CURDIE was the son of Peter the miner. He lived with his father and mother in a cottage built on a mountain,
and he worked with his father inside the mountain.
A mountain is a strange and awful thing. In old times, without knowing so much of their strangeness and
awfulness as we do, people were yet more afraid of mountains. But then somehow they had not come to see how
beautiful they are as well as awful, and they hated them—and what people hate they must fear. Now that
we have learned to look at them with admiration, perhaps we do not feel quite awe enough of them. To me they
are beautiful terrors.
 I will try to tell you what they are. They are portions of the heart of the earth that have escaped from the
dungeon down below, and rushed up and out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of blood,
as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot, melted metals and stones. And as our hearts keep us
alive, so that great lump of heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried sunlight—that is
what it is.
Now think: out of that cauldron, where all the bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for
its boiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped—up and away, and there they stand in the cool,
cold sky—mountains. Think of the change, and you will no more wonder that there should be something
awful about the very look of a mountain: from the darkness—for where the light has nothing to shine
upon, much the same as darkness—from the heat, from the endless tumult of boiling unrest—up, with
a sudden heavenward shoot, into the wind, and the cold, and the starshine, and a cloak of snow that lies like
ermine above the blue-green mail of the glaciers; and the great sun, their grand
grand-  father, up there in the sky; and their little old cold aunt, the moon, that comes wandering about the house at
night; and everlasting stillness, except for the wind that turns the rocks and caverns into a roaring organ
for the young archangels that are studying how to let out the pent-up praises of their hearts, and the molten
music of the streams, rushing ever from the bosoms of the glaciers fresh born.
Think, too, of the change in their own substance—no longer molten and soft, heaving and glowing, but
hard and shining and cold. Think of the creatures scampering over and burrowing in it, and the birds building
their nests upon it, and the trees growing out of its sides, like hair to clothe it, and the lovely grass in
the valleys, and the gracious flowers even at the very edge of its armour of ice, like the rich embroidery of
the garment below, and the rivers galloping down the valleys in a tumult of white and green! And along with
all these, think of the terrible precipices down which the traveller may fall and be lost, and the frightful
gulfs of blue air cracked in the glaciers, and the dark profound lakes, covered like little arctic oceans with
float-  ing lumps of ice.
All this outside the mountain! But the inside, who shall tell what lies there? Caverns of awfullest solitude,
their walls miles thick, sparkling with ores of gold or silver, copper or iron, tin or mercury, studded
perhaps with precious stones—perhaps a brook, with eyeless fish in it, running, running ceaselessly,
cold and babbling, through banks crusted with carbuncles and golden topazes, or over a gravel of which some of
the stones arc rubies and emeralds, perhaps diamonds and sapphires—who can tell?—and whoever can't
tell is free to think—all waiting to flash, waiting for millions of ages—ever since the earth flew
off from the sun, a great blot of fire, and began to cool.
Then there are caverns full of water, numbingly cold, fiercely hot—hotter than any boiling water. From
some of these the water cannot get out, and from others it runs in channels as the blood in the body: little
veins bring it down from the ice above into the great caverns of the mountain's heart, whence the arteries let
it out again, gushing in pipes and clefts and ducts of all shapes and kinds, through and through its bulk,
until it springs newborn to the light, and rushes
 down the Mountainside in torrents, and down the valleys in rivers—down, down, rejoicing, to the mighty
lungs of the world, that is the sea, where it is tossed in storms and cyclones, heaved up in billows, twisted
in waterspouts, dashed to mist upon rocks, beaten by millions of tails, and breathed by millions of gills,
whence at last, melted into vapour by the sun, it is lifted up pure into the air, and borne by the servant
winds back to the mountaintops and the snow, the solid ice, and the molten stream.
Well, when the heart of the earth has thus come rushing up among her children, bringing with it gifts of all
that she possesses, then straightway into it rush her children to see what they can find there. With pickaxe
and spade and crowbar, with boring chisel and blasting powder, they force their way back: is it to search for
what toys they may have left in their long-forgotten nurseries? Hence the mountains that lift their heads into
the clear air, and are dotted over with the dwellings of men, are tunnelled and bored in the darkness of their
 the dwellers in the houses which they hold up to the sun and air.
Curdie and his father were of these: their business was to bring to light hidden things; they sought silver in
the rock and found it, and carried it out. Of the many other precious things in their mountain they knew
little or nothing. Silver ore was what they were sent to find, and in darkness and danger they found it. But
oh, how sweet was the air on the mountain face when they came out at sunset to go home to wife and mother!
They did breathe deep then!
The mines belonged to the king of the country, and the miners were his servants, working under his overseers
and officers. He was a real king—that is, one who ruled for the good of his people and not to please
himself, and he wanted the silver not to buy rich things for himself, but to help him to govern the country,
and pay the ones that defended it from certain troublesome neighbours, and the judges whom he set to portion
out righteousness among the people, that so they might learn it themselves, and come to do without judges at
all. Nothing that could
 be got from the heart of the earth could have been put to better purposes than the silver the king's miners
got for him. There were people in the country who, when it came into their hands, degraded it by locking it up
in a chest, and then it grew diseased and was called mammon, and bred all sorts of quarrels; but when first it
left the king's hands it never made any but friends, and the air of the world kept it clean.
About a year before this story began, a series of very remarkable events had just ended. I will narrate as
much of them as will serve to show the tops of the roots of my tree.
Upon the mountain, on one of its many claws, stood a grand old house, half farmhouse, half castle, belonging
to the king; and there his only child, the Princess Irene, had been brought up till she was nearly nine years
old, and would doubtless have continued much longer, but for the strange events to which I have referred.
At that time the hollow places of the mountain were inhabited by creatures called goblins, who for various
reasons and in various ways made themselves troublesome to all, but to the little princess dangerous. Mainly
watch-  ful devotion and energy of Curdie, however, their designs had been utterly defeated, and made to recoil upon
themselves to their own destruction, so that now there were very few of them left alive, and the miners did
not believe there was a single goblin remaining in the whole inside of the mountain.
The king had been so pleased with the boy—then approaching thirteen years of age—that when he
carried away his daughter he asked him to accompany them; but he was still better pleased with him when he
found that he preferred staying with his father and mother. He was a right good king and knew that the love of
a boy who would not leave his father and mother to be made a great man was worth ten thousand offers to die
for his sake, and would prove so when the right time came. As for his father and mother, they would have given
him up without a grumble, for they were just as good as the king, and he and they understood each other
perfectly; but in this matter, not seeing that he could do anything for the king which one of his numerous
attendants could not do as well, Curdie felt that it was for him to
 decide. So the king took a kind farewell of them all and rode away, with his daughter on his horse before him.
A gloom fell upon the mountain and the miners when she was gone, and Curdie did not whistle for a whole week.
As for his verses, there was no occasion to make any now. He had made them only to drive away the goblins, and
they were all gone—a good riddance—only the princess was gone too! He would rather have had things
as they were, except for the princess's sake. But whoever is diligent will soon be cheerful, and though the
miners missed the household of the castle, they yet managed to get on without them. Peter and his wife,
however, were troubled with the fancy that they had stood in the way of their boy's good fortune. it would
have been such a fine thing for him and them, too, they thought, if he had ridden with the good king's train.
How beautiful he looked, they said, when he rode the king's own horse through the river that the goblins had
sent out of the hill! He might soon have been a captain, they did believe! The good, kind people did not
re-  flect that the road to the next duty is the only straight one, or that, for their fancied good, we should
never wish our children or friends to do what we would not do ourselves if we were in their position. We must
accept righteous sacrifices as well as make them.