To the southwest of Pittsburgh there lie boundless beds of a peculiar soft coal, in strata eleven feet thick, easily mined, and slowly baked in great ovens, is the Connellsville coke of commerce, ninety per cent. carbon—a fuel that finds its way to the blast-furnaces of Lake Champlain, on the east, and to the smelting furnaces of Utah and Colorado on the west. Five thousand coke ovens to-day send their pernicious fumes heavenward, and the nocturnal appearance of a range of coke ovens in full blast so nearly embodies the orthodox idea of Satanic scenery that unregenerate Pittsburghers have comparatively few surprises in store after this life.

Before quitting the realms of coal and coke and their river transportation, it might be mentioned that to be considered a coal king, from a Pittsburgh standpoint, one must have at least a million dollars invested in lands and pits, and boats and landings, and mules and what not. One Pittsburgh firm there is with $6,000,000 so invested, another with $4,000,000, half