William Austin was a Boston lawyer of literary tastes. He saw something of the world in his cruises (1799–1800) on the “Constitution” as chaplain, and of society during his eighteen months at Lincoln’s Inn. An account of his life and works is prefixed to the collective edition, now out of print, edited by his son, John Walker Austin (The Literary Papers of William Austin, Boston, 1890). This also reprints a large part of Col. T. W. Higginson’s “A Precursor of Hawthorne” (Independent, 29th March, 1888. A reference will also be found at pages 64 and 68 of Col. Higginson’s Longfellow). Of his few tales only Peter Rugg has had any currency. Indeed, the significance of Austin’s narrative art is mainly negative. Even Peter Rugg shows wherein what might have been a short story failed of its form. For all its undoubted quality, it is a short story manqué; and in this it is quite typical of its time. If artistic sense is apparent in the cumulation of foreshadowings, crudity of mechanism is equally apparent in the management of each through a different interlocutor. It is artistically right that Rugg should at last be brought home; it is artistically wrong that the conclusion should be so like a moralising summary. A conception much like Hawthorne’s is developed as it were by mere accumulation instead of being focused in a unified progression. (See also [pages 10] and [12] of the Introduction.)
PETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN
[First part printed in Buckingham’s “New England Galaxy,” 10th September, 1824; several times reprinted entire, e. g., in the “Boston Book” for 1841; reprinted here from the standard collection noted above]
From Jonathan Dunwell of New York to Mr. Herman Krauff
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.”