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In the catacombs of Rome, where the early Christians “wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, being destitute, afflicted, tormented,”[67] where they stealthily prayed and lived and died, vast quantities of signet and other rings have been discovered, as well as medals, cameos and other precious stones. Signet rings of different devices, as belonging to different owners, are in the catacombs here; and this has raised the idea that they were deposited by relatives and friends as the stone lid of the grave was about to be shut,—offerings of love and affection.[68]

“What a picture,” exclaims a writer in the London Art Journal,[69] “do these dark vaults display of the devotion, the zeal, the love of those early Christian converts whose baptism was in blood! I picture them to myself, stealing forth from the city in the gloomy twilight, out towards the lonely Campagna, and disappearing one by one through well-known apertures, threading their way through the dark sinuous galleries to some altar, where life and light and spiritual food, the soft chanting of the holy psalms and the greeting of faithful brethren, waking the echoes, awaited them. The sight of these early haunts of the persecuted and infant religion is inexpressibly affecting; and I pity those, be they Protestant or Catholic, who can visit these hallowed precincts without an overwhelming emotion. How many martyrs, their bodies torn and lacerated by the cruel beasts amid the infuriated roar of thousands shrieking forth the cry of Christianos ad leonem! in the bloody games of the Flavian amphitheatre, breathing their last sigh, calling on the name of the Redeemer, have passed, borne by mourning friends or by compassionate widows or virgins to their last dark narrow home, along the very path I was now treading! How many glorified saints, now singing the praises of the Eternal around the great white throne in the seventh heaven of glory, may have been laid to rest in these very apertures, lighted by a flickering taper like that I held. But I must pause—this is an endless theme, endless as the glory of those who hover in eternal light and ecstatic radiance above; it is moreover a pæan I feel utterly unworthy to sing.”