ness of his stare assert themselves through his
artificial blackness much as if he were a painted
corpse. He is quite insensible, and lies in his
working clothes just as when the huge block
of stone crushed him into the coal-bed he was
hewing out. Happily, however, this man will,
as we hear subsequently, recover. He belongs,
moreover, to two local clubs, and will draw
sixteen shillings a week while he is laid up. It is
to the credit of the pitmen in this valley that
they are nearly all equally provident, and that, by
organisations which are managed and supported
among themselves, they can count upon
pecuniary aid when laid low by sickness or disaster.
Their doctor, even, though appointed by the
coal-owner, is paid by the men themselves, a
small per-centage of their earnings being
deducted for that purpose. In Durham and
Northumberland, it is worth remarking, the
cost of medical attendance in cases of accident
is borne by the employers, while the colliers pay
for professional services if their illness arise from
natural causes.

But following the mournful string of people
to its destination— the pit-village nestling under
the hill behind us— it is piteous to see the faces
of the women and children who flock to the doors
of the cottages we pass. They know what is the
matter. No word seems to be spoken, but the
news spreads like wildfire and every door-step
in succession has its knot of eager watchers, who,
scanning hungrily the features of the senseless
man, softly murmur out his name with a sigh, in
which relief bears equal share with pity. The
suspense is terrible until they know the truth, and
see it is not their own husband or brother who is
carried. Strict silence is observed by the men
advancing, much as if it would be a breach of
etiquette to speak, and as they all walk before
their wounded brother the women have to
peer beyond the procession and through the
blinding sunshine to ascertain the truth. At
last a little cottage, glaringly clean and smart
with recent whitewash, is approached, and a tall
dark care-worn looking woman with an infant
in one arm, and the hand of the other uplifted
so as to shade her eyes, learns that it is to her
door Misfortune has come. The two chubby
rosy children at her feet, whose hearty robust
look looms through the conventional crust of
coal dirt, continue their play and chatter, but
their mother's countenance tells the whole
story. A spasmodic contraction of the brow,
an uncontrollable quivering of mouth, and a
sudden blanching of the face is followed by a
half totter as if she would fall among the gaudy
little flower-beds with their bordering of the
perpetual whitewash; and then all demonstration
is over and she goes quietly indoors to make
ready for the sad burden which is to follow.
She is now wonder fully calm and self-possessed,
and gives a fervent " thank God" when told in
Welsh, "It's his back,— not very bad;" but if
ever bitter sorrow was written upon a woman's
face it is on hers. Still slowly, but with a
tenderness and care which go far to condone
the painful parade they have hitherto seemed
to make, the bearers take their charge up the
little black garden-path and rest it in the
cottage. Within, the evidences of love of home
furnished by the plentifully and carefully tended
flower-beds are abundant. The wounded man's
household goods, his chairs and chest of drawers
of brightest and newest mahogany; his
ornamental monsters of coarse earthenware, and
looking like a cheap parody upon the taste in
china affected by fine ladies and gentlemen a
century ago; his pipe, and Bible, and Welsh
newspaper; his clean flannel jacket and cap
behind the door; his second food-tin like a
monster shaving-box; all speak mournfully of
tastes and habits he is far far removed from
now. The people near say he knows he is at
home; but he makes no sign, though the doctor
assures us he will recover.

On our way to the head quarters of the nest
of collieries we are in, we are horrified at meeting
another procession of precisely similar
character to the first. The same silent grimy
men, the same formality of marching, the same
sad load behind. Another accident has
happened in a different pit while we were ascertaining
the result of the first, and a compound
fracture of the leg and a broken skull are the
results. Two pit-lads, one at each end of the
body to steady head and legs separately, are on
the rude litter aloft, and a coloured cotton
handkerchief hides the worst of the head-injuries
from view. But in no other particular does
this procession differ from the first. The
blackened workmen walk moodily on three
abreast, with the same slow step, and swing their
food-tins and lamp-guards idly by their side.
They too, we discover afterwards, spend the
remainder of the day at the fair, and show their
sympathy for the wounded man by drinking
steadily of the heady new ale, which is the
favourite stimulant of the district. Another
great pit is idle for the day, and in times when
work is not too plentiful, when wages have been
necessarily reduced, when "half-time" is common,
and the whole trade of the district
depressed, scores upon scores of households lose a
day's bread-winning because the little community
has not the courage to emancipate itself from
an ancient but unworthy practice. For there is
no pretence that these processions are necessary,
or are any comfort to the wounded. Ask the men
why they go through this absurd form, and why
they do not let the victims be carried home
expeditiously, quietly, and without fuss, and their
only answer is, "It's always been done in this
valley and it wouldn't look kind to poor Evan
or Thomas if we hadn't given up our work on
the day he was hurted." Here and there you
hear of solitary instances in which the proprietor
or manager has prevailed upon the men
to let a wounded comrade be conveyed home
without the entire community of his pit sacrificing
a day's pay; and some of the most earnest
local ministers of religion have exerted their
influence against the custom; but until the soft,
tender, impressionable Welsh nature is
convinced that it is an injury rather than a help