“This surpasses all human comprehension; if you know, sir, where we are, I beseech you to tell me.”
“If this place,” I replied, “is not Boston, it must be New York.”
“No, sir, it is not Boston; nor can it be New York. How could I be in New York, which is nearly two hundred miles from Boston?”
By this time we had passed into Broadway, and then Rugg, in truth, discovered a chaotic mind. “There is no such place as this in North America. This is all the effect of enchantment; this is a grand delusion, nothing real. Here is seemingly a great city, magnificent houses, shops and goods, men and women innumerable, and as busy as in real life, all sprung up in one night from the wilderness; or what is more probable, some tremendous convulsion of Nature has thrown London or Amsterdam on the shores of New England. Or, possibly, I may be dreaming, though the night seems rather long; but before now I have sailed in one night to Amsterdam, bought goods of Vandogger, and returned to Boston before morning.”
At this moment a hue-and-cry was heard, “Stop the madmen, they will endanger the lives of thousands!” In vain hundreds attempted to stop Rugg’s horse. Lightfoot interfered with nothing; his course was straight as a shooting-star. But on my part, fearful that before night I should find myself behind the Alleghanies, I addressed Mr. Rugg in a tone of entreaty, and requested him to restrain the horse and permit me to alight.
“My friend,” said he, “we shall be in Boston before dark, and Dame Rugg will be most exceeding glad to see us.”
“Mr. Rugg,” said I, “you must excuse me. Pray look to the west; see that thunder-cloud swelling with rage, as if in pursuit of us.”
“Ah!” said Rugg, “it is in vain to attempt to escape. I know that cloud; it is collecting new wrath to spend on my head.” Then checking his horse, he permitted me to descend, saying, “Farewell, Mr. Dunwell, I shall be happy to see you in Boston; I live in Middle Street.”
It is uncertain in what direction Mr. Rugg pursued his course, after he disappeared in Broadway; but one thing is sufficiently known to everybody,—that in the course of two months after he was seen in New York, he found his way most opportunely to Boston.
It seems the estate of Peter Rugg had recently fallen to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for want of heirs; and the Legislature had ordered the solicitor-general to advertise and sell it at public auction. Happening to be in Boston at the time, and observing his advertisement, which described a considerable extent of land, I felt a kindly curiosity to see the spot where Rugg once lived. Taking the advertisement in my hand, I wandered a little way down Middle Street, and without asking a question of any one, when I came to a certain spot I said to myself, “This is Rugg’s estate; I will proceed no farther. This must be the spot; it is a counterpart of Peter Rugg.” The premises, indeed, looked as if they had fulfilled a sad prophecy. Fronting on Middle Street, they extended in the rear to Ann Street, and embraced about half an acre of land. It was not uncommon in former times to have half an acre for a house-lot; for an acre-of land then, in many parts of Boston, was not more valuable than a foot in some places at present. The old mansion-house had become a powder-post, and been blown away. One other building, uninhabited, stood ominous, courting dilapidation. The street had been so much raised that the bed-chamber had descended to the kitchen and was level with the street. The house seemed conscious of its fate; and as though tired of standing there, the front was fast retreating from the rear, and waiting the next south wind to project itself into the street. If the most wary animals had sought a place of refuge, here they would have rendezvoused. Here, under the ridge-pole, the crow would have perched in security; and in the recesses below, you might have caught the fox and the weasel asleep. “The hand of destiny,” said I, “has pressed heavy on this spot; still heavier on the former owners. Strange that so large a lot of land as this should want an heir! Yet Peter Rugg, at this day, might pass by his own door-stone, and ask, ‘Who once lived here?’”