," once wrote Lady Blessington to him. The verdict of
1840 could not have been overruled twenty-one years later. Once we drove
up to "aerial Fiesole," and never can I forget Landor's manner while in
the neighborhood of his former home. It had been proposed that we should
turn back when only half-way up the hill. "Ah, go a little farther,"
Landor said nervously; "I should like to see my villa." Of course his
wish was our pleasure, and so the drive was continued. Landor sat
immovable, with head turned in the direction of the Villa Gherardesca.
At first sight of it he gave a sudden start, and genuine tears filled
his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. "There's where I lived," he said,
breaking a long silence and pointing to his old estate. Still we mounted
the hill, and when at a turn in the road the villa stood out before us
clearly and distinctly, Landor said, "Let us give the horses a rest
here!" We stopped, and for several minutes Landor's gaze was fixed upon
the villa. "There now, we can return to Florence, if you like," he
murmured, finally, with a deep sigh. "I have seen it probably for the
last time." Hardly a word was spoken during the drive home. Landor
seemed to be absent-minded. A sadder, more pathetic picture than he made
during this memorable drive is rarely seen. "With me life has been a
failure," was the expression of that wretched, worn face. Those who
believe Landor to have been devoid of heart should have seen him then.

* * * * *

During another drive he stopped the horses at the corner of a dirty
little old street, and, getting out of the carriage, hurriedly
disappeared round a corner, leaving us without explanation and
consequently in amazement. We had not long to wait, however, as he soon
appeared carrying a large roll of canvas. "There!" he exclaimed, as he
again seated himself, "I've made a capital bargain. I've long wanted
these paintings, but the man asked more than I could give. To-day he
relented. They are very clever, and I shall have them framed." Alas!
they were not clever, and Landor in his last days had queer notions
concerning art. That he was excessively fond of pictures is undoubtedly
true; he surrounded himself with them, but there was far more quantity
than quality about them. He frequently attributed very bad paintings to
very good masters; and it by no means followed because he called a
battle-piece a "Salvator Rosa," that it was painted by Salvator. Bu