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