Our departure from Rome has been postponed from day to day in consequence of a trifling accident.  An Austrian colonel was taken by the banditti near Fondi, and carried up into the mountains:  ten thousand scudi were demanded for his ransom; and for many days past, the whole city has been in a state of agitation and suspense about his ultimate fate.  The Austrians, roused by the insult, sent a large body of troops (some say three thousand men) against about one hundred and fifty robbers, threatening to exterminate them.  They were pursued so closely, that after dragging their unfortunate captive over the mountains from one fastness to another, till he was nearly dead from exhaustion and ill-treatment, they either abandoned or surrendered him without terms.  The troops immediately marched back to Naples, and the matter rests here:  I cannot learn that any thing farther will be done.  The robbers being at present panic-struck by such unusual energy and activity, and driven from their accustomed haunts, by these valorous champions of good order and good policy, it is considered that the road is now more open and safe than it has been for some time, and if nothing new happens to alarm us, we set off on Friday next.

I visited to-day the baths of Dioclesian, and the noble church which Michel Angelo has constructed upon, and out of, their gigantic ruins.  It has all that grand simplicity, that entireness which characterizes his works:  it contains, too, some admirable pictures.  On leaving the church, I saw on each side of the door, the monuments of Salvator Rosa and Carlo Maratti—­what a contrast do they exhibit in their genius, in their works, in their characters, in their countenances, in their lives!  Near this church (the Santa Maria dei Angeli) is the superb fountain of the Acqua Felice, the first view of which rather disappointed me.  I had been told that it represented Moses striking the rock,—­a magnificent idea for a fountain! but the execution falls short of the conception.  The water, instead of gushing from the rock, is poured out from the mouths of two prodigious lions of basalt, brought, I believe, from Upper Egypt:  they seem misplaced here.  A little beyond the Ponta Pia is the Campo Scelerato, where the Vestals were interred alive.  We afterwards drove to the Santi Apostoli to see the tomb of the excellent Ganganelli, by Canova.  Then to Sant’ Ignazio, to see the famous ceiling painted in perspective by the jesuit Pozzo.  The effect is certainly marvellous, making the interior appear to the eye, at least twice the height it really is; but though the illusion pleased me as a work of art, I thought the trickery unnecessary and misplaced.  At the magnificent church of the Gesuiti (where there are two entire columns of giallo antico) I saw a list of relics for which the church is celebrated, and whose efficacy and sanctity were vouched for by a very respectable catalogue of miracles.  Among these relics there are a few worth mentioning for their oddity, viz. one of the Virgin’s shifts, three of her hairs, and the skirt of Joseph’s coat.