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, maidens—­humanity of every class and condition, and all instinct with the color of the master magician, Boccaccio!

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.