§ 24. Authors of fiction, from early times, have made use of rings for their scenes. Shakspeare not unfrequently introduces them; indeed the most interesting portion of _Cymbeline_ is worked up through the wager of a ring as to the honor of the heroine. Imogen, in taking leave of Posthumus, says: “------ Look here, love; This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. _Posthumus_. How! how! another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain thou here, (_Putting on the ring_,) While sense can keep it on.” And he, then, exchanges for it, “a manacle of love,” a bracelet, placing it upon her arm, that “fairest prisoner.” Iachimo induced Posthumus to wager this ring, which he esteemed “more than the world enjoys”--but it is unnecessary to go further: for who has not read Shakspeare? § 25. Roman iron rings, wrought with much care and having precious stones, but minute enough for a child, have been found. One or two of them are mentioned and illustrated in Caylus,[375] who, no doubt rightly, considers they were intended for the finger of a domestic deity or household god. [Illustration: (Roman Child’s Iron Ring)] The Romans clung to their home deities; and this is the best part of their character. One of the most beautiful of the antique draped figures, cut upon a signet, represents a woman contemplating a household god,[376] “a symbol of that domestic affection which the ancients, exalted almost blamelessly, into an object of divine homage.”[377] [Illustration: (Woman Contemplating Household Gods)] It was on this particular gem that Croly wrote these charming lines: “Domestic love! not in proud palace halls Is often seen thy beauty to abide; Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls, That in the thickets of the woodbine hide; With hum of bees around, and from the spring, Shining along thro’ banks with harebells dyed; And many a bird to warble on the wing, When morn her saffron robe o’er heaven and earth doth fling. O! love of loves!--to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key! “Thine are the joyous hours of winter’s even, When the babes cling around their father’s knee; And thine the voice that, on the midnight sea, Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit! I’ve built a shrine; and thou hast come; And on its altar closed--for ever closed thy plume!”