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my being in that distant； romantic period when all men were gallants and
all women were grandes dames and all birds were nightingales。
I bought myself an old Florentine sword at Noseda's in the Strand and
hung it on the wall in my modest apartments； under it I placed Boccaccio's
portrait and Fiammetta's； and I was wont to drink toasts to these beloved
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counterfeit presentments in flagons （mind you； genuine antique flagons） of
Italian wine。 Twice I took Fiammetta boating upon the Thames and once
to view the Lord Mayor's pageant； her mother was with us on both
occasions； but she might as well have been at the bottom of the sea； for
she was a stupid old soul； wholly incapable of sharing or appreciating the
poetic enthusiasms of romantic youth。
Had Fiammetta been a bookah； unfortunate lady！had she but been a
book she might still be mine； for me to care for lovingly and to hide from
profane eyes and to attire in crushed levant and gold and to cherish as a
best…beloved companion in mine age！ Had she been a book she could not
have been guilty of the folly of wedding with a yeoman of Lincolnshire
ah me； what rude awakenings too often dispel the pleasing dreams of
youth！
When I revisited England in the sixties； I was tempted to make an
excursion into Lincolnshire for the purpose of renewing my acquaintance
with Fiammetta。 Before； however； I had achieved that object this
thought occurred to me： ‘‘You are upon a fool's errand； turn back； or you
will destroy forever one of the sweetest of your boyhood illusions！ You
seek Fiammetta in the delusive hope of finding her in the person of Mrs。
Henry Boggs； there is but one Fiammetta； and she is the memory abiding
in your heart。 Spare yourself the misery of discovering in the hearty；
fleshy Lincolnshire hussif the decay of the promises of years ago； be
content to do reverence to the ideal Fiammetta who has built her little
shrine in your sympathetic heart！''
Now this was strange counsel； yet it had so great weight with me that I
was persuaded by it； and after lying a night at the Swan…and…Quiver
Tavern I went back to London； and never again had a desire to visit
Lincolnshire。
But Fiammetta is still a pleasing memory ay； and more than a
memory to me； for whenever I take down that precious book and open it；
what a host of friends do troop forth！ Cavaliers； princesses； courtiers；
damoiselles； monks； nuns； equerries； pages； maidenshumanity of every
class and condition； and all instinct with the color of the master magician；
Boccaccio！
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And before them all cometh a maiden with dark； glorious eyes； and
she beareth garlands of roses； the moonlight falleth like a benediction
upon the Florentine garden slope； and the night wind seeketh its cradle in
the laurel tree； and fain would sleep to the song of the nightingale。 As for
Judge Methuen； he loves his Boccaccio quite as much as I do mine； and
being somewhat of a versifier he has made a little poem on the subject； a
copy of which I have secured surreptitiously and do now offer for your
delectation：
One day upon a topmost shelf I found a precious prize
indeed； Which father used to read himself； But did not want
us boys to read； A brown old book of certain age （As type and
binding seemed to show）； While on the spotted title…page
Appeared the name ‘‘Boccaccio。''
I'd never heard that name before； But in due season it
became To him who fondly brooded o'er Those pages a
beloved name！ Adown the centuries I walked Mid pastoral
scenes and royal show； With seigneurs and their dames I talked
The crony of Boccaccio！
Those courtly knights and sprightly maids； Who really
seemed disposed to shine In gallantries and escapades； Anon
became great friends of mine。 Yet was there sentiment with fun；
And oftentimes my tears would flow At some quaint tale of valor
done； As told by my Boccaccio。
In boyish dreams I saw again Bucolic belles and dames of
court； The princely youths and monkish men Arrayed for
sacrifice or sport。 Again I heard the nightingale Sing as she
sang those years ago In his embowered Italian vale To my
revered Boccaccio。
And still I love that brown old book I found upon the
topmost shelf I love it so I let none look Upon the treasure
but myself！ And yet I have a strapping boy Who （I have every
cause to know） Would to its full extent enjoy The friendship
of Boccaccio！
But boys are； oh！ so different now From what they were
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when I was one！ I fear my boy would not know how To take
that old raconteur's fun！ In your companionship； O friend； I
think it wise alone to go Plucking the gracious fruits that bend
Wheree'er you lead； Boccaccio。
So rest you there upon the shelf； Clad in your garb of
faded brown； Perhaps； sometime； my boy himself Shall find
you out and take you down。 Then may he feel the joy once more
That thrilled me； filled me years ago When reverently I brooded o'er
The glories of Boccaccio！
Out upon the vile brood of imitators； I say！ Get ye gone； ye
Bandellos and ye Straparolas and ye other charlatans who would fain
possess yourselves of the empire which the genius of Boccaccio
bequeathed to humanity。 There is but one master； and to him we render
grateful homage。 He leads us down through the cloisters of time； and at
his touch the dead become reanimate； and all the sweetness and the valor
of antiquity recur； heroism； love； sacrifice； tears； laughter； wisdom； wit；
philosophy； charity； and understanding are his auxiliaries； humanity is his
inspiration； humanity his theme； humanity his audience； humanity his
debtor。
Now it is of Tancred's daughter he tells； and now of Rossiglione's wife；
anon of the cozening gardener he speaks and anon of Alibech； of what
befell Gillette de Narbonne； of Iphigenia and Cymon； of Saladin； of
Calandrino； of Dianora and Ansaldo we hear； and what subject soever he
touches he quickens it into life； and he so subtly invests it with that
indefinable quality of his genius as to attract thereunto not only our
sympathies but also our enthusiasm。
Yes； truly； he should be read with understanding； what author should
not？ I would no more think of putting my Boccaccio into the hands of a
dullard than I would think of leaving a bright and beautiful woman at the
mercy of a blind mute。
I have hinted at the horror of the fate which befell Yseult Hardynge in
the seclusion of Mr。 Henry Boggs's Lincolnshire estate。 Mr。 Henry
Boggs knew nothing of romance； and he cared less； he was wholly
incapable of appreciating a woman with dark； glorious eyes and an
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expanding soul； I'll warrant me that he would at any time gladly have
traded a ‘‘Decameron'' for a copy of ‘‘The Gentlema