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 rose that breathes of love, The myrtle leaf, and Laura's hallow'd bay, The deathless flowers that bloom o'er Sappho's clay; For thee, Callirhoe! yet by love and years, I learn how fancy wakes from joy to tears; How memory, pensive, 'reft of hope, attends The exile's path, and bids him fear new friends. Long may the garland blend its varying hue With thy bright tresses, and bud ever new With all spring's odours; with spring's light be drest, Inhale pure fragrance from thy virgin breast! And when thou find'st that youth and beauty fly, As heavenly meteors from our dazzled eye, Still may the garland shed perfume, and shine, While Laura's mind and Sappho's heart are thine. _Literary Chronicle._ * * * * * ENGLISH FRUITS.