We reach now one of the saddest periods of Tasso's life-a period which perplexes all his biographers, as well, indeed, it may. I mean the beginning of his insanity, for that he was, or feigned to be, insane, shortly after his visit to Leonora, there can be no doubt. He was in a pitiable state of mind, depressed, melancholy, restless. He fancied that he had been denounced to the Inquisition; that he had been accused of treachery to the Duke; that his enemies were seeking to poison him: there was no end to his phantasies. On the evening of the 17th of June, 1577, he drew his dagger on a domestic in the apartments of the Duchess of Urbino. He was arrested and imprisoned, not so much for the offence, which the Duke was willing to overlook, as because he seemed to need restraint. He petitioned to be released, declaring that he was not mad, though he feared he should be, if he were compelled to remain in confinement; above all, he begged to be restored to his apartments. The Duke granted his request, and sent the ablest physicians to attend him. Their prescriptions, or his recovered freedom, appeared to calm him, and he accompanied the Duke to his beautiful villa at Belriguardo, but relapsing in a few days, he was sent back to Ferrara, and confined in the convent of Saint Francis. He contrived to escape on the 20th of July, and, disguised as a shepherd, took his way to the kingdom of Naples. On arriving at Sorrento he sought out the dwelling of his sister Cornelia, and presented himself to her as a messenger from her brother Tasso, whose life, he said, was in danger, and who implored her assistance. He told his story so pathetically that she fainted, whereupon he threw off his disguise, and revealed himself, being fully satisfied of her affection. He remained at Sorrento until his health began to improve, when he was seized with a desire to return to Ferrara. He wrote to the Duke, asking to be restored to his favour, and to the possession of his books and manuscripts, and to the Duchess of Urbino and the Princess Leonora, urging them to second his request with their influence. Leonora alone replied, and in such terms as showed that she could not help him. This, however, did not discourage him, but rather increased his determination to return. He departed from Sorrento in November, in defiance of the advice of his friends, and on arriving at Rome proceeded at once to the house of the Duke's agent. Still harping on his manuscripts and the Duke's favour, he persuaded Cardinal Albano to write to Alphonso on his behalf. Six weeks passed before an answer was received, and then it was anything but satisfactory. Alphonso said nothing about restoring Tasso to his favour, or what little he did say was too vague to mean anything, but he promised to send his manuscripts. Tasso waited a month or two patiently, and the manuscripts being still withheld, made up his mind to return to Ferrara at all hazards. He was influenced in this decision, Manso says, by the letters which he received from Leonora. The Duke consented to his return on certain conditions, viz.: that he would admit that his suspicions of persecution had no other origin than his melancholy whims: that he would promise to be quiet and submissive; and, above all, that he would be doctored for his infirmity. "If he thinks to make disturbance and use such expressions as he has done heretofore, we mean not to call him to account, but if he will not allow himself to be cured, to expel him immediately from our dominions, with orders never to return." Tasso accepted these conditions, and started for Ferrara in March or April, 1578. His reception was courteous but cool. The Duke admitted him to his presence as formerly, but did not restore his manuscripts, and took no interest in his poetry. On the

contrary, it seemed to offend him. "It was his wish," Tasso afterwards wrote to the Duke of Urbino, "that I should aspire to no praise of genius or fame in letters, but that amid ease, luxury, and pleasure, I should lead an effeminate, idle, and slothful life." The Duke and his creatures were ashamed to clothe this degrading wish in words, so they communicated it to Tasso by signs, which he feigned not to understand. "These signs," he wrote, "still continuing on their part, though not on mine, I attempted to speak to the Duchess, and Madame Leonora, but found audience always denied me; and many times, without necessity or respect, I was forbidden by the porters to enter their apartments. I sought to talk to the Duke about it, but he abhorred the subject; I spoke to his confessor, but in vain." He fled again from Ferrara, and wandered to Padua, Mantua, and Venice, and finally to Pesaro and Turin. From the latter place he wrote to Cardinal Albano, and entreated him to use his influence with the Duke, "that his highness may be content, not only to restore my books, writings, and other trifles, but to give me also some hundreds of crowns, that I may finish the work begun under his protection." The Cardinal wrote, and "his highness" being in good humor, for he was about to marry Margherita Gonzaga, daughter of Duke William of Mantua, consented that Tasso should come back, provided he would allow himself to be cured. He arrived at Ferrara on the 21st of February, 1579, and sought an audience of the Duke, but he was too busy to receive him, being entirely taken up with the ceremonies of his marriage. He turned his steps to the apartments of the Duchess of Urbino and the Princess Leonora, where a similar disappointment awaited him. The ministers and courtiers treated him with rudeness and inhumanity. No habitation had been assigned him, and he was obliged to seek temporary lodgings, now in one place, and now in another. He bore up under this neglect and indignity till the middle of March, when he was confined in the Hospital of Saint Anne, as a lunatic. The pretended cause of his confinement was abusive and injurious language towards the Duke and the whole house of Este; the probable cause, the discovery of his love for the Princess Leonora. My reasons for this supposition are variFirst, the sagacity of the Duke, who must by this time have discovered the true cause of Tasso's persistent returns to Ferrara-an unconquerable desire to be near the person of Leonora; and, second, the length of Tasso's imprisonment-over seven years -a punishment utterly disproportioned to his supposed offence. My third reason is a tradition current in the days of Muratori, who heard it from Francesco Caretta, of Modena, an élève of Alessandro Tassoni, one of Tasso's contemporaries. It is to this effect: Tasso was one day at court near Alphonso and his sisters, and having occasion to come closer to the Princess Leonora, for the purpose of replying to some question which she had asked him, was so transported on the sudden by a more than poetical enthusiasm, that he kissed her. Whereupon the Duke, like a wise prince, turned to his courtiers, and said, "See what a heavy misfortune has befallen a great genius, who in a moment has become mad." This, the tradition says, was the cause of Tasso's imprisonment in the Hospital of Saint Anne.

ous.

I shall not pursue the subject further, having already made this note much longer than I intended, but refer the reader to Mr. Wilde's interesting work on "THE LOVE, MADNESS AND IMPRISONMENT OF TORQUATO TASSO," where he will find it treated at length.

An extract from the manuscript History of Ferrara, and I have done:

"On the 10th of February, 1581, died Madame Leonora, daughter of Duke Hercules II., who preferred a life of celibacy."

The accompanying portrait of Leonora is based on a medal of the time.

If Love his captive bind with ties so dear,

How sweet to be in amorous tangles caught!
If such the food to snare my freedom brought,
How sweet the baited hook that lured me near!
How tempting sweet the liméd twigs appear!

The chilling ice that warmth like mine has wrought!
Sweet, too, each painful unimparted thought!

The moan how sweet that others loathe to hear!
Nor less delight the wounds that inward smart,

The tears that my sad eyes with moisture stain,
And constant wail of blow that deadly smote.

If this be life-I would expose my heart

To countless wounds, and bliss from each should gain;
If death-to death I would my days devote.

LONDON MAGAZINE.

I see the anchored bark with streamers gay,

The beckoning pilot, and unruffled tide,

The south and stormy north their fury hide,

And only zephyrs on the waters play:
But winds and waves and skies alike betray;

Others who to their flattery dared confide,

And late when stars were bright sailed forth in pride,

Now breathe no more, or wander in dismay.

I see the trophies which the billows heap,

Torn sails, and wreck, and graveless bones that throng

The whitening beach, and spirits hovering round:

Still, if for woman's sake this cruel deep

I must essay, not shoals and rocks among,

But 'mid the Sirens, may my bones be found!

LONDON MAGAZINE,

Thou, in thy unripe years, wast like the rose,

Which shrinketh from the summer dawn, afraid,
And with her green veil, like a bashful maid,
Hideth her bosom sweet, and scarcely blows:
Or rather, (for what shape ever arose

From the dull earth like thee,) thou did'st appear
Heavenly Aurora, who, when skies are clear,
Her dewy pearls o'er all the country sows.
Time stealeth nought: thy rare and careless grace

Surpasseth still the youthful bride when neatest,
Her wealth of dress, her budding blooming face;

So is the full-blown rose for age the sweetest,
So doth the mid-day sun outshine the morn,
With rays more beautiful, and brighter born.

ANON.

Till Laura comes, who now, alas, elsewhere
Breathes, amid fields and forests hard of heart,
Bereft of joy I stray from crowds apart,
In this dark vale, 'mid grief and ire's foul air,
Where there is nothing left of bright or fair,

Since Love has gone a rustic to the plough,
Or feeds his flocks, or in the summer now
Handles the rake, now plies the scythe with care.
Happy the mead and valley, hill and wood,

Where man and beast, and almost tree and stone, Seem by her look with sense and joy endued!

What is not changed on which her eyes e'er shone?

The country courteous grows, the city rude,

Even from her presence or her loss alone.

WILDE.

I saw two ladies once, illustrious, rare;

One a sad sun, her beauties at mid-day

In clouds concealed; the other, bright and gay, Gladdened, Aurora-like, earth, sea, and air.

One hid her light, lest men should call her fair,
And of her praises no reflected ray

Suffered to cross her own celestial way;
To charm, and to be charmed, the other's care.
Yet this her loveliness veiled not so well,

But forth it broke; nor could the other show
All hers, which wearied mirrors did not tell.
Nor of this one could I be silent, though
Bidden in ire; nor that one's triumphs swell,

Since my tired verse, o'ertasked, refused to flow.

WILDE.

'Twas night, and underneath her starry vest

The prattling Loves were hidden, and their arts
Practised so cunningly upon our hearts,
That never felt they sweeter scorn and jest:
Thousands of amorous thefts their skill attest,

All kindly hidden by the gloom from day;
A thousand visions in each trembling ray
Flitted around, in bright, false splendour dressed.
The clear, pure moon rolled on her starry way
Without a cloud to dim her silver light;
And high-born beauty made our revels gay,

Reflecting back on heaven beams as bright,

Which even with the dawn fled not away,

When chased the sun such lovely ghosts from night.

Ah me! it is a cruel destiny,

Which, envying, robs the world of thy clear voice,
And hence it is that men no more rejoice,
Impoverished in their greatest blessing-thee!
Its harmony, like some celestial wind,

Its bright and burning thoughts, like vestal fires,
Dispersed the clouds of sense from every mind,

And kindled honour, and divine desires.

WILDE.