Having completed his task, he pats the sides of those
he loves best by way of good-night, and leaves them to their
fragrant meal. And this kindly action on his part suggests
one of the best passages of the poem. Even old well-fed
Dobbin occasionally rebels against his slavery, and released
from his chains will lift his clumsy hoofs and kick,
"disdainful of the dirty wheel." Short-sighted Dobbin!
Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose,
Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes;
Show thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold
The dreadful anguish he endures for gold;
Hired at each call of business, lust, or rage,
That prompts the traveller on from stage to stage.
Still on his strength depends their boasted speed;
For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed;
And though he groaning quickens at command,
Their extra shilling in the rider's hand
Becomes his bitter scourge . . . .
The description, too long to quote, which follows of the
tortures inflicted on the post-horse a century ago, is almost
incredible to us, and we flatter ourselves that such things
would not be tolerated now. But we must get over the ground
somehow, and I take it that but for the invention of other
more rapid means of transit the present generation would be as
little concerned at the pains of the post-horse as they are at
the horrors enacted behind the closed doors of the
physiological laboratories, the atrocity of the steel trap,
the continual murdering by our big game hunters of all the
noblest animals left on the globe, and finally the annual
massacre of millions of beautiful birds in their breeding time
to provide ornaments for the hats of our women.
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