The miners are obliged to divest themselves of all clothing when at their dangerous work, as any garment will so absorb the salt as to 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, "Glueck 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 “Glueck 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.

It is believed that these mines were worked in the first century; and many a grave has been opened in excavating which gave up bones and copper ornaments once belonging to Celtic salt-miners of the third and fourth centuries.  Towers erected in the thirteenth century are still strongholds.  The whole region, too, is full of salt-springs.  The lofty mountains and rich valleys, the sequestered lakes and blue-gray rivers with their waterfalls, and the old castles, quaint costumes, and legends, make it a tempting country for such ease-loving travellers as were we five, and for the intrepid Alpine climber it offers almost as much as any part of Switzerland.

That night we drove into Mozart’s birthplace just as the Salzburg chimes were playing an evening hymn of his composing.  The curate and Elise seemed to have found something down in the salt-mine of which they did not choose to talk, and, as we bade each other good-night, Cecilia said, “I’m glad I did it, but I wouldn’t go down there again:  would you?” and Sarnayana and I thought we wouldn’t; but the others looked as if ready to repeat the excursion the following day.