culars from Mrs. Croft, an aged lady in Middle Street,
who has resided in Boston during the last twenty years. Her narration
is this: The last summer a person, just at twilight, stopped at the
door of the late Mrs. Rugg. Mrs. Croft, on coming to the door,
perceived a stranger, with a child by his side, in an old,
weather-beaten carriage, with a black horse. The stranger asked for
Mrs. Rugg, and was informed that Mrs. Rugg had died, at a good old
age, more than twenty years before that time. The stranger replied,
"How can you deceive me so? do ask Mrs. Rugg to step to the door."
"Sir, I assure you Mrs. Rugg has not lived here these nineteen years;
no one lives here but myself, and my name is Betsey Croft." The
stranger paused, and looked up and down the street and said, "Though
the painting is rather faded, this looks like my house." "Yes," said
the child, "that is the stone before the door that I used to sit on to
eat my bread and milk." "But," said the stranger, "it seems to be on
the wrong side of the street. Indeed, everything here seems to be
misplaced. The streets are all changed, the people are all changed,
the town seems changed, and, what is strangest of all, Catharine Rugg
has deserted her husband and child." "Pray," said the stranger, "has
John Foy come home from sea? He went a long voyage; he is my kinsman.
If I could see him, he could give me some account of Mrs. Rugg."
"Sir," said Mrs. Croft, "I never heard of John Foy. Where did he
live?" "Just above here, in Orange-Tree Lane." "There is no such place
in this neighbourhood." "What do you tell me! Are the streets gone?
Orange-Tree 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 mi