ON THE WAY TO MURREE 7 



Like so many highwaymen, the lowest of the low, 

 the ostlers rush up to the carnages at each hostelry, 

 tear the horses out of the shafts, drag up the relays, 

 let the heavy pole fall on them, strap the poor things 

 much too tightly, and frighten them by clapping 

 their hands and cracking their whips all the time. 

 It is only with difficulty that the fresh horses can be 

 got to move, and, once started, the pain of their open 

 wounds often forces them to stand still again, and 

 rear beneath the blows of their tormentors. The 

 ostlers standing round come to the driver's aid, 

 swearing, screaming, beating, pushing, until at last, 

 in desperation, the wretched horses start off at a 

 gallop. 



Covered with sweat and white foam, with quiver- 

 ing flanks and inflated nostrils, they arrive at the 

 next halting-place. Thus are these poor wretched 

 creatures driven through life from place to place ! 



What a cruel lot ! For ever forwards and yet for 

 ever back again, and the quicker they go forward 

 the quicker must they return to the spot they started 

 from one everlasting race without a goal, a race 

 unto death ! 



