At Florence she met with the poet Rogers, who seems to have been a familiar acquaintance: "Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look as if the suns of Italy had _revivified_ him--but he is as _amiable_ and amusing as ever. He talked long, _et avec beaucoup d'onction_, of ortolans and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism; and put me in mind of his own suppers-- 'Where blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite, Still clad in bloom and veil'd in azure light. The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;' and the rest of his description worthy of a poetical Apicius. "Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve, in the Tribune, seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion, to animate the statue: or rather, perhaps, that the statue might animate _him_. A young Englishman of fashion, with as much talent as espiéglerie, placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the statue, addressed to Rogers; in which the Goddess entreats him not to come there _ogling_ her every day;--for though 'partial friends might deem him still alive,' she knew by his looks he had come from the other side of the Styx; and retained her _antique_ abhorrence of the spectral dead, &c. &c. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could not desist from haunting her with his _ghostly_ presence, at least to spare her the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his Muse. "Rogers with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these lines, nor withdrew his friendship and intimacy from the writer." The fine arts which are cultivated with so much distinction in the "Etrurian Athens," attracted the particular attention of our accomplished traveller. Referring to the Dutch school and the Salle des Portraits,--she says, "The Dutch and Flemish painters (in spite of their exquisite pots and pans, and cabbages and carrots, their birch brooms, in which you can count every twig, and their carpets in which you can reckon every thread) do not interest me; their landscapes too, however natural, are mere Dutch nature (with some brilliant exceptions,) fat cattle, clipped trees, boors and wind-mills. Of course I am not speaking of Vandyke, nor of Rubens, he that 'in the colors of the rainbow lived,' nor of Rembrandt, that king of clouds and shadows; but for mine own part, I would give up all that Mieris, Netscher, Teniers and Gerard Duow ever produced, for one of Claude's Eden-like creations, or one of Guido's lovely heads--or merely for the pleasure of looking at Titian's Flora once a day, I would give a whole gallery of Dutchmen, if I had them." The following _coup-d'oeil_ of Florence is distinct and impressive: