My dear Sister,—­I went on Saturday to Holland House, and stayed there Sunday.  It was legitimate Sabbath employment,—­visiting the sick,—­ which, as you well know, always stands first among the works of mercy enumerated in good books.  My Lord was ill, and my Lady thought herself so.  He was, during the greater part of the day, in bed.  For a few hours he lay on his sofa, wrapped in flannels.  I sate by him about twenty minutes, and was then ordered away.  He was very weak and languid; and, though the torture of the gout was over, was still in pain; but he retained all his courage, and all his sweetness of temper.  I told his sister that I did not think that he was suffering much.  “I hope not,” said she; “but it is impossible to judge by what he says; for through the sharpest pain of the attack he never complained.”  I admire him more, I think, than any man whom I know.  He is only fifty-seven, or fifty-eight.  He is precisely the man to whom health would be particularly valuable; for he has the keenest zest for those pleasures which health would enable him to enjoy.  He is, however, an invalid, and a cripple.  He passes some weeks of every year in extreme torment.  When he is in his best health he can only limp a hundred yards in a day.  Yet he never says a cross word.  The sight of him spreads good humour over the face of every one who comes near him.  His sister, an excellent old maid as ever lived, and the favourite of all the young people of her acquaintance, says that it is quite a pleasure to nurse him.  She was reading the “Inheritance” to him as he lay in bed, and he enjoyed it amazingly.  She is a famous reader; more quiet and less theatrical than most famous readers, and therefore the fitter for the bed-side of a sick man.  Her Ladyship had fretted herself into being ill, could eat nothing but the breast of a partridge, and was frightened out of her wits by hearing a dog howl.  She was sure that this noise portended her death, or my Lord’s.  Towards the evening, however, she brightened up, and was in very good spirits.  My visit was not very lively.  They dined at four, and the company was, as you may suppose at this season, but scanty.  Charles Greville, commonly called, heaven knows why, Punch Greville, came on the Saturday.  Byng, named from his hair Poodle Byng, came on the Sunday.  Allen, like the poor, we had with us always.  I was grateful, however, for many pleasant evenings passed there when London was full, and Lord Holland out of bed.  I therefore did my best to keep the house alive.  I had the library and the delightful gardens to myself during most of the day, and I got through my visit very well.

News you have in the papers.  Poor Scott is gone, and I cannot be sorry for it.  A powerful mind in ruins is the most heart-breaking thing which it is possible to conceive.  Ferdinand of Spain is gone too; and, I fear, old Mr. Stephen is going fast.  I am safe at Leeds.  Poor Hyde Villiers is very ill.  I am seriously alarmed about him.  Kindest love to all.