Walter Savage Landor, who was born in 1775, lived on hale and hearty till 1864. As he himself wrote:—

He was, as we have seen, the very good friend of both D’Orsay and Lady Blessington, whom he first met when he was living in Italy.

In a letter to Lady Blessington, in 1837, Landor presented her with his autobiography in brief:—

“Walter Landor, of Ipsley Court, in the county of Warwick, married first, Maria, only daughter and heiress of J. Wright, Esq., by whom he had an only daughter, married to her cousin, Humphrey Arden, Esq., of Longcroft, in Staffordshire; secondly, Elizabeth, eldest daughter and co-heiress of Charles Savage, of Tachebrooke, who brought about eighty thousand pounds into the family. The eldest son of this marriage, Walter Savage Landor, was born 30th January 1775. He was educated at Rugby—his private tutor was Dr Heath, of St Paul’s. When he had reached the head of the school, he was too young for college, and was placed under the private tuition of Mr Langley of Ashbourne. After a year, he was entered at Trinity College, Oxford, where the learned Beonwell was his private tutor. At the peace of Amiens, he went to France, but returned at the end of the year.

“In 1808, on the first insurrection of Spain, in June he joined the Viceroy of Gallicia, Blake. The Madrid Gazette of August mentions a gift from him of twenty thousand reals. On the extinction of the Constitution, he returned to Don P. Cavallos the tokens of royal approbation, in no very measured terms. In 1811, he married Julia, daughter of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and representative of J. Thuillier de Malaperte, Baron de Nieuveville, first gentleman of the bedchamber to Charles the Eighth. He was residing at Tours, when, after the battle of Waterloo, many other Englishmen, to the number of four thousand, went away. He wrote to Carnot that he had no confidence in the moderation or honour of the Emperor, but resolved to stay, because he considered the danger to be greater in the midst of a broken army. A week afterwards, when this wretch occupied Tours, his house was the only one without a billet. In the autumn of that year, he retired to Italy. For seven or eight years, he occupied the Palazzo Medici, in Florence, and then bought the celebrated villa of Count Gherardesea, at Fiesole, with its gardens, and two farms, immediately under the ancient villa of Lorenzo de Medici. His visits to England have been few and short.”

This is but the bare bones of a very interesting life; but its very bluntness seems to illustrate the character of its writer, a member of the genus irritabile, whom many hated, many loved and most men admired. For several years he made his home at Bath, living there from 1838 to 1858, when again he retired to Italy, where he died at Florence.

He is, perhaps, best known to the world at large under the slight disguise of Lawrence Boythorn in Bleak House.

Charles Sumner describes him thus in 1838:—“Dressed in a heavy frock-coat of snuff colour, trousers of the same colour, and boots … with an open countenance, firm and decided, and a head grey and inclining to baldness … conversation … not varied, but it was animated and energetic in the extreme. We crossed each other several times; he called Napoleon the weakest, littlest man in history.”

Forster’s account is more vivid:—

“He was not above the middle stature, but had a short stalwart presence, walked without a stoop, and in his general aspect, particularly the set and carriage of his head, was decidedly of what is called a distinguished bearing. His hair was already silvered grey, and had retired far upward from his forehead, which wide and full but retreating, could never in the earlier time have been seen to such advantage. What at first was noticeable, however, in the broad white massive head, were the full yet strangely-lifted eyebrows. In the large, grey eyes there was a depth of compound expression that ever startled by its contrast to the eager restlessness looking out from the surface of them; and in the same variety and quickness of transition the mouth was extremely striking. The lips, that seemed compressed with unalterable will would in a moment relax to a softness more than feminine; and a sweeter smile it was impossible to conceive.”

Carlyle says that “he was really stirring company; a proud, irascible, trenchant, yet generous, veracious and very dignified old man; quite a ducal or royal man in the temper of him.”

He was very frequently at Gore House, and they must have made a curious trio, the fascinating Lady Blessington, the ducal Landor and dandy D’Orsay.

He addressed these lines to her:—

Of some of his many visits here are a few notes:—

Writing Friday, 7th May 1841:—

“I did not leave my cab at Gore House gate until a quarter past six. My kind hostess and D’Orsay were walking in the garden and never was more cordial reception. After dinner we went to the English opera, The Siege of Rochelle and A Day at Turin. Nothing could be worse than the first except the second. The Hanoverian minister, very attentive to Miss Power, a Carlist viscount, and Lord Pembroke were the only persons who stayed any time in the box,” and on 8th May he writes again from Gore House: “We went this evening to the German Opera. Never was music so excellent. The pieces were A Night in Grenada and Fidelio. Madame Schodel sings divinely, and her acting is only inferior to Pasta’s.… Both D’Orsay and Lord Pembroke were enchanted with Madame Schodel, and Lady B. and Miss Power, both good judges, and the latter a fine composer, were breathless. To-night we go to the Italian Opera.”

Landor writing from Gore House in June 1842:

“We have not been to the Opera this evening, as Lord Pembroke and the Duc de Guiche came to dinner. He is on a visit to Lord Tankerville, but has the good taste to prefer the society he finds here, particularly D’Orsay’s. D’Orsay was never in higher spirits or finer plumage.”

On July 20th he writes:—

“A few days after my arrival in town, the Duc de Grammont dined at Gore House. He is on a visit to Lord Tankerville.… D’Orsay has just finished an exquisite painting of the Duchesse.”

Then on September 7th:—

“I arrived at Gore House early on Monday. In the morning, beside Lord Allen and some other people, there called Lord Auckland.… At dinner the Duc de Guiche, Sir Francis Burdett and Sir Willoughby Cotton.… Those were bright hours; even my presence could not interrupt their brilliancy.… The Duc de Guiche left us this morning to shoot with his cousin, Lord Ossulton.[18] We miss the liveliness of his conversation—he talked Memoirs.”

When he was not at Gore House he kept up a very lively correspondence with his two friends, some of which it will be useful to quote, for in familiar letters we become almost on speaking terms with their writers, and who of us would not be glad to chat with Lady Blessington, Landor and D’Orsay?

This from her to him, when sending him her portrait:—

“I send you the engraving, and have only to wish that it may sometimes remind you of the original. You are associated in my memory with some of my happiest days; you were the friend, and the highly-valued friend, of my dear and lamented husband, and as such, even without any of the numberless claims you have to my regard, you could not be otherwise than highly esteemed. It appears to me that I have not quite lost him, who made life dear to me, when I am near those he loved[19] and that knew how to value him. Five fleeting years have gone by since our delicious evenings on the lovely Arno, evenings never to be forgotten, and the recollections of which ought to cement the friendships then formed. This effect I can, in truth, say has been produced on me, and I look forward, with confidence, to keeping alive, by a frequent correspondence, the friendship you owe me, no less for that I feel for you, but as the widow of one you loved, and that truly loved you. We, or more properly speaking I, live in a world where friendship is little known, and were it not for one or two individuals like yourself, I might be tempted to exclaim with Socrates: ‘My friends, there are no friends.’ Let us prove that the philosopher was wrong, and if Fate has denied us the comfort of meeting, let us by letters keep up our friendly intercourse. You will tell me what you think and feel in your Tuscan retirement, and I will tell you what I do, in this modern Babylon, where thinking and feeling are almost unknown. Have I not reason to complain that in your sojourn in London you do not give me a single day? And yet methinks you promised to stay a week, and that of that week I should have my share. I rely on your promise of coming to see me again before you leave London, and I console myself for the disappointment of seeing so little of you, by recollecting the welcome and the happiness that await you at home. Long may you enjoy it, is the sincere wish of your attached friend,

“M. Blessington.”