of my existence. So far, I
am, indeed an epicure, but in all other things, I am the most moderate
of men. I might vie with Pythagoras for sobriety, and even with the
great Scipio for continence."--Poor Foscolo! these dreams were far, very
far from being realized. Within a short time after, his cottage, and all
its beautiful contents, came to the hammer, and were distributed. A
wealthy gold-smith now inhabits the dwelling of the poet of Italy. It is
but justice to his friends to add, that there were circumstances which
justified them in falling away from him.

During a great portion of the time I was acquainted with Ugo Foscolo, he
was under severe pecuniary distress, chiefly indeed brought on by his
own thoughtless extravagance, in building and decorating his house. I
have frequently in those moments seen him beat his forehead, tear his
hair, and gnash his teeth in a manner horrifying; and often left him at
night without the least hope of seeing him alive in the morning. He had
a little Italian dagger which he always kept in his bed-room, and this
he frequently told me would "drink his heart's blood in the night." "I
will die," said he, one day, "I am a stranger, and have no friends."
"Surely, sir," I replied, "a stranger may have friends." "Friends," he
answered; "I have learnt that there is nothing in the word; I assure
you, I called on W----e, to know if there was anything bad about me in
the newspapers; everybody seems to be leagued against me--friends and
enemies. I assure you, I do not think I will live after next Saturday,
unless there is some change." At another time he said, "I am surrounded
with difficulties, and must yield either life or honour; and can you ask
me which I will give up?" I have now before me a letter of Foscolo's,
which, after enumerating a long series of evils, concludes thus:--"Thus,
if I have not underwent the doom of Tasso, I owe it only to the strength
of my nerves that have preserved me."

The following sonnet was written by Ugo Foscolo, in English, and
accompanied the Essays on Petrarch, in the edition of that work which
was printed for private circulation. It was omitted when the volume was
subsequently published, and is consequently known to very few:

TO CALLIRHOE, AT LAUSANNE.

Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd.
But, oh! I wak'd.----MILTON.

I twine far distant from my Tuscan grove,
The lily chaste, the