Chapter 8

And now we will look again at a verse in the Book of Job, which tells us something very wonderful about the inside of this great globe of ours, upon the fair outside of which we live and move. You would never have thought it possible that such a great ball could be weighed. But by weighing and measuring--not with scales and weights, you may be sure, but by clever ways which are known to learned philosophers--it has been found out that our earth is very, very heavy. The philosophers thought it could not be so heavy if it were made of earth and rocks all through, and they wondered what could be far down beneath the deepest mines, in those secret places which they could not reach. But long before these wise men had begun to weigh and measure, and to guess and wonder, God had said, "As for the earth, out of it cometh bread"--you know that in many places the surface of the earth is rich with waving corn--"and under it is turned up as it were fire."

I remember well when I first heard about this fire always burning at the heart of the earth. I had been told that the world was round like a ball, and yet that people lived upon every part of it. And when I turned the globe in the schoolroom round until I had found New Zealand--that land which is just opposite our own country, as you can see for yourself if you look--I used to think how wonderful it was that the New Zealanders should be there "walking about under my feet," as I had been told they were; and a great desire came into my mind to make a way right through to them, and see what they were like. I believe I thought they were men who walked on their heads, for in those days I much preferred guessing at things I did not understand, to asking someone who knew how to explain them to me. So you see I understood so very little, that I actually thought that by getting up early and working hard it would be quite easy for me, with my little spade, to dig right down to the other side of this mighty globe!

However, one day, before I had made more than an opening to my tunnel, I listened to a conversation about digging deep wells and mines. I could not understand most of what was said, nor did I know the meaning of any of the long words which I then heard for the first time; but there was one thing which I did understand, and this made me stop short in my work, afraid to dig another spadeful of earth. I had thought it would be so delightful to walk through my tunnel, and come out at the other side where the strange New Zealand people lived; but now my great dread was lest I should get to the inside of the earth before I was aware of it, when I had dug perhaps only a little hole; for those who were speaking about it, said how impossible it was to get very far below the surface,--or, as they called it, very deep into the "crust" of the earth--because of the great heat, which makes the men who work in deep mines glad to throw off their clothes. "The deeper the bore, the greater the heat," they said; and then went on to speak of this crust as if it covered the earth as the shell covers an egg, so that I thought it might perhaps be broken just as easily. "And how dreadful it would be," I said to myself, "if I could get to the inside of the earth and find it all on fire!"

It was a pity that I did not ask a little about what surprised and frightened me so much, and especially that I did not get someone to explain to me the meaning of this new word, the "crust" of the earth. I know now that it is the name that has been given to that part of the earth which is known to be firm and solid--the bed of the ocean as well as the dry land. Beneath this crust lies the inner part or kernel of the earth, and no one knows of what it consists; all that can be done is to examine the rocks which rest upon it, and whether the lowest of these layers of rock has yet been reached, we do not know. If you have ever been to a quarry where the rocks have been blasted and cut away, you have seen a little way down into this earth-crust. I remember once, when I was living in a country warmer than England, seeing a beautiful sight. It was a great quarry in a hillside. In part of it men were busy, cutting out the stone and carrying it away; but all over one side, which was no longer worked, a beautiful vine had woven its lovely green leaves and purple clusters of grapes.

You would have thought, perhaps, that the side where the rough, hard rock was hidden by the fruitful vine, was the only part of the quarry worth looking at; but the other side, where the quarrymen were at work, was very interesting to anyone who would take the trouble to notice how the rocks lay, piled one upon another, and especially to one who had learnt a little about the different kinds of rock of which the earth-crust has been made. Even if you have never learnt much of what is called geology, by keeping your eyes open and your mind awake you may see a great deal in the stones which have perhaps seemed to you most uninteresting. A block of granite from one of the Dartmoor hills, and a piece of slate from a Welsh quarry--how different these two kinds of stone are! We see this at once; but they become much more interesting when we know that each has its own history. The granite is one of the fire-made rocks, so called because there are marks upon it, like letters written long ago, quite plain to those who have the skill to read them; which show that though it is now so hard, it was once soft, as soft as iron becomes when melted by very great heat. The mountains of Devon and Cornwall, the Grampians of Scotland, even Mont Blanc, the "Monarch of Mountains," are made of the grey or red granite which takes such a beautiful polish when cut that it is much prized for buildings.

The piece of slate has quite a different history. It is one of the water-made rocks, in which so many fossils have been found; while in the fire-rocks there are no remains of anything which ever lived. The water-rocks are so called because water has had so much to do with the making of them; for they have been very slowly formed by the gravel and grains of sand which have been washed down by streams and torrents, and left behind in their course. In these slate and sandstone rocks the wonderful fossil animals, which are to be seen in the Museum, have been found. A fossil means what has been dug out of the earth; and numbers of animals are to be found buried deep in the rocks along the coast of Yorkshire--huge creatures which lived on the earth long, long ago, of which the hard parts, such as bones and teeth, have gradually been turned into stone.

All this is very wonderful to think of, and I am sure the poet, who spoke of finding "sermons in stones," was wiser than he knew; but what will you say when I tell you that one kind of rock--the chalk with which you are so fond of drawing upon the black-board--is made of shells, most of them very tiny ones, which can be seen only by a microscope? What myriads of living things once made their homes in those little shells, and what sort of life they lived, we cannot tell; but there the shells remain in the white chalk, and the microscope will show them to you, as it shows so many hidden wonders in this wonderful world, where the very great and the very small meet on every hand.

Only the other day, May brought me a lovely branch of white coral. "Look," she said, "when baby was out for a walk, a lady gave her this." She thought it very pretty, but she was surprised when I showed it to her through a magnifying-glass, and told her that it had been made by a very tiny kind of jelly-fish; a plant-animal some people call it, of the same kind as the sea-anemone; and she wondered still more when we found in a book a picture of a coral island, and I told her that such little creatures have been busy ever since the world began, constantly building up the coral-rocks. These rocks, which are strong enough to resist the force of the waves, rise out of the sea naked and bare, but are soon covered with green, and become the resting-place of the sea-birds, until at last they are like that lovely island, fringed with tall cocoa-palms, which we saw in the picture. If it were not for the myriads of tiny jelly-fishes, who work on and on, each forming its own little bones from the lime it gets from the sea-water, dying, and leaving its skeleton behind for others to build upon, there would be none of these beautiful green isles of the sea of which sailors love to tell us.

We were speaking of contrasts some time ago; now for a contrast. Beside the coral, with its lovely branching sprays, we will put a piece of coal. You think the coal very black and ugly, not fit to be put alongside the white coral; but let me tell you that there is that in the coal which was once far more beautiful than the coral--which is only a bare skeleton after all--could ever be; for, though coal and coral are alike dead now, both were once full of life.

But the coal, which is certainly more useful than beautiful at present, has had a wonderful past. Besides the fossil-animals which are dug out of the earth's crust, there are also fossil-trees and ferns, and it is of them that coal, which seems only like a black stone, is made. I have read that in a part of England where there are now great coal mines, for a long time no one knew the worth of coal except some old women, who said they could make their fires burn beautifully by putting those black bits of stone upon them. How strange this seems; and what should we do now if we had not these black stones to burn? Coal is generally called a mineral, as all things which are dug from mines are called; but it is really a vegetable. You may perhaps pick up in some swampy place, a piece of wood, very black, which breaks as you handle it. Look at it well, for this wood is being turned into coal; but for what was once a forest to become a coal-mine takes a very long time indeed, with a strange history of change and decay; yet it is true that the coal dug out of mines is nothing else than trees and ferns and mosses, long ago buried by mud and sand, and so crushed together that they have become like a piece of black stone.

The other day Chrissie had what you would consider a rare treat, for his father took him and his brother down a coal-mine. They put on some of the miners' clothes, and then got into the "cage," and were let down by a strong chain; down, down, until they reached the bottom of the shaft, as the tunnel from the mouth of the coal-pit to the place where men are at work below is called. I have never seen a mine of any kind, but if I ever find myself at the bottom of a coal-pit, I think I shall use my eyes, and see whether, even in such a grimy place, I cannot find something beautiful. I shall hold my safety-lamp high, and look carefully at the roof and sides of the mine, for I have been told that in all coal-mines remains of the plants from which the coal is made are to be found; so I should not be surprised to find here and there in the dark shining walls traces of leaves and branches; and upon the hard clay which forms the roof, beautiful patterns of ferns, which lived long, long ago, and have lain buried for ages.

"In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-plant, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender, Waving in the wind, crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it; Playful sunbeams darted in and found it; Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it; But no foot of man e'er came that way, Earth was young and keeping holiday."

We can speak of the roof and the floor of a coal-mine, because the coal lies in what are called seams, between layers of slate or hard clay. I cannot tell you much about the sedges and reeds and giant ferns, the remains of which have been found in these seams of coal, but I know that they are of the same kind as plants which are now found in damp and warm places, though they were giants indeed compared with them. Some of these old-world plants would not grow in our country now, but there are great mare's-tails, just the same as the small ones which I have often found beside a pool of black water on an Irish bog; and I have read that some plants with stems fifty feet long, which are found in coal, are of the same kind as a pretty little moss which grows upon the mountains almost all over England.

You remember the story about the boy who was brought up in a mine. Now I want to tell you about a little girl who did not live in a coal-mine, but was often taken there by her father. Her mother had died when she was a baby, and as she grew older her father was her constant friend, and loved his little daughter so much that he liked to have her always near him. And so, though she was only seven years old when he came to work in this mine, he very often took her with him in the cage, and she had leave to stay underground until his work was done and he could take her home again. Children can always find ways of amusing themselves, and this child had a happy time in her strange nursery, and many a merry game she played among the coal. As she grew older her father allowed her to carry a lantern, as the miners did, and she would go fearlessly through the dark passages by herself, until she knew all their windings as well as you know the paths in your father's garden.

But all at once this happy life came to an end: three years had passed, and she was just ten years old, when a great sorrow came to this child. As her dear father was going down the shaft one morning the chain broke, and the cage fell to the bottom of the mine. When his mates ran to the spot, they knew at once that he had been killed by that terrible fall, and slowly and sadly they took up his crushed and wounded body and carried it home. The first thing that the dear little daughter knew about the accident which had made her an orphan child, was when she saw the men, who had worked with her father, coming towards his cottage with their sad burden.

She at once ran to meet them, asking when father would be home; but the sight of their faces soon told her, young as she was, all the truth. When first she understood what had happened she cried with a bitter cry, for her father was all she had in the world. Then, while the rough miners, amid their tears, tried to comfort her, she suddenly knelt down on the grass where they had laid the body and prayed as her dear father had taught her to pray.

What a touching thing it must have been to see the child kneeling there, and to hear her, in her great grief, say three times over, "Thy will be done!"

One of the miners took her to his home, and they all tried to comfort her. At first it seemed as if she could not recover from the shock, and they feared she would die of grief; but by-and-by she began to try to help the kind woman--who was like a mother to her--in the care of her little children, and at last she got courage to go down into the mine again, to the very place where her poor father had been killed.

But she did not come now to run about and play hide-and-seek among the winding ways; those days were over, and the sorrowful time, which had passed since then, had taught her precious lessons. Her father's Friend was _her_ Friend now, and she loved to carry the Bible, which had belonged to her father, down into the mine, and while the miners were taking their dinner or their short rest, she used to sit beside them and read them chapters and psalms, and so became a little messenger to tell them of the love of God. Do you know a hymn about shining in this world--where so "many kinds of darkness" are found--for the Lord Jesus Christ? I do not know whether this child had ever heard of it, but it is very sweet to see that the Lord had taught her to shine--as the hymn says--"first of all for Him"; then in her little corner in that humble cottage where she tried, in spite of her own sore trouble, to be a cheer and comfort to the miner's wife; and then He gave her a little corner in the dark mine where she might shine

"Like a little candle Burning in the night."

The rough men loved this gentle child who had known sorrow so early. They listened as she read to them, and used to say she was their good angel. If we remember that an angel means a messenger, we shall perhaps think it not a wrong name to give to her, since she read to them God's Book, which is His message to us.

While we were talking about the earth-crust, I daresay you were wishing to know, as I did, how thick it is--how far down the layers of rocks go, and what lies underneath the lowest layer of all.

These are questions which cannot be answered; for no one has ever been able to search so far into the hidden parts of the earth as to tell us what lies beneath those fire-rocks, which are the lowest known, although they are sometimes found upon the tops of mountains, cast up by a mighty heaving of the crust, such as happens when there is an earthquake, or what is called the "eruption" of a volcano.

But what power could be strong enough to heave up solid rocks, and to make the firm ground upon which we tread, and upon which the houses are built, waver to and fro like the restless sea, so that the strongest buildings begin to totter and fall, and the bravest men run for their lives?

It is the mighty power of steam--caused by the great heat far down below--which, when it does come to any part of the earth's surface, makes itself known in very terrible ways.

We do not often hear of earthquakes near home; but in some of the most beautiful parts of the world they are so common that the houses are built only one storey high, and of wood, not stone, because low houses are less likely to fall, and wooden ones are easily built up again, if overthrown. I think you have heard of the boiling springs in Iceland, which burst through the ground, shaking it and making it tremble; just as the steam shakes the lid of the teakettle; and rising almost to the clouds, with a noise like fireworks; and perhaps you may have seen the hot springs at Bath, from which a cloud of steam rises almost in the heart of the beautiful old city, and which are believed to come from a depth of nearly a mile.

Such is the force of this steam that even the bed of the sea has been heaved up by it into a burning mountain, from which great stones are cast high into the air; while down its sides flow melted rocks and metals, forming the lava which, when seen at night, looks like a stream of liquid fire, but quickly cools into a river of mud. All these strange things tell us terrible tales of the great heat which is somewhere in the heart of the earth, and help us to understand the verse which tells us all we really know about it: "As for the earth, out of it cometh bread: and under it is turned up as it were fire."

New Zealand is a country where there are many hot springs, and several mountains which were once volcanoes, but were supposed to have died out. One of these, Mount Tarawera, was situated in what was called the Hot Lake district, because there were not only boiling springs, but pools of hot water there. The Hot Lakes valley was not only a lovely green spot, but it was noted for the wonderful Pink and White Terraces, which were so beautiful as to be one of the sights which people from all countries came to see.

Imagine, if you can, basins of white and pink marble rising one above another, filled with water of the deepest blue, by a warm stream which kept flowing over them in a constant cascade. You would have enjoyed a bath there, I am sure, and would have been interested to see the country-people cooking their food in some of the neighbouring springs where the water came from so great a depth that it was always boiling.

But this lovely place was full of hidden dangers; for miles around these lakes the ground was hot and crumbling, and in many places so thin that if you did not tread very carefully, you might find yourself sinking into hot mud.

It was in June, which you know is winter-time in New Zealand, in the year 1885, that the people of Wairoa, a beautiful place where some missionaries had settled that they might teach the Maoris, were awakened at midnight by a heavy shock of earthquake, accompanied by a fearful roar, which made them rush out of their houses in terror. The sight which greeted them was grand but awful. Ernest has a picture of it in his room; but I suppose it would not be possible for any picture to give an idea of what the poor frightened people saw. Mount Tarawera had been asleep for a hundred and twenty years, so that it was supposed to have burnt itself out, and to be no longer dangerous. But it was awake now: the fearful roar which had aroused the sleepers was caused by its having suddenly burst into flame; and it continued to throw high into the sky fire and mud and stones, while the inhabitants of the peaceful little village saved what they could carry, and then fled away in their night-dresses.

As morning broke, a dense pillar of ashes rose from the burning, roaring mountain; the school-house, where sixty Maori boys and girls used to be taught, was struck by lightning; and while burning, overwhelmed with torrents of hot mud and stones. Sad to say, the schoolmaster and most of his family were killed, the two eldest daughters only being rescued from the buried house. How well it is to know that Mr. Hazard and the four children who were taken out dead from the ruins, were ready, quite ready for whatever might happen, because they knew the Lord Jesus Christ as their Saviour!

God allowed them to lose their lives upon that dreadful day; but for them the eruption of the volcano was only the "chariot of fire" by which He was pleased to take them away in a moment, to be for ever with the Lord, who had loved them and given Himself for them.

The darkness caused by the ashes which fell in a ceaseless shower for eighteen hours, continued till noon the next day, when it was seen that not only had the beautiful marble terraces vanished, but the whole valley had been blown into the air by the tremendous force of imprisoned steam. A traveller describing the scene of desolation says,[Footnote: Miss Gordon Cumming on "The Eruption of Tarawera in 1885."] "Even living birds were coated with mud, while for some days after the eruption the poor bewildered cattle roamed about this dreary wilderness mad with hunger and thirst, gnawing boughs of trees or decayed wood, bellowing pitifully, and with eyes bloodshot and nostrils choked with greasy slate-coloured mud, which lay an inch thick all over their coats." And of the smiling valley itself, she says: "Where, but a few days previously, the wild fowl were swimming securely among the reeds and sedges which bordered the quiet lakes, there now exists only a chaotic wilderness of cones and craters all in hideous activity, ejecting clouds of pestilential black smoke and showers of stones. One large crater was in full action on the spot where the beautiful Pink Terrace had hitherto gladdened all visitors by its loveliness, and another apparently close to the White Terrace was throwing up masses of black dust and steam, which rose in columns thousands of feet in height."