Peter Rugg

I first heard of Peter Rugg in the summer of 1820, when business took me to Boston. I sailed to Providence, and upon arriving, I learned that every seat in the stage was taken. I was thus forced to either wait a few hours or accept a seat beside the driver, who politely offered it.

I accepted, and soon found him intelligent and talkative. We had traveled about ten miles when the horses suddenly laid their ears flat against their necks. "Do you have a surtout with you?" the driver asked. "No," I said, "why do you ask?" "You will want one soon," he replied. "Do you see the ears of all the horses?" "Yes, and I was just about to ask why they are like that." "They see the storm-breeder, and we shall see him soon." At that moment, not a cloud was visible in the sky. Soon after, a small speck appeared on 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, more than is known to the world." Presently, a man with a child beside him, driving a large black horse and a weather-beaten chair—once built for a chaise-body—passed us in great haste, at what seemed to be twelve miles an hour.

He grasped the reins firmly and seemed to anticipate his horse's speed. He looked dejected and cast anxious glances at the passengers, especially at the driver and me. A moment after he passed, the horses' ears went up and bent forward so they nearly met. "Who is that man?" I asked. "He seems in great trouble." "Nobody knows who he is, but his person and the child are familiar to me. I have met him more than a hundred times, and have been so often asked the way to Boston by that man—even when he was traveling directly from that town—that of late I have refused any communication with him. That is why 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 with a fair view of the heavens, I was inclined to jest with the driver for thinking of his surtout, as not a cloud as big as a marble could be seen. "Do you look," he said, "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 to an eastern direction a little black speck about as big as a hat. "There," he said, "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.

Its appearance attracted the notice of all passengers, for after it had spread itself to a great bulk, it suddenly became more limited in circumference, grew more compact, dark, and consolidated. Successive flashes of chain lightning made the whole cloud look like an irregular network, displaying a thousand fantastic images. The driver bespoke my attention to a remarkable configuration: every flash near its center revealed to him the form of a man sitting in an open carriage drawn by a black horse. But I saw no such thing; the man's fancy was surely at fault. It is common for the imagination to paint for the senses, both in the visible and invisible world. Meanwhile, 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 toward Providence. A few moments later, a respectable-looking man in a chaise stopped at the door.

The man and child in the chair had excited some sympathy among the passengers, and the gentleman was asked if he had observed them. He said he had met them; the man seemed bewildered and inquired the way to Boston, driving at great speed as though expecting to outstrip the tempest. The moment he passed, a thunderclap broke directly over the man's head, enveloping 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 traveled just as fast as the thunder-cloud." While this man was speaking, a peddler with a cart of tin merchandise came up, all dripping.

On being questioned, he said he had met that man and carriage within a fortnight in four different states, and at each time the man had asked the way to Boston, and a thunder-shower like the present had each time deluged his wagon and wares, setting his tin pots afloat. He had decided to get marine insurance in the future. But what excited his surprise most was the strange conduct of his horse, for 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 though they belonged to this world." This was all I could learn at that time, and the incident would soon have become like one of those things that 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 I had seen more than three years before; for whoever has once seen Peter Rugg can never afterward be deceived as to his identity. "Peter Rugg!" I said. "And who is Peter Rugg?" "That," said the stranger, "is more than any one can tell exactly. He is a famous traveler, held in light esteem by all innholders, 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 then to send a letter to Boston, for Peter has already, to my knowledge, been more than twenty years traveling to that place." "But," I said, "does the man never stop anywhere; does he never converse with any one? 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 him." "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 a trial. Under which Peter Rugg now labors, 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 broken 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 mislead a traveler. 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 traveled all night.' 'But,' said I, 'you are now traveling 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 tonight 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 twelve 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-colored, 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. 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 today." "It has just rained a heavy shower up the river. But I shall not reach Boston tonight 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 traveler; 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 Merrimack?" "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 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 further inquiry. Soon after, I collected the following particulars from Mrs. Croft, an aged lady in Middle Street who had resided in Boston during the last twenty years. Her narration is this: Just at twilight last summer, a person 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 twenty years; no one lives here but myself, and my name is Betsy Croft." The stranger paused, looked up and down the street, and said, "Though the paint 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, Catherine Rugg has deserted her husband and child. Pray," continued 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 neighborhood." "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 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 person has kept there these twenty years." Here the stranger seemed disconcerted and uttered 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 were 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 forefeet. The stranger seemed a little bewildered and said, "No home tonight," 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 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, and 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 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 traveling 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 sort of man; for when his fits were over, nobody was so ready to commend a placid temper as Peter. "One morning, late in autumn, 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 the night. On Rugg's declining to stop, Mr. Cutter urged him vehemently. 'Why, Mr. Rugg,' said Cutter, 'the storm is overwhelming you. The night is exceedingly 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 tonight, 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 neighbors, 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 neighbors watched with lanterns, and saw the real Peter Rugg, with his own horse and chair and the child sitting beside him, pass directly before his own door, his head turned 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 streets. 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 neighbors never afterward watched. 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 neighborhood never heard a word on the subject. "There was indeed a rumor that Rugg was seen afterward in Connecticut, between Suffield and Hartford, passing through the country at headlong speed.

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 they heard of him winding round 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 color of mystery to the story of Peter Rugg was the affair at Charleston 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 wheel-carriage, 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.