I sit silent, thinking of my Prince Charming, with many vague conjectures.

At first, these men have paused in their repast in presence of the strangers; but now, with rude courtesy, noticing our weariness, they offer a portion to us.  Faint and famishing, we by no means disdain it.  I wonder what Mrs. Grundy would say, could her Argus-eyes penetrate to the spot, where we,—­bound to “die of roses in aromatic pain,”—­in miners’-garb, masculine and muddy, sit on stones with earthy delvers, more than six hundred feet under ground,—­where the foot of woman has never trod before, nor the voice of woman echoed,—­and sip, with the relish of intense thirst, steaming black tea from an old tin cup!

Eh, bien! for all that, let me do it justice.  Never was black tea less herb-like; never draught of sillery, quaffed from goblet of rare Bohemian glass, more delicious!  And so, with thank-yous that were not only from the lip, we toil on some distance yet, to the shaft by which we are to ascend,—­one quite remote from that by which we began our trip.

Halting at the foot of the ladder, we pour forth the “Star-spangled Banner” with the full strength of lungs inflated by patriotism, until the stirring staves ring and resound through those dim caves.  The miners, who hold the superstition, that to whisper bodes ill-luck, must have imagined we were exorcising evil spirits with an incantation.

Then begins our weary way upward.  We sing “Excelsior” in our hearts, and forget our aching limbs, for the most laborious portion of the night’s toil is before us.  The almost perpendicular ladder is just beside the powerful pump, which, worked by a steam-engine, exhausts the water from the mine, and its busy piston, in monotonous measure, keeps time to our climbing.

Two rests during the entire distance, which we travel in brave silence.  Indeed, we cannot speak,—­the oppressive strain upon the chest is so great.  Step after step, hand over hand, up we go.  At last, warmer air greets us, lights flicker from above; the trap-door is reached; we are on the surface again; we are out of the depths,—­and our hearts whisper a Te Deum of thanksgiving.

I think well of the establishment of a chapel, such as exists at the entrance to the Valenciana mine in Mexico, where each miner spends half an hour, going to or returning from his labors.  Such a union of work and worship seems a proper adjunct to the profit and the peril.

There is a faint glimmer of coming dawn far away in the east, as we go forth into the midsummer-night, and we catch the distant notes of chanticleer, as he sounds his shrill reveille to the day.

As my confused brain seeks repose, and my weary limbs sink into the softness of the never-so-welcome bed, my thoughts fly to distant ones, to whom I would whisper,—­as I do to you who have so patiently burrowed with me,—­“Only love me for the dangers I have passed!”