ations of Wits and Courtiers on either side, all this is very
delightful. I am not heroic enough for Castles, Battlefields, etc.
Strawberry Hill for me! I looked all over it: you know all the pictures,
jewels, curiosities, were sold some ten years ago; only bare walls
remain: the walls indeed here and there stuck with Gothic woodwork, and
the ceilings with Gothic gilding, sometimes painted Gothic to imitate
woodwork; much of it therefore in less good taste: all a Toy, but yet the
Toy of a very clever man. The rain is coming through the Roofs, and
gradually disengaging the confectionary Battlements and Cornices. Do you
like Walpole? did you ever read him? Then close by is Hampton Court:
with its stately gardens, and fine portraits inside; all very much to my
liking. I am quite sure gardens should be formal, and unlike general
Nature. I much prefer the old French and Dutch gardens to what are
called the English.

I saw scarce any of our friends during the three weeks I passed at Ham.
Though I had to run to London several times, I generally ran back as fast
as I could; much preferring the fresh air and the fields to the smoke and
'the wilderness of monkeys' in London. Thackeray I saw for ten minutes:
he was just in the agony of finishing a Novel: which has arisen out of
the Reading necessary for his Lectures, and relates to those Times--of
Queen Anne, I mean. He will get 1000 pounds for his Novel. He was
wanting to finish it, and rush off to the Continent, I think, to shake
off the fumes of it. Old Spedding, that aged and most subtle Serpent,
was in his old haunt in Lincoln's Inn Fields, up to any mischief. It was
supposed that Alfred was somewhere near Malvern: Carlyle I did not go to
see, for I really have nothing to tell him, and I have got tired of
hearing him growl: though I do not cease to admire him as much as ever. I
also went once to the pit of the Covent Garden Italian Opera, to hear
Meyerbeer's Huguenots, of which I had only heard bits on the Pianoforte.
But the first Act was so noisy, and ugly, that I came away, unable to
wait for the better part, that, I am told, follows. Meyerbeer is a man
of Genius: and works up _dramatic_ Music: but he has scarce any melody,
and is rather grotesque and noisy than really powerful. I think this is
the fault of modern music; people cannot believe that Mozart is
_powerful_ because he is so Beautiful: in the same way as it requires a
very practised eye (more than I