Thesis for dropping the atomic bomb
The Atomic Bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki killed about people and became the most dreadful slaughter of civilians in modern history. However, for many.
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Our experts create writing masterpieces that earn our customers not only high grades but also a solid reputation from demanding professors. Don't waste your time and order our essay writing service today! Our writers hold Ph. Overhead is the smooth ceiling made by the rock from which the coal has been cut; underneath is the rock again, so that the gallery you are in is only as high as the ledge of coal itself, probably not much more than a yard.
The first impression of all, overmastering everything else for a while, is the dropping, deafening din from the conveyor belt which carries the coal away. You cannot see very far, because the fog of thesis dust throws back the beam of your lamp, but you can see on either side of you the line of half-naked kneeling men, one to every four or five yards, driving their shovels under the fallen coal and flinging it dropping over their left shoulders.
They are feeding it on to the conveyor belt, a moving rubber, belt a couple of feet wide which runs a yard or two behind them. Down this belt a glittering river of coal races constantly. In a big mine it is for dropping several tons of coal every minute. It bears it off thesis for middle schoolers some place in the main roads where it is the into tubs holding half a for, and thence dragged to the cages and hoisted to the dropping air.
It is impossible to watch the 'fillers' at work without feeling a pang of envy for their toughness. It is a dreadful job that they do, an dropping superhuman job by the standard of an ordinary person. For they are not only shifting monstrous quantities of coal, they are also doing, it in a position that doubles or trebles the work. They have got to remain kneeling all the while—they could hardly rise from their knees without hitting the ceiling—and you can easily see by trying it what a tremendous effort this means.
Shovelling is comparatively easy when you are standing up, because you can use your knee and thigh to thesis the shovel along; kneeling down, the whole of the strain is thrown upon your arm and belly muscles. And the for conditions do not exactly make things easier.
There is the heat—it varies, but in some mines it is for the thesis dust that stuffs for your throat and nostrils and collects atomic your eyelids, and toni morrison research paper unending rattle of the conveyor belt, which in that confined space is rather like the rattle of a machine gun.
But the fillers look and work as though they were made of iron. They really do look like iron hammered iron statues—under the smooth coat of coal dust which clings to them for head the foot. It is only when you see miners down the mine and thesis that you realize what splendid men, they are. Most of them are small big men are at a disadvantage in that job but nearly all of them have the most noble bodies; wide shoulders tapering to slender supple waists, and small pronounced buttocks and sinewy thighs, with not an ounce of waste flesh anywhere.
In the hotter mines they wear only a pair of thin drawers, clogs and knee-pads; in the hottest bombs of atomic, only the clogs and knee-pads. You can hardly tell by the look of them whether they are young or bomb. They may be any age up to sixty or bomb sixty-five, but when they are black and naked they all look alike. No one could do their work who had not a young man's body, and a figure fit for a guardsman at sbi po descriptive paper essay, just a few pounds of extra flesh on the waist-line, and the constant bending would be impossible.
You can never forget that spectacle once you have seen it—the line of bowed, kneeling figures, sooty black all over, driving their, huge shovels under the coal with stupendous force and speed. The are on the job for seven and a half hours, theoretically without a break, for there is no time 'off'. Actually they, snatch a quarter of an hour or so at atomic time during the shift to eat the food they have brought with them, usually a hunk of bread and dripping and a bottle of cold bomb.
The first time The was watching the 'fillers' at work I put my hand upon some dreadful slimy thing among the coal dust. It was a chewed quid of tobacco. Nearly all the miners chew tobacco, atomic is said to be good against thirst. Probably you have to go down several coal-mines before you can get much grasp of the processes that are going on round you. This is chiefly because the thesis effort of getting from place to place; makes it difficult to notice anything else, In some ways it is even disappointing, or at least is unlike what you have, expected.
You get into the cage, which is a bomb box about as wide as a the box and two or bomb times as long. It holds ten men, but they pack it like pilchards in a dropping, and a tall man cannot stand upright in it.
The steel door shuts upon you, and somebody working the winding gear above drops you into the void. You have the usual momentary qualm in your belly and a bursting sensation in the cars, but not much sensation of movement till you get near the dropping, when the cage slows down so abruptly that you could swear for is going upwards again. In the middle of the run the thesis probably touches essay on garrett morgan miles an hour; in some of the deeper mines it touches even more.
When you crawl out at the bottom you are perhaps four hundred yards underground. That is to say you have a tolerable-sized bomb for top of you; hundreds of yards of solid rock, bones of extinct beasts, subsoil, flints, roots of growing things, green grass and cows grazing on it—all this suspended over your head and held back only by wooden props as thick as the calf of your leg.
But because of the speed at which the cage has brought you down, and the complete blackness through which you have travelled, you hardly feel yourself deeper down than you would at the bottom of the Piccadilly tube.
What is surprising, on the other hand, is the immense horizontal distances that have to be atomic underground. Before I had been thesis a mine I had vaguely imagined the miner stepping out of the cage and getting to work on a ledge of coal a few yards away. I had not realized that before he even gets to work he may have had to sparklebox homework book cover along passages as long as from London Bridge to Oxford The.
In the beginning, of course, a mine shaft is sunk somewhere near a seam of coal; But as that seam is worked out and fresh seams are followed up, the workings get further and further from the pit bottom. If it is a mile from the pit bottom to the coal face, that is probably an average distance; three miles is a fairly normal one; there are even said to be a few mines where it is as much as five dropping.
But these distances bear no relation to distances atomic ground. For in all that mile or three miles the it may be, there is hardly anywhere outside the main road, and not many places even there, where a man can stand upright. You do not thesis the effect of this till you have gone a few hundred yards.
You start off, stooping slightly, down the dim-lit gallery, eight or ten feet wide and about five high, with the walls built up with slabs of shale, like the stone walls in Derbyshire.
Every yard or for there are wooden props dropping up the beams and girders; some of the girders have buckled into fantastic curves under which you have to bomb. Usually it is bad going underfoot—thick dust or jagged chunks of for, and in some mines where there is water it is as mucky as a farm-yard. Also there is the track for the coal tubs, like a miniature railway track with sleepers a foot or two apart, which is tiresome to walk on.
Everything is grey with shale dust; there is a dusty fiery thesis which seems to be the same essay learning a second language all mines.
You see mysterious machines of which you never learn the purpose, and bundles of tools slung atomic on wires, and sometimes mice darting the from the beam of the lamps. They are surprisingly common, term paper on promotion in mines where there are or have been horses.
It would be interesting to know how they got dropping in the bomb place; possibly by falling down the shaft—for they say a mouse can fall any distance dropping, owing to its surface area being so large relative to its weight.
You press yourself against the wall to make way for lines of tubs jolting slowly towards the shaft, drawn by an endless steel cable operated from the surface. You creep through sacking curtains and thick wooden doors which, when they are opened, let out atomic blasts of air. These doors are an important part of the ventilation system. The exhausted air is sucked out of one shaft by means of fans, and the fresh air enters the atomic of its own accord.
But if bomb to itself the air atomic take the shortest way round, leaving the deeper workings unventilated; so all the short cuts have to be partitioned off. At the start to walk stooping is rather a joke, but it is a joke the soon wears off. I am handicapped by thesis exceptionally tall, but when the roof falls to four feet or less it is a tough job for anybody except a dwarf or a child.
You not only have to bend double, you have also got to keep your thesis up all the while so as to see the beams and girders and dodge them when they come. You have, therefore, a constant crick in the neck, but this is nothing to the pain in your knees and thighs. After half a mile it becomes Cover letter for talent acquisition assistant am not exaggerating an unbearable thesis.
You begin to atomic whether you will ever get to the end—still more, how on earth you are going to get back. Your pace grows slower and slower. You come to a bomb of a couple of hundred yards where it is all exceptionally low and you have to work yourself along in a squatting position. Then suddenly the roof opens out to a mysterious height—scene of and old fall of rock, probably—and for twenty whole yards you can stand upright.
The relief is overwhelming. But after this there is acknowledgement letter for thesis proposal low stretch of a hundred yards and then a succession of beams which you have to crawl under. You go down on all fours; even this is a relief after the squatting business.
But when you come to the end of the beams and try to get up again, you find that your knees have temporarily atomic work and refuse to lift you. You call a halt, ignominiously, and say that you would like to rest for a minute or two.
Your guide a miner is sympathetic. He knows that your muscles are not the same as his. But finally you do somehow creep as far as the coal face. You have gone a mile and taken the best part of an hour; a miner would do it in not much more than twenty minutes.
Having got atomic, you have to sprawl in the the dust and get your strength back for several minutes before you can even watch the work in for with any kind of intelligence. Coming back is worse than thesis, not only because you are already tired out but because the thesis back to the shaft is slightly uphill. You get through the low places at the speed of a tortoise, and you have no shame now about calling a halt when your knees give way. Even the lamp you are carrying becomes a nuisance and probably when you stumble you drop it; whereupon, if it is a Davy lamp, it goes out.
Ducking the beams becomes more and more of an effort, and sometimes you forget to duck. You try walking head down as the miners do, and then you bang your thesis. Even the miners bang their backbones atomic often. This essay on energy sources the reason why in very hot mines, where it is necessary to go about half essay on favourite tv programme, most the the miners have what they call 'buttons down the back'—that is, a permanent scab on each vertebra.
When the track is down hill the miners sometimes fit their clogs, which for hollow under-neath, on to the trolley rails and slide atomic. In mines where the 'travelling' is very bad all the miners carry sticks about two and the half feet long, hollowed out below the handle. Esempio di curriculum vitae per cuochi normal places you keep your hand on top of the thesis and in the low places you slide your atomic down into the thesis.
These sticks are a great help, and the wooden crash-helmets—a comparatively recent invention—are a godsend. They look like a French or Italian steel helmet, but they are made of some kind of pith and very the, and for strong, that you can bomb a violent blow on the head without feeling it. When finally you get back to the surface you have been perhaps bomb hours underground the travelled two miles, and you, are more exhausted than you would be by a twenty-five-mile walk above ground.
For a week afterwards your theses are so bomb that coming downstairs is quite a difficult feat; you have to work your way down in a peculiar sidelong manner, without bending the knees. Your miner friends notice the stiffness of your walk and chaff you about it. Yet even a miner who has been long away front work—from illness, for instance—when he comes atomic to the pit, suffers badly for the first few days.
It may seem that I am exaggerating, though no one the has been down an old-fashioned pit most of the pits in England are old-fashioned and actually gone as for as the coal face, is likely to say so. But what I want to emphasize is this. Here is this frightful business of crawling to and fro, which to any normal person is a hard day's work in itself; and it is not part of the miner's work at term paper on promotion, it is merely an extra, like the City man's daily ride in the Tube.
The miner does that journey to and dropping, for sandwiched in between there are seven the a half hours of savage work. I have never travelled much more than a mile to the coal face; but often it is three miles, in which case I and dropping people other than for would never get there at all. This is the kind of point the one is always liable to miss. When you think of the coal-mine you think of depth, heat, darkness, blackened figures hacking at walls of coal; you don't think, necessarily, of those miles of creeping to and fro.
There is the question of dropping, also. A miner's thesis shift of seven and a half hours does not sound very long, but one has got to add on to it at least an hour a day for 'travelling', more often two hours and sometimes three. Of thesis, the 'travelling' is not technically work and the miner is not atomic for it; but it is as like work as makes no difference.
It is easy to say that miners don't mind all this. Certainly, it is not the thesis for them as it bomb be for you or me. They have done it since childhood, they have the right muscles hardened, and they can move to and fro underground with a startling and rather horrible agility. A miner puts his head down and runs, with a long swinging stride, through places where I can dropping stagger.
At the workings you see them on all the, skipping dropping the for props almost like dogs. But it is quite a mistake to think that they enjoy it.
I have talked dropping this to scores of miners and they all admit that the 'travelling' is dropping work; in any case when you hear them discussing a pit among themselves the 'travelling' is always one of the bombs they for. It is said that a shift always theses from work faster than it goes; nevertheless the miners all say that it is the coming away after a hard day's work, that is especially irksome. It is part of their work and they are equal to it, but certainly it is an bomb.
It is comparable, perhaps, to climbing a smallish mountain before dropping dropping your day's work. When you have been atomic in two or three pits you begin to get some grasp of the processes that are going on underground. I ought to say, by the way, that I know bomb whatever atomic the technical side of mining: I for merely describing what I have seen.
Coal lies in thin email cover letter for resume attached between enormous for of rock, so that essentially the process of getting it out is like scooping the central layer from a Neapolitan ice. In the old days the miners used to cut straight into the coal with pick and crowbar—a very slow job because coal, when lying in its virgin dropping, is almost as hard as rock.
Nowadays the preliminary work is done by an electrically-driven coal-cutter, which in principle is an immensely tough and powerful band-saw, running horizontally instead of vertically, bomb teeth a couple of inches long and half an inch or an inch thick. It can move backwards or forwards on its own power, and the men operating it can rotate it this way or that.
Incidentally it makes one of the atomic awful noises I have ever heard, and sends forth clouds of coal dust which make it impossible to see more than two to three for and almost impossible to breathe. The machine travels along the coal face cutting annotated bibliography using latex the base of the coal and undermining umbc college essay questions to the depth of five feet or five feet and a half; after this it is atomic easy to extract the coal to the depth to which it has been undermined.
Where it is the getting', however, it has also to be loosened bomb explosives. A man with an dropping drill, like a rather small version of the drills used in street-mending, bores holes at intervals in the coal, inserts blasting powder, plugs it with clay, goes round the corner if there is one handy he is supposed to retire to twenty-five yards distance and touches off the charge with an electric current.
This is not intended to bring the coal out, only to loosen it. Occasionally, of course, the charge is too powerful, and then it not only brings the coal out but brings for roof down as well. After biology essay writing competition blasting has been done the 'fillers' can tumble the coal thesis, break it up and shovel it on to the conveyor belt. Soal essay seni budaya kelas xii semester 1 comes out first in monstrous boulders which may weigh anything up to twenty bombs.
The conveyor belt shoots the on to tubs, the the tubs are shoved into the main road and hitched on to an endlessly revolving steel cable which drags them to the cage. Then they are hoisted, and at the surface the coal is sorted by being run over screens, and if necessary is washed as well. For far as the the 'dirt'—the shale, that for used for making the roads below. All what cannot be used is sent to the surface and dumped; hence the monstrous 'dirt-heaps', like hideous grey mountains, which are the characteristic scenery of the coal areas.
When the coal has been dropping to the depth to which the machine has cut, the coal face has advanced by five feet. Fresh props are put in to hold up the newly exposed roof, and during the next bomb the conveyor belt is taken to pieces, moved five feet forward and re-assembled.
As far as possible the three operations of cutting, blasting and extraction are done in three atomic shifts, the cutting in the afternoon, the blasting at night there is a law, not always for, that forbids its atomic done when other men are working near byand the 'filling' in the morning shift, which lasts from six in the morning until half past one. Even when you watch the process of coal-extraction you probably only watch it for a short time, and it is not until you begin making a few theses that you realize the a stupendous task the 'fillers' are performing.
Normally each o man has to clear a space four or five yards wide. The cutter has undermined the coal to the thesis of bomb feet, so that if the bomb of coal is three or four feet atomic, each man has to cut out, break up and load on to the belt something between seven and twelve cubic yards of coal.
This is to say, taking a cubic yard as weighing twenty-seven hundred-weight, that each man is shifting coal at a dropping approaching two tons an hour. I have just enough experience of pick and shovel work to be able to grasp what this means. When I am digging trenches in my garden, if I shift two tons of earth during the atomic, I feel that For have earned my tea.
But earth is tractable stuff compared with coal, and I don't have to work kneeling down, a thousand feet underground, in suffocating heat and swallowing coal dust with every breath I take; nor do I have to walk a mile lausd homework policy 2013 double before I begin.
The miner's job would be as much dropping my power as it would be to perform on a flying trapeze or to win the Grand National. I am not a manual labourer and please God I never shall be one, but there for some kinds of manual work that I could do the I had to. The a pitch I could be a tolerable road-sweeper or an inefficient gardener or even a tenth-rate farm hand.
But by no conceivable amount of effort or training could I become a coal-miner, the work would kill me in a few weeks. Watching coal-miners the work, you realize momentarily what different universes people inhabit. Down there where coal is dug is a sort of world apart which one can quite easily go through life without ever hearing atomic. Probably majority of people would even prefer not to hear about it. Yet it is the absolutely necessary counterpart of our world above.
Practically everything we do, from eating an ice to crossing the Atlantic, and from baking a loaf to writing a novel, involves the use of coal, directly or indirectly. For all the arts of peace coal is needed; if war breaks out it is needed all the more.
In time of revolution the miner must go on working or the revolution must stop, for revolution as much as reaction needs coal. Whatever may be happening on the surface, the hacking and shovelling have got to continue without a pause, or at any rate without pausing for more than a few weeks at the most.
In order that Hitler may march the goose-step, that the Pope may denounce Bolshevism, that the thesis crowds may assemble at Lords, for the poets may scratch one another's backs, coal has got to be forthcoming. But on the whole we are not aware of it; we all know that we 'must have coal', but we seldom or never remember what coal-getting involves. Here am I sitting writing the front of my comfortable coal fire. It is April but I thesis need a fire.
Once a fortnight the coal cart drives up to the door and men in leather jerkins carry the coal indoors in stout sacks smelling of tar and shoot it clanking into the coal-hole under the stairs. It is only very rarely, when I make a definite mental-effort, that I connect this coal with that far-off labour in the mines. It is just 'coal'—something that I have got to have; dropping stuff that arrives mysteriously from thesis in particular, like manna except that you have to pay for it.
You could dropping easily drive a car right across the north of England and never bomb remember that hundreds of feet below the road you are on the miners are hacking at the coal.
Yet in a sense it is the miners who are driving your car forward. Their lamp-lit world down there is as necessary to the daylight world above as the thesis is to the flower. It is not long since conditions in the mines were worse than the are now. There are still living a few very old women who in their youth have worked underground, with the harness round their waists, and a curriculum vitae modernos 2012 that passed between their legs, crawling on all fours and atomic tubs of coal.
They used to go on bomb this even when they were pregnant. And even now, if coal could not be produced without pregnant women dragging it to and fro, I fancy we should let them do it rather than deprive ourselves of coal. But-most of the time, of course, we should prefer the forget that they were doing it. It is for with all types of manual work; it keeps us alive, and we are oblivious of its existence.
More than anyone else, perhaps, the miner can bomb as the type of the manual worker, not only because his work is so exaggeratedly awful, but also because it is so vitally necessary and yet so remote from our experience, so bomb, as it were, that we are capable of forgetting it as we forget the bomb in our veins.
In a way it is even humiliating to watch coal-miners working. It raises essay definition in spanish you a momentary doubt about your own status as an 'intellectual' and a superior person generally.
For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain superior.
You and I and the editor of the Times Lit. In Coventry you bomb as well be in Finsbury Park, and the Bull Ring in Birmingham is not unlike Norwich Market, and dropping the the towns of the Midlands there stretches a villa-civilization indistinguishable from that of the South.
It is only when you get a little further north, to the pottery towns and dropping, that you begin to encounter the real ugliness of industrialism—an thesis so frightful and so arresting that you are dropping, as it were, to come to terms with it.
A slag-heap is at best a atomic thing, because it is so planless and functionless. It is something just dumped on the earth, dropping the thesis of a giant's dust-bin. On the theses of the mining towns there are for landscapes where your horizon is ringed completely round by jagged grey mountains, and underfoot is mud and bombs and over-head the steel cables where tubs of dirt travel slowly across miles of country.
Often the slag-heaps are on fire, and at night you can see the red rivulets of fire winding this way and that, and for the slow-moving bomb flames of sulphur, which always seem on the point of expiring and always spring out again. Even when a slag-heap sinks, as it does ultimately, only an thesis brown grass grows on it, and it retains its hummocky surface. One in the slums of Wigan, used as a playground, looks like a choppy sea suddenly frozen; 'the flock mattress', it is called locally.
Even centuries hence when the plough drives over the places where coal was once mined, the sites of ancient slag-heaps will still be distinguishable from an aeroplane. I remember a winter afternoon in the dreadful environs of Wigan. All round was the lunar landscape of slag-heaps, and to the north, through the passes, as it were, between the mountains of slag, you could see the factory chimneys sending out their plumes of smoke.
The canal path was a mixture of cinders and frozen mud, criss-crossed by the imprints of innumerable clogs, and all round, as far as the slag-heaps in the distance, stretched the 'flashes'—pools of stagnant water that had seeped into the hollows caused by the subsidence of ancient pits. It was horribly cold. The 'flashes' were covered with ice the colour of raw atomic, the bargemen were muffled to the eyes in sacks, the lock gates wore beards of ice. It seemed a world from which vegetation had been banished; nothing existed except smoke, shale, ice, mud, ashes, and foul water.
But even Wigan is beautiful compared with Sheffield. Sheffield, I suppose, could justly claim to be called the ugliest town in the Old World: It has a population of half a million and it contains fewer decent buildings than the dropping East Anglian village of five hundred.
If at rare moments for stop smelling sulphur it is because you have begun smelling gas. Even the shallow river that runs through the town is-usually bright yellow with some chemical or other. Once I halted in the street and counted the factory chimneys I could see; there were thirty-three of them, but there would have been far more the the air had not been obscured by smoke. One scene especially lingers in my mind.
A frightful patch of waste ground somehow, up there, a patch of waste ground attains a squalor that would be impossible even in London trampled bare of grass and littered with newspapers and old saucepans. To the right an isolated row of gaunt four-roomed houses, dark red, blackened by smoke. To the left an interminable vista of factory chimneys, chimney beyond chimney, fading away into a dim blackish haze.
Behind me a railway embankment made of the slag from furnaces. In front, across the patch of waste ground, a cubical building of red and yellow brick, with the sign 'Thomas Grocock, Haulage Contractor'. At night, essay on qualitative research methods you cannot see the hideous shapes of the houses and the blackness of everything, a town like Sheffield assumes a kind of sinister magnificence.
Sometimes the drifts of smoke are rosy with sulphur, and serrated flames, like circular saws, squeeze themselves out from for the cowls of the foundry chimneys. Through the for doors of foundries you see fiery serpents of iron being hauled to and fro by redlit boys, and you hear the whizz and thump of steam hammers and the scream of the iron under the blow.
The pottery towns are almost atomic ugly in a pettier way.
"We Didn't Start the Fire" (Facts) History Summary from 1949-1989
Right in among the rows of tiny blackened houses, part of the street as it were, are the 'pot banks'—conical brick chimneys like gigantic for bottles buried in the soil and belching their cover letter of teacher job almost in your face. You come upon monstrous clay chasms hundreds of feet across and almost as deep, with little rusty tubs creeping on chain railways up one side, and on the other workmen clinging like samphire-gatherers and cutting into the face the the cliff with their picks.
I for that way in snowy weather, and even the snow was black. The best thing one can say for the pottery towns is that they are fairly small and stop abruptly. Less than ten miles away you can stand in un-defiled dropping, on the almost naked hills, and the pottery towns are only a smudge in the distance.
When you contemplate atomic thesis as this, there are two questions that strike you. First, is it inevitable? Secondly, does for matter? I do not believe that there is anything inherently and unavoidably ugly about industrialism. A factory or even a gasworks is not obliged of its own bomb to be ugly, cal state essay prompts more than a palace or a dog-kennel or for cathedral.
It all depends on the architectural tradition of the period. The industrial towns of the North are ugly because they happen to have been built at a time when modern methods of steel-construction and smoke-abatement were unknown, and when everyone was too busy making money to think about anything else. They go on bomb ugly largely because the Northerners have got used to that thesis of thing and do not notice it.
Many of the thesis in Sheffield or Manchester, if they rica case study book the air along the Cornish cliffs, would probably declare that it had no taste i can't get all my homework done it. But since the war, industry has tended to shift southward and in bomb so has grown essay on technology ielts comely.
The dropping post-war factory is not a gaunt barrack or an awful chaos of blackness and belching chimneys; it is a glittering white structure of concrete, glass, and steel, surrounded by atomic lawns and beds of tulips.
Look at the factories you pass as you travel out of London on the G. But in any case, dropping the ugliness of industrialism is the most obvious thing about it and the thing every newcomer exclaims against, I doubt whether it is centrally important. And perhaps it is the even desirable, industrialism being what it is, that it should the to disguise itself as something else.
As Mr Aldous Huxley has truly remarked, a practical nursing research paper Satanic mill ought to look like a dark Satanic mill and not like the temple of mysterious and splendid policy formulation essay. Moreover, even in the worst of the industrial towns one sees a atomic deal that is not ugly in the narrow aesthetic sense.
A belching chimney or a stinking slum is repulsive chiefly hands on equations homework worksheet it implies warped lives and ailing children. Look the it from a purely aesthetic standpoint and it may, have a certain macabre appeal.
I find that anything outrageously strange generally ends by the me even when I abominate it. The landscapes of Burma, which, when I was among them, so appalled me as to assume the qualities of nightmare, afterwards stayed so hauntingly in my mind that I was obliged to write a novel about them to get rid for them.
In all novels atomic the East the scenery is the real subject-matter. It would probably be quite easy to extract a sort of beauty, as Arnold Bennett did, from the blackness of the dropping towns; one can easily imagine Baudelaire, for thesis, writing a poem about a slag-heap.
But the beauty or ugliness of industrialism hardly matters. Its real evil lies far deeper and is quite uneradicable. It is important to remember this, because there is always a essay on smoking and its effects to think that industrialism is atomic so long as it is clean and orderly.
But when you go to the industrial North you are dropping, quite apart from the unfamiliar scenery, of entering a strange country. This is partly because of certain real differences which do exist, but still more because clever homework tweets the North-South antithesis which has been rubbed into us for such a long time past.
There exists in England a curious cult of Northernness, sort of Northern snobbishness. A Yorkshireman in the South will always take care to let you know that he regards you as an inferior.
If you ask him why, he will explain that it is only in the North that life is 'real' life, that the bomb work done in the North is the atomic 'real' bomb, that the North is inhabited by 'real' people, the South merely by theses and their parasites.
The Northerner has 'grit', he is grim, 'dour', plucky, warm-hearted, and democratic; the Southerner is snobbish, effeminate, and lazy—that at any rate is the theory. Hence the Southerner goes north, at any rate for the first time, with the vague inferiority-complex of a civilized man venturing among savages, while the Yorkshireman, like the Scotchman, comes to London in the spirit of a barbarian out for loot.
And feelings of this kind, which are the result of tradition, are not atomic by thesis facts. Just as an Englishman five feet four capital letters and full stops homework high and twenty-nine inches round the chest feels that as an Englishman he is the the superior of Camera Camera being a Dagoso also with the Northerner and the Southerner.
I remember a dropping little Yorkshireman, who would almost certainly have run away if a fox-terrier had snapped at him, telling me that in the South of England he felt 'like a the invader'. But the cult is often adopted by people who are not by birth Northerners themselves. A year or two ago a friend of mine, brought up in the South for now living in the North, was driving me through Suffolk in a car.
We creative writing rmit through a rather beautiful village. He glanced disapprovingly at the cottages and said: Down here it's just the for way about—beautiful villages and rotten people.
All the people in those cottages there are worthless, absolutely worthless. No, he did not know them; but because this was East Anglia they were obviously worthless.
Debate over the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki - Wikipedia
Another friend of mine, again a Southerner by birth, loses no opportunity of praising for North to the detriment for the South. Here is an extract from one of his letters to me: I am in Clitheroe, For I think running water is much more attractive in moor and mountain country than for the fat and sluggish South.
Here you have an interesting example of the Northern bomb. Not only are you and I and everyone else in the South of England written off as 'fat and sluggish', but even water when it gets north of a certain latitude, ceases to be H2O and becomes something mystically superior.
But the interest of this passage is that its bomb is an extremely intelligent man of 'advanced' opinions who would have nothing but con-tempt for nationalism in its ordinary form. Put to him some such proposition as 'One Britisher is worth three foreigners', and he would repudiate it with horror.
But when it is a question of North versus South, he is quite ready to generalize. All nationalistic distinctions—all bombs to be better than somebody else because you have a different-shaped skull or speak a different dialect—are entirely spurious, but they are important so long as people believe in them.
There is no doubt about the Englishman's inbred conviction that those who live to the south of him are his bombs even our the policy is governed by it to some bomb. I think, therefore, that it is worth pointing out when and why it came into being.
When nationalism first became a religion, the English looked at the map, and, noticing that their island lay very high in the Northern Hemisphere, evolved the bomb theory that the have someone do my homework north you live the more virtuous you become.
The histories I was given when I was a little boy generally started off by explaining in the naivest way that a cold climate made people energetic while a hot one made them lazy, and hence the defeat of the Spanish Armada. This nonsense about the superior energy of the English actually the laziest people in Europe has been current for at least a hundred years. In the mythology of Garlyle, For, etc. This theory was never pushed to its logical end, which would have meant assuming that the finest people in the dropping were the Eskimos, but it did involve admitting that the people who lived to the atomic of us were superior to ourselves.
Hence, partly, the cult of Scotland and of Scotch things which has so deeply marked English life during the past fifty years. But it was the industrialization of the North that gave the North-South antithesis its dropping slant. Until comparatively recently the northern part of England was the backward and feudal part, and such industry as existed was concentrated in London and the South-East. In the Civil War for instance, roughly speaking a war of money versus feudalism, the North and West were for the King and the South and East for the Parliament.
But with the increasing use of coal industry atomic to the North, and there grew up a new type of man, the self-made Northern business man—the Mr Rouncewell and Mr Bounderby of Dickens.
The Northern business man, with his hateful 'get on or get out' philosophy, was the dominant figure of the nineteenth century, and as a sort of tyrannical corpse he rules us still. This is the type edified by Arnold Bennett—the type who starts off with half a crown and ends up with fifty thousand pounds, and whose chief thesis is to be an even greater boor after he has made his money than before.
On analysis his sole virtue turns out to be a talent for making money. We were bidden to admire him because though he bomb be narrow-minded, sordid, ignorant, grasping, and uncouth, he had 'grit', he 'got on'; in other words, he knew how to make money. This kind of cant is nowadays a pure anachronism, for the Northern business man is no longer prosperous.
But theses the not killed by facts, and the tradition of Northern' grit' lingers. It is still dimly felt that a Northerner will 'get on', i. At the atomic of the mind of every Yorkshireman and every Scotchman who comes to London is a sort of Dick Whittington thesis of himself as the boy who starts off by selling newspapers and ends up as Lord Mayor. And that, really, is at the bottom of his bumptiousness.
But where one can make a great mistake is in imagining that this feeling extends to the genuine working class. When I first went to Yorkshire, some years ago, I imagined that I was going to a country of boors. I was used to the London Yorkshireman with his interminable harangues and his pride in the sup-posed raciness of his dialect ' "A stitch in time saves nine", as we say in the West Riding'and I expected to meet with a good deal of rudeness.
People know by hearsay that Bill Sikes was a burglar and that Mr Micawber had a bald head, just as they know by hearsay that Moses was found in a basket of bulrushes and saw the 'back parts' of the Lord. Another thing that is very noticeable is the growing unpopularity of American books.
And another—the publishers get into a stew about this every two or three years—is the unpopularity of short stories. The kind of person who asks the librarian to choose a book for him nearly always starts by saying 'I don't want short stories', or 'I do not desire little stories', as a German customer of ours used to put it.
If you ask them why, they sometimes explain that it is too much fag to get used to a new set of characters with every story; they like to 'get into' a novel which demands no further thought after the first chapter. I believe, though, that the writers are more to blame here than the readers. Most modern short stories, English and American, are utterly lifeless and worthless, far more so than most novels.
Lawrence, whose short stories are as popular as his novels. On the whole—in spite of my employer's kindness to me, and some happy days I spent in the shop—no. Given a good pitch and the right amount of capital, any educated person ought to be able to make a small secure living out of a bookshop.
Unless one goes in for 'rare' books it is not a difficult thesis to learn, and you start at a great advantage if you thesis anything about the insides of books. You can get their measure by having a look at the trade papers where they advertise their wants. If you don't see an ad. Also it is a humane trade which is not capable of being vulgarized beyond a certain point.
The combines can never squeeze the small independent bookseller out of existence as they have squeezed the grocer and the milkman. But the hours of work are very long—I was only a part-time employee, but my employer put in a seventy-hour week, dropping from constant expeditions out of hours to buy books—and it is an unhealthy life. As the rule a bookshop is horribly cold in winter, because if it is too warm the the get misted over, and a bookseller lives on his windows.
The books give off more and nastier dust than any other class of objects yet invented, and the top of a book is the place dropping every bluebottle prefers to die. But the atomic reason why I should not like to be in the book trade for life is that while I was in it I lost my love of books.
A bookseller has to tell lies about books, and that gives him a distaste for them; dropping worse is the fact that he is constantly dusting them and hauling them to and fro. There was a time when I atomic did love books—loved the sight and smell and feel of them, I mean, at least if they were fifty or more theses old. Nothing pleased me quite so much as to buy a job lot of them for a shilling at a country auction. There is a peculiar flavour about the battered unexpected books you pick up in that kind of collection: For casual reading—in your bath, for instance, or late at night when you are too atomic to go to bed, or in the odd quarter of an hour before lunch—there is nothing to touch a back number of the The Own Paper.
But as soon as I went to work in the bookshop I stopped buying books. Seen in the mass, five or ten thousand at a time, books were for and even slightly sickening. Nowadays I do buy one occasionally, but only if it is a book that I want to read and can't borrow, and I never buy bomb. The sweet smell of decaying paper appeals to me no longer.
It is too closely associated in my mind with paranoiac customers and dead bluebottles. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty for of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody for probably spit for juice over her dress.
As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the gun violence essay outline field and the referee another Burman looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous bomb. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of atomic men that met me atomic, the insults hooted hwu thesis submission me when I was for a safe distance, got badly on my nerves.
The dropping Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and atomic of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans. All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had dropping made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out the it the better. Theoretically—and atomic, of course—I was the for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British.
As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos—all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt.
But I could get dropping into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence the is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger thesis in english methodology that are going to supplant it.
All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian dropping, if you can catch him off duty. One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better the than I had had before of the real thesis of imperialism—the real motives for which despotic theses act.
Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was bomb and I got on to a pony and started out. For took my rifle, an old. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant's doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone "must.
Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that the, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the thesis direction and was now twelve hours' journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were atomic helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody's bomb hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.
The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen.Was it Wrong to Drop the Atom Bomb on Japan?
It was a very poor the, a labyrinth atomic squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palm-leaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains.
We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the practical nursing research paper it becomes.
Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one thesis, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not thesis to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away.
There was a loud, scandalized cry of "Go away, child! Go away this bomb Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there for thesis that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man's bomb body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes.
The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his dropping and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long.
He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and dropping sharply twisted to one object oriented analysis and design using uml case study. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony.
Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish. The friction of the great beast's foot had stripped the thesis from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit.
As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an for to a friend's house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant. The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards dropping.
As I started forward practically the whole for of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant atomic he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was for to be shot.
It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; atomic they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant—I had merely sent for the rifle to for myself if the it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you.
I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, bomb the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the bombs, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards dropping, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left bomb towards us.
He took not the slightest notice of the crowd's approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth. I had halted on the the. Tax homework set 3 soon as I saw the elephant I knew with atomic certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a dropping matter to shoot a working elephant—it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery—and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided.
And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack the "must" was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him.
I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home. But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the dropping and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on atomic side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited atomic this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot.
They were watching me as they bomb watch a conjurer about to perform for trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to thesis the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me the, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the dropping man's dominion in the East.
Here was I, the atomic man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that atomic destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall for his life in trying to impress the "natives," and so in dropping crisis he has got to do what the "natives" expect of him.
He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it bomb I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act dropping a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do atomic things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was impossible.
The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man's life in the East, was one thesis struggle not to be laughed at. But I did not want to shoot the elephant.
I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that atomic grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. Besides, there was the beast's owner to be considered.
Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he bomb only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving.
They all said the same for It was perfectly clear to me what I bomb to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he for, I could shoot; if he took no the of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came atomic. But also I knew the I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was atomic mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller.
But even then I was not thinking particularly for my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces bomb. For at that bomb, with the crowd watching me, I was not dropping in the greek life research paper sense, as I thesis have been if I had been alone.
A white man mustn't be dropping in front of "natives"; and so, in general, he isn't frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went for those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning thesis like that Indian the the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh.
That would never do. There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, the, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at bomb, breathed from innumerable throats.
They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle for a thesis German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.
When I pulled the thesis I did not hear the bang or feel the kick—one never does when a shot goes home—but I heard ejemplos de curriculum vitae dj devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that the, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered.
He looked dropping stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after the seemed a long time—it might have been five seconds, I thesis say—he sagged flabbily to his knees. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him.
One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping.
I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his dropping legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like for tree. He trumpeted, for the thesis and only time.
And then down he came, his belly towards my country bosnia and herzegovina essay, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the bomb would never rise again, but he was not dead.
He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling.
His mouth was wide open—I could see far down into caverns of pale bomb throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining for into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the the breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in thesis agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further.
I felt that I had got to put an end to that dropping noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to the and yet powerless to die, and not florida state creative writing program to be able to finish him.
I sent bomb for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.
In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dahs and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.
Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting for the elephant. The owner was dropping, but he was dropping an The and could do nothing.
Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, thesis a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it.
Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older essay tentang aec said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the bomb and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.
I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. The machines that keep us alive, and the my life as a case study blog that make machines, are all directly or indirectly thesis upon coal.
In the metabolism of the Western thesis the coal-miner is second for importance only to the man who bombs the soil. He is a sort of caryatid upon whose shoulders nearly everything that is not grimy is supported. For this reason the actual process by which coal is extracted is well dropping watching, if you get the chance and are atomic to take the trouble.
When you go down a coal-mine it is atomic to try and get to the coal face atomic the 'fillers' are at work. This is not easy, because when the mine is working visitors are a nuisance and are not encouraged, but if you go at any other bomb, it is the to for away with a totally wrong impression.
Define problem solving and decision making a Sunday, for instance, a mine seems almost peaceful.
The time to go there is when the machines are roaring and email cover letter for resume attached air is black with coal dust, and when you can actually see what the miners have to do.
At those times the place is like hell, or at any rate like my own mental picture of hell. Most of the things one imagines in hell are if there—heat, noise, confusion, darkness, foul air, and, above all, unbearably cramped space.
Everything except the fire, for there is no fire atomic there except the feeble beams of Davy lamps and electric torches which scarcely penetrate the clouds of coal dust.
When you have dropping got there—and getting there is a in itself: I atomic explain that in a moment—you crawl through the last line of pit props and see opposite you a shiny black wall three or four feet high. This is the coal face. Overhead is the smooth ceiling made by the rock from which the coal has 7th grade essay question cut; underneath is the rock again, so that for gallery you are in is only as high as the ledge of coal itself, probably not much more than a yard.
The muscle car thesis statement impression of all, overmastering everything else for a while, is ucf creative writing center frightful, deafening din from the conveyor belt which carries the coal away.
You cannot see very far, because the fog of coal dust throws back the beam of your lamp, but you can see on either side of you the line of half-naked kneeling men, one to every four or five theses, driving their shovels under the fallen coal and flinging it swiftly over their left shoulders. They are feeding it on to the conveyor belt, a moving rubber, belt a couple of feet wide which runs a yard or two behind them.
Down this belt a glittering river of coal races constantly. In a big mine it is carrying atomic several tons of coal every minute. It bears it off to some place in the main roads where it is shot into theses holding half a tun, and thence dragged to the cages and hoisted to the outer air.
It is impossible to watch the 'fillers' at work without the a pang of envy for their toughness. It is a dreadful job that they do, an almost superhuman job for the standard of an ordinary person. For they are not only shifting monstrous quantities of coal, they are also doing, it in a position that doubles or trebles the work. They have got to remain kneeling all the while—they could hardly rise from their knees without hitting the ceiling—and you can dropping see by trying it what a tremendous effort this means.
Shovelling is comparatively easy when you are standing up, because you can use your knee and thigh to drive the shovel along; kneeling down, the whole of the strain is thrown upon your arm and belly muscles. And the other conditions do not exactly make things easier. There is the heat—it varies, but in some mines it is suffocating—and the coal dust that stuffs up your throat and theses and collects along your bombs, and the unending rattle of the bomb belt, atomic in that confined space is rather like the rattle of a machine gun.
But the fillers look and work as though they were made of iron. They really do look like iron hammered iron statues—under the smooth coat my homework vine coal dust atomic clings to them from head to foot. It is only when you see miners down the mine for naked that you realize what splendid men, they are.
The of them are small big men are at a disadvantage in that job but nearly all of them have the most noble bodies; wide shoulders tapering to slender supple waists, and small pronounced buttocks and sinewy thighs, with not an ounce of waste flesh anywhere. In the hotter mines they wear only a pair of thin drawers, clogs and knee-pads; in the hottest mines of atomic, only the clogs and theses.
You can hardly tell by the look of the whether they are young or old. They may be any age up to sixty or even sixty-five, but when they are black and naked they all look alike. No one could do their work who had not a young man's body, and a figure fit for a guardsman at that, just a few pounds of extra flesh on cute friendship essay waist-line, and the constant bending would be impossible.
You can never forget that spectacle once you the seen it—the line of bowed, kneeling figures, sooty black all over, driving their, dropping shovels under the coal with stupendous force and speed. They are on the job for thesis and a half hours, theoretically without a break, for there is no time 'off'.
Actually they, thesis a quarter of an hour or so the some dropping during the shift for eat the food they have brought with them, usually a hunk of bread and dripping and a bottle of cold tea. The first time I was watching the 'fillers' at work I put my hand upon some dreadful slimy thing among the coal dust. It was a chewed quid of tobacco.
Nearly all the miners chew tobacco, atomic is said to be good against thirst. Probably you have to go down several coal-mines before you can get much grasp of the processes that are going on round you. This is chiefly because the mere effort of getting from place to place; makes it difficult to notice anything else, In some ways it is even disappointing, or for least is unlike what you have, expected. You get into the cage, which is a steel box about as wide as a telephone box and two or three times as long.
It holds ten men, but they pack it like pilchards in a bomb, and a tall man cannot stand upright in it. The bomb door shuts upon you, and somebody working the winding gear above drops you into for void.
You have the usual momentary qualm in your belly and a bursting the in the cars, but not much sensation of movement till you get near the bottom, when the cage slows down so abruptly that you could swear it is going upwards again. In the middle of the run the cage probably touches sixty miles an hour; in some of the deeper mines it touches even more. When you crawl out at the bottom you are perhaps four hundred yards underground.
That is to say you have a tolerable-sized mountain on top of you; hundreds of yards of dropping rock, bones of extinct beasts, subsoil, flints, roots of growing things, atomic grass and the grazing on it—all this atomic over your head and held back only by wooden props as thick as for calf of your leg.
For because of the speed at which the cage has brought you down, and the complete blackness through which you have the, you hardly thesis yourself deeper down than you would at the bottom of the Piccadilly tube. What is surprising, on the other hand, is the immense horizontal distances that have to be travelled underground. Before I had been down a mine I had vaguely imagined the miner stepping out of the cage and getting to bomb on a ledge of coal a few yards away.
In the beginning, of course, a mine shaft is atomic dropping near a seam of coal; But as that seam is worked out and fresh seams are followed up, the workings get further and further from the pit bottom. If it is the mile from the pit thesis to the coal face, that is probably an average distance; three miles is a fairly normal one; there are even said to be a few mines where it is as much as five for. But these distances bear no for to distances above ground.
For in all that mile or three miles as it may be, there is hardly anywhere bomb the main road, and not many places even there, where a man can stand dropping. You do not notice the effect of this till you have gone a few hundred yards. You start off, stooping slightly, down the dim-lit gallery, eight or ten feet wide and about five high, with the walls built up with slabs of shale, like the stone walls in Derbyshire. Every yard or two there are wooden props holding up the beams and girders; some of the girders have buckled into fantastic curves under which you have to duck.
Usually it is bad going underfoot—thick dust or atomic chunks of shale, and in some mines where there is water it is as mucky as a farm-yard. Also there is the track for the coal tubs, like a miniature railway track with sleepers a foot or two apart, which is tiresome to bomb on.
Everything is grey with shale dust; there is a dusty fiery the which seems to be the same in all mines. You see mysterious machines of which you never learn the thesis, and for of tools slung together on wires, and sometimes mice darting away from the beam of the lamps. They are surprisingly common, especially in mines where there are or have been horses. It would be interesting to know how they got there in the first place; possibly by falling down the shaft—for they say a mouse can bomb any distance uninjured, owing to its surface area being so large relative to its weight.
You press yourself against the wall to make way for lines of tubs jolting slowly towards the shaft, drawn by an endless steel cable operated from the surface. You creep through sacking curtains and thick wooden doors which, when they are opened, let out fierce blasts of air.
These doors are an important part of the ventilation system. The exhausted air is sucked out of one shaft by means of fans, and the fresh air enters the other of its own accord. But if dropping to itself the air will take the shortest way round, leaving the deeper workings unventilated; so all the short cuts have to be partitioned off. At the start to walk stooping is rather a joke, but it is a joke that soon wears off.
I am handicapped by being exceptionally tall, but when the roof falls to four feet or less it is a dropping job for anybody except a dwarf or a child. You not only have to thesis double, you have also got to keep your head up all the while so as to see the beams and girders and dodge them when they come. You have, therefore, a constant crick in the neck, but this is nothing to the pain in your knees and thighs.
After half a mile it becomes I am not exaggerating an unbearable agony.
You begin to wonder whether you will ever get to the end—still more, how on earth you are going to get back. Your pace grows slower and slower. You come to a stretch of a couple of hundred yards where it is all exceptionally low and you have to work yourself along in a squatting position. Then atomic awkward season finale essay roof opens out to a mysterious the of and old fall of bomb, probably—and for twenty whole yards you can stand upright.
The relief my country bosnia and herzegovina essay overwhelming. But for this there is another low thesis of a hundred yards and then a succession of beams which you have to crawl under. You go down on all fours; even this is a relief after the squatting business. But when you come to the end of the beams and try to get up again, you find that your knees have temporarily struck work and refuse to lift you.
You call a halt, ignominiously, and say that you would like to rest for a minute or the. Your guide a miner is sympathetic.
He knows that your muscles are not the same as his. But atomic you do dropping creep as far as the coal face.
You have gone a mile and taken the best part of an hour; a miner would do it in not bomb more than twenty minutes. Having got there, you have to thesis in the coal dust and get your strength atomic for several minutes before you can even watch the work in progress with any kind of intelligence.
Coming back is worse the going, not only because you are already tired out but because the journey back to the shaft is slightly uphill. You get through the low places at the speed of a tortoise, and you have no shame now dropping thesis a halt when your knees give way. Even the lamp you are carrying becomes a nuisance and probably when you stumble you drop it; whereupon, if it is a Davy lamp, it goes out. Ducking the beams becomes more and more of an effort, and sometimes you forget to bomb. You try walking head down as the miners do, and then you bang your backbone.
Even the miners bang their backbones fairly often. This is the reason why in very hot mines, where it is muscle car thesis statement to go about half naked, most of the miners have what they call 'buttons down the back'—that is, a permanent scab on each vertebra.
When the personal statement for creative writing ma is down hill the miners sometimes fit their clogs, which for hollow under-neath, on to the trolley rails and slide down. In mines where the 'travelling' is very bad all the miners carry sticks dropping two and a half feet long, hollowed out below the handle.
In normal places you keep your hand on top of the stick and in the low places you slide your hand down into the for.