The country between Baccano and Rome is as unpleasing and even worse than that between the former place and Ronciglione.  It is hilly, but not a tree, nor a house, nor a sign of cultivation to be seen except the two or three wretched hovels at La Storta.  There is nothing at all that announces the approach to a capital city; and in addition to the dismal landscape there is a sight still more dismal that salutes the eye of the traveller at intervals of two or three miles and which does not tend to inspire pleasing ideas; and this is the sight of arms and legs of malefactors and murderers suspended on large poles on the road side; for it is the custom here to cut off the arms and legs of murderers after decapitation, and to suspend them in terrorem on poles, erected on the very spot where they committed the murder.  The sight of these limbs dangling in the wind is not a very comfortable one towards the close of the evening.

We left the Sepolero di Nerone, an ancient tomb so called, on the right of our road and half a mile beyond it crossed the Tiber at the Ponte Molle (Pons Milvius), where there is a gate, bridge and military post.  From this post to the Porta del Popolo, the entrance into the city for those coming from the North, the distance is one mile; there is a white wall on each side of the road the whole way, and some farm houses and villas.  Near the Ponte Molle is the field of battle where Maxentius was defeated by Constantine.

We entered the Porta del Popolo, crossed the Piazza of the same name, where three streets present themselves to view.  In the centre is the street called the Corso, running in a direct line from the Porta across the Piazza.  We drove along the Corso till we arrived at a Piazza on our right hand, which Piazza is called della Colonna from the Column of Antoninus, which stands on it.  We then crossed the Piazza which is very large and soon reached the Dogana or Custom house, formerly the temple of Antoninus Pius, where vile modern walls are built to fill up the intervals between eleven columns of Grecian marble.  Here our baggage underwent a rigorous research; this rigour is not so much directed against the fraudulent introduction of contraband or duty-bearing merchandise, as against books, which undergo a severe scrutiny.  Against Voltaire and Rousseau implacable war is waged, and their works are immediately confiscated.  Other authors too are sometimes examined, to see whether they contain anything against Mother Church.  As the people employed in inspecting books are not much versed in any litterature or language but their own, except perhaps a little French, it is not easy for them to find out the contents of books in other languages.  I had Schiller’s works with me, a volume of which one of the douaniers took up and looked at; on seeing the Gothic letter he seemed as much