abundant, for there was no excess of the market above the mint price of gold. The run was entirely owing to political causes, and would soon have subsided had the Directors been able sufficiently to control their is sues, or had their paper been only issued to private individuals, from whom, in the course of 60 days at farthest, they would have received payment. Their capital, however, and several millions of their notes, having been lent to Government, they could not recover payment of either the one or the other. The beggarly importunity of the Ministry had emptied their coffers, and multiplied their notes-increased their debts, and lessened their means of payment. “It was then owing,” says Mr Ricardo," to the too intimate connection between the Bank and Government, that the restriction became necessary; it is to that cause, too, that we have owed its continuance.' 1816. Jan. to June 26,468,280 Aug. 2. 1817. Jan. to June 27,339,768 27,954,558 26,487,859 1818. Jan. to June July to Dec. The circumstance of the public creditors being obliged to receive payment of their dividends in Bank of England paper, has, since the epoch of the restriction, rendered it nearly as compulsory as that of any of the Continental States. That it has not been equally depreciated is to be ascribed entirely to its being liable to have its concerns inquired into by Parliament, and canvassed by the public. We trust, however, that this ruinous connection between the Bank and Government is now about to be dissolved; that in future the Directors will be compelled to regulate their issues by reference to a fixed standard, and not according to their varying whims and caprices; and that they will no longer have it in their power to play at fast and loose with all the property in the kingdom. Like the Bank of Venice, the Bank of England owed its origin and its 26,012,600 Feb. 26. 1817 25,399,500 27,330,718 Feb. 26. 1818 27,002,000 Aug. 2. privileges to the distresses of Government. It was founded in 1694. The original capital was only L.1,200,000, mortgaged to Government for an annual interest of L. 100,000. In a year or two afterwards its capital was increased to L. 1,400,000. In 1700 the Bank obtained from Parliament an assurance, that, during the continuance of its charter, no similar charter should be granted to any Banking Company established in England; and in 1708 it was enacted that no more than six persons should be capable of entering into any association or copartnership for the purpose of carrying on the trade of bankers. This most impolitic regulation has not hitherto been repealed. The capital of the Bank of England now amounts to L.11,686,800, lent to Government at an interest of 3 per cent., and payable at the expiration of the charter. The Bank notes in circulation on 26th August 1818 amounted to L. 28,087,865, and on 11th February 1819 to L.23,028,-20. In 1790 the Bank had gold coin and bullion in its coffers of the value of L. 5,619,000; but on 26th February 1797, the epoch of the restriction, this supply was reduced so low as L. 1,272,000. We do not know that an account has been published of the amount of cash and bullion in the Bank at any subsequent period. The following is a brief view of a few leading points of difference between our present situation and that in which we were when the Restriction took place. Annual Net Revenue, Jan. 1797. L.18,737,760 L.49,549,899 Jan. 1819. Interest of Public Debt, Sinking Fund, Outstanding Exchequer Bills, Unfunded Debt, Outstanding Credits due to the Bank of Eng land, Exports, Imports, Circulating Gold Coin, 30,000,000 Bank of England Notes, Country Banks, To which may be added an increase of population exceeding one million and a half. ON THE LIVING POETS OF ITALY. * It is now a long time since we left the poet Dante, scrambling up into the light of day from the infernal pit, by the help of Lucifer's shaggy sides, which he used as a ladder of ropes to assist him in his ascent. We promised to carry our readers along with him into Purgatory, and thence into a higher region, and we intended devoutly to adhere to our word, but in the meantime, we have been led off from our purpose by many intervening circumstances. We first took a run into the wilds of our own country, under the guidance of the same courtly Roman whom we found accompanying the mighty Florentine in his ghostly travels, nor have we yet got over the delight which we felt in conversing with Virgil in his Scottish garb, in which he seemed to us to come down from our "heath-covered mountains," with even more than "the fire of old Rome." We positively must make another pilgrimage to the shrine of Dunkeld. We next turned away to coquette a little with the Matchless Orinda; Tom Crib then carried us off to become spectators of a Royal set-to.—and we had scarcely recovered from the effects of this un * See our Number for January 1819. hallowed exhibition, by means of the delightful and refreshing walk which we took with our friend Mr Pringle into the Autumnal Scenes and wild beauties of his native Teviotdale, when we were all at once terribly bewildered between the two Peter Bells, like Mr Wordsworth's favourite animal between two bundles of hay. The wilds of poetry, alas! are now immeasurably lengthening before us, and, as far as we see, There's little sign the treacherous path We only hope that it will not pop us, like the redoubted Peter, all of a sudden into some dark inextricable quarry. Within the last three weeks, there are no fewer than three great living poets, Wordshave each come forward with more worth, Byron, and Crabbe, who or less claim upon our notice, not to mention the late Tales, which contain as much of the substance of poetry as any of them, the mild graces of Rogers but a little while before, and the promise from Mr Wilson, whom we delight to picture to ourselves, as escaping from the City and its plaguetaints of every description, and as finding the true cradle of his pure and beautiful genius, among the fresh flowers and the restoring breezes of Fairyland. In such circumstances, it is really necessary to be better instructed scribes than we profess to be, to be able to bring forth out of our treasure so many things new and old,—and Dante must pardon us if we still neglect him for a season. We wish, however, to show our readers, that there are other poets at present in the world besides those of this country, and that the land which produced the richest harvest of poetry, both in antient and modern times, has not, as we are apt to suppose, now become barren and unfruitful. We may still cry out with truth," Italiam, Italiam!"-and instead of going back at present to the father of the Tuscan song, we shall give a short view of the writings of those who are still adding the graces of their genius to that land of beauty and classical or romantic inspiration to which it is ever with renewed delight that we return. We cannot for this purpose place ourselves under a better guide than Sismondi, from whose admirable work on the Literature of the South of Europe, we hope occasionally to convey to our readers not a little interesting information. The prevailing poetry in Italy at this moment is of a very different character from the poetry of romance, which was brought to so much perfection under Tasso and Ariosto. The severer beauties of Dante, and the deep tone of emotion which characterizes his muse, are, in fact, more in the modern taste, and, leaping over all the intermediate space, it is only now we find the spirit of their first and greatest poet beginning powerfully to operate upon the genius of his countrymen. The last of the romances was the Ricciardetto of Fortinguerra, who wrote between the years 1674 and 1735. This is a lively imitation of Ariosto, written with the ease of an improvisatore, rather than with the study of a poet, and, in truth, the specimen, which gives us a better idea of the improvisatore style than any other printed poetry. Alfieri was the first who revived the more masculine tone of writing above alluded to, and his example has had a great influence on the poets of his nation. The most decided imitator of Dante, however, is a poet we believe still alive, of the name of Vincenzio Monti. The period in which he lived, full of revolutions, both in his own country and in so many surrounding states, naturally threw his genius into that rugged and stern school. In one of his most remarkable poems, the Basvigliana, he often comes near the character of Dante's composition, as the idea, indeed, on which the poem turns is quite of a piece with that which forms the ground-work of the Divina Comedia. Hugh Basville, a French envoy, was massacred at Rome, about the beginning of the Revolution,-he repented, says the poet, in his last moments, and was not sent to the place of the finally lost spirits,-but was condemned by divine justice to wander over France, (as his purgatory,) till all the crimes of that country should be expiated. Whether he is still wandering there, or if his purification is now completed, we cannot take upon ourselves to inform our readers. One of the most striking passages in this poem is the entrance of Basville into Paris on the morning of the execution of Louis. An angel accompanies him in his pilgrimage, as Dante was accompanied by Virgil. E l'ombra si stupia quinci vedendo Lagrimoso il suo duca, e possedute Quindi le strade da silenzio orrendo. Muto de bronzi il sacro squillo, e mute L'opre del giorno, e muto lo stridore Dell' aspre incudi, e delle seghe argute. Sol per tutto un bisbiglio ed un terrore, Un domandare, un sogguardar sospetto, Una mestizia che ti piomba al cuore. E cupe voci di confuso affetto, Voci di madre pie, che l'innocenti Figli si serran trepidando, al petto. Voci di spose, che ai mariti ardenti Contrastano l'uscita, e sulle soglie Fan di lagrime intoppo e di lamenti. Vinta é da furia di maggior possanza Ma tenerezza e carita di moglie Che dall'amplesso conjugal li scioglie. The following is an attempt at a translation: The spirit was confounded when he saw His guide in tears, and all the streets around Horribly silent, under some deep awe! No bell was heard to toll-and mute the sound Of the day labours, whether hoarse re- Of anvil, creak of saw, or other noise: the voice And anxious look of fear, replied to--as if joys ed The tender grasp of love all weak and powerless made! There is a class of poets of a very different description, who seem to have broken away from the darker and more melancholy sentiments of these revolutionary times, and to have hovered wildly like debauchees in the neighbourhood of the Plague, over the pictures of love and enjoyment. Louis Savioli is the Anacreon of modern times. Gherardo de Rossi, and Giovani Fantoni, have something of the same character.-Qther poets amused themselves with writing fables. Pignotti, lately dead, had no small success in imitating the naiveté of Fontaine, although, as is well remarked by Sismondi, none of Fontaine's imitators, either French or Italian, have hit the exact point of excellence of their model. The French writers of fables since his time have always had too much wit;-the Italians again, too much of an infantine simplicity, much like the imitators of the old ballads in our own country. Goldsmith, and the writers of his time, made these imitations too refined. Wordsworth and other poets of the present day, particularly those who have diluted their ink with the water of the lakes, reduce them to mere childishness. Another poem, in the strain of fable, the Animali Parlanti of Casti, has been lately imitated in English by Mr Rose. But of all the modern Italian poets, perhaps Hippolyto Pindemonti has found the tone that must be most generally pleasing. He possesses much feeling, though of a far gentler kind than that of the imitators of Dante, and with all the elegance, has none of the fantastic refinements of the Petrarchan school. He is happily compared by Sismondi to our poet Gray. It is the genius of the north, says he, speaking Italian, and the combinathe melancholy of a thoughtful mind tion is truly delightful. There is all conveyed in the elegant and even light touches of that delicate and exquisite language. Sismondi quotes one beautiful poem on the four divisions of the day, in which there is a character of thought and feeling much in unison with the "Elegy in a Country Church-yard." He mentions another addressed to an English lady, which we are happy to have it in our and we are the more induced to do power to present entire to our readers, so, that we have been favoured with a translation of it by a lady, whose original lyrical compositions have long deservedly been very popular, and who has in this translation accomplished as much as can well be done for a poet, whose beauty, like that of Horace, depends so much on the "curiosa felicitas" of his expression. O GIOVINETTA, che la dubbia via Nè volontier torrei Che quanto è a me piu noto il fiero ardore, Mi parria, s'io turbassi il tuo riposo : *Written by Hippolyto Marchese Pindemonti, 1791-2, and published in his Works, 4 vols. Contento d'involarti un qualche sguardo La fiamma, di cui pieno il cor trabocca Si, che uscir possa di tua rosea bocca ; Sul labbro tuo; nè avrei sperato indarno Vidi tai cose; e cio di che altra s'orna Te dentro e fuor sol di te stessa adorna. Foglio, che a me dalla tua madre viene, Di quel, che in te ritrova, alto suo bene! Non so si grande e si leggiadra cosa Tu non andrai; che nè tua voce intende, Se un lontano potesse Creder mai cio, che in te di lei s'apprende A Miracol non visto e raro data. rare; Nor would I, if I might, that breast inspire E'er form a wish, to trouble thy repose, And make thy slumbers restless as my own. Fate do thy worst! while those blue laugh- Beam on their faithful slave, unconscious If thus I venture freely to complain If from those roseate lips address'd to me. To bear the treasure I have wish'd to gain, flow'ry plain. It is not the fair hands, that careless play Or on the canvass vivid forms can spread, tread, Or rounded throat whose dulcet notes control The list'ning sense, and bind the captive soul, I praise,-(gifts seen in others,) but confess, Though found in thee, they now delight Than thy own native artless loveliness. |