And they walk to and from the pigsties which they inhabit--four miles each way, through mud and slush, rain, snow, sleet, and storm, daily, year in and year out.

They get four hours of sleep.

They kennel together, three families in a room, in unimaginable filth and stench; and disease comes, and they die off like flies.

Have they committed a crime, these mangy things?
No.

What have they done, that they are punished so?
Nothing at all, except getting themselves born into your foolish race.