‘Not badly guessed, so far,’ said Mr Moggridge: ‘now, I will tell you what I think. This had been the mausoleum of some distinguished Roman family, connected with the station of Lumone. The burial-place had been the enclosure behind; and in front had been the inscription. Such, in fact, is the opinion of several French antiquaries who have written about the place. I believe, however, no one has thought of the figures in front; but that conjecture, I allow, is very feasible.’ We argued the point as to whether the mausoleum was that of a family or an individual; but having no basis of facts whereon to found our respective theories, the discussion settled nothing. I suggested that the space behind the façade should be trenched, to discover if there were any sepulchral remains; and that at anyrate the whole ruin should be enclosed, and protected from further injury. There is no photograph or drawing of the ruin, and I likewise hinted that something of that kind was very desirable. I have attempted a small sketch of it from memory, and put it at the conclusion of the present volume. Leaving this relic of antiquity, we continued our walk westward till, getting clear of the woods, and still on the old Roman road, we came in sight of Monaco and the very picturesque shores of the Mediterranean in its neighbourhood. The ground was an open uncultured steep. Far below on our left was the sea-shore, while on the face of the hill above was the town of Roccabruna, which can be reached by a steep pathway. Around us on the sloping bank, trees and small flowering plants were growing in a state of nature. This wild condition of affairs was highly relished by my companion. He was on the outlook for a particular plant, which he described as being never found except in the south. I drew his attention to a modest-looking shrub about the size of a whin-bush, bearing very small purple blossoms along the outer stems. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘that is a common plant here; it is rosemary—the well-known rosemary of Shakspeare; and if we look about we shall also find rue, another plant of poetic renown—there it is. You remember what Ophelia says about rue: “There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me.”’ ‘Ophelia says something more than that: in tendering the rue to Laertes, she says, “we may call it herb-grace o’ Sundays,” and what is meant by that has been subject of subtle inquiry among critics; I suppose, however, that rue was called herb-grace simply as figuring by its sorrowful name the grace of repentance.’