aving been
found.

A shrewd old workman tells us, with a proud satisfaction, that when
Napoleon's power was crushed, and Saxony had to pay the penalty of her
adhesion to the French conqueror, in the shape of various parings and
loppings of her already narrow territories--that Prussia gloated with
greedy eyes, and half stretched out an eager hand to grasp the Erzgebirge
and their mineral riches. "_Aber_," exclaims he with a chuckle, "_die
sind noch Sachische_, _Gott sey dank_!" "But they are still Saxon,
thanks be to God!"

All things considered (the Australian diggins included), we came to the
conclusion, from our small experience of Saxon mines, that there are more
profitable, and even more agreeable occupations in the world than
mining--pleasanter ways, in short, of getting a living, than digging for
silver in Saxony, or even for gold in Australia.

CHAPTER XV.

A LIFT IN A CART.

We left Dresden in the middle of July, a motley group of five: a
Frenchman, an Austrian, two natives of Lubeck, and myself; silversmiths
and jewellers together; all of us duly _vised_ by our several ambassadors
through Saxon Switzerland, by way of Pirna, on to Peterswald. The latter
is the frontier town of Bohemia, and forms, therefore, the entrance from
Saxony into the Austrian empire.

At dusk we were on the banks of the Elbe, at the ferry station near
Pillnitz, the summer dwelling of the King of Saxony. Having crossed the
broad stream, we leapt joyously up the steep path that led into a mimic
Switzerland; a country of peaks, valleys, and pine trees, wanting only
snow and glaciers. For three days we wandered among those wild regions;
now scaling the bleak face of a rock; now stretched luxuriously on the
purple moss, or gathering wild raspberries by the road side. From the
abrupt edge of the overhanging Bastei we looked down some six hundred
feet upon the wandering Elbe, threading its way by broad slopes, rich
with the growth of the vine; or by bleached walls of stone, upon which
even the lichens seemed to have been unable to make good their footing.
From the narrow wooden bridge of Neu Rathen, we looked down upon the
waving tops of fir trees, hundreds of feet beneath us. Then down we
ourselves went by a wild and jagged path into a luxuriant valley called
by no unfit name, Liebethal--the Valley of Love!

Then there was Konigstein, seen far away, a square-topped mountain,
greyish white with time and weather, soaring a