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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 that the estate of Peter Rugg had recently escheated 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, 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 further; this must be the the spot, it is a counterpart of Peter Rugg.' The premises, indeed, looked as if they had accomplished 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 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 could have perched in security, and in the recesses below you might have caught the fox and weasel asleep. "The hand of destiny," said I, "has pressed heavily 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 his own door-stone and ask, 'Who once lived there?""

The auctioneer, appointed by the Solicitor to sell this estate, was a man of eloquence, as many of the auctioneers of Boston are. The occasion seemed to warrant, and his duty urged him to make a display. He addressed his audience as follows: "The estate, gentlemen, which we offer you this day, was once the property of a family now extinct. It has escheated to the Commonwealth for want of heirs. Lest any one of you should be deterred from bidding on so large an estate as this, for fear of a disputed title, I am authorized by the Solicitor-General to proclaim that the purchaser shall have the best of all titles, a warranty deed from the Commonwealth. I state this, gentlemen, because I know there is an idle rumor in this vicinity, that one Peter Rugg, the original owner of this estate, is still living. This rumor, gentlemen, has no foundation in

the nature of things. It originated, about two years since, from the incredible story of one Jonathan Dunwell of New York. Mrs. Croft, indeed, whose husband I see present, and whose mouth waters for this estate, has countenanced this fiction. But, gentlemen, was it ever known that any estate, especially an estate of this value, lay unclaimed for nearly half a century, if any heir ever so remote was existing? For, gentlemen, all agree that old Peter Rugg, if living, would be at least one hundred. years of age. It is said that he and his daughter with a horse and chaise were missed more than half a century ago; and because they never returned home, forsooth, they must be now living, and will, some day, come and claim this great estate. Such logic, gentlemen, never led to a good investment. Let not this idle story cross the noble purpose of consigning these ruins to the genius of architecture. If such a contingency could check the spirit of enterprise, farewell to all mercantile excitement. Your surplus money, instead of refreshing your sleep with the golden dreams of new sources of speculation, would turn to the nightmare. A man's money, if not employed, serves only to disturb his rest. Look, then, to the prospect before you. Here is half an acre of land, more than twenty thousand square feet, a corner lot with wonderful capabilities; none of your contracted lots of forty feet by fifty, where in dogdays you can breathe only through your scuttles. On the contrary, an architect cannot contemplate this extensive lot without rapture, for here is room enough for his genius to shame the temple of Solomon. Then the prospect, how commanding! To the east, so near the Atlantic, that Neptune freighted with the select treasures of the whole earth can knock at your door with his trident. From the west all the produce of the river of Paradise, the Connecticut, will soon, by the blessings of steam railways and canals, pass under your windows; and thus, on this spot, Neptune shall marry Ceres, and Pomona from Roxbury and Flora from Cambridge shall dance at the wedding.

"Gentlemen of science, men of taste, ye of the Literary Emporium,-for I perceive many of you present,-to you this is holy ground. If the spot over which in times past a hero left only the print of a footstep is now sacred, of what price is the birthplace of one who all the world knows was born in Middle Street, directly opposite this lot; and who, if his birthplace was not well known, would now be claimed by more than seven cities. To you, then, the value of these premises must be inestimable. For, ere long, there will arise, in front view of the edifice to be erected here, a monument, the wonder and veneration of the world. column shall spring to the clouds, and on that column will be engraven one word that will convey all that is wise in intellect, useful in science, good in morals, prudent in counsel, and benevolent in principle; a name, when living, the patron of the poor, the delight of the cottage, and the

A

admiration of kings; now dead, worth the whole seven wise men of Greece. Need I tell you his name? He fixed the thunder and guided the lightning!

"Men of the North End! Need I appeal to your patriotism, in order to enhance the value of this lot? The earth affords no such scenery as this. There, around that corner, lived James Otis; here, Samuel Adams -there, Joseph Warren-and around that other corner, Josiah Quincy. Here was the birthplace of Freedom; here, Liberty was born, nursed, and grew to manhood. Here, man was new-created. Here is the nursery of American Independence-I am too modest-here commenced the emancipation of the world. A thousand generations hence, millions of men will cross the Atlantic just to look at the North End of Boston. Your fathers, what do I say? yourselves, yes, this moment I behold several attending this auction who lent a hand to rock the cradle of Independence.

"Men of speculation! Ye who are deaf to everything except the sound of money, you, I know, will give me both of your ears when I tell you the city of Boston must have a piece of this estate in order to widen Ann Street. Do you hear me? do you all hear me? I say the city must have a large piece of this land in order to widen Ann Street. What a chance! The city scorns to take a man's land for nothing. If they seize your property, they are generous beyond the dreams of avarice. The only oppression is, you are in danger of being smothered under a load of wealth. Witness the old lady who lately died of a broken heart, when the Mayor paid her for a piece of her kitchen-garden. All the faculty agreed that the sight of the treasure, which the Mayor incautiously paid her in dazzling dollars warm from the mint, sped joyfully all the blood of her body into her heart, and rent it in raptures. Therefore let him who purchases this estate fear his good fortune, and not Peter Rugg. Bid then liberally, and do not let the name of Rugg damp your ardor. How much will you give per foot for this estate?" Thus spoke the auctioneer, and gracefully waved his ivory hammer. From fifty to seventy-five cents per foot were offered in a few moments. It labored from seventy-five to ninety. At length one dollar was offered. The auctioneer seemed satisfied, and, looking at his watch, said he would knock off the estate in five minutes, if no one offered more. There was a deep silence during this short period. While the hammer was sus pended, a strange rumbling noise was heard which arrested the attention of every one. Presently it was like the sound of many shipwrights driving home the bolts of a seventy-four. As the sound approached nearer, some exclaimed, "The buildings in the new market are falling." Others said, "No, it is an earthquake, we can perceive the earth joggle." Others said, "Not so, the sound proceeds from Hanover Street, and

approaches nearer." This proved true, for presently Peter Rugg was in the midst of us.

"Alas, Jenny," said Peter, "I am ruined; our house has been burnt, and here are all our neighbors around the ruins. Heaven grant that your mother dame Rugg is safe." "They don't look like our neighbors," said Jenny, "but sure enough our house is burnt, and nothing left but the door-stone and an old cedar post-do ask where mother is."

In the mean time more than a thousand men had surrounded Rugg and his horse and chair; yet neither Rugg personally, nor his horse and carriage, attracted more attention than the auctioneer. The confident look and searching eyes of Rugg, to every one present, carried more conviction that the estate was his, than could any parchment or paper with signature and seal. The impression which the auctioneer had just made on the company was effaced in a moment: and although the latter words of the auctioneer were, "Fear not Peter Rugg," the moment he met the eye of Rugg his occupation was gone, his arm fell down to his hip, his late lively hammer hung heavy in his hand, and the auction was forgotten. The black horse, too, gave his evidence. He knew his journey was ended, for he stretched himself into a horse and a half, rested his cheek bone over the cedar post, and whinnied thrice, causing his harness to tremble from headstall to crupper. Rugg then stood upright in his chair, and asked with some authority, "Who has demolished my house in my absence? for I see no signs of a conflagration. I demand to know by what accident this has happened, and wherefore this collection of strange people has assembled before my doorstep. I thought I knew every man in Boston, but you appear to me a new generation. Yet I am familiar with many of the countenances here present, and I can call some of you by name; but in truth I do not recollect that, before this moment, I ever saw any one of you. There, I am certain, is a Winslow, and here a Sargent; there stands a Sewall, and next to him a Dudley. Will none of you speak to me? Or is this all a delusion? I see, indeed, many forms of men, and no want of eyes, but of motion, speech and hearing you seem to be destitute. Strange! will no one inform me who has demolished my house?" Then spake a voice from the crowd, but from whom it came I could not discover: "There is nothing strange here but yourself, Mr. Rugg. Time, which destroys and renews all things, has dilapidated your house, and placed us here. You have suffered many years under an illusion. The tempest which you profanely defied at Menotomy has at length subsided; but you will never see home, for your house and wife and neighbors have all disappeared. Your estate, indeed, remains, but no home. You were cut off from the last age, and you never can be fitted to the present. Your home is gone, and you can never have another home in this world."

Clement Clarke Moore.

BORN in New York, N Y., 1779. DIED at Newport, R. I., 1863.

"TWAS

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

[Poems by Clement C. Moore, LL.D. 1844.]

WAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that ST. NICHOLAS Soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof-
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

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