enlarged, and in the space of
a few months completed five entire cantos. He read the poem as it
proceeded to the fair sisters of his patron, and received the benefit
of their criticisms. This work, which is "the great epic poem in the
strict sense of modern times," occupied altogether eighteen years of
the author's life. It was begun in extreme youth, and finished in
middle age, and is a most remarkable example of a young man's devotion
to one absorbing object. The opening chapters were written amid the
bright dreams of youth, and in the happiest circumstances; the closing
ones were composed amid the dark clouds of a morbid melancholy, and
during an imprisonment tyrannical in all its features. Placed side by
side with Homer and Virgil, it may be said with Voltaire that Tasso
was more fortunate than either of these immortals in the choice of his
subject. It was based, not upon tradition, but upon true history. It
appealed not merely to the passions of love and ambition, but to the
deepest feelings of the soul, to faith in the unseen and eternal. To
humanity at large the wars of the Cross must be more interesting than
the wrath of Achilles, and the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre than the
siege of Troy. No theme could be more susceptible of poetic treatment
than the Crusades. They were full of stirring incident, of continually
changing objects and images. The strife took place amid scenes from
which the most familiar stories of our childhood have come, and around
which have gathered the most sacred associations of the heart. And
Tasso's mind was one that was peculiarly adapted to reflect all the
special characteristics of the theme. It was deeply religious in its
tone, and therefore could enter into the struggle with all the
sympathy of real conviction. His luxuriant imagination was chastened
by his classical culture; while the pervading melancholy of his
temperament gave to the scenes which he described an effect such as a
thin veil of mist that comes and goes gives to a mountain landscape.
The gorgeous Oriental world of the palm tree and the camel, seen
through this sad poetic haze, has all the shadows of the deep northern
forests and the tender gloom of the western hills. The rigid outlines
of history fade in it to the indefiniteness of fable, and fact becomes
as flexible as fancy.

The circumstances of the times were also peculiarly favourable for the
composition of such a poem. He was at the proper focal distance to