become hard and brittle, tearing the skin painfully. They must be
relieved every few hours, and, though short-lived, they work for a
pittance an American laborer would scorn.

Descending a flight of steps after shooting the third shaft, we came
upon a scene which filled us with wonder. There, far down in the earth,
lay a tiny tranquil lake of inky blackness, its borders outlined with
blazing torches. At the extreme end were the entwined letters "F.J."
(Franz Joseph), gleaming in candle-lights, and over our heads the
miners' greeting, _"Glück auf!"_ traced in fire. On the pink salt-rock
roof--the miners call it _der Himmel_--rested the fearful weight of the
superincumbent mountain. It was an awful thought, and the curate did not
hesitate an instant in seizing Elise's outstretched hand, as if she were
seeking, and he glad to give, a bit of comfort in this
strangely-impressive place. We entered a little boat waiting to take us
across the Salz Sea to the opposite shore. There was not a sound, save
the dipping of the oar. We tasted the black water. The Dead Sea cannot
be salter. We were hushed and oppressed, as if each felt the weight of
the great mountain-mass over us.

The miners were not at work on that day, but like gnomes they were
silently coming and going in the shadows, never omitting the "_Glück
auf!_" as they met and parted. There were long, weary stairs to climb.
Finally we came to a little car running on a narrow inclined track. In
this we went rapidly through galleries and dry chambers, and finally
were propelled into the daylight with an unexpected velocity. We had
become quite accustomed to our attire, but declined the proposition of
the photographer, who wished to turn his camera upon us for the benefit
of friends in America, and we gained the dressing-room with much more
composure than we had felt when leaving it.