ranger, "is more than anyone can
tell exactly. He is a famous traveller, held in light esteem by all
inn-holders, for he never stops to eat, drink, or sleep. I wonder why
the Government does not employ him to carry the mail." "Ay," said a
bystander, "that is a thought bright only on one side. How long would
it take, in that case, to send a letter to Boston? For Peter has
already, to my knowledge, been more than twenty years travelling to
that place." "But," said I, "does the man never stop anywhere, does
he never converse with anyone? I saw the same man more than three
years since, near Providence, 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 g