arts, and being in the Gallery
every morning, as I thought of course to be sure I would be, we are in
all the idleness and amusements of the town. For me, I am grown so lazy,
and so tired of seeing sights, that, though I have been at Florence six
months, I have not seen Leghorn, Pisa, Lucca, or Pistoia; nay, not so
much as one of the Great Duke's villas. I have contracted so great an
aversion to inns and post-chaises, and have so absolutely lost all
curiosity, that, except the towns in the straight road to Great Britain,
I shall scarce see a jot more of a foreign land; and trust me, when I
return, I will not visit Welsh mountains, like Mr. Williams. After Mount
Cenis, the Boccheto, the Giogo, Radicofani, and the Appian Way, one has
mighty little hunger after travelling. I shall be mighty apt to set up
my staff at Hyde-park-corner: the alehouseman there at Hercules's
Pillars[1] was certainly returned from his travels into foreign parts.

[Footnote 1: The sign of the Hercules' Pillars remained in Piccadilly
till very lately. It was situated on part of the ground now [1798]
occupied by the houses of Mr. Drummond Smith and his brother.--MISS
BERRY. That is, on the space between Hamilton Place and Apsley House. It
was the inn mentioned in Fielding's "Tom Jones," and was notorious as a
favourite resort of the Marquis of Granby.]

Now I'll answer your questions.

I have made no discoveries in ancient or modern arts. Mr. Addison
travelled through the poets, and not through Italy; for all his ideas
are borrowed from the descriptions, and not from the reality. He saw
places as they were, not as they are.[1] I am very well acquainted with
Doctor Cocchi;[2] he is a good sort of man, rather than a great man; he
is a plain honest creature, with quiet knowledge, but I dare say all the
English have told you, he has a very particular understanding: I really
don't believe they meant to impose on you, for they thought so. As to
Bondelmonti, he is much less; he is a low mimic; the brightest cast of
his parts attains to the composition of a sonnet: he talks irreligion
with English boys, sentiment with my sister [Lady Walpole], and bad
French with any one that will hear him. I will transcribe you a little
song that he made t'other day; 'tis pretty enough; Gray turned it into
Latin, and I into English; you will honour him highly by putting it into
French, and Ashton into Greek. Here 'tis.

Spesso Amor sotto la forma
D'amista ride