Foscolo ceased to be a lion; and he retired to the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood, near the Regent's Park; and, surrounding himself by his books, and visited by a few friends, he led a life at once retired and eccentric. When Pecchio visited his friend in this retreat, in 1822, he was struck by the apparent desolation of the spot (South Bank) in which his house was situated; and at the same time by the appearance of three lovely sisters, who were the household servants of the poet,—named by his visiters the three Graces; in allusion at once to their beauty and Foscolo's poem.[65] He supported himself chiefly by writing in the Quarterly Review; and we owe to this mode of exercising his pen one of the most delightful of his productions, the "Essays on Petrarch." These are four in number: on the Love of Petrarch,—on his Poetry,—on his Character,—and a Parallel between him and Dante. On the whole, we are almost inclined to say that Foscolo scarcely does justice to the generous, amiable, and faithful lover of Laura. The pride and unbending disposition of Dante were more in accordance with his own character. But the discrimination, the taste, and enthusiasm of these Essays render them one of the most delightful books in the world. The volume in which they are collected is enriched, also, by several of lady Dacre's translations from Petrarch, which are unequalled for fidelity and grace; preserving the spirit and feeling of the original, and yet arraying them in flowing and melodious English verse.
Foscolo published also a translation of the third book of the Iliad; and his tragedy of "Ricciarda." Though founded on a story of the middle ages, there is no more interest in this last drama than his preceding ones: the feelings and situations are forced and unnatural. Fraternal hatred is the mainspring of the plot: Guelfo detests his half-brother, Averardo; and, on the death of their father Tancred, goes to war with him, to deprive him of his portion of their common heritage. As a further mark of hate, he betroths his daughter Ricciarda to Guido, the son of Averardo, merely to discover whether she loves her cousin or not; and, finding that she does, separates them with violent denunciations, and resolves to marry her to another. The drama opens while the brothers are at war. On account of the unfortunate unities—which force the author to bring all the persons together in one place, however improbable it may be that they should there meet—the poet causes Guido to leave his father's camp, and to secrete himself in Guelfo's palace, for the sake of watching over Ricciarda's safety, whose life he imagines to be menaced by her father. The action chiefly turns on Averardo first sending a friend, and then coming himself in disguise, to induce Guido to return to him; in Guelfo's denunciations against his daughter; and in scenes between the lovers. At length Averardo assaults and enters his brother's palace; and Guelfo, finding himself defeated, first kills Ricciarda, to prevent her marrying Guido, and then stabs himself; while Guido swears that he will soon follow his mistress to the tomb. The only beauty of the tragedy consists in the character of Ricciarda, her struggles between filial piety and love, her obedience to her father, and her devotion to her lover. But the whole is conceived in one unvaried tone of hate and unhappy love—of meditated murder and suicide. You neither perceive the end that the author has in view, nor that there can be any end except by their all dying. Foscolo dedicated this tragedy to lord William Russell. His politics naturally brought him into contact with what was then the opposition party; and this alliance was drawn closer when the exiles of Parga applied to him to draw up the petition to be presented to parliament. He assented gladly, and wrote four hundred pages without avail; former treaties preventing the English from interference in behalf of the Pargiotes.
Foscolo found difficulty in obtaining the means of life, and lady Dacre in particular interested herself in pointing out some method by which he might turn his talents to account. She proposed, and zealously promoted, the course of lectures on Italian literature which Foscolo delivered in 1823. Mr. Stewart Rose was another of his real and anxious friends; and Foscolo's acknowledged talents, and the interest excited by his exile, facilitated their endeavours. His lectures were numerously attended, and brought him a thousand pounds;—a small sum, if on it he was to found a sufficient income to maintain him for the rest of his life; a large one to an Italian, accustomed to look on a few hundred crowns as riches. And thus it was that the success that attended his undertaking was, in the end, fruitful of annoyance and disaster. The poet's head was turned—he fancied his treasure inexhaustible, and he set about spending it with as much knowledge as a child would have had of its real quantity and value. He built a house, furnished it expensively, and adorned it with all those luxuries that cost largely and are of least intrinsic value. His entrance hall was adorned by statues, and he had a conservatory filled with the rarest flowers; while the three Graces still waited on him, and did not contribute to the economy of his household. As all the houses in the suburb of St. John's Wood, which he continued to inhabit, are distinguished by a name, he, to the no small puzzle of the common people, christened his Digamma Cottage; in commemoration of a literary victory which he believed achieved by his "Essay on the Digamma." "I went to see him," Pecchio writes, "on my return from Spain, in August, 1823. I found him inhabiting a new house, surrounded by all the luxury of a financier suddenly become rich. I was astonished, and could not account for this sort of theatrical change; it appeared to me a dream. I thought to myself, Ugo Foscolo has followed in the steps of doctor Faustus, and has entered into some compact with the fiend Mephistopheles. He certainly displays good taste; and if he be not rich, he deserves to be so; and if all I see is not a vision, he deserves that it should be real. But too truly it was a vision: little or nothing of what I saw was paid for; it was the palace of king Theodore, tapestried with promises to pay. His destiny was similar to that of him of whom Young says—"
"A man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay,
Provides a home from which to run away."[66]
Poor Foscolo too soon paid the penalty of his inexplicable want of common sense; he became pressed by his creditors, his goods were seized, and he, threatened by arrests, was obliged to leave his villa, which so resembled a castle in the air, and to hide in a lodging in an obscure corner of London. He was now obliged to provide for his daily necessities by writing articles for various reviews and magazines. The merit and success of his "Essays on Petrarch" suggested to Mr. Pickering, a London bookseller, the idea of an edition of Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Tasso, with preliminary notices and critical notes by Foscolo. The offer was tolerably liberal, being 600l. for the whole work, if completed in two years. But even now Foscolo was ruined by another mistake. Had he provided Essays similar to the admired ones already written, adding a few critical and historical observations, it had been well; he would have produced, at no great cost to himself, a popular work that had repaid the bookseller for his speculation. But Foscolo had already given token of a predilection for verbal and minute criticism. His prefatory notice to Boccaccio consisted of a critical history of editions, totally uninteresting to the general reader, and of no value except to book collectors. The commentary on Dante is somewhat less confined in its topics; and, with great subtlety and talent, he compares various readings, and gives reasons for his own selection. But even in this his observations are almost entirely grammatical and verbal, though interspersed by others of great acuteness on the meaning and intentions of Dante. Still his work, altogether, bore no similarity to his delightful Essays, which portray the character, spirit, and history of Petrarch and Dante in so new and attractive a manner.
Unfortunately, intense labour was required for a work so little alluring or profitable; and Foscolo spent months collating, consulting, and emending: producing, in the end, a work to be read with tedium and fatigue. While thus diligently occupied, and at the same time harassed by many cares, ill lodged, and full of chagrin and mortification, he fell ill. He grew thin, and a tendency to dropsy manifested itself; the consequence of an affection of the liver, from which he had long suffered. A few friends visited him; and, dividing his time between them and his literary labours, he never left the house. Yet his work did not advance. He and his bookseller were at cross purposes. Mr. Pickering desired a popular and saleable publication, which he supposed would cost not much more time than the author's celebrated articles in the reviews. Foscolo wished to immortalise himself by a work of labour and erudition, which should become a text book and authority to all who hereafter read or wrote upon the poets in question.
Anxieties thus grew upon him. Economy, and a desire for tranquillity and better air, induced him to leave London; and he hired a small house at Turnham Green. Here the last months of his life were spent A few friends visited him: some of these were English; but they consisted mostly of the exiles driven from the south of Europe by the ill success of the attempted revolutions of 1820-21. The canon Riego was one among them, who attached himself warmly to Foscolo, admiring his independence and consistency. Meanwhile his disease gained ground, and it became publicly known that small hopes were entertained for his recovery. This announcement excited universal sympathy; and his rich or noble English friends, who, from incompatibility of manners and character, had fallen from him, came forward to offer assistance. The friends around him declined receiving more than fifty pounds to meet the exigencies of the moment; and even this supply was concealed from Foscolo, whose pride would have been deeply and uselessly mortified by the sense of pecuniary obligation. Money, indeed, was not the only kindness proffered: lord Holland sent wine, the duke of Devonshire, game; but the kindness and services most deeply felt, were those of the canon Riego, who spared no trouble to assist and comfort his dying friend. Foscolo was sensible of his friendship, but feared that it might become officious; and he wrote to him, thanking him warmly, but entreating him to do no more. "I beg of you," he writes, "and it is my most earnest prayer, that you do not inform any one, man or woman, of my situation, for the purpose of obtaining assistance. I make this fervent request, because I heard of something of the kind from miss Florida. But your kindness on this point would only cruelly torture my heart, increase the sufferings of my mind, and the sickness of my body."
He lingered two months after this letter. On the day of his death he was visited by his noble countryman, count Capo d'Istria, who, passing through London to assume the presidentship of Greece, paid the homage of a visit to the most renowned author of modern Greece. Foscolo was now in a state of torpor, and unconscious of the honour done him.
To the last he was patient, submissive to his medical attendants, and courageous; commenting on the inevitable advances of death with fortitude and calmness. He died on the 10th of October, 1827. His funeral was private and modest; his remains were followed to the grave by five friends, and they were buried in the neighbouring churchyard of Chiswick, where, a little to the left of the church, amidst a crowd of tombstones, is to be found one, inscribed simply:
Ugo Foscolo,
Obiit XIV. Die Septembris,
A. D. 1827.
Ætatis 52.[67]