in his heart, is he happy? Help me to plough this day, Black
Dobbin: oats in full measure if thou wilt. "Hlunh, No--thank!"
snorts Black Dobbin; he prefers glorious liberty and the grass.
Bay Darby, wilt not thou perhaps? "Hlunh!"--Gray Joan, then, my
beautiful broad-bottomed mare,--O Heaven, she too answers Hlunh!
Not a quadruped of them will plough a stroke for me. Corn-crops
are _ended_ in this world!--For the sake, if not of Hodge, then
of Hodge's horses, one prays this benevolent practice might now
cease, and a new and better one try to begin. Small kindness to
Hodge's horses to emancipate them! The fate of all emancipated
horses is, sooner or later, inevitable. To have in this
habitable Earth no grass to eat,--in Black Jamaica gradually
none, as in White Connemara already none;--to roam aimless,
wasting the seedfields of the world; and be hunted home to Chaos,
by the due watch-dogs and due hell-dogs, with such horrors of
forsaken wretchedness as were never seen before! These things
are not sport; they are terribly true, in this country at this
hour.

Between our Black West Indies and our White Ireland, between
these two extremes of lazy refusal to work, and of famishing
inability to find any work, what a world have we made of it, with
our fierce Mammon-worships, and our benevolent philanderings, and
idle godless nonsenses of one kind and another!
Supply-and-demand, Leave-it-alone, Voluntary Principle, Time will
mend it:--till British industrial existence seems fast becoming
one huge poison-swamp of reeking pestilence physical and moral; a
hideous _living_ Golgotha of souls and bodies buried alive; such
a Curtius' gulf, communicating with the Nether Deeps, as the Sun
never saw till now. These scenes, which the _Morning Chronicle_