I had a conversation, recently, with a man who has for the last seven or eight years acted as a kind of leader in a brick-field. During all this time he has been a “teetotaller;” and though his work has been as hard as that of any man in the field, and sometimes even harder, he is in perfectly good health, and what is still more unusual, retains the full possession of his intellectual faculties. I say, unusual; for in most cases when this hard work is accompanied with hard drinking, the brickmaker does actually very nearly realise the old woman’s complimentary description of, “He has no more sense than the clay he works on.” His life thus literally resembles that of the brute: every bone, muscle, and sinew is exerted to its utmost extent. The only change from work is eating, drinking, and sleeping; and when this has gone on for several years, all intellectual power seems extinct. The man to whom I have just referred has for some years past rented a house near the Potteries, for which he pays seven shillings per week. The eldest girl, now fourteen years old, has been in a place for the last four years, and is so fond of it, (the father tells me,) that when she comes home for a holiday, nothing can induce her to stay a minute beyond the time appointed for her return. “I got a holiday,” said he, “last autumn, and I took my wife and children to the Crystal Palace. We had a beautiful day there, and see’d enough in that little time to give us something to talk about ever since. The only trouble we had was, my girl was in a kind of a fidget, for fear she shouldn’t get back to her place in time.” I asked this man a great many questions about his mode of life. He said:—