I have already entered on my public functions, and I hope to do some good.  The very wigs of the judges in the Court of King’s Bench would stand on end if they knew how short a chapter my Law of Evidence will form.  I am not without many advisers.  A native of some fortune in Madras has sent me a paper on legislation.  “Your honour must know,” says this judicious person, “that the great evil is that men swear falsely in this country.  No judge knows what to believe.  Surely if your honour can make men to swear truly, your honour’s fame will be great, and the Company will flourish.  Now, I know how men may be made to swear truly; and I will tell your honour for your fame, and for the profit of the Company.  Let your honour cut off the great toe of the right foot of every man who swears falsely, whereby your honour’s fame will be extended.”  Is not this an exquisite specimen of legislative wisdom?

I must stop.  When I begin to write to England, my pen runs as if it would run on for ever.

Ever yours affectionately

T. B. M.

To Miss Fanny and Miss Selina Macaulay.

Ootacamund:  August 10, 1834.

My dear Sisters,—­I sent last month a full account of my journey hither, and of the place, to Margaret, as the most stationary of our family; desiring her to let you all see what I had written to her.  I think that I shall continue to take the same course.  It is better to write one full and connected narrative than a good many imperfect fragments.

Money matters seem likely to go on capitally.  My expenses, I find, will be smaller than I anticipated.  The Rate of Exchange, if you know what that means, is very favourable indeed; and, if I live, I shall get rich fast.  I quite enjoy the thought of appearing in the light of an old hunks who knows on which side his bread is buttered; a warm man; a fellow who will cut up well.  This is not a character which the Macaulays have been much in the habit of sustaining; but I can assure you that, after next Christmas, I expect to lay up, on an average, about seven thousand pounds a year, while I remain in India.

At Christmas I shall send home a thousand, or twelve hundred, pounds for my father, and you all.  I cannot tell you what a comfort it is to me to find that I shall be able to do this.  It reconciles me to all the pains—­acute enough, sometimes, God knows,—­of banishment.  In a few years, if I live—­probably in less than five years from the time at which you will be reading this letter—­we shall be again together in a comfortable, though a modest, home; certain of a good fire, a good joint of meat, and a good glass of wine; without owing obligations to anybody; and perfectly indifferent, at least as far as our pecuniary interest is concerned, to the changes of the political world.  Rely on it, my dear girls, that there is no chance of my going back with my heart cooled towards you.  I came hither principally to save my family, and I am not likely while here to forget them.