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Among the first busts that I noted ascending the stairs close to the Porta della Carta was that of Ugo Foscolo, the poet, patriot, and miscellaneous writer, who spent the last years of his life in London and became a contributor to English periodicals. One of his most popular works in Italy was his translation of Sterne's Sentimental Journey.
The 106th, 107th, and 108th verses of the twenty-sixth canto of the Paradiso are among the most difficult of the poem, and have given rise to great variety of comment. In the edition of Florence of 1830, in those of Foscolo, and of Costa, and many others, they stand, Perch' io la veggio nel verace speglio Che fa di se pareglie l' altre cose E nulla face lui di se pareglio.
Italian writers, inheriting from Giordani, even from Foscolo, a certain animosity against a woman who, as soon as Alfieri was dead, became once more what nature had made her, half French, with a great preference for French and French things Italian writers, I say, have tried to turn the Fabre episode into something extremely disgraceful to Mme. d'Albany.
He told me he could alter the colour of their plumage in three years by cross-breeding, but that it required fully six to alter the shape of the bird. At some house where we were dining in London, I forget with whom, Ugo Foscolo, the poet, was one of the party.
If we wish to see these trees flourish again let us protect them in the future from Democracy." The influence of Cuoco, an exile at Milan, exerted through his writings, his newspaper articles, and Vichian propaganda, on the Italian patriots is universally recognized. Among the regular readers of his Giornale Italiano we find Monti and Foscolo.
The "Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis," by Foscolo, belongs to that kind of romance which is called sentimental. Overcome by the calamities of his country, with his soul full of fiery passion and sad disappointment, Foscolo wrote this romance, the protest of his heart against evils which he could not heal.
Then Alfieri's varied life-story is well told, his sad period of youth, when taken from his mother to suffer much educational and other neglect, the difficulties he passed through owing to his Piedmontese origin and consequent ignorance of the pure Italian language. She closes the modern Italian poets with Monti and Ugo Foscolo, whose sad life in London is exhibited.
Such is the story of Mme. d'Albany's friendship for two of the noblest spirits, Sismondi and Foscolo, of their day; the noblest, the one in his pure austerity, the other in his magnanimous passionateness, that ever crossed the path of the beloved of Alfieri. With her other friends, who gave less of their own heart and asked less of hers, Mme. d'Albany was more fortunate.
Dummie. Slapping his thigh with the gesticulatory vehemence of a Ugo Foscolo, that gentleman exclaimed, "I 'as it, I 'as thought of a tutor for leetle Paul!" "Who's that? You quite frightens me; you 'as no marcy on my narves," said the dame, fretfully. "Vy, it be the gemman vot writes," said Dummie, putting his finger to his nose, "the gemman vot paid you so flashly!" "What! the Scotch gemman?"
"Italy," wrote Foscolo to Mme. d'Albany in 1814, "is a corpse; and a corpse which must not be touched if the stench thereof is not to be made more horrible.
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