Notwithstanding the waiter was too much hurried to think that he had any right to be civil, I got a pretty good supper and bed, nor was I without bed-fellows, and had I been as active as they were lively, the dancing of St. Vitus would not have been comparable with my exertions. But I comforted myself with the certainty of its being the last night of the journey, whereas, poor Mr. Bull had but just commenced his. I cannot but acknowledge, that I amused myself highly with the thoughts of the manner in which he would be jerked out of the Roman into the Tuscan states, an operation of which, I am sure he could himself have no idea. On the following morning, Saturday, March the 31st, we set off at six o’clock, under the delightful prospect of reaching Rome in the afternoon, being now only twenty-five miles distant. After a rainy morning, we arrived about noon for breakfast at a house nine miles from the city; here Mr. W. S⸺, meeting some friends, took his leave of us. We had a party of Austrian officers to breakfast at the same table, who treated me with marked attention, reminding me of our having met at Florence. At half past one, we pursued our journey, and at length reached the Ponte Molle, where we crossed the far-famed Tiber, “⸺whose yellow water flows Around these fields, and fattens as it goes, ⸺among the rolling floods, Renown’d on earth—esteemed amongst the gods.” After this, our road lay for two miles along the ancient Via Flaminia, to the gate formerly of the same name, but now degraded to the vulgar appellation of Porto del Popolo,—that gate, which once poured forth a race of heroes, almost the rivals of the gods themselves, the founders of the glory of Rome, and supporters of its virtue. “Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin’d, Born to instruct, and to command mankind; Chiefs, by whose virtue, mighty Rome was raised, And poets, who those chiefs sublimely praised.” It is impossible to describe the feelings which overpowered me, when after passing through this gate, I found myself in the midst of that city, to which my most ardent wishes had been directing me—the once celebrated, and yet interesting Rome,—which “Propt on seven hills, sat like a sceptered queen, And aw’d the tributary world to peace.” Now, alas! little more than a monument, and shadow, of her former greatness. “_How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations._”