Twenty of these melancholy old mills were in operation.  Twenty heartbroken old horses, rigged out deplorably in cast-off old cart harness, incessantly tugged at twenty great shaggy beams; while from twenty half-burst old barrels, twenty wads of mud, with a lava-like course, gouged out into twenty old troughs, to be slapped by twenty tattered men into the twenty-times-twenty battered old trays.

Ere entering his pit for the first, Israel had been struck by the dismally devil-may-care gestures of the moulders.  But hardly had he himself been a moulder three days, when his previous sedateness of concern at his unfortunate lot, began to conform to the reckless sort of half jolly despair expressed by the others.  The truth indeed was, that this continual, violent, helter-skelter slapping of the dough into the moulds, begat a corresponding disposition in the moulder, who, by heedlessly slapping that sad dough, as stuff of little worth, was thereby taught, in his meditations, to slap, with similar heedlessness, his own sadder fortunes, as of still less vital consideration.  To these muddy philosophers, men and bricks were equally of clay.  “What signifies who we be—­dukes or ditchers?” thought the moulders; “all is vanity and clay.”

So slap, slap, slap, care-free and negligent, with bitter unconcern, these dismal desperadoes flapped down the dough.  If this recklessness were vicious of them, be it so; but their vice was like that weed which but grows on barren ground; enrich the soil, and it disappears.

For thirteen weary weeks, lorded over by the taskmaster, Israel toiled in his pit.  Though this condemned him to a sort of earthy dungeon, or gravedigger’s hole, while he worked, yet even when liberated to his meals, naught of a cheery nature greeted him.  The yard was encamped, with all its endless rows of tented sheds, and kilns, and mills, upon a wild waste moor, belted round by bogs and fens.  The blank horizon, like a rope, coiled round the whole.

Sometimes the air was harsh and bleak; the ridged and mottled sky looked scourged, or cramping fogs set in from sea, for leagues around, ferreting out each rheumatic human bone, and racking it; the sciatic limpers shivered; their aguish rags sponged up the mists.  No shelter, though it hailed.  The sheds were for the bricks.  Unless, indeed, according to the phrase, each man was a “brick,” which, in sober scripture, was the case; brick is no bad name for any son of Adam; Eden was but a brickyard; what is a mortal but a few luckless shovelfuls of clay, moulded in a mould, laid out on a sheet to dry, and ere long quickened into his queer caprices by the sun?  Are not men built into communities just like bricks into a wall?  Consider the great wall of China:  ponder the great populace of Pekin.  As man serves bricks, so God him, building him up by billions into edifices of his purposes.  Man attains not to the nobility of a brick, unless taken in the aggregate.  Yet is there a difference in brick, whether quick or dead; which, for the last, we now shall see.