“The Jarvey” (1815)
Charlotte Nooth
Oh! ye to whom the God of wealth has giv’n
To be at ease in our own chariots driv’n!
Little ye know the sorrows that await
Those, who (prechance with minds as delicate)
With feelings as refin’d, as nice a sense
Of taste, and comfort, neatness, opulence,
Are doom’d to wade thro’ mire the weary street,
Or in a Jarvey rest their aching feet,
A Jarvey! sound abhorrent! with what care
To pass unnotic’d mounts the sulky fare! 10
How, while the coach draws up, you stiffly stand
Nor dare to cast your eyes on either hand,
Lest some acquaintance should untimely greet,
Or well-known equipage drive thro’ the street,
And see, ———Oh! most calamitous event!
The waterman his tatter’d arm present,
Hold by the step while you collect your pence,
While swings the open portal, no defence,
Then, with Stentorian lungs proclaim the place,
Where you intend to finish your disgrace. 20
These ill attend your entrance, but when in,
What greater ills, what mightier griefs begin!
The greasy lining glistens black with dirt,
You sit erect, (by practice made expert)
And tho’ the posture puts you one the rack,
You dare not touch the filthy sides or back,
One window won’t draw up, the other shakes.
The shatter’d step a ceaseless clatter makes,
The ill-closed door admits the rain or sleet,
And deep in musty straw you plunge your feet. 30
The coachman drives you wrong, you seek in vain,
To pull the check-string and his course restrain,
In vain each blacken’d corner you explore,
Where was a string, is no a string no more,
You see indeed the hole thro’ which is past,
But long ‘ere this the string had pull’d its last.
One only mean remains, you sink the glass,
And half your person thro’ the op’ning pass;
Three times perchance you’re doom’d to bawl in vain,
Ere you succeed your meaning to explain, 40
Then, as you inward draw your luckless head,
You see,——Oh! sight of agony and dread!
Some booted beau, some captain in the guards,
Who all acquaintance with your face discards,
Or gives a condescending nod at most,
——This fatal chance has an admirer lost; ——
Sunk to the level of the vulgar herd,
To call you now an Angel were absurd,
And in whatever place you may approach,
You still will bring to mind the hackney-coach. 50
Since fretting in this case avails you nought
From the lost captain you divert your thought,
Suppose you turn your fancy to the past,
And guess who occupied your Jarvey last,
You have not far to seek,——the squalid wight
Who drives you, rested in the coach last night,
Pillowed his drowsy head upon the seat,
While dangled fromteh open door his feet;
Here have Virginia’s smoky volumes roll’d,
Here has the frequent dram repell’d the cold. 60
Here wrapt in blankets oft perchance is laid,
The fever’d wretch, thus are the dead convey’d.
Oft ‘neath the mantle of concealing night,
The buried corse is brought again to light,
The rifles sepulchres give up their dead,
And fails the hop’d security of lead,
A hideous gang, of Galen’s sons the slaves,
With ruthless weapons violate the graves,
And give what once had feeling, once had life,
Remorseless to th’unsparing surgeon’s knife. 70
Perchance this coach to prison has convey’d
Some ruin’d man by other’s guilt betray’d,
Some surety for a false, perfidious friend,
Who within Newgate walls his life must end;
Here were his bitter tears of anguish shed,
Here heav;d his sighs for hopes ever fled.
Here may the moping maniac have been pent,
His rage exhausted, and his fury spent,
Consign’d to that tall house of aspect drear,
Whence frequent shrieks assail the passing ear, 80
Where oft’ the massy doors for ever close
On the sad victim of inflicted woes,
Where never voice of Pity! ——but no more
The cells of hopeless anguish I explore,
Nor think there needs another trait to shew
We may worse ills that dirt or meanness know,
That want of comfort is not real pain,
Nor should we dare our destinies t’arraign,
Or load our wayward fates with loud reproaches,
E’en tho’ through life condemn’d to ride in hackney-coaches. 90
