It looks
like a long procession, striding across the Campagna towards the city,
and entering the gate, over one of its arches, within the gate, I saw two
or three slender jets of water spurting from the crevices; this aqueduct
being still in use to bring the Acqua Felice into Rome.
Returning within the walls, I walked along their inner base, to the
Church of St. John Lateran, into which I went, and sat down to rest
myself, being languid and weary, and hot with the sun, though afraid to
trust the coolness of the shade. I hate the Roman atmosphere; indeed,
all my pleasure in getting back--all my home-feeling--has already
evaporated, and what now impresses me, as before, is the languor of
Rome,--its weary pavements, its little life, pressed down by a weight of
death.
Quitting St. John Lateran, I went astray, as I do nine times out of ten
in these Roman intricacies, and at last, seeing the Coliseum in the vista
of a street, I betook myself thither to get a fresh start. Its round of
stones looked vast and dreary, but not particularly impressive.
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