into the bowels of Caledonian earth, and lived there ever after,
from father to son. They were but plain miners. They labored
like convicts at the work of extracting the precious combustible.
It is even believed that the coal miners, like the salt-makers
of that period, were
actual slaves.
However that might have been, Simon Ford was proud
of belonging to this ancient family of Scotch miners.
He had worked
diligently in the same place where his ancestors
had wielded the pick, the crowbar, and the mattock.
At thirty he was overman of the Dochart pit, the most important
in the Aberfoyle colliery. He was
devoted to his trade.
During long years he zealously performed his duty.
His only grief had been to
perceive the bed becoming impoverished,
and to see the hour approaching when the seam would be exhausted.
It was then he
devoted himself to the search for new veins
in all the Aberfoyle pits, which communicated underground
one with another. He had had the good luck to
discover several during the last period of the working.
His miner's
instinct assisted him
marvelously, and the engineer,
James Starr, appreciated him highly. It might be said that
he divined the course of seams in the depths of the coal mine
as a hydroscope reveals springs in the bowels of the earth.
He was par
excellence the type of a miner whose whole
existence is indissolubly connected with that of his mine.
He had lived there from his birth, and now that the works
were
abandoned he wished to live there still. His son Harry
foraged for the subterranean
housekeeping; as for himself,
during those ten years he had not been ten times above ground.
"Go up there! What is the good?" he would say, and refused
to leave his black
domain. The place was
remarkably healthy,
subject to an equable temperature; the old overman endured
neither the heat of summer nor the cold of winter.
His family enjoyed good health; what more could he desire?
But at heart he felt
depressed. He missed the former
animation,
movement, and life in the well-worked pit.
He was, however, supported by one fixed idea. "No, no! the mine
is not exhausted!" he repeated.
And that man would have given serious
offense who could have ventured
to express before Simon Ford any doubt that old Aberfoyle would
one day revive! He had never given up the hope of discovering
some new bed which would
restore the mine to its past splendor.
Yes, he would
willingly, had it been necessary, have resumed
the miner's pick, and with his still stout arms
vigorously attacked
the rock. He went through the dark galleries, sometimes alone,
sometimes with his son, exa
mining, searching for signs of coal,
only to return each day, wearied, but not in
despair, to the
cottage.
Madge, Simon's
faithfulcompanion, his "gude-wife," to use
the Scotch term, was a tall, strong,
comely woman. Madge had no
wish to leave the Dochart pit any more than had her husband.
She shared all his hopes and regrets. She encouraged him,
she urged him on, and talked to him in a way which cheered the heart
of the old overman. "Aberfoyle is only asleep," she would say.
"You are right about that, Simon. This is but a rest,
it is not death!"
Madge, as well as the others, was
perfectly satisfied to live
independent of the outer world, and was the center of the happiness
enjoyed by the little family in their dark
cottage.
The engineer was
eagerly expected. Simon Ford was
standing at his door,
and as soon as Harry's lamp announced the
arrival of his former viewer
he
advanced to meet him.
"Welcome, Mr. Starr!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing under
the roof of schist. "Welcome to the old overman's
cottage!
Though it is buried fifteen hundred feet under the earth,
our house is not the less hospitable."
"And how are you, good Simon?" asked James Starr, grasping the hand
which his host held out to him.
"Very well, Mr. Starr. How could I be
otherwise here,
sheltered from the inclemencies of the weather?
Your ladies who go to Newhaven or Portobello in the summer time
would do much better to pass a few months in the coal mine
of Aberfoyle! They would run no risk here of catching a heavy cold,
as they do in the damp streets of the old capital."
"I'm not the man to
contradict you, Simon," answered James Starr,
glad to find the old man just as he used to be. "Indeed, I wonder why
I do not change my home in the Canongate for a
cottage near you."
"And why not, Mr. Starr? I know one of your old miners who would
be truly pleased to have only a
partition wall between you and him."