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.