I travelled the whole four hundred miles between this and Madras on men’s shoulders.  I had an agreeable journey on the whole.  I was honoured by an interview with the Rajah of Mysore, who insisted on showing me all his wardrobe, and his picture gallery.  He has six or seven coloured English prints, not much inferior to those which I have seen in the sanded parlour of a country inn; “Going to Cover,” “The Death of the Fox,” and so forth.  But the bijou of his gallery, of which he is as vain as the Grand Duke can be of the Venus, or Lord Carlisle of the Three Maries, is a head of the Duke of Wellington, which has, most certainly, been on a sign-post in England.

Yet, after all, the Rajah was by no means the greatest fool whom I found at Mysore.  I alighted at a bungalow appertaining to the British Residency.  There I found an Englishman who, without any preface, accosted me thus:  “Pray, Mr. Macaulay, do not you think that Buonaparte was the Beast?” “No, Sir, I cannot say that I do.”  “Sir, he was the Beast.  I can prove it.  I have found the number 666 in his name.  Why, Sir, if he was not the Beast, who was?” This was a puzzling question, and I am not a little vain of my answer.  “Sir,” said I, “the House of Commons is the Beast.  There are 658 members of the House; and these, with their chief officers,—­the three clerks, the Sergeant and his deputy, the Chaplain, the doorkeeper, and the librarian,—­make 666.”  “Well, Sir, that is strange.  But I can assure you that, if you write Napoleon Buonaparte in Arabic, leaving out only two letters, it will give 666.”  “And pray, Sir, what right have you to leave out two letters?  And, as St. John was writing Greek, and to Greeks, is it not likely that he would use the Greek rather than the Arabic notation?” “But, Sir,” said this learned divine, “everybody knows that the Greek letters were never used to mark numbers.”  I answered with the meekest look and voice possible:  “I do not think that everybody knows that.  Indeed I have reason to believe that a different opinion,—­erroneous no doubt,—­is universally embraced by all the small minority who happen to know any Greek.”  So ended the controversy.  The man looked at me as if he thought me a very wicked fellow; and, I dare say, has by this time discovered that, if you write my name in Tamul, leaving out T in Thomas, B in Babington, and M in Macaulay, it will give the number of this unfortunate Beast.

I am very comfortable here.  The Governor-General is the frankest and best-natured of men.  The chief functionaries, who have attended him hither, are clever people, but not exactly on a par as to general attainments with the society to which I belonged in London.  I thought, however, even at Madras, that I could have formed a very agreeable circle of acquaintance; and I am assured that at Calcutta I shall find things far better.  After all, the best rule in all parts of the world, as in London itself, is to be independent of other men’s minds.