Australian Tales - Setis

Down in the Pit.
“I FEAR that the hearts of those dusky-looking hills yonder, will soon
be torn out of them; and then what will become of this rising city? and
what will its busy population do when they have no coal to sell?”
Thus I soliloquised, whilst seated in a friend's house, which overlooks a
considerable portion of the harbour and city of Newcastle. I had just
before counted nearly forty square-rigged vessels, besides smaller ones,
in the port, all loading or preparing to load coal; while long coal trains
whirled past me at brief intervals, shaking the roof over my head, and
suggesting unpleasant ideas of a sudden downfall, if the props in the old
coal workings beneath the city should give way.
“In former years,” I continued, “when they used to load vessels with a
wheelbarrow, or cane baskets, there was but little cause to fear that the
coal supply would run short; but now they ship it by steam; and more
than a thousand miners are at work supplying those ponderous trains,
which seem to be always screaming for more. I was told, that 1048 tons
of coal were shipped yesterday, from the A. A. Company's shoots alone.
What a gap they must have left somewhere! At that rate the very hills
themselves would soon be cleared away, if they were all saleable matter.
I feel uneasy upon the subject, for it is of vital importance to our national
advancement. But yonder comes a gentleman who can see further into a
coal seam than most men; I will ask his opinion. He certainly has not a
desponding mien. Perhaps he will enlighten me a little, and allay my
apprehensions of a famine in fuel.”
In a few minutes I was accosted by the manager of the principal mines,
of whose courtesy I cannot speak too highly. When I mentioned my
foreboding, his eyes twinkled like “Davy lamps,” and he remarked, that
my grandchildren might depend upon an abundant supply of firstclass
coal, from the mine which he had the honour of superintending; and
which I was told he had incurred the hazard of opening. Perhaps
observing that I was still dubious, he kindly invited me to view the mine,
and judge for myself as to the probability of its being soon exhausted,
even by an increased demand upon it.
A short time afterwards I was on a locomotive engine, driven by a
shrewd-looking little man, who I was informed, had driven the celebrated
George Stephenson's first “puffing Billy.” With one hand on the steam
valve, and the other on the break, he seemed to manage the machine as