University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Opposite my window is a small paved nook just large enough to hold a coach
with a pair of horses harnessed to it. It is overshadowed by a large elm, and a
pump with a trough beneath it close at hand. A better `stand' for a hackney
coach, especially as the street is much traversed and central in its position,
could not be found in town. This advantage did not long escape the eye of one
of the fraternity of `Hackmen;' and one morning on throwing open my blinds
I saw that `the nook' was occupied by a carriage. For what purpose but for
this, the opening had been left, I could never guess; and having in my mind's
eye appropriated it to this very end which I now saw it had attained to, I was
not a little gratified at this fulfilment of the destiny I had mentally designed
for it. It seemed to be the only unappropriated spot of Ground in Boston; and I
had been not a little surprised to find it go from day to day unimproved. When,
therefore, I saw the hack quietly standing there on opening my window in the
morning, I mentally bore tribute to the penetration of the owners and at once
felt a peculiar interest in him and his equipage. The carriage was a very handsome
one with a dark, brown body and hubs and door handle of polished brass.
The box was covered with a rich blue hammer-cloth, fringed and ample in its
folds; the foot board was sheated with a shining piece of oil-cloth, and the
leather of the carriage was new and well oiled and blackened. The horses
were fine bays, with well-kept bodies, and resembling more a span belonging
to a private gentleman, than to a hackman. The coach, also, had that air of
gentility that characterises a private carriage. But the number (288) placed
beneath the door plainly showed that it was a public coach: otherwise I should
have had no hesitation in setting it down as a private equipage. The harness

was shining and new, and glittering with brass plate, and on the blinder a was
the ornament of a stag's head. The same device was neatly painted upon the
door panel. In England, seeing this heralded crest, I should without a doubt
have set the coach to the ownership of a baronet; bnt as I knew in our free
country we republicans made free to make free with any shields and arms that
suits our fancy, for coach panels, it did not mislead me.

The coach and horses having undergone my scrutiny I looked at the coachman.
He was seated in the open door of his carriage with his feet upon the
carpeted steps reading the morning paper. His broad-brimmed white hat hid
his face as I looked down upon him; but I could see that he was well dressed
and inclined to corpulency, as all coachmen should be, for a carriage rolls along
easier with solid weight upon the box. After he had read the news he got up
and taking off his hat placed the penny paper in the top of it. In the act he
exposed a large well shaped head thickly covered with brown-curly hair, and
a healthy florid countenance, expressive of intelligence and good humor. A
kindly face such as at first glance takes our confidence. He wore a red velvet
waistcoat, double-breasted and thickly set with small gilt bell-buttons, and in
his sky blue cravat was stuck a large paste pin. He took a silver watch from
his fob to look at the hour, and then fastening the check reins of his horses, he
mounted to his box, and drove up the street at a round pace evidently to fulfil
some appointment.

I was not a little gratified to find the nook had thus been taken possession of.
An empty space opposite the window of an invalid is always annoying. If he
is at all nervous, he peoples it with all sorts of things. It becomes a theatre
in which all the phantasies of his imagination play their parts. I had something
now to occupy my attention, besides blank walls. There was something to do
in watching the carriage and the man; in seeing him start off and watching
for his return; in conjecturing where and for what purpose he has been called
away. In a word the appearance of the smart hackney coach in my neighborhood
drew off my mind and thoughts from myself, and from the day of its appearance
I began to recover from a painful nervous disorder which had for
several weeks afflicted me.

The driver seemed to have a great deal of business. His coach was going
and coming constantly. This was owing to the neat appearance of his equipage
and his own neatness and affable manner—Every morning at sunrise he
would be at his stand, and at sundown leave it for the last time, not to return
till the next morning.

I used to amuse myself in watching those who came to the stand to employ
him. Once I saw a young married couple stop and get into it, the lady in tears
and the young husband's face very grave and stern. They had evidently had
a falling out in the street and taken the coach in order to have their quarrel out
less publicly; for he drew up the glass with an emphasis and dropped the curtains.
The next that I saw call for it was a lady very elegantly dressed in half
mourning. She was hurried and in earnest as she spoke to the coachman.—
She got in hastily: he sprang to his box and drove rapidly off. The next moment
a gentleman with a crape round his hat and a parasol under his arm ran
by and pursued the carriage. One day the driver himself made a wearied old lady

who was passing and who seemed with difficulty to get along, get into his
coach, when he mounted to his seat and drove her home. This kind act made
me the hackman's friend at once, though I was already greatly prepossessed in
his favor. I had now got well enough to ride out, and one morning about three
weeks after he had come upon the `stand,' I sent over for him to see him in my
room. He came up stairs ushered by the servant and on entering my chamber
took off his broad hat and bowed with a good deal of grace.

`You wish to see me, sir?'

`Yes. I am an invalid, and wish to ride out every pleasant day for two or
three weeks. Can I command your carriage at the hour of ten every morning?'

`Yes sir,' he answered with a bow of satisfaction.

`I shall want to ride an hour each day!'

`Yes, sir.'

`Your carriage seems to be a very fine one!'

`It is liked by those who have rode in it!'

`Your horses are spirited and you appear to take very good care of them!'

`I have need to do so, sir. They are my only means of getting a living!'

`You seem to have custom enough!'

`Yes, sir. I can't complain. Since I have been on this stand and had my
new turn out, I have been pretty busy. Customers, I see, always like a showy
tu nout!'

`Have you been long driving?'

`About four years, sir.'

`You seem to be an educated man and to have followed a better employment.'

`This is a good one, sir. I don't find fault with it. I have been in worse
business. I was clerk in the Custom House once, but lost my situation in
change of masters; and had to put my hand to anything that was respectable.
I could have kept a hotel bar, or been chosen constable, but I am a temperance
man and don't like to sell fire-water to burn up the souls and bodies of my fellow
men; and I have some repugnance to serving writs upon poor debtors. I
shouldn't sleep sound after having put a fellow-man in jail.'

`I commend your humanity,' I said. `To be a constable a man must steel
his heart against human misery. If he is a kind man in the outset, he will soon
learn indifference to the woes of others. It is heart-hardening, soul-destroying
business, and you did well to escape it.'

`I think so, sir. Well, for want of something better I offered myself to a
stable-keeper as a driver for one of his hacks; and now, sir, I have got to own
a hack and a pair of horses for myself.'

`This fine `turn out' then really belongs to you!'

`Yes, sir, I have paid for it to the snapper on my whip lash. I have only
owned it three weeks. The morning I came to this stand was my first turn out
with it. I have had this `stand' in my eye for sometime, and I got permission
of one through the good word of the alderman, whose family I had often driven
out to occupy it. Will you ride out this morning, sir?' he asked me in the full
manly tones which characterized him.

`Yes, I will be ready at ten. Are you married?'

He blushed and then after a moment replied, with a smile,

`Not yet, sir. I expect to be in a few days!'

`I wish you joy!'

`Thank you, sir. I feel very sure of being perfectly happy!'

With these words of hope the handsome hackney coachman, who was under
thirty years of age, left me and crossed the street to his carriage.

I rode out with him daily, for a fortnight. I found him not only a careful
driver bat an intelligent guide. There was not a place of interest in or about
Boston that he was ignorant of, and which he did not stop his carriage to speak
to me through the window back of his box and point out to me.

One morning I had returned from a visit to Mount Auburn, when as he assisted
me to alight he said, with an embarrassed air and a flush that told half
the story,

`Sir, if you will be so kind as to excuse me to-morrow. I shall have a friend
in my place to drive you out for the next two days!'

`Certainly. I wish you much happiness,' I said significantly.

`You have guessed it, sir. I am going to be married in the morning and shall
take a little trip down into the country for a day or two.'

`Where shall you live when you return?'

`With my wife's mother. She has a small, neat house in Bedford street, and
as it is all furnished and Betsy is her only daughter, why I have promised to
live with her; but I shall keep up the house you know, sir, just as if I was at
housekeeping. I wouldn't have you suppose I would live on my wife's mother!'

`I should not suspect such a thing of you, George,' said I in a tone that fully
satisfied his pride. I then shook hands with him and wishing him and his bride
`good luck,' entered the house. With a happy face he sprang to his seat and
drove off at a fast trot. Little did I think that this was the last time I should
see him alive! that the next morning I should gaze upon his blood-sprinkled
corpse!

I will now record the particulars of the tradgedy as far as I could obtain
them. It seems that after he had driven from my door, he proceeded to the
Tremont House, where he took in two persons, who were evidently foreigners.
One of them came out of the Hotel, the other came to the coach on the side-walk.
That the carriage then went out of town with them to Mount Auburn,
and in by the Monument. George left them at the Tremont, and then drove to
the stables where he put up his horses. Here he said he should leave them to
rest till the next morning, and through the next day as it was to be his wedding
day. He seemed to be sad and thoughtful; and the buoyancy which had characterized
him had disappeared. He then proceeded to spend the evening with
his bride elect. He was here at intervals and depressed, and although he made
efforts to throw off the weight from his spirits when he saw it was observed, he
was not quite successful in doing it.

He lodged in the chamber of a dwelling adjoining the stable, and on his return
found two of his fellow-hackman awaiting his return.

`We want you to go and sup with us, George,' said they. `It is your last
night of liberty, and you must give it to old friends!'

`It is rather late, being after ten, and I don't feel well to-night, my good
friends,' he said in reply. `I thank you, but beg you will excuse me!'

`Why you look as sorrowful as if you were going to be hauged to-morrow
instead of married! Bless us, don't be frightened, man! It is soon over I'm
told!'

`There is something heavy on my mind, my friends,' said George sadly. `I
have felt it several hours. I have tried in vain to shake it off. My heart feels
like lead!'

`Oh, man, it is nothing but too much joy. I am told that breaks the heart
sometimes! Cheer up. You'll feel better to-morrow!'

`To morrow! to morow!' he slowly repeated with an absent manner. `To-morrow
is no man's living!'

`You are gloomy, George!'

`What has Betsy done or said?'

He did not seem to hear them. They gazed upon his pale face and fixed
eyes, with surprise and alarm.

`If you knew — but no! It is nothing! I have no reason, perhaps, but I
cannot help feeling as I do. If any thing should happen to me!'—

`Poh, George!'

`Listen to me, both of you!' If any thing should happen to me, you will find
under the left pocket of the coach a secret pocket in which is a paper. It bequeaths
all I am worth to — or Betsy!'

His voice trembled and he was agitated as he spoke. They tried, as they
said, to laugh him out of his notions; but without success; and bidding him
good night they left him. He grasped their hands with painful force and took
leave of them as if they were parting for a long period.

The hostler, who gives the next account of him, says that a few minutes after
the two left George, a person arrived at the stable and said he wanted a carriage.
`I was going to give him 280, knowing George didn't want his horse to
go out, and had called up the driver, when he said he must have 228. George
heard him and came down, and told me to have his horse put in. I thought
there was something very strange in the sound of his voice. He said nothing
to the man, who was a foreigner by his tones, and who stood by wrapped in a
cloak, while we put the horses in. He got in, and the door was shut, and
George mounted to his box. I noticed he had not said a word to the stranger,
and that he had got to his seat without asking him, or being told where to drive.
to. Says I, as he was starting out,

`Do you know where you want to go?'

`He knows very well,' said the face inside, in a deep voice.

I saw George's face was as white as a sheet, as the stable lamp in the gateway
shone upon him as he passed underneath, and he looked at me with a glare
of his eye that made me feel bad all night. Well, I shut the gates, and laid
down on my cot in the office, expecting to be called by George before it was
time to shut up for good. But I lay till day-break and heard nothing of the
coach or of him until hearing a noise of voices outside, I unbars the gate, when
there stood the carriage and horses white with foam, and the dead body of
George across the box, and the people gathering round it!'

To this testimony, we add what more we were able to gather touching this
extraordinary event. The carriage had passed over Cambridge bridge at eleven

o'clock, and the toll-man said that George had paid him the toll. Nothing further
could be traced of the coach until just before dawn, when a watchman
heard a carraige dashing along the Roxbury avenue into town. As it passed
him he saw the driver reeling upon his box, and he supposed him intoxicated,
as well as from the furious rate at which the horses went. Another watchman
saw the carriage pass the foot of Eliot street, at the same fearful rate at first
without a driver as he supposed, but as it passed him he saw him lying across
the foot-board. Before he could make any effort to check the horses the carriage
was out of sight.

The next that was seen, was the carriage standing at the gate of the stable,
where the horses had stopped, and the body of George, the Hackman, hanging
across the seat, bathed in blood.