CHAPTER XI.
In one of those quiet by-thoroughfares between Gray’s Inn Road and Holborn stands a hairdresser’s shop. It is a good enough house above stairs, with capacious rooms over the shop; below, it has its plate-glass windows and the pole typical of the tonsorial talent within; a window decorated with pale waxen beauties, rejoicing in wigs of great luxuriance and splendour of colour; brushes of every shape and design; and cosmétiques from all nations, dubbed with high-sounding names, and warranted to make the baldest scalp resemble the aforesaid beauties, after one or more applications. But the polite proprietor of ‘The Cosmopolitan Toilette Club’ had something besides hair-cutting to depend upon, for Pierre Ferry’s house was the London headquarters of the League.
As he stood behind a customer’s chair in the ‘saloon’ snipping and chatting as barbers, especially if they be foreigners, always will, his restless little black eyes twinkled strangely. Had the customer been a man of observation, he would have noticed one man after another drop in, making a sign to the tonsorial artist, and then passing into an inner room. Salvarini entered presently, accompanied by Frederick Maxwell, both making some sign and passing on. Pierre Ferry looked at the newcomer keenly; but a glance of intelligence satisfied his scruples, and he resumed his occupation. Time went on until Le Gautier arrived, listless and cool, as was his wont, and in his turn passed in, turning to the barber as he shut the door behind him. ‘This room is full,’ he said; ‘we want no more.’
Ferry bowed gravely, and turning the key in the lock, put the former in his pocket. That was the signal of the assembly being complete. He wished his customer good-night, then closing the door, seated himself, to be on the alert in case of any threatened danger.
As each of the conspirators passed through the shop, they ascended a dark winding staircase into the room above; and at the end of the apartment, a window opened upon another light staircase, for flight in case of danger, and which led into a courtyard, and thence into a back street. The windows looking upon Gray’s Inn Road were carefully barred, and the curtains drawn so as to exclude any single ray of light, and talking quietly together were a few grave-looking men, foreigners mostly. Maxwell surveyed the plain-looking apartment, almost bare of furniture, with the exception of a long table covered with green cloth, an inkstand and paper, together with a pack of playing-cards. The artist’s scrutiny and speculations were cut short by the entrance of Le Gautier.
To an actor of his stamp, the change of manner from a light-hearted man of the world to a desperate conspirator was easy enough. He had laid aside his air of levity, and appeared now President of the Council to the life—grave, stern, with a touch of hauteur in his gait, his voice deliberate, and his whole manner speaking of earnest determination of purpose. Maxwell could not but admire the man now, and gave him credit at least for sincerity in this thing.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, in deep sonorous tones, ‘we will commence business, if you please. I shall not detain you long to-night, for I have business of grave importance myself. Will you take your seats?’
The men gathered round the table, drawing up their chairs, Le Gautier at the head, and every eye turned upon him with rapt attention. From an inside pocket he produced a packet of papers and laid them before him. ‘Brothers,’ he asked, ‘what is our first duty to the League?’
‘The removal of tyrants!’ came from every throat there in a kind of deep chorus. ‘And death to traitors!’ added one, low down the board.
‘You are right, my friend,’ Le Gautier continued. ‘That is a duty to which none can yield. I hold evidence in my hand that we have a traitor amongst us—not in the room, I mean, but in our camp. Does any Brother here know Visci, the Deputy at Rome?’
The assembly looked one to the other, though without speaking; and Maxwell noted the deathly pallor upon Salvarini’s face, wondering what brought it there. The President repeated the question, and looked round again, as if waiting for some one to speak.
‘Yes, I know him. He was my friend,’ Salvarini observed in melancholy tones. ‘Let us hear what his fault is.’
‘He is a traitor to the Order,’ Le Gautier continued; ‘and as such, he must die. His crime is a heavy one,’ he went on, looking keenly at Maxwell: ‘he has refused to obey a mandate of the Three.’
‘Death!’ shouted the voices in chorus again—‘death to the traitor!’
‘That is your verdict, then?’ the President asked, a great shout of ‘Ay’ going up in reply.—‘It is proper for you to see his refusal; we must be stern in spite of our justice. See for yourselves.’ Saying these words, he passed the papers down the table from hand to hand, Maxwell reading them in his turn, though the whole thing was a puzzle to him. He could only see that the assembly were in deadly earnest concerning something he did not understand. He was destined to have a rude awakening ere long. The papers were passed on until they reached the President’s hands again. With great care he burnt them at one of the candles, crushing the charred ashes with his fingers.
‘You are all agreed,’ he asked. ‘What is your verdict to be?’ And like a solemn echo came the one word, ‘Death!’ Salvarini alone was silent, and as Le Gautier took up the cards before him, his deathly pallor seemed to increase.
‘It is well—it is just,’ Le Gautier said sternly, as he poured the cards like water from one hand to the other. ‘My friends, we will draw lots. In virtue of my office as President, I am exempt; but I will not stand out in the hour of danger; I will take my chance with you.’
A murmur of applause followed this sentiment, and the cards were passed round by each, after being carefully examined and duly shuffled. Maxwell shuffled the cards in his hands, quite unconscious of what they might mean to him, and passed them to Salvarini.
‘No,’ he said despondingly; ‘there is fate in such things as these. If the lot falls to me, I bow my head. There is a higher Hand than man’s guiding such destinies as ours; I will not touch them.’ Saying these words with an air of extremely deep melancholy, he pushed the cards in Le Gautier’s direction. The latter turned back his cuffs, laid the cards on the palm of one hand, and looked at the assembly.
‘I will deal them round, and the first particular card that falls to a certain individual shall decide,’ he said. ‘Choose a card.’
‘The dagger strikes to the heart,’ came a foreign voice from the end of the table; ‘what better can we have than the ace of hearts?’ He stopped, and a murmur of assent ran round the room.
It was a thrilling moment. Every face was bent forward eagerly as the President stood up to deal the cards. He placed one before himself, a harmless one, and then, with unerring dexterity, threw one before every man there. Each face was a study of rapt attention, for any one might mean a life, and low hoarse murmurs ran round as one card after another was turned up and proved to be harmless. One round was finished, containing, curiously enough, six hearts, and yet the fatal ace had not appeared. Each anxious face would light up for a moment as the owner’s card was turned up, and then be fixed with sickening anxiety on his neighbour’s. At the end of the second round the ace was still absent. The excitement now was almost painful; not a word was spoken, and only the deep breathing gave evidence of the inward emotion. Slowly, one by one, the cards dwindled away in the dealer’s hands till only seven were left. It was a sight never to be forgotten even with one chance for each; and when the first of the seven was dealt, a simple two, every envying eye was bent upon the fortunate one as he laughed unsteadily, wiped his face, and hastily filled and swallowed a glass of water. Six, five, four; the last to the President, and there only remained three cards now—one for Salvarini, one for Maxwell, and one for the suggester of the emblem card. The Frenchman’s card was placed upon the table; he turned it up with a shrug which was not altogether affected, and then came Salvarini’s turn. The whole room had gathered round the twain, Maxwell calm and collected, Salvarini white and almost fainting. He had to steady one hand with the other, like a man afflicted with paralysis, as he turned over his card. For a moment he leaned back in his chair, the revulsion of feeling almost overpowering him. His card was the seven of clubs.
With a long sweeping throw, the President tossed the last card in Maxwell’s direction. No need to look at it. There it lay—the fatal ace of hearts!
They were amazed at the luckless man’s utter coolness, as he sat there playing with the card, little understanding as yet his danger; and then, one by one shaking his hand solemnly, they passed out. Maxwell was inclined to make light of this dramatic display, ascribing it to a foreigner’s love of the mysterious. He did not understand it to mean a last farewell between Brothers. They had all gone by that time with the exception of Le Gautier and Salvarini, the latter looking at the doomed man sadly, the Frenchman with an evil glitter and a look of subdued triumph in his eyes.
‘Highly dramatic, at anyrate,’ Maxwell observed, turning to Le Gautier, ‘and vastly entertaining. They seemed to be extremely sorry for me.’
‘Well, you take the matter coolly enough,’ the Frenchman smiled. ‘Any one would think you were used to this sort of thing.’
‘I should like to have caught some of those expressions,’ Maxwell replied. ‘They would make a man’s fortune if he could get them on canvas. What do you think of an Academy picture entitled “The Conspirators?”—And now, will you be good enough to explain this little farce to me?’
His cool, contemptuous tones knocked Le Gautier off his balance for a moment, but he quickly recovered his habitual cynicism. ‘There will be a pendant to that picture, called “The Vengeance;” or, if you like it better, “The Assassination,”’ he replied with a sneer. ‘Surely you do not think I dealt these cards for amusement? No, my friend; a life was at stake there, perhaps two.’
‘A life at stake? Do you mean that I am to play the part of murderer to a man unknown to me—an innocent man?’
‘Murder is not a pleasant word,’ Le Gautier replied coldly. ‘We prefer the expression “remove,” as being more elegant, and not so calculated to shock the nerves of novices—like yourself. Your perspicacity does you credit, sir. Your arm is the one chosen to strike Visci down.’
‘Gracious powers!’ Maxwell exclaimed, falling back into his chair faint and dizzy. ‘I stain my hand with an unoffending man’s blood? Never! I would die first. I never dreamt—I never thought—— Salvarini, I did not think you would lead me into this!’
‘I warned you,’ the Italian said mournfully. ‘As far as I dared, I told you what the consequences would be.’
‘If you had told me you were a gang of callous, bloodthirsty murderers, I should not have joined you. I, like every Englishman, am the friend of liberty as much as you, but no cowardly dagger-thrust for me. Do your worst, and come what may, I defy you!’
‘A truce to these histrionics,’ Le Gautier exclaimed fiercely; ‘or we shall hold a Council, and serve you the same. There are your orders. I am your superior. Take them, and obey. Refuse, and’—— He stopped, folding his arms, and looked Maxwell full in the face for a moment; then turning abruptly upon his heel, quitted the room without another word.
Maxwell and his friend confronted each other. ‘And who is this Visci I am to murder?’ the artist demanded bitterly.
Salvarini bowed his head lower and lower till his face almost rested upon his breast. ‘You know him,’ he said. ‘He was a good friend of mine once, and his crime is the one you are contemplating now—disobedience to orders. Is it possible you have not guessed the doomed man to be Carlo Visci?’
‘Carlo Visci—my friend, my more than brother? I must be mad, mad or dreaming. Lay foul hands upon the best friend man ever had—the noble-hearted fellow whose purse was mine, who taught me all I know, who saved my life; and I to stab him in the dark because, perchance, he refuses to serve a companion the same! Never! May my right hand rot off, before I injure a hair of Carlo Visci’s head!’
‘Then you will die yourself,’ Salvarini put in sadly.
‘Then I shall die—death comes only once,’ Maxwell exclaimed proudly, throwing back his head. ‘No sin like that shall stain my soul!’
For a moment the two men were silent.
Salvarini broke the silence. ‘Listen, Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I am in a measure to blame for this, and I will do what I can to serve you. You must go to Rome, as if you intended to fulfil your task, and wait there till you hear from me. I am running great risks in helping you so, and you must rely on me. One thing is in your favour: time is no particular object. Will you go so far, for your sake and mine?’
‘Anything, anywhere!’ burst out the Englishman passionately.
(_To be continued._)
PITMEN, PAST AND PRESENT.
The coal-trade of Scotland dates from the early part of the thirteenth century. In its earliest stages it embraced only the shallowest seams, and those without water, or any other difficulty requiring machinery to overcome. The digging of coal, therefore, is one of our oldest industries; and it may be interesting to look at some phases of the work from the miner’s point of view. Taking this stand-point, we will see that the improvement in the miner’s condition—physical, intellectual, moral and spiritual—is almost inconceivable. When machinery became necessary for pumping water from coal-pits—about the beginning of the seventeenth century—there appears to have been a demand for workmen greater than the supply, and power was granted to colliery owners ‘to apprehend all vagabonds and sturdy beggars’ and set them to work. This shows that the life of a miner was not at all an attractive one; and this is not to be wondered at, as will be seen from some of the allusions made in this article as we proceed. The one fact, that colliers were, for two centuries after the date referred to—that is, till near the end of the eighteenth century—bought and sold with the collieries in which they wrought, is sufficient to stamp mining as a most undesirable kind of employment, even in those early and more or less barbarous times. One can easily understand, from this instance of hardship, how it became necessary to keep up the supply of miners from the criminal classes. An analogous case still presents itself in Russia, where one of the most hopeless sentences that can be passed on political and other offenders is banishment to the Siberian mines.
Some time after the repeal (about 1790) of the laws enslaving miners, there would appear to have been experienced a similar difficulty to recruit the ranks of pit-workers, and one of the means adopted to procure workmen was only a few degrees less objectionable than slavery itself. This was what was termed the ‘Bond’ system. A man, more especially when he had a family, some of them coming to be helpful at his calling, had the bait held out to him of a bounty if he signed the bond. By this bond he obliged himself to continue in the employment of his master for a fixed period, varying from one year to four years. In return for this, he received the immediate payment of a bounty, variable in amount in proportion to the period engaged for, and also regulated by the value of the man’s services. As much as five pounds might be given. Should the bond be faithfully carried out by the workman, the master had no claim upon the money; but should the engagement be brought prematurely to an end, he often retained the power to claim the amount as a debt, besides having the right to sue the workman for desertion of service. Of course, the bounty formed a payment over and above the ordinary wages.
At the period referred to, it was the practice amongst many classes of workmen in Scotland to leave their usual avocations during the summer months, and fee themselves to farmers in the times known familiarly as ‘hay and hairst.’ From this custom, it was often a serious matter for a coalmaster to find that his workmen had deserted him. The ‘bond’ system was intended partly to counteract this practice, as well as to meet the prevailing unpopularity of the work. The system was a thoroughly bad one for the workmen, as it practically lengthened the period of actual slavery, though nominally that had disappeared. The inducement to sign the bond was very much the same as it now is to join the militia—the bounty-money gave the prospect of a ‘spree’ in both cases, and in this way the system operated badly.
We may well be astonished at the statement, that in the memory of men still living it was the regular thing for miners in some districts to go to and from the pits with bare feet. The wages were small and the hours long. We have heard it said by a miner that the grandfather of a companion a little older than himself wrought in the mines for twopence a day, he at the time being man grown. This case would take us back to about the close of the last century, when miners were employed compulsorily under an Act of Parliament. In any case it is an extreme instance of the small wages earned for a long time by miners. In regard to the hours of employment, even till a period well advanced in the present century, the usual time to begin work was four A.M.; whilst the hour for allowing the men to quit the mine was six o’clock at night—a length of day’s work that left little time even for sleep. No wonder that such a joke should be in circulation that miners’ children in those days did not know their fathers, as the children were asleep all the time the father was at home.
Not only had miners in times past hard work with long hours and small wages, but even the scanty earnings were settled up only at long intervals, and on this fact hangs a series of abuses that required a long and determined struggle to remove. Monthly pays were considered frequent; and it could hardly be expected that mining human nature could endure for a month even at a time without some temporary means being provided. Out of this arose some of the most indefensible hardships suffered by the miner. ‘Truck’ and ‘Poundage’ in all their various forms were the foul growths from the system of long delayed pays. The truck system had many developments. Let us begin with one of its earliest—namely, ‘lines.’ A workman wants an advance, and goes to the pay office for that purpose; but instead of getting hard cash, he receives a line to the following effect: ‘Please give bearer goods to the value of ____________.’ This line was addressed to a person owning a general provision and dry-goods store, who had entered into an arrangement to honour these lines; and when they were brought to the colliery proprietor at stated intervals, the shopkeeper received payment of their amount, less an agreed upon commission, varying from five to ten per cent. But, supposing the storekeeper did not keep some of the goods required by the workman for his family or personal use, the workman could obtain a part of the sum marked on the line in money, less a discount of usually one penny per shilling. As time went on, however, another development of the truck system took place, and on the whole it was a little better than that described. The mine-owner provided a store, managed under his own charge, in which was sold everything from the proverbial ‘needle to an anchor.’ One of the sore points in the management of many of these works-stores was that the men were terrorised into buying all their goods there, and there alone. Indeed, where advances were given under the line-system, the poor miner had usually to spend nearly all his money in the master’s stores. Even in the comparatively rare instances where workmen waited until the end of the pay without accepting advances, some of the colliery proprietors used a sort of tyrannical power over the men to force them to buy from the works-store, and that alone. Under the line-system, barter pure and simple obtained full play. And yet since the passing in 1831 of what is popularly known as the Truck Act, this barbarous method of payment was fully provided against, though the criminality of unscrupulous masters was not brought home to them until the Truck Commission sat in 1870. This Commission fully investigated the wholesale evasion of the law of 1831, and brought such a flood of light on the disgraceful proceedings of many masters, as to at once bring to an end the hateful truck or tally system. It forms a curious comment on the manner of administering our laws, that the Truck Act of 1831 only became operative in 1870, after a most exhaustive inquiry.
Whilst ‘truck’ was an attempt on the part of some masters to pay wages in kind and not in sterling money, what is known as ‘poundage’ was a different system of making a large profit off the poverty of the workmen—a system, unfortunately, which is not altogether dead yet. Under the system of poundage, the monthly or larger pays were continued—short pays would have been its death—but the privilege was granted to employees of receiving advances in cash during the currency of the pay. But this was done, let it be noted, for a ‘consideration,’ that consideration being the grand and simple system of five per cent.—a shilling a pound. This is how the calculation would work out: In a four-weekly pay, let us presume that there are only three advances made—if there were more it would not alter the principle at work—one made each week for three weeks, and each advance amounting to one pound. The first advance is twenty shillings for three weeks, the second for two weeks, and the third for one week—the whole advances during the currency of the pay amounting to three pounds, and costing the workman three shillings. This looks a very simple charge—five per cent.; but when we look at it in the light of being interest on lent money, we find the first pound has cost 83⅔ per cent. per annum; the second, 130, and the third, 260 per cent. per annum—or an average of nearly 160 per cent. per annum on the whole. It must be remembered too that this was the rate of interest charged, not for an unsecured debt, but rather for wages actually earned by the employee, though settlement was deferred for a month through the system of long pays. The writer has known a firm derive from this one source of income as much as a thousand pounds a year up to the time a more enlightened policy was adopted.
Another system from which unscrupulous employers derived some income, more trifling in amount than the annoyance and irritation it produced, was that known as ‘Fines.’ In remote collieries, fines were of regular occurrence under one pretext or another. It is quite likely that the system was a survival of feudal jurisdiction exercised by the superior all over the country, and finally put an end to, as it was supposed, by Act of Parliament passed in 1747. Instead of the workman being brought before a magistrate for an alleged offence, a court-martial was held upon him by the employer or manager, and a fine was usually exacted. It mattered not whether the offence related to the man’s employment or to his conduct with his neighbours, whether it had a criminal or only a civil origin—the court-martial was held, and the result invariably the same—a fine. The curious thing was that these fines were taken as a matter of course, the decisions being usually respected after a little necessary grumbling. The amount of money gained annually from these fines was not large, so that their justification must have been that this was the only available method of keeping law and order. In this view, ‘fines’ may have suited an earlier state of civilisation; but the system is too rough and ready to be consonant with modern ideas of justice. The miner has suffered under slavery, and its twin-brother the bond system; but he has seen these totally disappear, not, however, very many years before slavery was abolished amongst the aborigines of our colonies. Truck or the tally system has also become a thing of the past, though we have seen how hard it was to kill. Fines likewise have given place to the ordinary operation of the law; and the exaction of poundage is now only made by a small residuum of coal-masters, on whom the action of public opinion is slow and uncertain; but the system is doomed, and must, sooner or later, follow the other abuses we have enumerated.
We will now look for a short time at a different phase of the subject, ‘Pitmen, Past and Present;’ and in this no less than in the past, already treated, it will be found that there is a strong contrast between the past and the present in the miner’s condition. Take as an example the ventilation of mines. The benefits brought about in the miner’s health by the greater quantities of fresh air now forced into the pits are almost incalculable. A ‘wheezing’ miner of thirty is now a very rare phenomenon; indeed, apart from the inevitable danger from accidents—and that is even greatly lessened—the miner has now nearly as good a chance of long life as any other class of workmen. At a period within the memory of not very old colliers still living, the pit was merely a hole in the ground, having no separate upcast and downcast division, so essential to proper ventilation. In short, there was absolutely no attempt at the artificial ventilation of the mines. The only agent at work was the wind on the surface, and this was as often as not adverse to the pitman. In the heat of summer, the mine became quite unworkable from the rarefied and polluted nature of the air. From the operation of various causes, this state of things has been altered to the great benefit of the miner. An air-tight mid-wall is now made in each pit: the one side of the shaft being used for drawing out—by fans or otherwise—the foul air; and the other for the introduction into the mine of a current of fresh air, which finds its way through all the workings until it reaches the upcast shaft, and there obtains an outlet. In addition to this, every shaft has now a communication pit, either expressly made for that purpose, or advantage may be taken of some old pit for giving pitmen a certain means of exit and entrance in the event of a shaft being blocked up through accident.
The year of the famous battle of Waterloo is one that should ever be remembered gratefully by miners. It was then that Humphry Davy perfected his safety-lamp, that has done so much for mankind. How much it has done to prevent accidents no one can say. Being a preventive, all we can claim is that it must have rendered the annals of mining comparatively free of the records of accidents, and given a degree of comfort and safety in the fieriest mines that otherwise would be impossible, besides making available for public use a vast amount of coal that without it would be unworkable.
In regard to the age of those engaged in mines, thirty, forty, or fifty years ago it was the rule rather than the exception to send boys to work at eight or nine years of age. The Mines Act of 1872 wholly prohibits the employment below ground of women or girls of any age, and fixes for boys the minimum age at twelve for a full day’s employment, and that only when a certain educational standard has been reached. Curiously enough, however, a boy _above_ ground cannot be engaged full time until he is thirteen years old. Surely it is one of the unintentional anomalies of the Mines Act that in the open air boys are precluded from working till they are a year older than they may be at work underground. A warning note may be sounded in regard to the age at which boys are engaged. We know that many are employed in mines at the minimum age of twelve, irrespective of their educational standard. If the Education Act and the Mines Act are here at variance, or if there is the want of a public prosecutor to see them enforced, the wants should be without waste of time supplied, and not cause beneficial clauses to be inoperative.
Respecting the education of miners’ children, the Education Acts have been highly advantageous in giving compulsory powers to School Boards and managers; but even before their introduction, this class of children had many comparative benefits in a much less degree enjoyed by others. The works-schools have always been a feature in Scotch mining centres. We have not seen any pointed allusion to the fact that these schools, long before the introduction of Education Acts, solved the problem of free education in a way satisfactory to all concerned. Happily, in many places these schools are still left under the old management, though nominally connected with School Boards. Under the works-school system, all the workers, whether married or single, agreed to pay a weekly sum, say, of twopence. This insured the education of the workman’s family, however large it might be. The unmarried suffered by this voluntary sacrifice on their part, but they did so at a time of life when they were least burdened; but the struggling married man reaped the full benefit when he most needed assistance. In the case of a workman with four children of school-age at one time, the almost nominal cost of a halfpenny per week paid for each child’s education. Small though this sum is, we have known schools self-supporting under the system for years, with no other aid than the government grant earned at the annual inspection, besides being able to supply night-school education in the winter months to the elderly youths of the place.
Besides a school, it is one of the evidences of the improved state of mining communities that they usually have all the adjuncts of civilisation amongst them. There is the church, where the rich and the poor meet together, and in this connection it may be said that miners are as a class either very zealous religionists, or they go to the other extreme, and care for none of these things. The clergy of our day is largely recruited from mining villages; whilst the list of miners who have become home missionaries is a long one. Then there is the Temperance Society, either a Good Templars’ Lodge, or an offshoot from some of the other anti-alcohol societies; there is the Library of well-selected books, which are much read. There is the Savings-bank; the Reading-room, with a full supply of daily newspapers and other periodical literature; the String and Reed Bands; the Bowling Green, Football and Quoiting Field—the amusements of the miners of our day being all on a higher level than those of forty years ago, when cock-fighting and dog-fighting monopolised attention. Nor can we omit to mention that Sick and Funeral and other benevolent Societies are marked associations in every colliery village worthy of the name. Miners are indeed remarkably considerate to each other, when any special emergency occurs to call forth their active sympathy, being ever ready to subscribe for a brother-worker who has been unfortunate beyond the common lot.
The prospect of the temporary nature of a mining village at the best, forms a strong temptation for nothing but necessary house accommodation, and that of the barest kind, being provided for workmen. The mining proprietor takes a lease of a mineral field, in the middle of a moor it may be, where no houses exist, and where everything has to be erected and provided. Accommodation for the workpeople has to be erected whether the field proves successful or not; and when the field is exhausted, he is in the power of the landlord whether he must remove the buildings and restore the ground, or leave them as they are. In either of these cases, the mineral lessee receives no compensation for his outlay, usually of many thousands of pounds. Hence, as we have stated, there is much temptation for the colliery lessee to erect flimsy houses in keeping with the possible shortness of their use. But colliery owners often rise superior to this evident temptation, and in spite of the possible unremunerative nature of the mineral field, excellent houses, with copious water-supply, are provided. Where this is done, naturally a better class of workers settle down; and when there is a fairly good prospect before the lessee, it is doubtless nothing but justice to himself and his workmen to afford the men every comfort.
It is not too much to say that in the best collieries, the interests of the workmen are cared for in the most enlightened manner. Situated as are many colliery villages, beyond the oversight of regularly constituted municipalities, the whole onus of sanitary and other regulations falls upon the master, and he does not shirk his duty in such cases. Means of social enjoyment are provided—the physical, intellectual, moral, and spiritual well-being of the populace are cared for, and the colliers of to-day are in consequence an intelligent and respectable class of men. Crime is proportionately small amongst mining villages, and those who best know the miner are aware that he is possessed of much kindness of heart, and that in the prosecution of his dangerous calling he often exhibits true heroism.
GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.