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 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.'
If, dear readers, you have not heard the legend of Peter Rugg the Missing Man in search of Boston, riding always before a storm than do yourself the service of reading his account
over at Gaslight
. 'Tis truly one of Boston's most intriguing tales, though it is scarcely remembered by most of our fair city's inhabitants these days.