So soon as the miner sees the flame thus enlarged and altered in appearance he should retire. But it is not true that explosion would necessarily follow if he did not do so. The danger is great because the flame within the lamp is in direct contact with the gauze, and if there is any defect in the wire-work, the heat may make for itself an opening which—though small—would yet suffice to enable the flame within the lamp to ignite the gas outside. So long, however, as the wire-gauze continues perfect, even though it become red-hot, there will be no explosion. No authority is required to establish this point, which has been proved again and again by experiment; but I quote Professor Tyndall’s words on the subject to remove some doubts which have been entertained on the matter. ‘Although a continuous explosive atmosphere,’ he says, ‘may extend from the air outside through the meshes of the gauze to the flame within, ignition is not propagated across the gauze. The lamp may be filled with an almost lightless flame; still explosion does not occur. A defect in the gauze, the destruction of the wire at any point by oxidation hastened by the flame playing against it, would cause explosion;’ and so on. It need hardly be said, however, that, imprudent as miners have often been, no miner would remain where his lamp burned with the enlarged flame indicative of the presence of fire-damp. The lamp should also be at once extinguished.
But here we touch on a danger which undoubtedly exists, and—so far as has yet been seen—cannot be guarded against by any amount of caution. Supposing the miner sought to extinguish the lamp by blowing it out, an explosion would almost certainly ensue, since the flame can be forced mechanically through the meshes, though it will not pass through them when it is burning in the ordinary way. Now of course no miner who had been properly instructed in the use of the safety-lamp would commit such a mistake as this. But it happens, unfortunately, that sometimes the fire-damp itself forces the flame of the lamp through the meshes. The gas frequently issues with great force from cavities in the coal (in which it has been pent up), when the pick of the miner breaks an opening for it. In these circumstances an explosion is inevitable, if the issuing stream of gas happen to be directed full upon the lamp. Fortunately, however, this is a contingency which does not often arise. It is one of those risks of coal-mining which seem absolutely unavoidable by any amount of care or caution. It would be well if it were only such risks as these that the miner had to face.
Another peculiarity sometimes noticed when there is a discharge of fire-damp is worth mentioning. It happens, occasionally, that the light will be put out owing to the absolute exclusion of air from the lamp. This, however, can only happen when the gas issues in so large a volume that the atmosphere of the pit becomes irrespirable.
With the exception of the one risk which we have pointed out above, the Davy lamp may be said to be absolutely safe. It is necessary, however, that caution and intelligence should be exhibited in its use. On this point Professor Tyndall remarks that unfortunately the requisite intelligence is not often possessed nor the requisite caution exercised by the miner, ‘and the consequence is that even with the safety-lamp, explosions still occur.’ And he suggests that it would be well to exhibit to the miner in a series of experiments the properties of the valuable instrument which has been devised for his security. ‘Mere advice will not enforce caution,’ he says; ‘but let the miner have the physical image of what he is to expect clearly and vividly before his mind, and he will find it a restraining and monitory influence long after the effect of cautioning words has passed away.’
A few words on the history of the invention may be acceptable. Early in the present century a series of terrible catastrophes in coal mines had excited the sympathy of enlightened and humane persons throughout the country. In the year 1813, a society was formed at Sunderland to prevent accidents in coal mines or at least to diminish their frequency, and prizes were offered for the discovery of new methods of lighting and ventilating mines. Dr. William Reid Clanny, of Bishopwearmouth, presented to this society a lamp which burnt without explosion in an atmosphere heavily loaded with fire-damp; for which invention the Society of Arts awarded him a gold medal. The Rev. Dr. Gray called the attention of Sir Humphry Davy to the subject, and that eminent chemist visited the coal mines in 1815 with the object of determining what form of lamp would be best suited to meet the requirements of the coal miners. He invented two forms of lamp before discovering the principle on which the present safety-lamps are constructed. This principle—the property, namely, that flame will not pass through small apertures—had been, we believe, discovered by Stephenson, the celebrated engineer, some time before; and a somewhat angry controversy took place respecting Davy’s claim to the honour of having invented the safety-lamp. It seems admitted, however, by universal consent, that Davy’s discovery of the property above referred to was made independently, and also that he was the first to suggest the idea of using wire-gauze in place of perforated tin.
In comparing the present frequency of colliery explosions with what took place before the invention of the safety-lamp, we must take into consideration the enormous increase in the coal trade since the introduction of steam machinery. The number of miners now engaged in our coal mines is far in excess of the number employed at the beginning of the present century. Thus accidents in the present day are at once more common on account of the increased rapidity with which the mines are worked, and when they occur there are more sufferers; so that the frequency of colliery explosions in the opening years of the present century and the number of deaths resulting from them, are in reality much more significant than they seem to be at first sight. But even independently of this consideration, the record of the colliery accidents which took place at that time is sufficiently startling. Seventy-two persons were killed in a colliery at North Biddick at the commencement of the present century. Two explosions in 1805, at Hepburn and Oxclose, left no less than forty-three widows and 151 children unprovided for. In 1808, ninety persons were killed in a coal-pit at Lumley. On May 24, 1812, ninety-one persons were killed by an explosion at Felling Colliery, near Gateshead. And many more such accidents might readily be enumerated.
(From the Daily News, December 4, 1868.)
THE DUST WE HAVE TO BREATHE.
A microscopist, Mr. Dancer, F.R.A.S., has been examining the dust of our cities. The results are not pleasing. We had always recognised city dust as a nuisance, and had supposed that it derived the peculiar grittiness and flintiness of its structure from the constant macadamizing of city roads. But it now appears that the effects produced by dust, when, as is usual, it finds its way to our eyes, our nostrils, and our throats, are as nothing compared with the mischief it is calculated to produce in a more subtle manner. In every specimen examined by Mr. Dancer animal life was abundant. But the amount of ‘molecular activity’—such is the euphuism under which what is exceedingly disagreeable to contemplate is spoken about—is variable according to the height at which the dust is collected. And of all heights which these molecular wretches could select for the display of their activity, the height of five feet is that which has been found to be the favourite. Just at the average height of the foot-passenger’s mouth these moving organisms are always waiting to be devoured and to make us ill. And this is not all. As if animal abominations were insufficient, a large proportion of vegetable matter also disports itself in the light dust of our streets. The observations show that in thoroughfares where there are many animals engaged in the traffic, the greater part of the vegetable matter thus floating about ‘consists of what has passed through the stomachs of animals,’ or has suffered decomposition in some way or other. This unpleasing matter, like the ‘molecular activity,’ floats about at a height of five feet, or thereabouts.