After a rainy morning we arrived about noon for breakfast at a house nine miles from Rome. 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.
After this our road lay for two miles along the ancient Via Flaminia, to the gate formerly of the same 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.
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 sceptred 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."1
extract from The Narrative of a Journey through France, &c. (London, 1822) by James Holman FRS, pp.141-142, edited by Joe Rizzo Naudi.