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UNDERGROUND PERILS.

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perhaps not one half. Knocked down, injured, and scorched most will be; though some may be scarcely, if at all, touched by the fire. Many are of course, struck dead by the fire-damp as it rages by, and the bodies of these tell a simple but terribly plain story of the awful power which suddenly burst upon them. The burnt and torn

wide. One such natural jet burst from a coal-bed in a Whitehaven colliery, and being collected into a tube and carried to the surface, continued to burn for several years. Similar cases have occurred in the Newcastle mines, and the town of Fredonia, on Lake Erie, was formerly lighted by the abundant jets of natural gas which, issuing from the ground, were collected into a gasometer. Some-clothes, singed hair, skin peeled off, and a peculiar times a cargo of coal, stored closely in the hold of a ship, has given out gas sufficient to blow up the decks, when a light has been incautiously brought near. These instances may suffice to show the enormous volumes of combustible gas locked up in coal.

The reader has now only to bear in mind that this vapour is constantly escaping from innumerable openings, as the miner brings down with his "pick" huge fragments of the "black diamonds." The gas, thus liberated, may have been imprisoned in its rocky bed for ages beyond human chronology to calculate-even since the periods when the primeval forests were buried deep in the lake deposits, where now they appear changed into coal-beds. The gas is very light, and would soon escape, did sufficient openings exist, or if the rush of air were strong enough to sweep the vapour upwards. Even if the gas should fill the mine, there would be no danger of an explosion until a certain proportion of atmospheric air be mixed with the fire-vapour. What is this proportion? About six or seven volumes of the gas to one of common air. Suppose seven thousand feet of carburetted hydrogen to be accumulated in a mine, no light will fire the mass. But let one thousand feet of atmospheric air be introduced, then woe to the heedless workers who approach with unprotected lamp or candle. Few will ever be able to describe the phenomena of that moment. Some, however, have survived the fiery tempest, and from them a few particulars have been learned. Sometimes a peculiar smell gives warning of a sudden and peculiar change in the air of the mine. Then, before attempts to escape can be made, a deluge of fire sweeps through the long avenues, accompanied by a roar like many thunders combined. Everything goes down before the fire-tempest; men and horses perish, the timber supports of the long galleries, the ventilating doors and complex works of the mine are shattered and blasted into ruinous heaps. Such are the effects of the fire-damp below; what are its manifestations to those "at bank?" The destructive tempest rushes up the shaft, sending through that outlet a roaring blast of fiery air. If the "pitman's village" be near the shaft, the sound of ruin summons wives and children to the pit's mouth, while far and wide through "the black country" the news flies as on the wings of the wind. Are all in the mine inevitably killed by such an explosion? No;

agony of countenance bear witness to the force of the fire-torrent. What becomes of those who survive the first shock? If they be near the shaft, and relief possible, they will be speedily rescued. But what if the mine takes fire, and the shaft itself becomes filled with flame? All is over then, and for many a day, or even many a year, the calcined ashes of the dead may remain unseen by human eye. Cases have occurred when the desolated mine has burnt for years, in spite of all efforts to extinguish the vast subterranean furnace. We will, however, suppose that no such result follows the outburst of fire-damp, and that it has killed about thirty only out of each hundred workmen. Have the remainder aught to dread? Yes; a foe more fatal to human life than even fire-damp now takes possession of the mine, immediately after the explosion. This is the terrible choke-damp, or, as it is sometimes called, the after-damp.

This deadly gas is formed by the fire-damp, and cruelly destroys those who escape the fury of the burning vapour. These survivors, on recovering from the first shock, rush towards the parts where fresh air and the means of escape may be found; but they are often met by the choke-damp, which none can breathe and live. The men know their peril full well: some try to dash through the mass of suffocating poison, suspending their breathing; others crawl along the ground, hoping to pass under the deadly vapour, which often floats a little distance above the surface. What is the usual result? One by one the strugglers drop senseless, and the deep sleep of death settles gradually upon all who are not speedily extricated and brought into the fresh air. But even rescue is hopeless when the choke-damp predominates, and many a heroic miner has met death while endeavouring to save others. Those who thus perish show no sign of suffering; each looks as if in a deep slumber. Sometimes a dozen men will be found close together in a recess, whither they had fled, hoping there to escape the choke-damp. It was this poison which caused the terrible loss of life in the Hartley Colliery, when the shaft was so blocked up by the fall of the broken engine-rod and tons of earth that the ventilation of the mine was stopped.

What is this choke-damp? Chemists call it carbonic acid. It is one of the deadliest poisons when abundant, though harmless in small quan. tities. The purest atmospheric ak contains a

little; every animal produces some in the act of breatning; every fire and every burning candle contributes a proportion of the same poison. It is this gas which so quietly steals away the life of the sleeper who has ignorantly lighted a charcoal fire to warm the close and ill-ventilated bedroom on a bitter winter's night. Some amount of this acid is present in every sitting-room, and especially in all crowded meetings; but in these cases the poison is gradually carried off by the currents of fresh air. But in a coal-mine which has been swept by a torrent of fire, destroying all the ventilating apparatus, the carbonic acid forms so rapidly and in such volume as to turn all the passages into reservoirs of deadliest poison. Thus it happens that the choke-damp is usually far more fatal than the fire-damp. This vapour is not always the result of an explosion, being often formed in imperfectly ventilated mines, or abandoned workings, and even in deep, disused wells. The workmen become aware of the peril by the dim burning or total extinction of their lamps, and leave the dangerous place until the choke-damp is dispersed. Probably it may be asked how such explosions are possible since the introduction of the safety-lamp. We must remind the reader that this is really a danger-lamp when used by ignorant, careless, or reckless men. Sometimes these scientifically constructed lamps are allowed to get shamefully out of order; but the untaught miner will even then use them in the most dangerous places, as if the words "safety-lamp" were magical terms, insuring immunity from all harm. Some miners are actually allowed to have lamp-keys, so that a foolish man may, by opening the protecting wire gauze case, imperil a whole mine with its hundreds of workmen. These keys have often been taken from the pockets of miners who have perished in explosions. Here is one class of perils arising from rashness. Readers may possibly ask what can tempt any one to open a safety-lamp, when the men must know to what a result they are thus liable. Few who ask this question have experienced the indescribable blackness, the horror of utter darkness, found in the remote and deep workings of a coalmine. Something like it may be realised by a person who can make friends with the turnkey of a model prison, and persuade him to shut up the visitor for five minutes in one of the "black-cells."

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Such a gloom is, nevertheless, but a weak sable tint compared with the pure blackness in the deepest recess of a coal-mine. Into this thick darkness the rays of the miner's light stream through the wire gauze of the lamp in long and thin gleams, which seem as if smothered in the gloom. The miner would like more light for his work; he can obtain it by removing the safety wire covering, the lamp will then pour its whole unchecked illumination into his working. sees no danger, and opens the lamp by the key which he has secretly obtained. No harm follows on that occasion, the man enjoys the greater light, and the daring experiment is frequently repeated. Familiarity with peril leads to recklessness; the lamp is at last opened even when a little danger is evident. Ere long some unusual combination of circumstances surprises the incautious worker, the mine is fired, and that is the man's last day of life. The story is well understood when, days after, the open lamp is found near the burned and torn body of the worker, who trifled with the lessons of science and the stern laws of nature.

But the best lamps may, even in the hands of steady men, be unable to prevent the flame from being carried through the fine gauze wire. This may happen when the current of air is unusually strong, so that the flame, which ought to be kept within the wire covering, is driven through the interstices, making the gauze itself red hot. Should the combustible gas be near at such a moment, it is clear that an explosion may happen. Thus there are two classes of cases when the lamp is far from being a "safety"-when the workmen are reckless, or the conditions of the air peculiar. The most perfect security can only be gained by a thorough system of ventilation, by which the explosive gas would be swept off, or mixed with so much atmospheric air as to become harmless. This complete ventilation is often very costly, but it ought to be a serious question for the nation, whether the annual loss of eight hundred lives by fire-damp and choke-damp be not a disgraceful penalty and a terrible pecuniary sacrifice. Human life has something sacred about it, and the engineering skill, science, and capital of the nineteenth century ought to invent a preventive of fire-damp explosions and choke-damp slaughters.

STORM AND CALM.

VER a troubled sea

A lone bird flying;
Under that troubled sea

The sad day dying.
Over a troubled sky
The storm-clouds flying;

Under that troubled sky

A sad heart crying.

Over a new-made grave A heartsease blowing; Under that little grave No tears are flowing. Over that quiet grave The day is breaking; Under the smile of God An angel waking.

W. D.

M. COLE.

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AR away, up at the top of a tall elm-tree, | yoke the patient, solemn-looking horses to the plough; two glossy black crows had built their he could tell his aunt the names of each of her sleek nest. All day long, for many days, with milch cows as they demurely walked along to their patient care they had flown backwards stables; he could throw the seed corn as skilfully and forwards through the air, carrying as either Bob or Harry into the ground prepared for small pieces of sticks and bunches of withered its reception; and he could climb as daringly as they leaves in their beaks, with which to make their into the highest trees about the farm. home secure and comfortable.

And all day long, as they were thus busily employed, they took no notice of a pair of bright eyes watching their every movement. They did not see, or, if they did see, they gave no heed to the eager, up-turned face of a little boy, who lay half hidden among the evergreens which grew close beside their chosen elm-tree. They little suspected, as they cawed away to each other, discussing their plans, in their crow language," that within that little brain a plot was being laid, which if carried out would make all their labour of no use, and change all their happiness into despair.

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Robert Maxwell-or Robin, as he was more generally called-had been for about six weeks on a visit to his uncle, a wealthy farmer, whose broad acres stretched away over many a mile of rich and beautiful country.

This was Robin's first visit to the country. Until now he had only read of green fields full of primroses, and sweet purple violets, or of trees, in whose spreading branches the birds of the air loved to make their nests. Sometimes in his dreams, it is true, he had fancied himself living in a kind of paradise, the cloudless sky stretched above him, the broad green earth below, and the sweet song of the birds in his ear; but the dreams had always vanished with the first gleam of light, which pierced its way, through fog and smoke and gloom, into the heart of the city where Robin's home was to be found.

Now, however, it was no dream; all was quite true. Here were meadows, and fields, and wild flowers, and singing birds in abundance; and though the trees were still bare and leafless, yet as their glossy buds sparkled in the sunshine there was a kind of sheen upon them, which gave a prophecy of the beauty still to come.

His cousins, who had lived all their lives among such scenes, could scarcely understand the rapture of this poor town-boy at his new life, and they used to wonder that he never grew weary of wandering about from morning till night through fields and pasture lands, or of lying hour after hour on his back among the evergreens, watching the crows whirling home through the blue sky to their rookery.

Since his arrival at his uncle's, Robin had become almost as wise about the farm affairs as either of his cousins. He knew as well as they did how to

Was it not a pity that with so much happiness within his reach, so great a store of amusement always close at hand, he should yet fix his whole heart on the attainment of an object which could only be gained by direct disobedience to his uncle's wishes?

Yet so it was, for Robin had resolved that when the last twig had been placed securely in the nest far away up in the old elm-tree, when the last chink had been filled with moss and leaves, and when the mother crow had proudly laid her eggs within it, he would scale the elm-tree, even to its summit, he would drive away the mother from her charge, and securing the nest and its contents for himself, he would carry them home with him in triumph, to be the envy and admiration of his city friends.

Now the good farmer, his uncle, loved his crows, as he often laughingly said, nearly as well as he loved his children. It was an ever-new delight to him to watch them each year congregating in increasing numbers in the woods behind his house, and many a half hour of the pleasant spring afternoons he spent watching them sailing home one by one after their day's labours, the glory of the setting sun shining on their glossy plumage. Even to their harsh grating voices he loved to listen, and it was well known, by child and labourer alike, that to meddle with Farmer Brown's crows was to incur his highest displeasure.

So for an opportunity to carry out his plans Robin had to wait with much impatience, for as if on purpose to thwart him, the farmer decided on ploughing up the five-acre field bordered by the elm-trees, and from morning till evening he might be seen on the spot himself superintending his men, and unawares to himself protecting two poor crows from robbery and outrage.

At last a day came when the farmer and his wife arranged to attend a large fair at a neighbouring town, proposing to take the three boys-Robin, Bob, and Harry-with them. At the last moment Robin pleaded headache, and his flushed cheeks and glistening eyes making it appear as if he were really far far from well, his aunt and uncle agreed to leave him at home, promising to return as soon as possible, Bob and Harry whispering to him for his comfort that he should not be forgotten in their fairings.

Scarcely had the last click of the horses' hoofs upon the road been heard, before Robin crept out of

the house, and finding that the coast was clear he attracted by the unusual commotion among his lost no time in setting to work.

As nimbly as a cat he climbed up and up, higher and higher, till the branches became so slight that they bowed down under his weight more than was quite agreeable, and the blue sky seemed now to stretch away at no such great distance above him. At last the spoil was within his reach. With trembling fingers Robin laid his hand upon the nest, and with a loud cry the mother bird rose up, cawing angrily for help, till in a moment the air seemed to grow dark with the excited friends of the injured bird, who flying round and round over Robin's head, made such a tumult in his ears, that he felt bewildered and almost frightened.

And now he found that to remove the nest, as he had at first intended, would be impossible—it was so much larger than he had imagined, and was so firmly wedged in between the branches. Still he would not be daunted; the eggs at least should be his, whatever happened. There they were-one, two, three, four-and who should tell him not to touch them ?

Ah! the poor crow, how she screamed, and screamed in vain; how she pecked at the little robber's hand, till the blood spouted out over his clothes; how she flapped her wings in his face, till it was bruised and scraped all over. It was in vain, the cruel deed was done, her precious eggs had all been stolen from her, her happy home was now quite desolate.

And Robin thought that he was happy. His plans had been laid so well, his disobedience would surely remain undiscovered, his sin unpunished. With such thoughts in his mind, and carrying his spoil carefully laid inside his cap, he walked boldly into the kitchen on the way to his own room.

I doubt if he would have entered so gaily, had he known who was there awaiting his arrival; had he known that his uncle, obliged to return home unexpectedly for something he had forgotten, and

favourites, had been a witness of the robbery.

Not a word could Robin speak, as with one quick glance at his uncle's face he saw that all was known, even without the evidence of his guilt, which he held in his hands. Pale and trembling he waited for the sentence of his punishment, for he well knew that, gentle as his uncle generally was, for faults such as his had been he had no compassion.

The words came at last-short, clear, and distinct. 'Go to your room, Robin, and remain there till tomorrow, when you must return home," said the farmer, sternly; "I will not have my children taught lessons of deceit, disobedience, and cruelty." "Oh, uncle," murmured Robin, and he stretched out his hands imploringly, as though the yielding up his prize would make the sentence lighter.

"Keep them,” replied the farmer, as turning on his heel he went out at the open door. "Those eggs would be valueless to the poor mother now; they may be useful to you in reminding you in the future of what has occurred to-day."

So the next day Robin went home, back to the city with its noise, and dirt, and turmoil. His heart was full of heaviness, yet as he was whirled along through fields and woods, and past the green budding hedges, he felt he had deserved his punishment, for he knew his uncle's words were true: he had been deceitful when he falsely pleaded illness that he might be left at home; he had been disobedient in disregarding his uncle's commands; he had been cruel in robbing the poor birds of their young.

The much-coveted eggs, the cause of all his trouble, he left behind him at the farm; but they were forwarded to him the next day by his uncle, and then Robin kept them, not, as he had originally intended, to be shown off in triumph to his companions, but to be to him as a witness and remembrance of his sin. Z. P.

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IV.

"THE QUIVER" BIBLE CLASS.

On she trips, as lightly

As the gleesome kid:
And her eyes shine brightly
From each long-fringed lid,

As she stops a minute,
Listening to the linnet,
Or to watch the shining

Of the lizard, twining

In the grass half-hid.

V.

Till at length she reaches

Where the greenwood maze Breaks from out the beeches

To the morning rays; And the Autumn lustre Plays upon a cluster

Of bright leaves and flowers, Falling down in showers

From an antique vase.

VI.

There, amid the splendour
Of rich flowers and rare,
Stands that maiden tender-
Herself a flower most fair.
O'er the vase she's stooping,
With her large eyes drooping,
Till her cheek reposes
Mid the flushing roses
Gathering round her there.

VII.

One lily hand is clasping

A bright and odorous rose, The other lightly grasping The folding of her clothes. Flower and leaf are twining Round her garment, shining Even as though they kist her As a floral sister

That each blossom knows.

VIII.

But, mid all this blooming

Rose and eglantine, And the rich perfuming

Of sweet jessamine— Mid bells of purple fuchsiasMid honeysuckle luscious— One flower still is wanting, Greatest of Nature's granting― No passion flower is seen.

IX.

Ah! that little maiden
Still is fancy free,
With no love yet laden-
Light and bright is she.
Lips that ne'er knew sobbing,

Heart ne'er wildly throbbing,

Eyes ne'er swol'n with weeping,
Sleepless vigils keeping-
My cousin Emily.

X.

Yet, sure as morning brightens
Into noonday hour,

And sure as May-bloom whitens,
And fruit succeeds the flow'r,
So sure will Love yet find thee-
So sure his fetters bind thee.
Ah! may'st thou then step lightly,
And look as fair and brightly

As now in yonder bower!

143

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

"THE QUIVER" BIBLE CLASS. 55. God, though infinite in power, has some regard for the most trifling of his creatures. Show that this is so.

56. What examples are there of a reference in the Old Testament to spiritual circumcision?

57. In connection with what event do we find the Apostle John mentioned for the last time in the Acts of the Apostles?

58. The period of "forty days" seems to be marked in Holy Scripture as significant of probation before some fresh event. Give examples of this.

59. A period of "forty days" precedes three events of our Lord's life during his sojourn on earth. Name them.

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 111.

43. The eleven apostles refusing to believe the account of the Saviour's resurrection (Luke xxiv. 11).

44. Ezra iii. 2.

45. “A nail in his holy place” (Ezra ix. 8).

46. The healing of Malchus's ear (John xviii. 10). 47. Simon Peter, Andrew, and Philip (John i. 44).

48. Isaiah (xi. 1), Jeremiah (xxiii. 5), Zechariah (vi. 12).

49. Numb. xiii. 28.—(1) “The people be strong that dwell in the land;" (2) "the cities are walled and very great;" (3) "we saw the children of Anak there."

50. (1) A dwelling-house purchased in a walled city might be redeemed within a year after the sale; but after that time it became the absolute property of the purchaser, and was not affected by the jubilee. (2) Land devoted to God might be redeemed on certain conditions; but if not redeemed or sold to another man, it was in the jubilee to be "holy unto the Lord," and the possession thereof was to be given to the priest (Lev. xxv. 16—21, 29, 30.

51. Jehovah-jireh (Gen. xxii. 14).

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