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