The character of Foscolo, and his literary merits, may be gathered from the foregoing biography. Consistency was among his most prominent virtues, for his writings and actions were in strict accordance one with the other. He always rose superior to the blows of fortune, and preserved his independence in the midst of the disasters brought on him, either by the misfortunes of his country or his own imprudences. Vanity, that assumed the appearance of disdain, rendered him difficult of access, but compassion and warmth of heart were hidden by this outside. Fearful of being thought servile, he ran into the opposite extreme, and was little apt to praise even those to whom praise was due. Vehement in his opinions, yet he disliked dispute; and if ever led into it, in a few minutes sheltered himself again in silence. His heart was a stranger to the feeling of hatred, but neither was he very open to friendship; he was intimate but with few, and even with these he was reserved. He preferred the society of women, and in early life loved with sincerity and passion; and there was delicacy and refinement in all his feelings with regard to the fair sex. As he expresses himself, in Ortis, "I have been taught by some how to seduce and betray, and I might perhaps have seduced and betrayed, but the pleasure I anticipated fell coldly and bitterly on my heart, which has never been tamed either by time or reason; and thus you have often heard me exclaim, that all depends on the heart, which neither heaven, men, nor we ourselves can ever change." The sincerity of his feelings had their reward—since his affections had on some occasions met a return, which his uncouth appearance and strange manners would never have commanded, and which was due only to his truth. He loved solitude and study, was abstemious in his habits, but not of strong health, and was often devoured by the deepest gloom. He spoke well, and detested all artifice and deceit. To these virtues we may add his constant attention to and affection for his mother. Strange, wild, and imprudent, his faults chiefly hurt himself; and even the impetuosity of his character seldom led him into any acts that injured or annoyed others.
As an author, he may be said to be a bad tragedian, and not a good novelist; but he was an elegant writer, conversant with the depths and the refinements of the human heart. His subtle turn of mind led him too much to verbal and minute criticism—his love of the ancients sometimes injured the warmth and originality of his productions; but we may name two among them as nearly perfect in their several species;—the "Essays on Petrarch," in prose; and, in verse, his "Ode on Sepulchres," which, for harmony, grace, sweetness, and pure taste, is perhaps unequalled by any other poem in the world.
[54]Dei Sepolcri di Ugo Foscolo.
[55]See the biographical notice of Foscolo, prefixed to the "Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis. Londra, 1829."
[56]Pecchio, "Vita di Ugo Foscolo."
[57]Pecchio.
[58]Pecchio.
[59]Hobhouse's Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold.
[60]Pecchio.