aught I know. We just turn that
side to the wall, or deface it with a few strokes of the chisel."

"It was a prentice hand that made _that_, I'll be bound," said the
Greek, pointing to one on which was rudely painted in black pigment, the
sprawling inscription that follows, no two letters being the same size--

LOcvSaVgvStIsvToRis.
"The Place of Augustus, the Shoemaker."

"Oh, that is the epitaph of a poor cobbler. I let my boys do that for
nothing. They will soon be able to do better. Here now is one by my
oldest son, of which I would not be ashamed myself;" and he pointed to a
neatly-cut inscription, the letters coloured with a bright vermillion
pigment, which ran thus,--

AVRELIAE THEVDOSIAE
BENIGNISSIMAE ET INCOMPARABILI FEMINAE
AVRELIVS OPTATVS
CONIVGE INNOCENTISSIMAE

"Aurelius Optatus, to his most innocent wife, Aurelia Theudosia, a most
gracious and incomparable woman."

"We will now, if you are sufficiently cool," he went on, "enter the
catacomb. It is not well to make too sudden a transition from this
sultry heat to their chilly depths."

"Thanks," said the young man, "I shall find the change from this sultry
air, I doubt not, very agreeable;" and they crossed a vineyard under a
blazing sun, that made the cool crypts exceedingly grateful. Descending
the stairway, the guide took from a niche a small terra-cotta lamp,
which he carefully trimmed and lit at another, which was always kept
burning there.[23]

"Is there not danger of losing one's way in this labyrinth?" asked the
Greek, feeling no small degree of the terror of his late adventure
returning.

"Very great danger, indeed," replied Hilarus, "unless you know the clue
and marks by which we steer, almost like ships at sea. But knowing
these, the way may become as familiar as the streets of Rome. You may,
perhaps, have heard of C[ae]cilia, a blind girl, who acted as guide to
these subterranean places of assembly, because to her accustomed feet
the path was as easy as the Appian Way to those who see."

"How many Greek epitaphs there are," said Isidorus, deeply interested in
scanning the inscriptions as he passed.

"Yes," said the fossor, "there are a-many of your countryfolk buried
here; and even some who are not like to have their epitaphs written in
the language in which holy Paulus wrote his epistle to the Church in
Rome."

"But what wretched scrawls the most of them are," said the Greek, with
something like a sneer; "and see, here is one