Sterne into genuine Italian humour, free from licentiousness and constraint. "Il Viaggio Sentimentale di Yorick" reads like an original book. Our author displayed therein the capabilities of Italian prose for every kind of composition. He and Manzoni showed that it was the pedants who had kept Italy without novels, sketches, or entertaining literature of any kind. Massimo d'Azeglio subsequently followed in the footsteps of his father-in-law, Manzoni, and gave Italy some of her best, most interesting, and life-like stories, written in plain, colloquial language. "Ricciarda," another tragedy, was produced by Foscolo at Florence, from a mediæval subject. It contains fine language, and harmonious verse; but it is cold and monotonous, like his other compositions of this class, and lacks dramatic interest.

After Napoleon's fall, in 1814, Foscolo returned to Milan, where he entered warmly into the spirit of the Independents, who were anxious that Northern Italy should form a separate state, free from French or German tutelage. He obtained from the Regency of Milan the rank of major, but the Austrians soon afterwards re-occupied the capital of Lombardy, and the patriots had no choice but to submit, after delivering a protest, drawn up by our author. He could only expect from the new rulers the continuance of the halfpay of his military rank. However, the Austrians, wishing to rally talent around them, offered him the editorship of a new journal, at a salary of 6000 francs. Though his enemies sneered at him for saying, in one of his cynical moods, that "conscience was a mere matter of blood, and fibre, and nerve," he refused to accept service from those he had regarded as the foes of his country. It soon became known that he had been holding correspondence with the hated Tedeschi; and the extreme Italian liberals, with the exaggeration that frequently characterised them,

began to regard him as a traitor and a renegade.

"What is said of me ?" asked Foscolo, one day, of Pecchio-afterwards his biographer-whom he met accidentally. "I should advise you to refrain from any intercourse with the Austrians," was the reply, "otherwise you will be considered a spy in their pay." This struck Foscolo like a thunderbolt: he quickened his pace, without saying a word, and went home. That evening he hurriedly left Milan, without saying farewell to any of his friends; without passport; without money; without luggage. He retired to Switzerland, and from Lugano he addressed a kind of parting address to his countrymen, which was published in the "Gazette" of Lugano, and which contained the following terms :

"Let the minister of the Austrian police spare himself the trouble of annoying me in my exile, for I am henceforward dead to all political questions. I have no wish to excite the hopeless passions of my country

men

The actual disease of Italy is a slow lethargic decline, and she will soon be a lifeless corpse."

So he completely despaired of the future of his country, because events had not taken the direction he had anticipated and desired. His hopes had been based on the probability of Napoleon's huge empire falling to pieces, had his death occurred whilst in the plenitude of his power. Then he thought each of the outlying provinces might have regained its independence, forgetful that, like in Alexander's unwieldy dominions, each would probably become the prey of a military despot.

From Lugano he proceeded to Zurich, where he remained two years. Then he fell in love, as usual; he published a corrected edition of the "Letters of Ortis ;" and he became acquainted with several Swiss men of letters. His genius was admired, and his eccentricities were

over

looked. His scepticism, however, pained the earnest-minded Swiss; not that he was a professed infidel, speaking, on the contrary, always respectfully of religion. But he was one of those men whose minds were fall of doubts on every imaginable subject, and probably nothing contributes more to unhappiness than want of faith. He also produced there "Didymi Clerici Hypercalipseos," a Latin composition in the biblical style, intended as a satire on his enemies.

Finding but scant remuneration in Switzerland for literary pursuits, our author in 1816, came to England, after obtaining a passport as an Ionian from Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary. He was one of the first foreigners that arrived here as a voluntary exile, though he did not at first intend to prolong his stay beyond a year or two. His reputation as a scholar and writer had preceded him and his disinterested character was fully appreciated. He became a fashionable lion; was introduced to numerous political and literary characters; and what is more he secured some real friends, who firmly abided by him through good and through evil report, notwithstanding his extravagancies and aberrations. After some time, he decided to settle in London; and at the end of two years, he retired to a cottage in South Bank, Regent's Park, tired of fashionable life.

Probably accustomed too long to play the despot in his own Italian circle, he felt out of place in refined English society. He was loud-lunged, passionate, and overbearing in argument, and when excited, he would forget the usages of polite education. Contradiction on political and literary subjects infuriated him, and his ungovernable temper rendered it difficult for any but men of calm and easy disposition to associate with him intimately.

In 1823, he opened a course of Italian literature, for which his

encour

friends found him subscribers. His lectures were delivered in an eloquent and impassioned strain, and he realized from them £1000. Unfortunately his success aged his expensive propensities. He gave a splendid déjeuner at his residence to a numerous circle; and his well-wishers were amazed and by no means pleased, at the profusion and magnificence of the entertainment, to defray the cost of which he had drawn considerable sums in advance from them. He then proceeded to build Digamma Cottage, so termed from an article he had contributed to the "Quarterly Review," on that last letter of the Greek alphabet; and had it furnished with classical luxury, with statuary, and choice plants. Moreover, he was attended upon by three pretty girls, surnamed, by a friend, the Three Graces. According to one of his biographers, these young ladies were the embodiment of his love for æsthetics, whilst according to others, they were merely members of his classical harem.

Foscolo, though fond to a remarkable extent of the opposite sex, does not appear to have been a common libertine, and he never betrayed propensities of this nature in his language, writings, or manners. Moreover, his general mode of living was exceedingly frugal, and abstemious. It is possible, nevertheless, that as a bachelor his conduct may not always have been consistent with the laws of rigid morality.

At all events, our author possessed no ideas of order and economy, and in 1825, he was constrained to file the schedule of his debts in the Court for Insolvent Debtors, like other ordinary mortals. Digamma Cottage was brought to the hammer; its expensive furniture sold, and the Three Graces sent back to adorn Olympus.

The vanity of Foscolo was painfully hurt at having to renounce his establishment. For a time he wan

dered, under an assumed name, in obscure lodgings, from Kentish Town to Hampstead, and thence to Hendon and Totteridge, and other places. He was ashamed of meeting his former acquaintances, and threatened self-destruction. His ideas of the importance of a man of letters were ludicrously exaggerated, and he was not more blind to his faults than is usually the case with men. He would say, he could not live under £400 a year, and he would write to friends about

66

dying like a gentleman, surrounded by Venus, Apollo, the Graces and the busts of great men, even flowers and music breathing beside me. So far I am an epicure. In all other things I am the most moderate of men. I might vie with Pythagoras for sobriety, and Scipio for continence."

Foscolo was far from happy during his residence in England, and his letters to friends abroad are full of grievances and laments. Indeed, he wrote a lengthy epistle to his sister, on the 4th October, 1823 ("2da Edizione Napolitana Francesco Rossi Romano, 1854"), for the express purpose of undeceiving those members of his family who were labouring under the fallacious impression that he was cheerful and contented. After recapitulating some of the principal events of his past life, he said that he never bent to Napoleon, for he possessed one of those souls that break and never bend. He knew the difficulties he had to encounter when he resolved to visit England; "where a guinea goes as far as a crown elsewhere, and where poverty is regarded as a great offence; and though the English are humane, they will have nothing to do with those who are needy. By appearing needy, too, work would only produce bare bread; and one cannot live on bread alone. . . . I had intended to return to our islands; but perceiving that the government of

[July

those countries would not have been pleased with my presence, I resigned myself to a perpetual exile; and my first care was to keep up appearances, and to live, as the English say, like a gentleman. In order to be able to earn my living by publishing in English,-for in other languages there would have been little remuneration,-I have been compelled to lose two years in studying the literary taste of the country, whilst suffering from poverty, and sickness, and humiliations, and always preserving the appearances of a gentleman." Further on, he continues : "My style in Italian cannot be understood and translated; I am obliged to write in French, and then I find translators, to whom I must allow nearly half my profits. Poetry and subjects that might bring glory would not be appreciated here, unless written originally by English genius; so I treat in a pedantic manner tedious matters of critical and literary history. Unhappy is the race-horse that is harnessed to a cart; and my soul is sad and full, like the heart of a man who, loving a woman who returns his passion, has been induced by poverty to wed a hideous old hag. . . . This year I have exhibited myself, with shame in my face, and with profound sorrow in my heart, as a lecturer before the public; not in an university, which would be an honour, but in a kind of theatre; but without this hard expedient I could not have found the means of living. This is exhausted; and if I find nothing else, and Heaven does not call me, tired as I am of all, you will see your celebrated brother become a teacher of languages, and going from house to house like a pedagogue. Nevertheless, I live so frugally that I do not know how I keep up. I feed principally on rice ; my house is the chief expence in a country where house-rent is exorbitant; but custom, and the laws of English society, compel me to it.

Besides, my house is my prison. I work fourteen hours a-day, and go out late."

We made these copious quotations as they show the character of the man more than any words of ours could do; they display his selfconceit, his foibles, his prejudices; and yet a certain grandeur of soul is not wanting.

Nor are his letters to Gino Capponi more cheerful. Once he is despondingly in love with Miss Caroline Russell, and he does not wish her to know how deep is his passion, which is quite hopeless. Then he is ill with that British complaint the bile, that attacks even foreigners; he is taking black draughts and blue pills for weeks at the time; he is weak and ailing, and longs for death; he is shivering with cold, and on the 30th May is vainly trying to warm himself before the fire-(he might have done so even in June this year); he is Gifford and Murray's beast of burthen; he is obliged to try to amuse the English literary world, the tastes of which he did not know and did not like.

His position, however, was by no means as black as he described it to his sister. He was not left without resources and without prospects for the future, even in the midst of his difficulties. He contributed to the "Quarterly" and "Edinburgh" Reviews; though it would appear that his articles were written in French, and then rendered into English-at least, for a time. Through the assistance of friends, he entered into an arrangement with a publisher for a new edition of the five great Italian poets for the sum of £1154. Dante only was completed, for which he received about £420. His discourse on the text of Dante, and on the various opinions concerning the history and the corrections of the "Divina Commedia," is considered the best introduction to that most wonderful poem. It is

naturally a book of erudite research, intended for scholars; a book to be studied, not to be run through; but at the same time it is wholly free from that dulness which generally pervades the pages of ordinary commentators. It is certainly not a book for a drawing-room; not so entertaining as a book of travels, nor so exciting as a sensation novel, though probably more instructive. His style is lively, flowing, and comprehensive. He illustrates with great accuracy and judgment many disputed points of Dante's adventurous life; his political conduct, so variously interpreted; the character of his several patrons, and the state of Italy at that period; displaying throughout his profound acquaintance with the history of the middle ages, with the unostentatious ease of a man to whom such matters were familiar.

Whilst in England he also wrote his "Essays on the Love, Character, and Writings of Petrarch"-an excellent work, published in English, and afterwards translated into Italian.

His essay on the text of the "Decameron," which was prefixed to Pickering's edition of that work, is, like all his critical works, full of learning, illustrative of the manners of Italy in mediæval times, and exhibiting an impartial judgment on the too-servilely worshipped Boccaccio, of whose style our author was by no means an admirer, whilst at the same time he did full justice to his talents and learning.

In 1827, Foscolo hired a furnished cottage at Turnham Green, which was his last removal until he was removed to Chiswick churchyard. Dropsy seized him, and made rapid strides; his spirits drooped, and his strength failed him. He sank rapidly; and he was attended on his death-bed by a few friends, Italian and English; by a Spanish ecclesiastic, and by a girl of twenty, said by him to be his natural daughter. She appeared to be English, and

her history seems wrapped up in doubt. None of his biographers throw any light on it; but his friends doubted the truth of his statements. On the 10th October, Count Capo d'Istria, before proceeding to Greece to become President of the Council of Ministers, called to see the poet. He was too late. That morning Ugo Foscolo had died, calm and composed, without a struggle, without a regret. He was buried without ostentation; and a plain slab, stating his name, age, and the day of his death, was placed over his grave by Mr. Hudson Gurney, of Norwich. Foscolo was fifty years old, according to some accounts, and fifty-two, according to others, when he breathed his last.

Three distinct epochs in the life of Foscolo may be recorded. First, that of youthful enthusiasm and thorough republican fire, when life was fresh, and he was full of hopes and illusions. Then came the time for cooler reflection, caution, and minute investigation: finally arrived the day of scepticism, and disenchantment, and bitter disappointment. During the last few years of his life he was entirely weaned from politics. Many men of deep feelings, and lofty and unfettered judgment, have felt at some period of their lives a lassitude of turmoil of the social and political world, and a longing after peace and retirement. The opinions of the extreme Italian liberals concerning Foscolo as a patriot are far from unanimous. Defended by Mazzini, he was attacked by Tommaseo. His invectives against his countrymen, in his cynical moods, were not forgiven by some of the ultras; and, moreover, his having entertained offers from Austria, even to refuse them, as he actually did, was considered by them as a heinous crime. But to reasonable men, it is evident that Foscolo

sincerely loved Italy. Politically, he was incorruptible. Lofty in his aspirations, he was never a seeker of self-aggrandisement. Personally, he never was popular, and his manners to strangers were repulsive and harsh. Self-opinionated, he was intolerant of opposition and intemperate in discussion. He hated cowardice and meanness, but he never voluntarily injured even an enemy. He cared little for men; but he loved women much. He had few friends, and to none was he greatly attached. On the other hand, he studied considerably hard to please the other sex, and frequently succeeded. He was fond of children; he disliked old people. He preferred solitude, and he was frequently seen wandering alone, with gloomy, dark looks. Any one who crossed his path on those occasions, fared but ill at his hands. He was not quarrelsome. but he was never afraid of meeting an adversary at the point of his sword. For his brother he had a sincere affection, and for his mother he entertained a deep veneration, almost amounting to idolatry, and he never omitted to contribute to her comforts, even when in the most straightened circumstances.

As a dramatist he failed, his genius lacking the power of original conception. He was, however, a most eloquent writer, a classical and elegant poet, and a profound scholar and critic. His style was simply severe, quick and flowing in youth, youthful in maturity, varied in its singularity, clear and easy, and always Italian, a happy mixture of imagination and force, of Greek subtlety and Italian gravity. It is said that composition cost him much labour, and as he was extremely fastidious, he corrected, blotted out, and interlined his MSS. until it tasked the ingenuity of the printer to decipher them.

JAMES PICCIOTTO.