Speaking afterwards of the costliness of his furniture, he observes, “they encompass me with an air of respectability, and they give me the illusion of not having fallen into the lowest circumstances.  I must also declare that I will die like a gentleman, on a clean bed, surrounded by the Venus’s, Apollo’s, and the Graces, and the busts of great men; nay, even among flowers, and, if possible, while music is breathing around me.  Far from courting the sympathy of posterity, I will never give mankind the gratification of ejaculating preposterous sighs, because I died in a hospital, like Camoens, or Tasso; and since I must be buried in your country, I am happy in having got, for the remainder of my life, a cottage, independent of neighbours, surrounded by flowery shrubs, and open to the free air:—­and when I can freely dispose of a hundred pounds, I will build a small dwelling for my corpse also, under a beautiful oriental plane tree, which I mean to plant next November, and cultivate con amore, to the last year 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.”