"It ain't my fault she's here." Then there was a gloomy silence, and well there might be.

The one lamp, twinkling faintly against the wall, did but make darkness visible, and revealed the horror of this dismal scene.

The weary hours began to crawl away, marked only by Hope's watch, for in this living tomb summer was winter, and day was night.
The horrors of entombment in a mine have, we think, been described better than any other calamity which befalls living men.

Inspired by this subject novelists have gone beyond themselves, journalists have gone beyond themselves; and, without any affectation, we say we do not think we could go through the dismal scene before us in its general details without falling below many gifted contemporaries, and adding bulk without value to their descriptions.

The true characteristic feature of _this_ sad scene was not, we think, the alternations of hope and despair, nor the gradual sinking of frames exhausted by hunger and thirst, but the circumstance that here an assassin and his victims were involved in one terrible calamity; and as one day succeeded to another, and the hoped for rescue came not, the hatred of the assassin and his victims was sometimes at odds with the fellowship that sprang out of a joint calamity.