and reasoning, for which his mind was so remarkable.  It was, indeed, precisely the same as that we see given in the prints of Michael Angelo; he has often heard the comparison made, and by a nod assented to it.  In his living, Foscolo was remarkably abstemious.  He seldom drank more than two glasses of wine, but he was fond of having all he eat and drank of the very best kind, and laid out with great attention to order.  He always took coffee immediately after dinner.  His house,—­I speak of the one he built for himself, near the Regent’s Park,—­was adorned with furniture of the most costly description; at one time he had five magnificent carpets, one under another, on his drawing-room, and no two chairs in his house were alike.  His tables were all of rare and curious woods.  Some of the best busts and statues (in plaster) were scattered through every apartment,—­and on those he doated with a fervour scarcely short of adoration.  I remember his once sending for me in great haste, and when I entered his library, I found him kneeling, and exclaiming, “beautiful, beautiful.”  He was gazing on the Venus de Medici, which he had discovered looked most enchanting, when the light of his lamp was made to shine upon it from a particular direction.  On this occasion, he had summoned his whole household into his library, to witness the discovery which gave him so much rapture.  In this state, continually exclaiming, “beautiful, beautiful,” and gazing on the figure, he remained for nearly two hours.

He had the greatest dislike to be asked a question, which he did not consider important, and used to say, “I have three miseries—­smoke, flies, and to be asked a foolish question.”

His memory was one of the most remarkable.  He has often requested me to copy for him (from some library) a passage, which I should find in such a page of such a book; and appeared as if he never forgot any thing with which he was once acquainted.

His conversation was peculiarly eloquent and impressive, such as to render it evident that he had not been over-rated as an orator, when in the days of his glory, he was the admiration of his country.  I remember his once discoursing to me of language, and saying, “in every language, there are three things to be noticed,—­verbs, substantives, and the particles; the verbs,” holding out his hand, “are as the bones of these fingers; the substantives, the flesh and blood; but the particles are the sinews, without which the fingers could not move.”

“There are,” said he to me, once, “three kinds of writing—­diplomatic, in which you do not come to a point, but write artfully, and not to show what you mean; attorney, in which you are brief; and enlarged, in which you spread and stretch your thoughts.”

I have said that his cottage, (built by himself,) near the Regent’s Park, was very beautiful.  I remember his showing me a letter to a friend, in which were the following passages:—­After alluding to some pecuniary difficulties, he says, “I can easily undergo all privations, but my dwelling is always my workshop, and often my prison, and ought not to distress me with the appearance of misery, and I confess, in this respect, I cannot be acquitted of extravagance.”