The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1903-01-04
IN A CORNISH TIN MINE.
Vast Chamber Hewed by Man I'm the
Bowels of the Earth.


Bowels of the Earth.
Harold Begtie, in London Post
If the reader cares to descend a tin mine
$50 fathoms below the earth's surface it
will give me all the pleasure in the world
to act as his guide. But he must first go
change those fine clothes of his. for the
land whittier we are bound is place Of
darkness. with slippery paths. dripping
walls, and an atmosphere heavy with pen
etrating dust.
We walk down gritty road and reach
at last the shaft-a wooden building some
what like a small mill, with a wheel like
huge spiders web at its side, to which
runs rope from the distant engine house.
Inside this building we find a tall iron box,
something between a coffin standing on end
and sentry box. We step into it, grasp
ing the iron rod that runs down the center,
and leaning our shoulders against the back,
while we fasten a bar across the opening
to prevent ourselves from tumbling out
We are ready to descend. The signal is
given, a bell rings in the engine house. and
presently-while we hold breath-the
gig begins to descend.
1t goes slowly and smoothly, slipping
the pace increases, We begin to rush-but
still smoothly and eesily-going straight
down as a stone falls from the top of a
cliff to the rocks below. We grasp our can
die by the miners wax encrcling 1t. and.
holding hand behind it so as to throw
the flame forward, we glance at the rushing
rock in front of us we go falling through
the earth. Presently, as though it were a
live thing, the gig begins to dance in the
descent jerking, almost bounding, like a
mare beneath US. filled with the joy Of the
descent and sure of it's course. The pace
increases; We are going straight down, as
change. The course of our Journey is to
alter; In minute the gig will impinge on
ly, roaring through the earth away from
the shaft. away from the buildings atop,
under the railway station. under those cot
f1uttering In sunlight-away and away, till
We are under that great hill which stood
SO Tar away from us when we alighted at
the station.
Bang The moment has come. With a
roar and rush and a grumble we are rat
Ting away diagonally, grating, bobbing
and shaking along through the darkness,
while our candles flicker and the rock
sweats like a torrent as we rush past it.
We are now a quarter of a mile under
ground, and with another 120 yards we shall
pull up for cur first stopm2So fathoms be-
low the earths surface. The gig slackens
the candles steady their flame, and we can
trace the color and the abrasions Of the
rock. Down we go. sloping away through
last the gig slackens almost to stop, and
with Jerk and a fall finally pulls up in
front OF little gloomy cave. 1t is all very
silent and ghostlike.
We step out, and for a moment sit down
on the rock to rest ourselves after that
rushing journey And while we rest we
till the candle sticks there, flaming away
above our heads and fiinging weird shadows
on the walls. Then we arise and go for
ward. -ef~e p
1t is like a sea cave, this tunnel. and we
creep slowly along. STOPPING under the low
roof with our hands against the side, our
eyes fixed yard before our feet. AS we
go we hear the drip, drip. drip OF water.
and far off in the distance the clink of
mallet and drill where the miners are at
work. The tunnel winds and twists, and
presently in front of us rises gray mist
Of blackness different from the darkness
in which we have been traveling-a thin,
insubstantial darkness, dimly luminous,
| palpitating with something that warns us
to walk warily We approach nearer, pick
| ing our steps. till at last feet strike on
boards, loose chain runs at our side, and
we pull up. gazing with amazement into
4 yawning space. Far away in the distance
| little lights twinkle and move; far below
so that We have to kneel down and crane
| necks over the abyss to see them-ittle
| high up in the unseen dome Of this vast
| chasm. the same little lights twinkle and
| move. And as we look there comes on our
| ear the rhythmic clink of the mallet strik-
| ing the drill. something like church bells
heard across a misty valley, and then a
| sharp crack, followed by roar that rolls
up through the darkness, shaking the rock
| hewn walls and filling the place with
| echoes. Far away from us-so far as to be
safe-they are blasting, and again and again
rolls up. that reverberating roar. like the
| sound of a distant battle.
| Think what working Of 1900 feet means
when into such a cavernous space you could
| pile ST. PauIs Cathedral atop Of ST. Paul
Cathedral, and once more st. PauPS Cathe-
| dral atop Of that. and only then scrape the
| roof with the golden cross! And this vast
| space, hewn out of the rock, reaching down
| to $50 fathoms below green fields, fluttering
clothesline, and the roaring "Cornishman''
| screaming over the main line to Penzance,
| is the work of mans hands, unaided by
| cataclysm of nature, himself the architect
| and builder, and all done that he may plum
| der the earth Of her tin for the box that
holds your tobacco.