[3] Sir Gilbert Elliot (1751-1814). In 1806 he was appointed
Governor-General of India, and created Earl of Minto in 1813.

[4] Sir George Cornewall Lewis, Bart. (1806-1863), of Harpton Court,
Radnorshire. On his father’s death in 1855 he succeeded to the
baronetcy; he became Chancellor of the Exchequer the same year, Home
Secretary in 1859, and Secretary for War in 1861.

[5] A full account of this time is given in _Life and Death of Lord
Edward FitzGerald_, by Thomas Moore, also in _Edward and Pamela
FitzGerald_, by Gerald Campbell.

[6] Hon. Eleanor Eden, married in 1799 Lord Hobart (Earl of
Buckinghamshire). He died in 1816; she was generally known as Lady

[7] Anne Isabella, daughter of Sir R. Milbanke Noel, married Lord Byron,
January 2, 1815. He had proposed to her and been refused in 1812.

[8] Miss Eden’s sister, who married Charles Drummond the banker in 1819.

[9] Nicholas Vansittart (1766-1851), Chancellor of the Exchequer, 1812;
he was created Baron Bexley in 1823; he had married Miss Eden’s sister,
who died in 1810.

[10] Miss Eden’s brother, Lord Auckland (the comical dog); he succeeded
his father as 2nd Baron Auckland in 1814. He became President of the
Board of Trade in 1830, First Lord of the Admiralty in 1834,
Governor-General of India in 1835, First Lord of the Admiralty in 1840.

[11] By Claude de Ruthière.

[12] Daughter of Robert, 4th Earl of Buckinghamshire; she married, Sept.
1, 1814, Frederick John Robinson, second son of Thomas, Lord Grantham.
Created Viscount Goderich in 1827. He became Prime Minister after
Canning’s death.

[13] Her father, who died May 28, 1814.

[14] Her sister, Charlotte Eden, married Lord Francis Godolphin Osborne
in 1800.

[15] George, subsequently 8th Duke of Leeds.

[16] Daughter of 3rd Lord Bessborough, married W. Lamb (Viscount
Melbourne) in 1805, and finally separated from him in 1825. She died in

[17] Near Dorchester, belonging to Lord Ilchester.

[18] In Berkshire, belonging to Colonel Arthur Vansittart, who married
Caroline Eden.

[19] Miss Eden’s brother.

[20] Count Meerveldt was the Austrian Ambassador; he died the following

[21] Widow of Spencer Percival, who was assassinated in 1812; she
married, secondly, Mr. Carr (Lieut.-Col. Sir H. Carr).

[22] Lady Elizabeth Fox-Strangways, widow of Mr. Talbot of Laycock Abbey
in Wiltshire, married, secondly, in 1804, Captain Feilding, R.N.,
afterwards Rear-Admiral.

[23] Amelia, daughter of Viscount Melbourne, married in 1805 5th Earl of

[24] Lady Sarah Fane, daughter of 10th Earl of Westmoreland, married in
1804 5th Earl of Jersey.

[25] Lady Louisa Fox-Strangways married in 1808 Henry, 3rd Marquess of

[26] Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice.

[27] Earl of Kerry, aged three.

[28] Caroline married in 1831 3rd Earl of Mount-Edgcumbe, and Horatia
married in 1850 Mr. T. Gaisford.

[29] A Treaty of Peace was signed at Ghent between England and the
United States on December 24, 1814.

[30] A great friend of Lord and Lady Holland, born in 1764.

[31] Sir George Onesiphorus Paul (1746-1820). “One of the prettiest
places” was Hill House, Woodchester, Gloucestershire.

[32] Juliana, daughter of the Hon. and Rev. W. Digby, Dean of Durham.

[33] Charles Hanbury, a diplomatist and writer; he took the name of
Williams in 1729. He was knighted in 1744.

[34] Lady Susan Fox-Strangways married Mr. O’Brien, a handsome young
actor, in 1764.

[35] Miss Eden’s sister Mary, aged twenty-two, and her brother Lord
Auckland, were staying at Melbury, Dorchester, with Lord Ilchester.

[36] Lady Theresa Strangways, married in 1837 9th Lord Digby.

[37] Miss Grant, Lady Ilchester’s mother.

[38] Miss Eden’s nephew, aged ten.

[39] Sir G. Paul was only sixty-eight years old.

[40] Morton and Bob, Miss Eden’s two brothers.

[41] Lord Auckland was auditor of Greenwich Hospital.

[42] Dropmore belonged to William Wyndham, Lord Grenville.

[43] The Corn Law of 1815 which closed the ports to the importation of
foreign grain till the prices reached eighty shillings a quarter.

[44] Miss Eden’s brother-in-law.

[45] The battle of Waterloo had been fought on the 18th June.

[46] Magdalene, daughter of Sir J. Hall, Bart., married Sir William Howe
Delancey, K.C.B., in March or April 1815. He was mortally wounded at

[47] William, 15th Earl of Erroll.

[48] George Elliot, son of the first Earl of Minto; married in 1810
Eliza Cecilia, daughter of James Ness of Osgodby, York. He commanded the
Chinese Expedition in 1840.

[49] This was a party badge.

[50] Thomas, 5th Earl of Selkirk, married, 1807, Jean, daughter of James
Wedderburn Colvile. He was Lady Delancey’s uncle.

[51] Sir William Delancey died in a cottage in the village of Mont St.
Jean a week after he was wounded. His wife wrote a description of his
death, which was published in 1906: _A Week at Waterloo in_ 1815, edited
by Major B. R. Ward.

[52] Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice, married in 1845 Hon. James Kenneth Howard.

[53] The Austrian Ambassador died on July 4.

[54] Lady Delancey married, secondly, in 1819, Captain H. Harvey.

[55] Thomas Heaphy, 1775-1835. He painted on the spot Wellington and his
officers before an action in the Peninsular War.

[56] Lady Katherine Douglas, sister of Lord Selkirk, married in July
1815 John Halkett, Governor of the Bahamas.

[57] The tutor.

[58] Chancellor of the Exchequer.

[59] Robert Banks Jenkinson, 2nd Earl of Liverpool, Prime Minister. He
married Louisa Theodosia, daughter of the Bishop of Derry (Earl of

[60] Lady Sarah Robinson, Lady Buckinghamshire’s step-daughter.

[61] Miss Eden’s sister, Mrs. Colvile.

[62] Anne Isabella, only child of Sir Ralph Milbanke Noel, Bart.
Married, January 2, 1810, Lord Byron. They had one daughter, Ada
Augusta, born December 10, 1815, married in 1835 to William, Earl of

[63] Eastcombe, Charlton, Kent (Lady Buckinghamshire’s house).

[64] Hon. Charlotte Eden, married in 1800 Lord Frances Godolphin
Osborne; created Baron Godolphin in 1832.

[65] Lady Henrietta Cole, married in 1805 Thomas Philip, 3rd Lord
Grantham; the Granthams had a house at Putney.

[66] Newby Hall, near Ripon, belonging to Lord Grantham.

[67] John, Viscount Sydney, married in 1832 Lady E. Paget.

[68] Lady Grantham’s niece.

[69] Lady Bucks was staying with her niece, Lady Francis Osborne.

[70] The daughters of George Markham, Dean of York.

[71] James Robert Graham, who became Sir J. Graham, Bart., of Netherby,
in 1824.

[72] Studley Royal, Ripon.

[73] Lord Grantham’s elder daughter, married in 1833 Lord Fordwich (6th
Earl Cowper).

[74] Frederick William Robinson, born 1810, and died aged twenty-one.

[75] Mary Robinson, married Henry Vyner in 1832.

[76] Anne, daughter of Richard Huck Saunders, wife of 2nd Viscount

[77] Sir Samuel Romilly, Solicitor-General, committed suicide on
November 2, 1818, shortly after the death of his wife. According to Lord
Lansdowne, “He was a stern, reserved sort of man, and she was the only
person in the world to whom he wholly unbent and unbosomed himself. When
he lost her, therefore, the very vent of his heart was stopped up.”

[78] Charles Feilding, son of Commodore Charles Feilding, married in
1804 Elizabeth, daughter of 2nd Earl of Ilchester and widow of William
Talbot of Lacock Abbey.

[79] John Cam Hobhouse, afterwards Lord Broughton. He lost this

[80] Hon. George Lamb was standing for Westminster. He was a brother of
Lord Melbourne.

[81] Mr. James Graham stood as a Whig for Hull and was successful at the
General Election of 1818.

[82] Sons of Henry, 2nd Earl of Harewood.

[83] Brother of the 1st Earl Brownlow.

[84] Anne, Baroness Lucas (Lady Cowper). Mary, married in 1832 Henry
Vyner. Frederick William Robinson, born 1810; died in 1831. Lady
Grantham had a daughter in October 1816, probably Amabel, who died in

[85] Isabella, daughter of 4th Viscount Torrington, married, 1794, 2nd
Marquess of Bath.

[86] Her eldest son. He married in 1820 Miss Harriet Robins.

[87] Lady Elizabeth Thynne, married in 1816 John Frederick Campbell
(Earl Cawdor).

[88] Lady Louisa Thynne, married in 1823 Henry, 3rd Earl of Harewood.

[89] Third Earl of Ilchester, married in 1812 Caroline, daughter of Lord
George Murray. She died January 8, 1819, leaving four children.

[90] Pamela FitzGerald, daughter of Lord and Lady Edward FitzGerald.

[91] Lady Sophia FitzGerald, born in 1762.

[92] Lucy FitzGerald, her sister.

[93] Edward FitzGerald, her brother. He married in 1827 Jane, daughter
of Sir John Dean Paul, Bart.

[94] Right Hon. William Peel; married Jane, daughter of 2nd Earl
Mountcashell, in 1819.

[95] Elizabeth FitzClarence, sister of 1st Earl of Munster. She married
in 1820 the 16th Earl of Erroll.

[96] Daughter of William Bingham, Senator of the United States. She
married Mr. Alexander Baring, who went to Paris in 1815, and there
financed a loan with France, making his own fortune and also that of the
Baring House.

[97] Mr. Colvile, Miss Eden’s brother-in-law, lived at Langley.

[98] Lady Sophia FitzGerald.

[99] Lord Auckland.

[100] Lord Henry FitzGerald married in 1791 Charlotte, Baroness de Roos.

[101] Susan, daughter of 1st Marquess of Stafford; married in 1795 1st
Earl of Harrowby.

[102] Lady Harrowby’s daughter, who married Viscount Ebrington in 1817.

[103] Daughters of the last Earl of Bellamont.

[104] William, 3rd Earl of Mansfield, married in 1797 Frederica,
daughter of Dr. Markham, Archbishop of York.

[105] William Stewart Rose, author of _A History of the Late War_.

[106] Her sister.

[107] Lord Cahir, created Earl of Glengall in 1816; he died in 1819.

[108] Hannah More (1745-1833), writer of many religious works.

[109] Peterloo; an open-air meeting held in St. Peter’s Fields at
Manchester by Mr. Hunt.

[110] Lord Eldon.

[111] Required in the proceedings for the repeal in 1819 of the
attainder of her father, Lord Edward FitzGerald.

[112] Belonging to Colonel Vansittart, who married Caroline Eden. They
had thirteen children or more.

[113] Miss Eden’s cook.

[114] Second husband of the Duchess of Leinster.

[115] Colonel Edward Drummond.

[116] Lady Louisa Fox-Strangways, daughter of Lord Ilchester.

[117] Lord Lansdowne.

[118] Lady Lansdowne.

[119] Lord Kerry, aged eight.

[120] Pierre Louis Dumont began life as a Swiss clergyman. He was
invited to England as tutor to the sons of Lord Shelburne, afterwards
1st Marquess of Lansdowne.

[121] Elizabeth Vassall, a Jamaica heiress, married first Sir Godfrey
Webster, who divorced her, and, secondly, Henry, 3rd Baron Holland.

[122] Georgiana, daughter of the Duke of Gordon, married John, 6th Duke
of Bedford.

[123] James Abercromby, M.P. for Calne; he was Speaker of the House from
1835 to 1839, when he was created Lord Dunfermline.

[124] George the Third died January 29, 1820.

[125] Lucy FitzGerald, her sister.

[126] Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire.

[127] Middleton Park, belonging to Lord Jersey.

[128] Lady Lansdowne’s half-brother (4th Earl of Ilchester).

[129] Giles Digby Robert Fox-Strangways, born in 1798.

[130] Lady Grantham.

[131] Thomas Matthews the actor.

[132] Mrs. Drummond’s daughter, Theresa, was born May 5, 1820.

[133] Lady Mary FitzGerald was Pamela’s first cousin; she married Sir
Charles Ross in 1799.

[134] Only daughter of the Hon. George Villiers, son of the 1st Earl of
Clarendon. Her mother was Maria Theresa Parker, daughter of the 1st Lord
Boringdon. Miss Villiers was six years younger than Miss Eden.

[135] Near Watford, belonging to Lord Clarendon.

[136] Lord Grantham’s house in Lincolnshire.

[137] Lady Sarah Sophia Fane, daughter of Lord Westmoreland, married in
1804 5th Earl of Jersey.

[138] The Duchess of York died August 6, 1820.

[139] Lady Harriet Cavendish, married in 1809 Lord Granville
Leveson-Gower, 1st Earl Granville.

[140] Lady Elizabeth Thynne married in 1816 Lord Cawdor. They had seven

[141] Major-General Sir Guy Campbell, Bart. He married in 1817 Frances
Burgoyne, who died the following year when her child Fanny was born.

[142] Right Hon. Hugh Elliot, Governor of Madras in 1814 to 1820,
brother of the 1st Earl of Minto, Governor-General of India.

[143] Second Marquess of Bute, married, 1818, Maria, daughter of 3rd
Earl of Guildford.

[144] Lord Bute’s home.

[145] Her maid.

[146] Sir Gregory Way, Deputy Adjutant-General in N.B.

[147] Miss Christina Campbell, aged seventy-five.

[148] Miss Eden’s doctor.

[149] Caroline, married, 1831, 3rd Earl of Mount-Edgcumbe. Horatia,
married, 1850, T. Gaisford.

[150] Lady Elizabeth Feilding.

[151] Private Secretary to Sir Robert Peel.

[152] Lady Jane Paget’s engagement to Mr. Ball was broken off.

[153] The 3rd Duke of Leinster.

[154] Lady Mary FitzGerald, married in 1799 Sir Charles Ross.

[155] Cecilia, daughter of 2nd Duke of Leinster, married Thomas, 3rd
Baron Foley.

[156] Hon. William de Roos.

[157] Lady Charlotte FitzGerald, married in 1789 Joseph Strutt, M.P.

[158] The Coronation of George IV., July 19, 1821.

[159] Lord Leitrim’s daughters.

[160] Daughters of Joseph Strutt of Terling.

[161] Robert Eden, Miss Eden’s brother.

[162] For the death of Queen Caroline on August 7, 1821.

[163] Georgiana, daughter of 4th Duke of Gordon, married in 1803 John,
6th Duke of Bedford.

[164] Lady Maria Fane married Lord Duncannon, 1805, sister to Lady

[165] Daughter of Lord W. Russell.

[166] He was then sixty-five.

[167] Pamela, Lady Edward FitzGerald.

[168] Daughter of 9th Earl of Kinnoull, married Henry Drummond of Albury

[169] Lady Campbell’s son Edward was born October 25, 1822.

[170] Lady Worcester died May 11, 1821. Lord Worcester married,
secondly, June 29, 1822, Emily, daughter of Charles Culling Smith.

[171] He was the son of Charles Wall, who had married Miss Harriet
Baring in 1790.

[172] Fonthill Abbey in Wiltshire, built by William Beckford.

[173] Ferdinand VII. of Spain.

[174] Mrs. Colvile had seventeen children.

[175] Her daughter Pamela.

[176] Daughter of Henry, 3rd Earl Bathurst.

[177] Daughter of the Hon. George Napier.

[178] Lady Emily Hobart, married in 1794 Viscount Castlereagh. He
committed suicide, August 12, 1822, at his house, North Cray, in Kent.

[179] Hon. and Rev. Gerald Wellesley, Prebendary of Durham, brother of
1st Duke of Wellington.

[180] Georgina married in 1827 Rev. G. Darby St. Quintin.

[181] Mary married in 1836 Henry, 4th Earl Cadogan.

[182] Sir William Parry, the Arctic explorer.

[183] Lady Sarah Robinson (Lady Goderich).

[184] Children of Thomas Adderley; his widow married Lord Hobart in
1792. They had one daughter, Sarah, who married Mr. Robinson. Lady
Hobart died in 1796. Lord Hobart married secondly Eleanor Eden, in 1799,
and became Earl of Buckinghamshire in 1804.

[185] Miss Eden’s brother, Rector of Eyam in Derbyshire.

[186] Hon. William de Roos married, June 7, Lady Georgina Lennox.

[187] Lord Henry FitzGerald.

[188] William Hayley. His _Memoirs_ were published in 1823.

[189] Married in 1832 Lord Howick.

[190] Eleanor died, aged sixteen, in November 1824.

[191] Lady Mary Osborne, daughter of 5th Duke of Leeds, married Thomas,
2nd Earl of Chichester, 1801.

[192] George Godolphin Osborne (8th Duke of Leeds), married, 1824,
Harriet Stewart.

[193] Miss St. Jules, married, 1809, Hon. G. Lamb.

[194] William Spencer, 6th Duke of Devonshire.

[195] Lord Henry Frederick Thynne, afterwards 3rd Marquess of Bath,
married, 1830, Harriet, daughter of 1st Lord Ashburton.

[196] Lieut.-Col. Richard Pepper Arden (Lord Alvanley).

[197] Mr. Baring Wall of Norman Court.

[198] Henry Eden (Admiral) married in 1849 Elizabeth, daughter of Hon.
George Beresford.

[199] Sir J. Copley and Miss Copley.

[200] Rev. Robert Eden, married in September Mary Hurt of Alderwasley,

[201] Lady Francis Osborne (Miss Eden’s sister).

[202] Charlotte Godolphin Osborne, married in 1829 Sir Theodore

[203] Miss Eden’s brother-in-law, Nicholas Vansittart. He was Chancellor
of the Exchequer, 1812-23, and was made Lord Bexley when he went out of

[204] Near Hertford.

[205] George Russell, son of Lord W. Russell, died September 15, 1825.

[206] Elizabeth, married, 1829, Lord Wriothesley Russell.

[207] Henry Greville, born 1801, son of Lady Charlotte and Charles

[208] Daughter of Lord Forester, married in 1830 General the Hon. George

[209] Miss Eden’s visit to Bowood.

[210] Pamela, aged five. She married Rev. Charles Stanford in 1841.

[211] The Hon. William FitzGerald de Roos.

[212] “Two letters on Scottish affairs from Edward Bradwardine Waverley,
Esq., to Malachi Malagrowther, Esq.” They were written by Scott. John
Wilson Croker’s reply appeared in the _Courier_ newspaper.

[213] Right Hon. F. J. Robinson, Chancellor of the Exchequer from
January 1823 to April 1827.

[214] George Welbore Agar-Ellis, created Baron Dover in 1831.

[215] Lady Charlotte Cavendish Bentinck married Charles Greville.

[216] William Arden, 2nd Baron Alvanley, born 1789, died unmarried in

[217] Francis Leveson-Gower, son of the 1st Duke of Sutherland. Later he
inherited property from the last Duke of Bridgewater and became known as
Francis Egerton. He married Harriet, daughter of Charles Greville in
1822. In 1846 he was created Earl of Ellesmere.

[218] The Tide-waiters waited for ships coming in on the flood-tides to
collect duties.

[219] The Grange, Alresford, Hampshire, belonged to Mr. Alexander

[220] Lawrence Peel, married, 1822, Lady Jane Lennox, sister of Lady
Georgina de Roos.

[221] “Captain Macheath” was bought by Lord Lansdowne for 500 guineas.

[222] John Scott, 1st Earl of Eldon (1751-1838). He was Lord Chancellor
for twenty-six years, with only one break of about a year. He resigned
in April 1827, when Canning became Prime Minister.

[223] Amelia, daughter of 1st Viscount Melbourne; married in 1805 5th
Earl Cowper, and secondly, Lord Palmerston in 1839.

[224] Sir Gore Ouseley, Ambassador to Persia in 1812, married Harriet,
daughter of John Whitelocke. Their eldest daughter was born in 1807.

[225] By Madame de Staël.

[226] By Ludovic Vitet.

[227] Lady Elizabeth Thynne, who married Lord Cawdor in 1816, and lived
at Stackpole, Pembrokeshire.

[228] Thomas Moore, the poet.

[229] Lena Eden, born September 26, 1826.

[230] Wrest Park, Bedfordshire.

[231] Elinor Henrietta Victoria, only daughter of Mr. and Lady Sarah
Robinson, died October 31, 1826, aged eleven, at Blackheath.

[232] The doctors.

[233] The illness of Mr. Robinson’s daughter.

[234] William Spencer, 6th Duke, British Envoy at the Coronation of the
Czar Nicholas of Russia in 1826.

[235] Mr. Robinson’s brother.

[236] In Lincolnshire.

[237] Probably Pelham Warren, physician.

[238] A doctor.

[239] Lord Grantham’s daughters (Mr. Robinson’s nieces).

[240] Lord Auckland’s powder-horn had blown up in his hand as he was
loading his gun.

[241] Georgina, born at Calne in 1826, married in 1847 T. H. Preston.

[242] Lady Harriet Montagu, daughter of Lord Sandwich, married in 1823
W. B. Baring (2nd Lord Ashburton).

[243] Mr. Alexander Baring, 1st Lord Ashburton in 1835.

[244] Lady Francis Leveson (1st Lady Ellesmere).

[245] Mr. Canning, the Premier, had died on the 8th of August 1827. He
was succeeded by Mr. Robinson (Lord Goderich).

[246] Mary, daughter of Sir Lawrence Palk, M.P., married, 1835, 4th Earl
of Lisburne.

[247] Lady Edward FitzGerald.

[248] Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton had married Hannah Gurney, a sister of
Elizabeth Fry. He worked for the abolition of slavery.

[249] Lord Henry FitzGerald’s house at Thames Ditton.

[250] Edward Law, 2nd Baron and 1st Earl of Ellenborough.

[251] Hon. Henry de Roos.

[252] Daughter of 3rd Earl of Mansfield; her mother was Frederica,
daughter of Dr. Markham, Archbishop of York.

[253] Emily Anne, daughter of Colonel Strutt and his wife Lady Charlotte
FitzGerald (Lady Charlotte was created Baroness Rayleigh in 1821), and
Charlotte Olivia, married, 1841, Rev. R. Drummond of St. Catherine’s
Court, Bath.

[254] William Sheen, of Christopher Alley, Lambeth, murdered his
four-month-old step-son.

[255] Lady Cawdor.

[256] Lord Goderich had become Prime Minister at the beginning of August
on the death of Mr. Canning.

[257] Mary Dulcibella, who married Richard Wellesley in 1850.

[258] Charles Greville (1794-1865), Clerk to the Privy Council.

[259] Lady Grantham’s daughter.

[260] William Lamb (2nd Viscount Melbourne), Irish Secretary.

[261] Miss Eliza Farren, the actress, married in 1797 Edward, 12th Earl
of Derby. She died in 1829.

[262] Miss St. John Jeffrys of Blarney Castle, married the 1st Earl of
Glengall in 1793.

[263] Sir Charles Doyle, Assistant Adjutant-General in Ireland.

[264] John Hely-Hutchinson, born 1757. In 1825, on the death of his
brother, became 2nd Earl of Donoughmore. He died 1832.

[265] Mr. Brooke Greville.

[266] Lady Glengall’s only son (2nd Earl of Glengall).

[267] Aged seven.

[268] Lady Charlotte (married, 1835, Christopher Mansel Talbot, M.P.)
and Lady Emily Butler.

[269] Lady Maria Fane, married, 1805, Viscount Duncannon; died 1834.

[270] Thomas, 2nd Earl of Kenmare, married, 1816, Augusta, daughter of
Sir Robert Wilmot, Bart.

[271] John Liston, the comic actor.

[272] At Norman Court.

[273] Lady Goderich’s son was born October 1827. He became 1st Marquess
of Ripon in 1871.

[274] Henry Luttrell (1770-1851); he wrote _Advice to Julia_; _A Letter
in Rhyme_, etc.

[275] Harriet, sister of Mr. Henry Baring, married in 1790 Charles Wall.

[276] Lady Charlotte Thynne, aged eighteen; she married the Duke of
Buccleuch in 1829.

[277] Lady Goderich.

[278] Lady Goderich. In Mr. Jekyll’s _Letters_ he mentions her
behaviour. “Lady Goderich is half mad. She makes my apothecary drive out
with her daily in an open carriage; she lies at length. He feels her
pulse the whole way, and two maids sit opposite with brandy and water.”

[279] Sister of the Portuguese politician.

[280] Brother of Pedro IV., King of Portugal. He caused himself to be
elected King in 1828, but abdicated in 1834.

[281] Sir William Knighton, physician to George IV. and Private

[282] William Huskisson, Colonial Secretary and Leader of House of
Commons (1770-1830). He was killed by a train at the opening of the
Liverpool railway.

[283] Afterwards 7th Earl of Shaftesbury (the philanthropist).

[284] The vote of thanks was for his conduct in command of the English
fleet at Navarino (October 20, 1827).

[285] Home Secretary and Leader of the House of Commons.

[286] Henry Brougham (1779-1868). In 1821 he defended Queen Caroline. In
1830 he became Lord Chancellor in Lord Grey’s ministry, and was created
Lord Brougham and Vaux.

[287] Henry Goulburn (1784-1856). He was Chancellor of the Exchequer in
the new Wellington ministry.

[288] Henry Labouchere, afterwards Lord Taunton (1798-1869). His mother
was a sister of Alexander Baring (Lord Ashburton).

[289] Lord Goderich resigned three days later.

[290] Daughter of Hon. and Rev. Gerald Wellesley, Prebendary of Durham;
she married in 1827 Rev. George Darby St. Quintin.

[291] Elizabeth FitzClarence, sister of the 1st Earl of Munster.

[292] He had an appointment in Dublin connected with the Excise Boards.

[293] Admiral Sir Graham Moore married Dora, daughter of Thomas Eden.

[294] Duke of Wellington.

[295] Miss Eden’s niece Caroline Vansittart married, July 1828, George
Charles Mostyn of Kiddington, who became 6th Lord Vaux of Harrowden in

[296] Catholic Emancipation; the Mostyn family were Roman Catholics.

[297] Mrs. George Villiers and her daughter Theresa went abroad in 1828.

[298] The Right Hon. Stephen Lushington, M.P. (1782-1873).

[299] Thomas Austin, clerk to Sir Thomas Boulden Thompson, Deputy
Treasurer of the Hospital, embezzled £1000 in October 1827, £2000 in
November, and £250 in December.

[300] Miss Eden had been staying with her brother, the Rector of
Hertingfordbury, close to Panshanger.

[301] Afterwards created Lord Beauvale. He became Lord Melbourne on the
death of his brother.

[302] Son of the 3rd Lord Grantham.

[303] Lord Auckland’s salary as Auditor of Greenwich was £600, with
coals and candles.

[304] The present Vicarage of Greenwich.

[305] William Bingham Baring; he succeeded his father as 2nd Baron
Ashburton in 1848.

[306] Lady Lucy Cavendish-Bentinck married, 1828, Lord Howard de Walden.

[307] Rt. Hon. Charles Pelham Villiers. He lived to be “Father of the
House of Commons.”

[308] Marie Taglioni at this time was aged twenty-one.

[309] William Miller, general in Peruvian Army.

[310] Elizabeth, daughter of William Lock, married, 1822, Joseph, 3rd
Lord Wallscourt.

[311] The Orange Association.

[312] Archibald, 2nd Earl of Gosford; married, 1805, Miss Mary Sparrow.

[313] Du Pré, 2nd Earl of Caledon; married, 1811, Catherine, daughter of
3rd Earl of Hardwicke.

[314] Her step-daughter.

[315] Refers to the illness of Mrs. Vansittart, Miss Eden’s sister.

[316] Frances, daughter of B. Gascoyne, was the first wife of the second
Marquess of Salisbury.

[317] Barbarina Brand (1768-1854), daughter of Sir Chaloner Ogle, Bart.,
married, first in 1789, V. H. Wilmot, and secondly, in 1819, Thomas,
Lord Dacre.

[318] Juliana, daughter of Mr. Howard of Glossop.

[319] Julia (married in 1833 Sir S. Brooke-Pechell) and Catherine Anne.

[320] Eliza Farren, the actress.

[321] Frederick Robinson was only nineteen at this time.

[322] Lord Auckland was made a Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital in

[323] On the marriage of her daughter, Lady Charlotte Thynne, to the
Duke of Buccleuch. She died in 1895, aged eighty-four.

[324] Lord Henry Thynne, married, 1830, Harriet, daughter of Mr.
Alexander Baring (1st Lord Ashburton).

[325] Wife of Alexander Baring, 1st Baron Ashburton, daughter of William
Bingham, a Senator of the United States; Harriet was her daughter.

[326] Sir Francis Chantrey, the sculptor.

[327] Reginald Heber. He was appointed Bishop of Calcutta in 1823, and
died three years later.

[328] Fanny Kemble (1811-1893), a daughter of Charles Kemble.

[329] George Hibbert, first Chairman of East India Dock Company.

[330] Her old home near Beckenham, Kent.

[331] This is an allusion to a love-affair Miss Eden had in 1819, when
Mr. Percival (the son of the Premier) paid her a good deal of attention.

[332] George Byng, M.P., married Harriet, daughter of Sir W. Montgomery,

[333] Lady Charlotte Brudenell, daughter of Lord Cardigan, married,
1820, H. C. Sturt of Crichel.

[334] Crichel, Wimborne, Dorset, the Sturts’ place.

[335] Alexander Montagu, died aged two, in 1830.

[336] Saltram, Devon, belonged to Lord Morley, Miss Villiers’ uncle.

[337] Daughter of the 3rd Duke of Portland. She married the Hon. Charles

[338] Lady Caroline Murray; died in 1819.

[339] Lady Harriet Ashley married the Right Hon. Henry Lowry-Corry, son
of 2nd Earl Belmore, in 1830.

[340] _Lord Byron’s Life_, by Thomas Moore, was published 1830.

[341] The marriage came on again and Lord Edward married in July 1830
Elizabeth Mellish.

[342] Mr. Villiers was giving up his post in Dublin.

[343] The other Miss Mellish married in 1834 Richard, Earl of Glengall.

[344] The Henry Barings.

[345] Lady Bath died May 1, 1830.

[346] She was the daughter of Dr. Shipley, Dean of St. Asaph.

[347] William I., King of Würtemburg.

[348] George IV. died on June 26, 1830.

[349] Miss Villiers’ brother.

[350] Henry Johnes Eden, R.N., died aged twenty-three.

[351] Lady Georgiana Lennox married her cousin, Hon. W. FitzGerald de
Roos, in 1824.

[352] Maria Copley.

[353] Lady Francis Leveson.

[354] Alice, married in 1854 George, 3rd Earl of Strafford.

[355] Paul Antony, Prince Esterhazy, the Austrian Ambassador in London
from 1830 to 1838.

[356] Charles Maurice de Talleyrand Périgord, the French Ambassador in
London. The Duchesse de Dino was his niece.

[357] Lord Auckland was President of the Board of Trade in 1830.

[358] Lord Brougham. He had just become Lord Chancellor in Lord Grey’s
Ministry, and remained in office till 1834.

[359] Lady Goderich.

[360] Alderman Key, Lord Mayor.

[361] _Destiny; or the Chief’s Daughter_, by Susan Ferrier, had just
been published.

[362] Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex, sixth son of George III.

[363] Prime Minister.

[364] Daniel O’Connell, the Irish politician.

[365] Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.

[366] Teresa Gamba, Countess Guiccioli. She lived with Byron till he
left for Greece, and one of her brothers accompanied him on the

[367] Lord John Russell’s Reform Bill, having been passed by the
Commons, was thrown out by the Lords, October 7, 1831.

[368] Daughter of Lord Grantham; she married in 1833 Lord Fordwich (6th
Earl Cowper).

[369] Lord Grantham had a house there.

[370] Hon. Edward Villiers married in 1835 Hon. Elizabeth Liddell.

[371] Henry John Temple. Viscount Palmerston at this time was Foreign

[372] Miss Eden was thirty-five.

[373] Lord Melbourne. Lady Cowper was his sister.

[374] Sir Frederick Lamb, 3rd Viscount Melbourne and Baron Beauvale

[375] Lieut.-Colonel Francis Russell, son of Lord William Russell.

[376] Thomas Villiers Lister was born on May 7, 1832. He was
Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in 1873.

[377] The allusion is to _Arlington_, a novel by the author of _Granby_
[T. H. Lister]. It was published in 1832.

[378] The Reform Bill was carried (second reading) in the House of Lords
on April 14 by a majority of nine.

[379] Maria Copley married, August 9, 1832, Henry George, Viscount
Howick (Secretary of State for the Colonies in 1846-52).

[380] Sir Joseph Copley.

[381] Author of the _Journals_.

[382] Taglioni married Count Gilbert de Voisins in 1832.

[383] Henry, 2nd Earl of Carnarvon, died 1833.

[384] Lord Melbourne was Home-Secretary. His wife, Lady Caroline Lamb,
had died in 1828.

[385] On the death of his favourite brother, Hyde Villiers.

[386] Lady Francis Leveson, elder daughter of Charles Greville and Lady
C. Greville.

[387] Thomas, 2nd Baron Ribblesdale, married, 1826, Adelaide, elder
daughter of Thomas Lister of Armitage Park, and died December 1832.

[388] Morton Eden died in May 1821, aged twenty-six.

[389] Wife of Robert Arkwright of Stoke, grandson of Sir Richard
Arkwright. Mrs. Arkwright was a daughter of Stephen Kemble.

[390] Caroline Norton (1808-1877) was a grand-daughter of Richard
Brinsley Sheridan. She married the Hon. George Chapple Norton in 1827,
and after his death, Sir William Stirling-Maxwell.

[391] Emily, born September 4, 1833. She married Charles D. Ellis,
nephew of the 1st Lord Howard de Walden.

[392] At Greenwich.

[393] Rt. Hon. Edward Ellice, Secretary of War.

[394] Chief Secretary.

[395] Envoy-Extraordinary and Minister-Plenipotentiary at the Court of

[396] Mrs. Norton, in writing to her sister Lady Seymour, mentioned this
visit to Bowood. “Lord Auckland I like very much; he has a very grave,
gentle manner, with a good deal of dry fun about him. Emily Eden is
undeniably clever and pleasant.”

[397] Isabella Colvile married, March 3, 1834, Mr. Marindin of
Chesterton, Shropshire.

[398] Lord Wellesley, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, 1833-34.

[399] Lord Kerry married March 18, 1834, Lady Augusta Ponsonby.

[400] Lady Lansdowne lived till 1851.

[401] The Trade Unions procession took place on April 21. The agitation
was brought about by Lord Althorp’s unpopular budget.

[402] Lord Auckland had been appointed First Lord of the Admiralty.

[403] Lord Grey resigned 1834.

[404] Edward Stanley, 14th Earl of Derby (1799-1869). He had been Chief
Secretary for Ireland during Lord Grey’s ministry, and then became
Colonial Secretary.

[405] Mrs. Foster, wife of General Foster.

[406] Edward John Littleton, 1st Lord Hatherton (1791-1863). He became
Chief Secretary for Ireland in May 1833.

[407] As Prime Minister.

[408] Earl Grey had resigned on rejection of Irish Coercion Bill in the

[409] Mrs. Ellice.

[410] He was now Prime Minister.

[411] Mrs. Norton.

[412] Lady Frances Egerton. Her son Granville was born in 1834.

[413] Major-General William Eden, son of Sir Robert Eden, Governor of

[414] Her dog.

[415] Hannah More’s cottage in Somersetshire.

[416] William, 4th Earl of Albemarle, who married, secondly, Charlotte,
daughter of Sir Henry Hunloke, Bart.

[417] Commander-in-Chief.

[418] The Houses of Parliament were burned, October 16, 1834.

[419] _Ann Grey_, a novel. Mr. Lister was the author of _Granby_, this
book was written by his sister Harriet, who was a Maid of Honour, and
married the Rev. E. H. Cradock, Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford.

[420] Colonial Secretary.

[421] Lord Brougham.

[422] Lord Althorp succeeded his father as Earl Spencer, November 10,

[423] Caroline Frances Eden, known as _The Sunny Baby_, born June 20,
1835, married, October 16, 1860, the Hon. Percy Scawen Wyndham.

[424] William Conyngham, 1st Baron Plunkett. Lord Chancellor of Ireland
in 1830.

[425] Edward Burtenshaw Sugden, Chancellor of Ireland, 1834-35; created
Lord St. Leonards in 1852 upon becoming Lord Chancellor of England.

[426] Georges Cuvier (1773-1838), the French naturalist.

[427] Lord Auckland was appointed Governor-General of India.

[428] Henry Edridge, a miniature painter; he died in 1821.

[429] At Carton, Maynooth, belonging to the Duke of Leinster.

[430] Henry, Baron de Roos.

[431] The servant.

[432] Her godchild [Mrs. Ellis].

[433] Provisional Governor-General, 1835-36.

[434] Hon. Cecilia de Roos married in December 1835 Hon. John Boyle.

[435] Lady Salisbury was burnt to death in November 1835.

[436] A lieutenant.

[437] Postal-runners.

[438] Chief Secretary for Ireland, 1835-1841.

[439] A novel, edited by Lady Morley, written by Mr. and Mrs. Lister.

[440] Sir Henry Fane (1778-1840). He was appointed Commander-in-Chief in
India, 1835.

[441] As Registrar-General of births for England and Wales.

[442] Eden Lodge, Kensington Gore.

[443] Miss Payne, married in 1827 Lord Henry Gordon, son of the 9th
Marquess of Huntly.

[444] Lady Mary Gordon married in 1822 Frederick Seymour.

[445] William Pitt, Earl Amherst (1773-1857). He was Governor-General of
India from 1823 to 1826.

[446] Miss Eden’s maid.

[447] Lieutenant Thomas Waghorn, R.N., had been sent to Egypt to
investigate the matter of communication between India and Egypt, _via_

[448] Lord Auckland and his sisters left Calcutta in October, for a long
tour in the North-West Provinces.

[449] John Russell Colvin, Private Secretary to the Governor-General,
married in 1827 Miss Emma Sneyd. He became Lieutenant-Governor of the
Upper Provinces, 1853-57.

[450] Mr. Torrens, Deputy Secretary.

[451] The wife of Mr. (afterwards Sir William) MacNaghten, who was sent
as Envoy to the Afghan Court in 1840, and was assassinated at Cabul,

[452] Lord Henry Gordon.

[453] The insurrection of French-Canadians under Louis Joseph Papineau.

[454] Charles Grant, Lord Glenelg, Colonial Secretary, 1834-1839.

[455] Dost Mahomed, Emir of Cabul (1798-1863). He was expelled by the
British in 1840, but restored three years later.

[456] Envoy and Minister-Plenipotentiary to the Shah at Teheran.

[457] Captain Claude Wade, Agent for the Sutlej Frontier.

[458] Daughter of General Sir Henry Fane.

[459] _The Court and Camp of Runjeet Singh_, by the Hon. W. G. Osborne,
published 1840.

[460] Victor Jacquemont (1801-1832), a French traveller and naturalist
who explored British India and Thibet.

[461] Near Simla.

[462] Native bullock-carts.

[463] Box.

[464] Sir Willoughby Cotton commanded a Division in the Afghan War,

[465] Lady Theresa’s sister-in-law died in November 1838. She was the
daughter of Mr. Lister of Armitage Park, widow of Thomas, 2nd Lord
Ribblesdale; and married, secondly, Lord John Russell.

[466] Lord John Russell had four step-children: Thomas, 3rd Baron
Ribblesdale, who married Emma, daughter of Colonel W. Mure of Caldwell,
M.P.; Adelaide married in 1847 Maurice Drummond; Isabella married in
1853 Rev. W. Warburton; Elizabeth married in 1862 Sir W. Melvill.

[467] George Villiers was given a G.C.B. in 1837, and succeeded his
uncle as 4th Earl of Clarendon, 1838. He was Minister at Madrid,

[468] Villiers Lister, aged seven. He became Under-Secretary for Foreign
Affairs in 1873.

[469] Miss Eden describes thus Runjeet Singh’s appearance in her
letters. _Up the Country_: “He is exactly like an old mouse, with grey
whiskers and one eye.”

[470] Son of Runjeet Singh.

[471] Through her brother George succeeding as Earl of Clarendon.

[472] Lord Clarendon married in 1839 Lady Katherine Barham; she was a
daughter of Lord Verulam and widow of John Barham.

[473] Lady Harriet Villiers, daughter of 3rd Earl of Clarendon, died
unmarried, January 20, 1835.

[474] Lady Charlotte Jenkinson, daughter of 1st Earl of Liverpool.

[475] Lord Henry’s sister, who married the Hon. Charles Cavendish, 1st
Lord Chesham.

[476] She married, 1870, Mr. Borthwick, afterwards Lord Glenesk.

[477] John Charles, 3rd Earl of Clarendon; married in 1792 Maria,
daughter of Admiral Hon. John Forbes, brother of Lord Granard.

[478] John, 13th Lord Elphinstone (1782-1842). He was in command of the
army which met with disaster in Afghanistan in 1841.

[479] George Russell Clerk, British Envoy at Lahore, K.C.B. in 1848.
Permanent Under-Secretary of State for India in 1858.

[480] John Russell Colvin. He married Miss Sneyd in 1827.

[481] Subsequently Sir Auckland Colvin, K.C.S.I., 1838-1908
(Lieutenant-Governor of the North-Western Provinces).

[482] Henry Thoby Prinsep (1792-1878), author of _Origin of the Sikh
Power in the Punjab_, and _Political Life of Maharaja Runjeet Singh_.

[483] Viscount Jocelyn, born 1816; married 1841 Lady Frances Elizabeth
Cowper, daughter of 5th Earl Cowper.

[484] Son of Runjeet Singh.

[485] Hook’s _Births, Marriages, and Deaths_ was published in 1839.

[486] Sir Jasper Nicolls, Commander-in-Chief in Bengal. He died in 1849.

[487] Lady Campbell’s son.

[488] Sir Henry Fane, Commander-in-Chief.

[489] Colonel Henry Boys Harvey.

[490] Pamela married the Rev. C. Stanford in 1841. She died in 1859.

[491] Married in 1847 T. H. Preston.

[492] Guy Colin. He died in 1853 at Singapore, aged twenty-nine.

[493] Lady Lansdowne’s sister, Lady Elizabeth Feilding, died in March

[494] Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice married in 1845 the Hon. James Kenneth

[495] Frederic Campbell, born in 1838.

[496] The British Army, under Sir John Keane, following the capture of
Kandahar, carried Shah Shuja on to Ghazni, which fell July 21, 1839.

[497] Sir George Elliot, son of the 1st Earl of Minto.

[498] Captain Elliot, afterwards Sir Charles Elliot (1801-1875), son of
the Right Hon. Hugh Elliot. He married in 1828 Clara, daughter of R. H.

[499] William George Keith Elphinstone died at Cabul in 1841, aged

[500] Sir Willoughby Cotton, Commander-in-Chief in Bombay, 1847-1850.

[501] Her maid.

[502] Sir James John Gordon Bremer (1786-1850). He captured the Bogue
forts commanding the passage of the Canton River. For his services in
China he received the thanks of Parliament and was made a K.C.B.

[503] Miss Eden’s criticism of Charles Elliot’s conduct was quite
unjust, and subsequently he was completely cleared of all blame.

[504] The Hon. Sarah Archer, married first, the 5th Earl of Plymouth;
and secondly, William Pitt, 2nd Baron Amherst. She died in 1839.

[505] Mary, daughter of 1st Earl of Gosford; married in 1803 Lord W.
Bentinck, Governor-General 1827 to 1833.

[506] Major D’Arcy Todd, Bengal Artillery, was sent on a friendly
Mission to Herat, but being unable to bring matters to a satisfactory
conclusion, withdrew the Mission.

[507] A man-servant.

[508] Commander-in-Chief in Bengal.

[509] Sir Galbraith Lowry Cole, Governor of the Cape. His wife was Lady
Frances Harris. Lord de Grey was his brother-in-law.

[510] Lord Ellenborough.

[511] Sir Henry Pottinger, Bart. (1789-1856). He went as Ambassador to
China in 1840, and two years later negotiated a treaty which ended the
Opium War.

[512] Mr. Lister died June 5, 1842.

[513] Hon. Edward Douglas, born 1800, assumed the name of Pennant in
1841; became Lord Penrhyn in 1866, married 1833 Juliana, daughter of Mr.
Dawkins Pennant of Penrhyn Castle. She died in 1842.

[514] E. Mostyn, married 1827 Harriet, daughter of 2nd Earl of Clonmell;
succeeded his father as Baron Mostyn, 1854.

[515] Lady Theresa Lister married Sir G. Cornewall Lewis in 1844.

[516] Second wife of the 1st Earl of Morley. Frances, daughter of Thomas
Talbot of Gonville, Norfolk.

[517] Miss Eden’s nephew; married Hon. Adelaide Lister, 1847.

[518] Feargus O’Connor, the leader of the Chartists.

[519] In Lord John Russell’s ministry (1846) Macaulay was

[520] Macaulay was defeated at Edinburgh in 1847 by C. Cowan. In 1852 he
was returned unopposed for Edinburgh.

[521] Sir George Grey was Home Secretary in Lord John Russell’s Cabinet.

[522] Lord Auckland, First Lord of the Admiralty.

[523] Her brother, who was now Bishop of Sodor and Man.

[524] Mrs. Colvile’s nurse.

[525] Son and daughter of Lady Theresa Lewis by her first husband.

[526] Sir Alexander Cornewall Duff-Gordon married in 1840 Lucie, only
daughter of John Austin.

[527] The _Avenger_ was wrecked, December 20, 1847, on the Sorelle
Rocks, north coast of Africa. Only five lives were saved out of two
hundred and seventy.

[528] A letter of the Duke of Wellington’s on national defence, and
urging an increase in the army, was published without his consent in the
_Morning Chronicle_ of January 4, 1848.

[529] Lord John Russell, Prime Minister in 1846-1852.

[530] Lord Palmerston, Foreign Secretary.

[531] On the appointment of Dr. Hampden (1794-1868) to the Bishopric of

[532] Hampden’s Bampton Lectures were considered heretical. Merewether
was the High-Church candidate.

[533] Samuel Wilberforce (1805-1873); he became Bishop of Oxford, 1845.

[534] _Daughters_ was published anonymously in 1847.

[535] Elizabeth Fry, the Prison Reformer (1780-1845). Her _Journal_ and
_Letters_ were published in 1847.

[536] Ella Drummond, her niece.

[537] Under-Secretary for the Home Department.

[538] William Vansittart married, 1839, Emily Lindsay Anstruther. She
died 1844. He married, December 1847, Henrietta Humphreys; she died in
1852. He married, thirdly, Mélanie, daughter of Sir R. Jenkins.

[539] Her doctor, Sir C. Locock.

[540] Lord Ashburton married Ann Louisa Bingham of Philadelphia in 1798.
She died December 5, 1848.

[541] W. Bingham Baring (2nd Lord Ashburton) married Lady Harriet

[542] Right Hon. Charles Buller, who died in 1848.

[543] Francis, Duke of Bedford. He was brother to Lord John Russell.

[544] Sir George Cornewall Lewis’s house, on the borders of Wales.

[545] Lady Godolphin, Miss Eden’s sister, died in 1847.

[546] Mr. Henry Baring died April 13, 1848. Mrs. H. Baring was Cecilia
Anne, daughter of Vice-Admiral William Windham.

[547] Macaulay published the first and second volumes of his _History_
in 1848.

[548] Probably _Lives of the Friends and Contemporaries of Lord
Chancellor Clarendon_. It was published in 1852.

[549] Sir Guy Campbell died January 26, 1849.

[550] Lord Auckland’s death on January 1, 1849, was described by Charles
Greville in his _Memoirs_: “The past year, which has been so fertile in
public misfortunes and private sorrows, wound up its dismal catalogue
with a great and unexpected calamity--the death of Auckland, who went to
the Grange [Lord Ashburton] in perfect health on Friday, but was struck
down by a fit of apoplexy on his return from shooting on Saturday, and
died early Monday morning.... His loss to the Government is irreparable,
and to his family it is unspeakably great. To his sisters he was a
husband, a brother, and a friend combined in one, and to them it is a
bereavement full of sadness, almost amounting to despair.”

[551] Mary Dulcebella Drummond married, October 17, 1850, Richard

[552] Maurice Drummond married Lord John Russell’s step-daughter, Hon.
Adelaide Lister, January 12, 1847.

[553] Lady Georgiana Howard married in 1822 George James Welbore, 1st
Lord Dover.

[554] Lady Caroline Lascelles, whose husband, the Rt. Hon. W. Lascelles,
died 1851.

[555] Diana, married 1851 the Hon. Edward Coke.

[556] Lucia, married in 1851 Lord Bagot.

[557] Granville, killed at sea, 1851.

[558] The Ecclesiastical Titles Bill.

[559] Sir Alexander James Cockburn.

[560] After Lord Clarendon left Ireland he was four times Secretary for
Foreign Affairs.

[561] Augustus Welby Pugin (1811-1852), the Roman Catholic architect.

[562] Mr. C. Greville wrote a letter to _The Times_ in December 1850 on
the subject of Protestant Agitation, signed “Carolus.”

[563] Lady Theresa’s mother, Mrs. George Villiers, died January 12,
1856, aged eighty.

[564] Jessie, daughter of Vice-Admiral Henry Greville, C.B., married,
1844, Edward Palmer.

[565] Disraeli’s Government of India Bill.

[566] Louisa Georgina, daughter of Henry, 3rd Earl Bathurst.

[567] The Rev. W. J. Early Bennett the ritualist, Vicar of Frome. He
died in 1886.

[568] _Journal and Correspondence of William Lord Auckland_, published

[569] Miss Eden’s novel, _The Semi-Detached House_, was published in
1859. Edited by Lady Theresa Lewis.

[570] Earl of Dalkeith married, November 22, 1859, Lady Louisa Hamilton.

[571] William George Granville Vernon-Harcourt (Sir William
Vernon-Harcourt) married Thérèse Lister on November 5, 1859.

[572] Her sister-in-law, wife of Lord Auckland, Bishop of Bath and

[573] Constance, married 1864, 16th Earl of Derby. Alice, married 1860,
1st Earl of Lathom. Emily Theresa, married 1868, Lord Ampthill.

[574] Sir James Colvile, Miss Eden’s nephew. He was Chief Justice of
Bengal, 1855-1859.

[575] Florence Nightingale died in 1910, aged ninety.

[576] Miss Eden’s niece.

[577] Emma, daughter of Colonel Mure, married Thomas, 3rd Baron
Ribblesdale, in 1853.

[578] Julian, born October 6, 1860, and died in 1862.

[579] Henry and Charles Greville.

[580] The Comte de Flahault died in 1864. His daughter had married Lord
Kerry in 1843.

[581] Gore House was probably built in the beginning of the nineteenth
century. William Wilberforce lived there for fifteen years; in 1836 the
house was lived in for a short time by Lady Blessington and Count
D’Orsay, who had married Lord Blessington’s daughter by his first wife.

[582] June 29, 1860, Constance Kent murdered her step-brother at Road in

[583] Her niece.

[584] _Hopes and Fears_, published in 1860.

[585] Lady Alice Villiers married in August 1860 Lord Skelmersdale (1st
Earl of Lathom).

[586] Charles Wood, Secretary of State for India, 1st Viscount Halifax

[587] Henry Hart Milman, Dean of St. Paul’s (1791-1868).

[588] Mr. George Hogge helped in the preparation for publication the
_Journal and Correspondence of William Lord Auckland_.

[589] Daughter of 3rd Lord Auckland, Bishop of Bath and Wells.

[590] Isabella, daughter of Viscount Torrington. She died in 1830.

[591] Harriet, daughter of the 1st Lord Ashburton.

[592] Lady Theresa Lewis died in 1865, aged sixty-two.

[593] Near Frome, in Somersetshire.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Miss Eden's Letters" ***

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