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"Is Peter Rugg his real name, or has he accidentally gained that
name?" "I know not, but presume he will not deny his name; you can ask
him, for see, he has turned his horse and is passing this way." In a
moment a dark-coloured, high-spirited horse approached, and would have
passed without stopping, but I had resolved to speak to Peter Rugg, or
whoever the man might be. Accordingly. I stepped into the street, and
as the horse approached I made a feint of stopping him. The man
immediately reined in his horse. "Sir," said I, "may I be so bold as
to inquire if you are not Mr. Rugg? for I think I have seen you
before." "My name is Peter Rugg," said he; "I have unfortunately lost
my way; I am wet and weary, and will take it kindly of you to direct
me to Boston." "You live in Boston, do you, and in what street?" "In
Middle Street." "When did you leave Boston?" "I cannot tell precisely;
it seems a considerable time." "But how did you and your child become
so wet? it has not rained here to-day." "It has just rained a heavy
shower up the river. But I shall not reach Boston to-night if I tarry.
Would you advise me to take the old road, or the turnpike?" "Why, the
old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, and the turnpike is
ninety-seven." "How can you say so? you impose on me; it is wrong to
trifle with a traveller; you know it is but forty miles from
Newburyport to Boston." "But this is not Newburyport; this is
Hartford." "Do not deceive me, sir. Is not this town Newburyport, and
the river that I have been following the Merrimac?" "No, sir; this is
Hartford, and the river the Connecticut." He wrung his hands and
looked incredulous. "Have the rivers, too, changed their courses as
the cities have changed places? But see, the clouds are gathering in
the south, and we shall have a rainy night. Ah, that fatal oath!" He
would tarry no longer. His impatient horse leaped off, his hind flanks
rising like wings--he seemed to devour all before him and to scorn all
behind.

I had now, as I thought, discovered a clue to the history of Peter
Rugg, and I determined, the next time my business called me to Boston,
to make a further inquiry. Soon after I was enabled to collect the
following particulars from Mrs. Croft, an aged lady in Middle Street,
who has resided in Boston during the last twenty years. Her narration
is this: The last summer a person, just at twilight, stopped at the
door of the late Mrs. Rugg. Mrs. Croft, on coming to the door,
perceived a stranger, with a child by his side, in an old,
weather-beaten carriage, with a black horse. The stranger asked for
Mrs. Rugg, and was informed that Mrs. Rugg had died, at a good old
age, more than twenty years before that time. The stranger replied,
"How can you deceive me so? do ask Mrs. Rugg to step to the door."
"Sir, I assure you Mrs. Rugg has not lived here these nineteen years;
no one lives here but myself, and my name is Betsey Croft." The
stranger paused, and looked up and down the street and said, "Though
the painting is rather faded, this looks like my house." "Yes," said
the child, "that is the stone before the door that I used to sit on to
eat my bread and milk." "But," said the stranger, "it seems to be on
the wrong side of the street. Indeed, everything here seems to be
misplaced. The streets are all changed, the people are all changed,
the town seems changed, and, what is strangest of all, Catharine Rugg
has deserted her husband and child." "Pray," said the stranger, "has
John Foy come home from sea? He went a long voyage; he is my kinsman.
If I could see him, he could give me some account of Mrs. Rugg."
"Sir," said Mrs. Croft, "I never heard of John Foy. Where did he
live?" "Just above here, in Orange-Tree Lane." "There is no such place
in this neighbourhood." "What do you tell me! Are the streets gone?
Orange-Tree Lane is at the head of Hanover Street, near Pemberton's
Hill." "There is no such lane now." "Madam! you cannot be serious. But
you doubtless know my brother, William Rugg. He lives in Royal
Exchange Lane, near King Street." "I know of no such lane; and I I am
sure there is no such street as King Street in this town." "No such
street as King Street? Why, woman! you mock me. You may as well tell
me there is no King George. However, madam, you see I am wet and
weary. I must find a resting place. I will go to Hart's tavern, near
the market." "Which market, sir? for you seem perplexed; we have
several markets." "You know there is but one market, near the town
dock." "Oh, the old market. But no such man as Hart has kept there
these twenty years."

Here the stranger seemed disconcerted, and muttered to himself quite
audibly: "Strange mistake! How much this looks like the town of
Boston! It certainly has a great resemblance to it; but I perceive my
mistake now. Some other Mrs. Rugg, some other Middle Street." Then
said he, "Madam, can you direct me to Boston?" "Why, this is Boston,
the city of Boston. I know of no other Boston." "City of Boston it may
be, but it is not the Boston where I live. I recollect now, I came
over a bridge instead of a ferry. Pray what bridge is that I just came
over?" "It is Charles River Bridge." "I perceive my mistake; there is
a ferry between Boston and Charlestown, there is no bridge. Ah, I
perceive my mistake. If I was in Boston, my horse would carry me
directly to my own door. But my horse shows by his impatience that he
is in a strange place. Absurd, that I should have mistaken this place
for the old town of Boston! It is a much finer city than the town of
Boston. It has been built long since Boston. I fancy Boston must lie
at a distance from this city, as the good woman seems ignorant of it."
At these words his horse began to chafe, and strike the pavement with
his fore feet; the stranger seemed a little bewildered, and said "No
home to-night," and, giving the reins to his horse, passed up the
street, and I saw no more of him.

It was evident that the generation to which Peter Rugg belonged had
passed away.

This was all the account of Peter Rugg I could obtain from Mrs. Croft;
but she directed me to an elderly man, Mr. James Felt, who lived near
her, and who had kept a record of the principal occurrences for the
last fifty years. At my request she sent for him; and, after I had
related to him the object of my inquiry, Mr. Felt told me he had known
Rugg in his youth; that his disappearance had caused some surprise;
but as it sometimes happens that men run away, sometimes to be rid of
others, and sometimes to be rid of themselves; and as Rugg took his
child with him, and his own horse and chair; and as it did not appear
that any creditors made a stir, the occurrence soon mingled itself in
the stream of oblivion; and Rugg and his child, horse and chair, were
soon forgotten. "It is true," said Mr. Felt, "sundry stories grew out
of Rugg's affair, whether true or false I cannot tell; but stranger
things have happened in my day, without even a newspaper notice."
"Sir," said I, "Peter Rugg is now living. I have lately seen Peter
Rugg and his child, horse and chair; therefore I pray you to relate to
me all you know or ever heard of him." "Why, my friend," said James
Felt, "that Peter Rugg is now a living man I will not deny; but that
you have seen Peter Rugg and his child is impossible, if you mean a
small child, for Jenny Rugg, if living, must be at least--let me
see--Boston Massacre, 1770--Jenny Rugg was about ten years old. Why,
sir, Jenny Rugg if living must be more than sixty years of age. That
Peter Rugg is living is highly probable, as he was only ten years
older than myself; and I was only eighty last March, and I am as
likely to live twenty years longer as any man." Here I perceived that
Mr. Felt was in his dotage, and I despaired of gaining any
intelligence from him on which I could depend.

I took my leave of Mrs. Croft, and proceeded to my lodgings at the
Marlborough Hotel.

If Peter Rugg, thought I, has been travelling since the Boston
Massacre, there is no reason why he should not travel to the end of
time. If the present generation know little of him, the next will know
less, and Peter and his child will have no hold on this world.

In the course of the evening I related my adventure in Middle Street.
"Ha!" said one of the company, smiling, "do you really think you have
seen Peter Rugg? I have heard my grandfather speak of him as though he
seriously believed his own story." "Sir," said I, "pray let us compare
your grandfather's story of Mr. Rugg with my own." "Peter Rugg, sir,
if my grandfather was worthy of credit, once lived in Middle Street,
in this city. He was a man in comfortable circumstances, had a wife
and one daughter, and was generally esteemed for his sober life and
manners. But unhappily his temper at times was altogether
ungovernable, and then his language was terrible. In these fits of
passion, if a door stood in his way he would never do less than kick a
panel through. He would sometimes throw his heels over his head, and
come down on his feet, uttering oaths in a circle. And thus, in a
rage, he was the first who performed a somerset, and did what others
have since learned to do for merriment and money. Once Rugg was seen
to bite a tenpenny nail in halves. In those days everybody, both men
and boys, wore wigs; and Peter, at these moments of violent passion,
would become so profane that his wig would rise up from his head. Some
said it was on account of his terrible language; others accounted for
it in a more philosophical way, and said it was caused by the
expansion of his scalp, as violent passion, we know, will swell the
veins and expand the head. While these fits were on him, Rugg had no
respect for heaven or earth. Except this infirmity, all agreed that
Rugg was a good soft of a man; for when his fits were over, nobody was
so ready to commend a placid temper as Peter.

"It was late in autumn, one morning, that Rugg, in his own chair, with
a fine large bay horse, took his daughter and proceeded to Concord. On
his return a violent storm overtook him. At dark he stopped in
Menotomy (now West Cambridge), at the door of a Mr. Cutter, a friend
of his, who urged him to tarry overnight. On Rugg's declining to stop,
Mr. Cutter urged him vehemently. 'Why, Mr. Rugg,' said Cutter, 'the
storm is overwhelming you; the night is exceeding dark; your little
daughter will perish; you are in an open chair, and the tempest is
increasing.' '_Let the storm increase_,' said Rugg, with a fearful
oath, '_I will see home to-night, in spite of the last tempest! or may
I never see home_.' At these words he gave his whip to his
high-spirited horse, and disappeared in a moment. But Peter Rugg did
not reach home that night, nor the next; nor, when he became a missing
man, could he ever be traced beyond Mr. Cutter's in Menotomy. For a
long time after, on every dark and stormy night, the wife of Peter
Rugg would fancy she heard the crack of a whip, and the fleet tread of
a horse, and the rattling of a carriage, passing her door. The
neighbours, too, heard the same noises, and some said they knew it was
Rugg's horse; the tread on the pavement was perfectly familiar to
them. This occurred so repeatedly that at length the neighbours
watched with lanterns, and saw the real Peter Rugg, with his own horse
and chair, and child sitting beside him, pass directly before his own
door, his head turning toward his house, and himself making every
effort to stop his horse, but in vain. The next day the friends of
Mrs. Rugg exerted themselves to find her husband and child. They
inquired at every public house and stable in town; but it did not
appear that Rugg made any stay in Boston. No one, after Rugg had
passed his own door, could give any account of him; though it was
asserted by some that the clatter of Rugg's horse and carriage over
the pavements shook the houses on both sides of the street. And this
is credible, if, indeed, Rugg's horse and carriage did pass on that
night. For at this day, in many of the streets, a loaded truck or team
in passing will shake the houses like an earthquake. However, Rugg's
neighbours never afterward watched again; some of them treated it all
as a delusion, and thought no more of it. Others, of a different
opinion, shook their heads and said nothing. Thus Rugg and his child,
horse and chair, were soon forgotten; and probably many in the
neighbourhood never heard a word on the subject.

"There was indeed a rumour that Rugg afterward was seen in
Connecticut, between Suffield and Hartford, passing through the
country like a streak of chalk. This gave occasion to Rugg's friends
to make further inquiry. But the more they inquired, the more they
were baffled. If they heard of Rugg one day in Connecticut, the next
day they heard of him winding around the hills in New Hampshire; and
soon after, a man in a chair, with a small child, exactly answering
the description of Peter Rugg, would be seen in Rhode Island,
inquiring the way to Boston.

"But that which chiefly gave a colour of mystery to the story of Peter
Rugg was the affair at Charlestown bridge. The toll-gatherer asserted
that sometimes, on the darkest and most stormy nights, when no object
could be discerned about the time Rugg was missing, a horse and
wheelcarriage, with a noise equal to a troop, would at midnight, in
utter contempt of the rates of toll, pass over the bridge. This
occurred so frequently that the toll-gatherer resolved to attempt a
discovery. Soon after, at the usual time, apparently the same horse
and carriage approached the bridge from Charlestown square. The
toll-gatherer, prepared, took his stand as near the middle of the
bridge as he dared, with a large three-legged stool in his hand. As
the appearance passed, he threw the stool at the horse, but heard
nothing except the noise of the stool skipping across the bridge. The
toll-gatherer on the next day asserted that the stool went directly
through the body of the horse, and he persisted in that belief ever
after. Whether Rugg, or whoever the person was, ever passed the bridge
again, the toll-gatherer would never tell; and when questioned, seemed
anxious to waive the subject. And thus Peter Rugg and his child, horse
and carriage, remain a mystery to this day."

This, sir, is all that I could learn of Peter Rugg in Boston....

[Footnote 2: From Jonathan Dunwell of New York, to Mr. Herman Krauff.]

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