Expensi et Accepti, or ledgers. They had also banks and bankers, and paid money by order or cheque upon these.1 Accounts in a general way were known as Rationes.

It may be worth while to remark that at many points in the Mediterranean, lighthouses had been erected. The Pharos, at Alexandria, was, perhaps, the most remarkable of these. In the windows, near the top, fires were kept blazing; and Ptolemy, in a pious inscription, dedicated the structure for the benefit of sailors.

A great deal of discussion has arisen as to how, and when, and where, the mariners' compass was discovered. Without it, it would seem that ancient navigation would be almost entirely reduced to mere cabotage, or coasting, save for the knowledge of the stars. There is no evidence, however, that it was known among the ancients of the western world, although there are indications that it may have been known to the Chinese at a very early period.

Of the influences of such a discovery, and the changes thereby wrought in the whole course of commerce, it is needless to speak, but it forms a striking commentary on the progress of humanity.

That progress is one from darkness to light, from the blind instincts and child-like assumptions of the barbarian to the trained action and proved convictions of the civilized and educated thinker. Just as of old, the Greek mariner, above the blue waters of the Cyclades, saw, as he sailed, the dawn break with 1 Ramsay, Rom. Antiqu., 270.

Lucifer, and evening set with Hesperus, and trimmed his sail to the silent circle of the planets that shone on him from beyond the reach of storms, so does our human advancement spring from a study of the wonderful natural things around us, and as we so study, the wonder deepens more and more, the great dim suggestions which one age scarcely dares to utter, become the common knowledge of the next. So the great discovery of the compass is significant, as, if, in our advancement, commercial or intellectual, we can fix our aim on some end which is both good and true, and which will endure beyond the rise and fall of selfish interests, we need not fear to enter on the voyages that lie before us.

ON SOME ITALIAN POETS

W

HEN the poets of Italy are spoken of, one naturally thinks almost exclusively of the names of Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso. This is as it should be, for these undoubtedly were the poets who gave the Italian language its high place among the national literatures of the world, and yet it is scarcely fair to dismiss Italian poetry as sufficiently studied in the works of these men, for behind and around them were clustered group after group of poets, each one of whom, though dimmed by the light of these suns, was no less a sun himself. Perhaps when our intellectual telescopes get new powers, and some of the old dust wiped from their glasses, a rearrangement may take place among those luminaries. At any rate, it is our duty to look fairly, as far as we can, at them all, for there have been such things known in the literary firmament as a magnificent comet ending in smoke, and a small, almost unnoticed, star being hailed as the centre of systems.

It is not my intention to speak at any length of individual names; especially as everything that could well be said about those best known has been said, and

in a way with which I could not hope to compete; but it may perhaps be interesting to take what must be a very cursory glance at some Italian poets, including those whom we do not hear so much of in general. There is no limit, so far as I can find, to the field of vision. In one particular direction this strikes one with special force, namely, with regard to the imitators of Petrarch. Petrarch himself, it is thought with some truth, wrote too many sonnets, but the sonnets, and books of sonnets, of his imitators, are like novels in our day-innumerable-and by no means of a quality to justify their quantity. When an idea occurred to one of these sonnetteers, he seems to have considered himself a made man, for that idea would supply him with subjects for versification for the rest of his life. It could be looked at this way, that way, and the other way. It could be looked at inches at a time; it could be looked at through concave and convex spectacles; it could be finally turned upside down and the process recommenced. The idea, curiously enough, was in almost every case the same, namely, that he, the poet, was desperately in love with a young lady, to marry whom was quite out of the question, generally because she had been already married to somebody else. Fortunately, however, Petrarch and his imitators do not constitute Italian poetry, so that even if we refuse to follow those poets into the wilderness, there are many pleasant fields, and rich gardens, and sombre woods, in which we may enjoy the deep and peculiar pleasures which true poetry affords.

Even at a very general glance, there are three things

which strike one as very remarkable about the birth of poetry in Italy. The first is, that in the year 1300, suddenly, and in the person of one man, Italian poetry rose out of the Dark Ages to its utmost height. In that year Dante wrote his "Divine Comedy," and the poetry of Italy contains nothing greater. Secondly, Italian poetry, at its first birth, had all the qualities which are to be found generally at the close, and not at the commencement, of a national literature. I refer here more particularly to Petrarch, whose sweet but stilted style and metaphysical involutions contain less of the first strong roots of native song, than of what seems like the ramifications of ancient philosophy at last breaking into flower. Thirdly, that after this great beginning, there was comparative silence for a century -from the crowning of Petrarch till the times of the Medici.

So that Italian poetry may be figured as a country into which we enter between two great Alps-a sort of Kyber Pass between Dante and Petrarch. Beyond them is a plain-a level-and, it must be confessed, a somewhat arid plain, with here and there an oasis, and it is not till we are thoroughly weary that we begin to see before us the purple hills of Florence, and the voluptuous gardens of Lorenzo the Magnificent.

Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in 1265. Like most poets, he fell early in love, and like the love of many poets, his was unfortunate. The beautiful Beatrice de' Portinari died and left for him a lifelong regret, and through him an immortal name. Notwithstanding his deathless passion for the dead, Dante was