he society of his
fellow-man.

A coal pit, or rather a coal country, such as that you see around Merthyr
Tydvil, or as you speed on by the Great Northern to Newcastle, does not
give you a bad idea of Pandemonium. A coal pit is generally situated by
the side of some bleak hill where there are but few signs of life. A
cloud of smoke from the engine, or engines, hangs heavily all round. The
workmen, of whom there may be hundreds, with the exception of a few boys,
who stand at the mouth of the pit to unload the coal waggons as they come
up, or to run them into the tram-road that connects them with the
neighbouring railroad, or canal, are all under-ground. If you descend, a
lighted candle is put into your hand, and you must grope your way as best
you can. If the vein of coal be a pretty good one you will be able to
walk comfortably without much trouble, but you must mind and not be run
over by the coal waggons always passing along. As you proceed you will
observe numerous passages on each side which lead to the stalls in which
the men work, and hard work it is, I can assure you: a great block is
first undermined, and then cut out by wedges driven into the solid coal;
I believe the work is chiefly contracted for at so much a ton. In these
little stalls the men sit, and dine, and smoke. Little else is to be
seen in a coal pit. There are doors by which the air is forced along the
different passages; there are engines by which the water is drained off;
there is constant communication between the upper and the lower world,
all going on with a methodical exactness which can only be violated with
loss of life. Let the engines cease, and possibly in a couple of hours
the pit may be filled with water. Let a workman, as is too often the
case, enter his stall with a candle instead of with a safety lamp, and an
explosion may occur which may be attended with the loss of many lives;
but the rule is care and regularity, each man doing his part in a general
whole. The mortality in coal mining is still unusually great. It is
ascertained that of the total number of 220,000 persons employed as
colliers, 1000 are killed annually--that is to say, the poor collier has
1000 more chances of being killed at his work than any one of the whole
travelling public has of being killed or injured on English railways.
Dr. Philip Holland read a paper on the subject at a recent meeting of the
Society of Arts. He stated that out of 8015 deaths by