# Letters from India Volume I/To the Countess of Buckinghamshire 1

Saturday, November 14, Lat. 19° South.
My dearest sister,—As they say we are to arrive at Rio on Tuesday or Wednesday, I was inclined not to write till then; but it is a horrid business to survey and sketch a new quarter of the globe completely in a few days, and leaves little time for writing. Besides, I have vague notions of the dignity of ‘crowing from one’s own dunghill,’ so I write lying on a hard couch in a close cabin of a rolling ship, and at an hour when what they call ‘exercises’ are going on—five in the afternoon—when 250 men begin stamping about, just overhead, dragging ropes and chains and blocks after them; all the officers screaming, and all the petty officers whistling—so pleasant! It only lasts an hour! ​which I take for my writing time, just to try my powers of abstraction. I cannot tell you what a ship is, particularly when one has been several years on board, which is our case.
—— and I were agreeing that, without any exaggeration, we should say it was two or three years since we left Portsmouth; and what is more odd is, that it seems much longer since we left Madeira. That is so long ago that we cannot remember the names of the people we saw there, nor anything about it distinctly. As you are never likely to come and judge for yourself, allow me to rectify several errors into which we have all been led by our easy credulity. In the ﬁrst place, there is nothing so little sublime as the sea; it is always tiresome, and very often dirty and soap-suddy. Then, it is not true that ‘there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it;’ there are hardly any fish, and those few are not to be caught. We entrapped a small shark, and that is all; the flying-fish are rather like grasshoppers, but without the pleasing accompaniment of grass, and dolphins we have never yet seen. Then, a tropical sun is not that fiery furnace we have always supposed it to be. On Friday, when we were actually ​under the sun, and ought to have stood plump in the midst of our own shadows, we were very glad of our warm gowns; so never think of pitying ‘the naked negro panting at the line;’ if he pants, it must be for some clothes. As to the tropical skies, they are, as old Rapid says, ‘a shame to be seen’—miserable drab-coloured creatures, with a dirty yellow look towards sunset; and as for thunder and lightning, I should be ashamed if I could not make a much better storm out of a sheet of tin and a tallow candle. I mention these circumstances merely from a love of truth, and not as a matter of complaint. I can imagine that travellers who have not seen the sunsets we have let off from the Temple Walk at Eden Farm, or the terrace at East Combe, may be satisﬁed with what they see in the tropics; but that is no reason why we, who know better, should put up with such an inferior article.
Rio, Monday, November 16.
There—we have discovered America! just like Columbus and Americus, and all those others. We hunted about for it all yesterday, and found it to-day, and so I suppose the country will promote us all. We might have come in ​yesterday, I believe, only it was very hazy, and they could not see the land, and it would have been a pity to have wrecked us. It is well worth a little trouble to see this harbour: there are as many islands in it as there are days in the year—wooded, and rocky, and mountainous, and, in short, beautiful; but you will not care much about that, and would probably rather hear our personal history, which has not, however, been eventful. George and Fanny are particularly well, and, except that George is in a particular hurry to arrive, he is not much bored on board. —— is sometimes worse than I am about the ship, and does not care what he says when he sets about it.
The night we came aboard from Madeira, he was lying on the poop, saying, ‘Well! they may talk of “Les Derniers Jours d’un Condamné,” but les derniers jours d’un shippé are much worse.’
Captain Grey seems to be an excellent officer, and it is impossible to mistrust our safety under his care. We all like him very much, and are in luck to have so pleasant a man. He is learned in navigation, and is always taking observations with his sextant and ​chronometer. He is particularly fond of ‘taking lunars,’ which process is conducted by observations on the moon and a certain star called Aldebaran; and the captain does not like to have Aldebaran sneered at. —— begins, ‘Well, Grey, after you had shot at that wretched moon with your bit of smoked glass, I heard you send for the master; and he was coming up the hatchway, forty miles an hour, with his sextant under one arm and his lunars under the other, and dragging Aldebaran in a string after him, when he slipped, and his head came smack through my venetians. I hope Aldebaran was not hurt.’
As these sort of things give you a better notion than a regular description, I write them. I meant to make a single letter, but I cannot cram it all in; and, after all, it will not cost you more than a series of 3d. post-letters, which we might be writing; but it is no use thinking of those things. I should not like to die now, though I do not love my life as I have done—but I should die now in such a woeful frame of mind; and, besides, I cannot, as the Irish say, ‘make my soul’ on board ship—it is all such confusion.
Rio, Tuesday, November 17.
We arrived here at eight last night, after a tedious day of working into the harbour, with a doubt to the last whether we should not be becalmed; but the beauty of the place makes up for a great deal. It far exceeds all the amount of praise that has been lavished on it. You can read an account of it elsewhere, in any book of voyages.
Sir Graham Eden Hamond, who was my father’s godson, and is the admiral of the station, came on board as soon as we had anchored. He is full of civilities to us. There is no possibility of sleeping on shore—first, because there are no hotels, and then the mosquitoes arid all sorts of vermin would make it impossible; but the ‘Jupiter’ at anchor is very different from the ‘Jupiter’ at sea, and makes a very good hotel. Then ‘His Excellency’ (as we all sneeringly call George, when we are bored) has a beautiful barge of his own on board; belonging to the ship, of course, but it is independent of the captain’s gig and the ofﬁcers’ barge, &c., so that we can go out in it and come in as we like.
​The harbour is full of shipping, and the English, French, and Brazilian admirals all hoisted His Excellency’s flag this morning; and they saluted and we replied, till I am nearly as deaf as the Admiral. George and Captain Grey glided gracefully about in the barge, paying visits to the authorities; and then George fetched us, and we walked about the town, which is flourishing, and though very dirty is much more amusing than Funchal; but there is not even a common café in it where they can cook a bad luncheon.
More than two-thirds of the population are slaves, and there is hardly a pure white left. It is odd how short a time surprise lasts. The streets swarm with slaves wearing the same quantity of clothing that Adam did when he left Paradise, and they are carrying weights and dragging carts, and making an odd hallooing noise, rather a cheerful one, and are totally unlike anything we are in the habit of seeing, and yet the sight of all these undressed creatures is not startling after the first moment. They have come out of the pictures in ‘Stedman’s Surinam,’ and I have seen them all before. The children are too monstrous. Tell your —— ​that I have not seen ‘a pretty boy’ amongst them. The Admiral gave us a very early dinner on board the ‘Dublin,’ and then landed us and some of his officers; and we went off, in two hired carriages, to the Botanical Gardens, through some magnificent scenery.
November 19.
We have dined twice with the Admiral, who is as deaf as a post, but very civil—too kind. We are just come back from such a hot dinner on board the ‘Dublin,’ where we met the French admiral and all his officers, and twenty others; and there we arrived in our barge, with our hair blown all nohow; and having scrambled up an immense companion-ladder, we were clawed on board by a strange lieutenant, with all our own officers struggling after us—such figures! And tomorrow, by way of making us quite happy, the Admiral gives us a ball. It is the oddest thing that, wherever we go they fancy that a ball would be the greatest pleasure we could have; and (poor old things!) we really cannot hobble about unless they pay us for it. However, we must do so many tiresome things for the next five years, that ​there is no use in kicking against the pricks. I wish to snatch one day from the general wreck, and to observe that yesterday was very pleasant indeed—one of those days that go far to make up for the faults of a voyage. We avoided all the authorities, and landed at a little quiet bay, where George had ordered five horses to meet us; and Captain Grey took us a ride that he had known in former times, up one of the high mountains, and back by the aqueduct; and we were all satisfied that Nature can do no more in the way of beauty—clouds, mountains, trees, butterflies, atmosphere, water—such a combination! I shall never forget that ride. We sail at four on Saturday morning, and may, possibly, be at the Cape in three weeks. God bless you, my very dear sister! It is no use saying how much I should like to see you: that is a subject that will not bear talking of.
Chance desires his love to Dandy. I see your dressing-box in constant employ in George’s room.
Your most affectionate
E. Eden.
Thursday, 19th.
We have just had a most satisfactory day of riding, and sketching, and walking; and anything equal to the beauty of this place I never dreamed of. We are all charmed with it. Good-bye, dearest! Love to all. We sail at four to-morrow, and expect to be at the Cape in three weeks. God bless you!
Yours ever affectionately,
E. Eden.