My departure is now near at hand.  This is the last letter which I shall write to you from India.  Our passage is taken in the Lord Hungerford; the most celebrated of the huge floating hotels which run between London and Calcutta.  She is more renowned for the comfort and luxury of her internal arrangements than for her speed.  As we are to stop at the Cape for a short time, I hardly expect to be with you till the end of May, or the beginning of June.  I intend to make myself a good German scholar by the time of my arrival in England.  I have already, at leisure moments broken the ice.  I have read about half of the New Testament in Luther’s translation, and am now getting rapidly, for a beginner, through Schiller’s History of the Thirty Years’ War.  My German library consists of all Goethe’s works, all Schiller’s works, Muller’s History of Switzerland, some of Tieck, some of Lessing, and other works of less fame.  I hope to despatch them all on my way home.  I like Schiller’s style exceedingly.  His history contains a great deal of very just and deep thought, conveyed in language so popular and agreeable that dunces would think him superficial.

I lately took it into my head to obtain some knowledge of the Fathers, and I read therefore a good deal of Athanasius, which by no means raised him in my opinion.  I procured the magnificent edition of Chrysostom, by Montfaucon, from a public library here, and turned over the eleven huge folios, reading wherever the subject was of peculiar interest.  As to reading him through, the thing is impossible.  These volumes contain matter at least equal to the whole extant literature of the best times of Greece, from Homer to Aristotle inclusive.  There are certainly some very brilliant passages in his homilies.  It seems curious that, though the Greek literature began to flourish so much earlier than the Latin, it continued to flourish so much later.  Indeed, if you except the century which elapsed between Cicero’s first public appearance and Livy’s death, I am not sure that there was any time at which Greece had not writers equal or superior to their Roman contemporaries.  I am sure that no Latin writer of the age of Lucian is to be named with Lucian; that no Latin writer of the age of Longinus is to be named with Longinus; that no Latin prose of the age of Chrysostom can be named with Chrysostom’s compositions.  I have read Augustin’s Confessions.  The book is not without interest; but he expresses himself in the style of a field-preacher.

Our Penal Code is to be published next week.  It has cost me very intense labour; and, whatever its faults may be, it is certainly not a slovenly performance.  Whether the work proves useful to India or not, it has been of great use, I feel and know, to my own mind.

[In October 1854, Macaulay writes to my mother:  “I cannot but be pleased to find that, at last, the Code on which I bestowed the labour of two of the best years of my life has had justice done to it.  Had this justice been done sixteen years ago, I should probably have given much more attention to legislation, and much less to literature than I have done.  I do not know that I should have been either happier or more useful than I have been.”]