We made, at this time, two excursions which I must notice. One was very short: only as far as Ostia, where there are still some Roman remains. The present town is not worth notice, but the ancient city, Hare says in his “Days near Rome,” is like Pompeii. I cannot quite agree with him. The deep ruts of Roman chariot wheels; fragments here and there of Roman pottery, human bones, coloured marbles, and a few architectural relics, are of interest; but what attracted me to the spot was the memory of Augustine, who, in his “Confessions,” paints such a touching picture of his mother Monica’s illness and death. Thoughts of that interview, as related by the converted son, were the only charm of our visit, and the hour or two we were compelled to spend in the place, for the refreshment of our coachman and his horse, were most dreary. The long, long gossip going on between a priest and the mistress of the little farm, betokened the intense idleness and vulgarity of both,—typical, I fear, of the whole neighbourhood. Another expedition we made was of a very different kind. We engaged a carriage to the charming haunts of Tivoli, where picturesque objects in the town and its vicinity, and the stupendous waterfall with manifold associations, clustering round the immediate neighbourhood, created memorable delight. Next day we drove to Subiaco, along an interesting road rich in memories of old Roman rural life. My daughter wrote in her journal:— “It was a glorious morning, the sun was shining brightly, and in the cool spring air, our three pretty little black horses dashed along the road at a good pace, so that we soon found ourselves winding in and out amongst the Sabine Hills. We climbed up a steep ascent, only to go dashing down on the other side. The retreating hills, rising here and there to a great height, were clothed with trees, some of a sombre colour, some fresh with the bright hue of early spring, with here and there a cluster of silver olives, making a delightful variety of colour; whilst, at our feet, the roadside was beautiful with anemones, cyclamen, honeysuckle, and saxifrage; and, lower still, ran the refreshing river Arno.” Not far from Subiaco there is a deep gorge with sloping sides of rock and foliage, reaching down to the river Arno, bordered by chestnut trees, amidst which, here and there, rises a tall cypress. The brow of the hill on the side nearest Subiaco, is crowned by a far-famed monastery in which, very different from what it is now, the great St. Benedict, founder of a monastery which bears his name, spent his early days and prepared for his great life work, which began at Monte Cassino, on the road from Rome to Naples.