of the mere _conteur_. This latter feature, so charmingly
displayed in Boccaccio's prose, has to some extent proved fatal to his
verse. At the same time, his narrative is always fluent and interesting,
and his lyrical pieces, particularly the poetic interludes in the
_Decameron_, abound with charming gallantry, and frequently rise to
lyrical pathos.

About the year 1341 Boccaccio returned to Florence by command of his
father, who in his old age desired the assistance and company of his
son. Florence, at that time disturbed by civil feuds, and the silent
gloom of his father's house could not but appear in an unfavourable
light to one accustomed to the gay life of the Neapolitan court. But
more than all this, Boccaccio regretted the separation from his beloved
Fiammetta. The thought of her at once embittered and consoled his
loneliness. Three of his works owe their existence to this period. With
all of them Fiammetta is connected; of one of them she alone is the
subject. The first work, called _Ameto_, describes the civilizing
influence of love, which subdues the ferocious manners of the savage
with its gentle power. Fiammetta, although not the heroine of the story,
is amongst the nymphs who with their tales of true love soften the mind
of the huntsman. _Ameto_ is written in prose alternating with verse,
specimens of which form occur in old and middle Latin writings. It is
more probable, however, that Boccaccio adopted it from that sweetest and
purest blossom of medieval French literature, _Aucassin et Nicolette_,
which dates from the 13th century, and was undoubtedly known to him. So
pleased was Boccaccio with the idea embodied in the character of _Ameto_
that he repeated its essential features in the Cimone of his _Decameron_
(Day 5th, tale i.). The second work referred to is a poem in fifty
chapters, called _L'amorosa Visione_. It describes a dream in which the
poet, guided by a lady, sees the heroes and lovers of ancient and
medieval times. Boccaccio evidently has tried to imitate the celebrated
_Trionfi_ of Petrarch, but without much success. There is little organic
development in the poem, which reads like the _catalogue raisonne_ of a
picture gallery; but it is remarkable from another point of view. It is
perhaps the most astounding instance in literature of ingenuity wasted
on trifles; even Edgar Poe, had he known Boccaccio's puzzle, must have
confessed himself surpassed. For the whole of the _Amorosa Visione_ is