“There is a place,”—we quote the words of his historian—“there is a place in the prison which is called the Tullianum, when you have ascended a little way to the left hand, sunk about twelve feet under ground. Walls surrounded it on every side, and a vaulted roof above, compact with stone groinings; but from its filth, its darkness, and its fœtid smell, its appearance is alike terrible and loathsome.” Such is the plain and unadorned description of a cell yet existing; they call it now San Pietro in Carcere. Thither the lictors bore Jugurtha; he spoke not at all, nor seemed to understand or to see anything. They stripped him of his gorgeous robes and rich trappings with fierce, indecent haste; they snatched the chains from round about his neck, the bracelets from his arms; they tore the pendants from his ears, and—for they might not spare the time to loose the clasps—tore the tips of his ears away also! They stripped him to the skin, yet he resisted not, nor strove, nor struggled; they lowered him with ropes—him, in his fetters—into that foul and ghastly cell, and then a horrid smile flitted across his features—“This bath of yours,” he said, “methinks is very chilly!” He shuddered, was let down, alone—and died there, as his crimes had merited! * * * * * HOPE ON. BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING. Hope on—the clouds that gather thick before thee Hide the glad light that led thy steps afar, But beams there not, on night’s dark Heaven o’er thee, Purely and brightly, gentle star on star? Then let thy gaze pierce those sad clouds around thee— See thro’ the opening, dimly tho’ at first, Breaking the chains that to despair had bound thee: Light out of darkness gloriously burst. Hope on—tho’ shadows shut out present gladness, Not far beyond, the sunlight lingers still— Dim looks the valley, in its misty sadness, Ere the bright day hath climbed the eastern hill. There is a light, tho’ secretly ’tis playing Round the dark edges of those clouds we fear: Some mission’d spirit, in our footsteps straying, Whispering the words of comfort and of cheer. Wilt thou not take the counsel kindly given? Wilt thou not turn thy gaze from present gloom? Dost thou not see, the power, in yonder Heaven, That sends the blight, may likewise send the bloom? Hope on, I pray thee—Hope on in thy sorrow— Brush from thine eye the fastly falling tear; Thou know’st the night, tho’ dark, must have a morrow, And, after storms, the rainbow will appear. * * * * * THE FIERY DEATH. BY J. H. DANA. “To the stake with her! Away with the sorceress! God’s curse be on her for her evil doings!” shouted the mob.