The catacombs opening from the church have not been entered to a great distance, and though more rudely excavated than most of those nearer the city, as if intended for the burial-places of a poorer population, they are of peculiar interest because many of their graves remain in their original state, and here and there, in the mortar that fastens their tiled fronts, portions of the vessel of glass or pottery that held the collected blood of the martyr laid within are still undisturbed.  No pictures of any size or beauty adorn the uneven walls, and no chapels are hollowed out within them.  Most of the few inscriptions are scratched upon the mortar,—­Spiritus tuus in bono quiescat,—­but now and then a bit of marble, once used for a heathen inscription, bears on its other side some Christian words.  None of the inscriptions within the church which bear a date are later than the end of the fifth century, and it seems likely that shortly after this time this church of the Campagna was deserted, and its roof falling in, it was soon concealed under a mass of rubbish and of earth, and the grass closed it with its soft and growing protection.

During two years, the uncovered church, with its broken pillars, its cracked altar, its imperfect mosaics, its worn pavement, remained open to the sky, in the midst of solitude.  But how could anything with such simple and solemn associations long escape desecration at Rome?  How could such an opportunity for restoration be passed over?  How could so sacred and venerable a locality be protected from modern superstition and ecclesiastical zeal?  In the spring of 1837, preparations were being made for building upon the ground, and a Carthusian convent, it was said, was to be erected, which would enclose within its lifeless walls the remains of the ancient church.  Once more, then, it is to be shut out of the sky; and now it is not Nature that asserts her predominance, protecting while she conceals, and throwing her mantle over the martyrs’ graves to keep them from sacrilege,—­but she is driven away by the builders of the papal court, and all precious old associations are incongruous with those of modern Roman architecture and Roman conventual discipline.

One morning, in the spring of 1855, shortly after the discovery had been made, the Pope went out to visit the Church of St. Alexander.  On his return, he stopped to rest in the unoccupied convent adjoining the Church of St. Agnes.  Here there was a considerable assemblage of those who had accompanied him, and others who were admitted at this place to join his suite.  They were in the second story of the building, and the Pope was in the act of addressing them, when suddenly the old floor, unable to support the unaccustomed weight, gave way, and most of the company fell with it to the floor below.  The Pope was thrown down, but did not fall through.  The moment was one of great confusion and alarm, the etiquette of the court was disturbed, but no person was killed and