Sir--Agreeably to my promise, I now relate to you all the particulars
of the lost man and child which I have been able to collect. It is
entirely owing to the humane interest you seemed to take in the
report, that I have pursued the inquiry to the following result.
You may remember that business called me to Boston in the summer of
1820. I sailed in the packet to Providence, and when I arrived there I
learned that every seat in the stage was engaged. I was thus obliged
either to wait a few hours or accept a seat with the driver, who
civilly offered me that accommodation. Accordingly I took my seat by
his side, and soon found him intelligent and communicative.
When we had travelled about ten miles, the horses suddenly threw their
ears on their necks, as flat as a hare's. Said the driver, "Have you a
surtout with you?" "No," said I; "why do you ask?" "You will want one
soon," said he; "do you observe the ears of all the horses?" "Yes, and
was just about to ask the reason." "They see the storm-breeder, and we
shall see him soon." At this moment there was not a cloud visible in
the firmament. Soon after a small speck appeared in the road. "There,"
said my companion, "comes the storm-breeder; he always leaves a Scotch
mist behind him. By many a wet jacket do I remember him. I suppose the
poor fellow suffers much himself, much more than is known to the
world." Presently a man with a child beside him, with a large black
horse, and a weather-beaten chair, once built for a chaise body,
passed in great haste, apparently at the rate of twelve miles an hour.
He seemed to grasp the reins of his horse with firmness, and appeared
to anticipate his speed. He seemed dejected, and looked anxiously at
the passengers, particularly at the stage-driver and myself. In a
moment after he passed us, the horses' ears were up and bent
themselves forward so that they nearly met. "Who is that man?" said I;
"he seems in great trouble." "Nobody knows who is he, but his person
and the child are familiar to me. I have met them more than a hundred
times, and have been so often asked the way to Boston by that man,
even when he was travelling directly from that town, that of late I
have refused any communication with him, and that is the reason he
gave me such a fixed look." "But does he never stop anywhere?" "I have
never known him to stop anywhere longer than to inquire the way to
Boston; and, let him be where he may, he will tell you he cannot stay
a moment, for he must reach Boston that night."
We were now ascending a high hill in Walpole, and as we had a fair
view of the heavens, I was rather disposed to jeer the driver for
thinking of his surtout, as not a cloud as big as a marble could be
discerned. "Do you look," said he, "in the direction whence the man
came, that is the place to look; the storm never meets him, it follows
him." We presently approached another hill, and when at the height,
the driver pointed out in an eastern direction a little black speck as
big as a hat. "There," said he, "is the seed storm; we may possibly
reach Polley's before it reaches us, but the wanderer and his child
will go to Providence through rain, thunder, and lightning." And now
the horses, as though taught by instinct, hastened with increased
speed. The little black cloud came on rolling over the turnpike, and
doubled and trebled itself in all directions. The appearance of this
cloud attracted the notice of all the passengers; for after it had
spread itself to a great bulk, it suddenly became more limited in
circumference, grew more compact, dark, and consolidated. And now the
successive flashes of chain lightning caused the whole cloud to appear
like a sort of irregular network, and displayed a thousand fantastic
images. The driver bespoke my attention to a remarkable configuration
in the cloud; he said every flash of lightning near its centre
discovered to him distinctly the form of a man sitting in an open
carriage drawn by a black horse. But in truth I saw no such thing. The
man's fancy was doubtless at fault. It is a very common thing for the
imagination to paint for the senses, both in the visible and invisible
world.
In the meantime the distant thunder gave notice of a shower at hand,
and just as we reached Polley's tavern the rain poured down in
torrents. It was soon over, the cloud passing in the direction of the
turnpike toward Providence. In a few moments after, a
respectable-looking man in a chaise stopped at the door. The man and
child in the chair having excited some little sympathy among the
passengers, the gentleman was asked if he had observed them. He said
he had met them; that the man seemed bewildered, and inquired the way
to Boston; that he was driving at great speed, as though he expected
to outstrip the tempest; that the moment he had passed him a
thunderclap broke distinctly over the man's head and seemed to envelop
both man and child, horse and carriage. "I stopped," said the
gentleman, "supposing the lightning had struck him, but the horse only
seemed to loom up and increase his speed, and, as well as I could
judge, he travelled just as fast as the thunder cloud." While this
man was speaking, a peddler with a cart of tin merchandise came up,
all dripping; and, on being questioned, he said he had met that man
and carriage, within a fortnight, in four different States; that at
each time he had inquired the way to Boston; and that a thunder shower
like the present had each time deluged him, his wagon and his wares,
setting his tin pots, etc., afloat, so that he had determined to get
marine insurance done for the future. But that which excited his
surprise most was the strange conduct of his horse, for that, long
before he could distinguish the man in the chair, his own horse stood
still in the road and flung back his ears. "In short," said the
peddler, "I wish never to see that man and horse again; they do not
look to me as if they belonged to this world."
This is all that I could learn at that time; and the occurrence soon
after would have become with me like one of those things which had
never happened, had I not, as I stood recently on the doorstep of
Bennett's Hotel in Hartford, heard a man say, "There goes Peter Rugg
and his child! he looks wet and weary, and farther from Boston than
ever." I was satisfied it was the same man that I had seen more than
three years before; for whoever has once seen Peter Rugg can never
after be deceived as to his identity. "Peter Rugg!" said I, "and who
is Peter Rugg?" "That," said the stranger, "is more than anyone can
tell exactly. He is a famous traveller, held in light esteem by all
inn-holders, for he never stops to eat, drink, or sleep. I wonder why
the Government does not employ him to carry the mail." "Ay," said a
bystander, "that is a thought bright only on one side. How long would
it take, in that case, to send a letter to Boston? For Peter has
already, to my knowledge, been more than twenty years travelling to
that place." "But," said I, "does the man never stop anywhere, does
he never converse with anyone? I saw the same man more than three
years since, near Providence, and I heard a strange story about him.
Pray, sir, give me some account of this man." "Sir," said the
stranger, "those who know the most respecting that man say the least.
I have heard it asserted that heaven sometimes sets a mark on a man,
either for judgment or trial. Under which Peter Rugg now labours I
cannot say; therefore I am rather inclined to pity than to judge."
"You speak like a humane man," said I, "and if you have known him so
long, I pray you will give me some account of him. Has his appearance
much altered in that time?" "Why, yes; he looks as though he never
ate, drank, or slept; and his child looks older than himself; and he
looks like time broke off from eternity and anxious to gain a
resting-place." "And how does his horse look?" said I. "As for his
horse, he looks fatter and gayer, and shows more animation and
courage, than he did twenty years ago. The last time Rugg spoke to me
he inquired how far it was to Boston. I told him just one hundred
miles. 'Why,' said he, 'how can you deceive me so? It is cruel to
deceive a traveller. I have lost my way. Pray direct me the nearest
way to Boston.' I repeated it was one hundred miles. 'How can you say
so?' said he. 'I was told last evening it was but fifty, and I have
travelled all night.' 'But,' said I, 'you are now travelling from
Boston. You must turn back.' 'Alas!' said he, 'it is all turn back!
Boston shifts with the wind, and plays all around the compass. One man
tells me it is to the east, another to the west; and the guide-posts,
too, they all point the wrong way.' 'But will you not stop and rest?'
said I; 'you seem wet and weary.' 'Yes,' said he, 'it has been foul
weather since I left home.' 'Stop, then, and refresh yourself.' 'I
must not stop, I must reach home to-night, if possible, though I
think you must be mistaken in the distance to Boston.' He then gave
the reins to his horse, which he restrained with difficulty, and
disappeared in a moment. A few days afterwards I met the man a little
this side of Claremont, winding around the hills in Unity, at the
rate, I believe, of twenty miles an hour."
"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.]