Prince of Heaven—is situated near to the
village of Brand.  How fond these old miners
were of Biblical designations! and what
an earnest spirit of religion glowed within
them!  There is another mine in the vicinity,
at Voightberg, called the Old Hope of God;
but we must recollect that Freiberg was one
of the strongholds of early Protestantism,
and that the first and sternest of the reformers
clustered about its mountains.  They
have a cold, desolate look; and we think
of the gardens we have left at their bases,
and of the forests of fir-trees which wave
upon some of the loftier pinnacles of these
same Erzgebirge.  Nor are the few men we
meet of more promising appearance: not
dwarfed nor stunted, but naturally diminutive,
with sallow skins and oppressed
demeanour. How different are the firm, lithe,
sun-tanned mountaineers, who breathe the
free air on the summits of their hills!

We are near the entrance of the mine;
and, entering the neat, wooden office of the
Schachtmeister, or mine-controller, we produce
our credentials.  Having signed our names
in a huge book, (in which we decipher more
than one English name,) we are passed to
the care of an intelligent-looking guide; who,
although still in early manhood, is of the
same small and delicate growth observable in
the miners generally.

Our guide, providing himself with small
lanterns and an ominous-looking bundle,
leads the way out of the Schachtmeister's
office to another portion of the same building.
Here are heaps of dark grey macadamised
stones;—silver and lead ores just raised
from the pit; over whose very mouth we
are unknowingly standing.  The windlass is
in the centre of the chasm; and it is by
means of this windlass that the
metalliferous substance is raised to the surface
in square wooden boxes.  Here the dressing of
the ores commences; boys cluster in all
directions, under the wooden shed, and in other
sheds beyond that.  Here the ores are picked
and sorted, washed and sieved, and, we
believe, crushed or pulverised, according to
the amount of metal contained in them, till
they are in a fit state for the smelting furnace.
We are not admitted to a minute inspection
of these processes; but, under the direction of
our guide, turn towards the mouth of the pit
which we are to descend.  Ere we leave the
shed, we pick out a small block of ore as a
memorial of the visit, and are astonished at
its weight; bright yellow, and dull lead-
coloured crystals gleam over its surface; and
a portion of the gneiss, from which it has
been broken, still adheres to it.

We follow our guide across a dusty space
towards a wooden building with a conical roof;
and, as we approach it, we become conscious of
rather than hear, the sweet, melancholy sound
of a bell, which, at minute intervals, tones
dreamily through the air.  Whence comes
that sad sound?  In the centre of the shed
is a square box, open at the top; and
immediately above hangs the small bell: thence
comes the silvery voice.

"For what purpose is this bell?" we inquire
of our guide.

"It is the bell of safety."

"Does it sound a warning?"

"No, the reverse; its silence gives the
warning.  The bell is acted upon by a large
water-wheel, immediately below the surface.
By means of this wheel, and others at greater
depths, the whole drainage of this mine is
effected.  If, by any means, these water-
wheels should cease to act, the bell would
cease to sound, and the miners would hasten
to the day, for no man could tell how soon
his working might be flooded."

"And can it be heard throughout the
mine?"

"Through this portion of it.  Probably the
water acts as a conductor of the sound; but
the miners listen earnestly for its minute
tolling."

Toll on, thou messenger of comfort!  May
thy voice ever tell of safety to the haggard
toiler, deep in the earth!

Our guide now directs us to attire ourselves
in the garments disgorged from the
portentous-looking bundle.  They consist of
a pair of black calico trousers, a dark, lapelled
coat, a leathern semi-circular apron, buckled
on behind—the strap of which serves to hook
a small lantern on in front—and a terrible
brimless felt hat, which we feel to be a curse
the moment we put it on, and which we
never cease to anathematise, up to the instant
when we take it off.  These habiliments,
being drawn over our ordinary clothing, do
not facilitate our motions, or help to keep
us in so cool a state as might be desirable.

Over the edge of the square box, and down
a stone staircase cut through the solid granite,
we follow our guide.  We pause on the first
few steps, and are just able to distinguish the
huge, broad water-wheel, slowly revolving in
its stony chamber: its spokes, like giant
arms, sweep through the wet darkness with
scarcely a sound, but a low dripping and
gurgling of water.  That terrible staircase!
dark and steep and slimy!  Water drips from
its roof and oozes from its walls.  It is so low,
that instead of bending forward as the body
naturally does when in the act of descent, we
are compelled to throw our heads back at
the risk of dislocating our necks, in order that
the detestable hat may not be driven over our
eyes by coming in contact with the roof.
Down, down the slippery steps; feeling our
way along slimy walls; through the dense
gloom, and heavy, moist air!  The way seems
to wave and bend we scarcely know how;
sometimes we traverse level galleries, but
they only lead us again to the steep, clammy
steps, cut through the tough rock, always at
the same acute angle.  Down, down, six
hundred feet! and our guide whispers to us
to be careful how we go, for we are in a