Rushing into the street, therefore, he hailed a passing hack, and ordered the driver to take him, as quickly as possible, to the Plymouth Rock.

When the carriage stopped, and the man opened the door, Mr. P. rubbed his eyes, for he had fallen into a doze, on the way, and sprang hastily out.

But what a sight met his gaze!

Before him was the hack, covered with mud and dust, and the horses in a position indicating utter exhaustion:  to his right lay a huge unsymmetrical stone, while behind him rolled the heaving waters of Cape Cod bay!  The man had mistaken his directions, and had driven him to JOHN CARVER’S old Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, instead of JAMES FISK Jr.’s steamboat at Pier 28, North River.

“There’s the rock, yer honor,” said the man, pointing to the mis-shapen stone, “and an awful time I’ve had a drivin’ yer honor to it.”

“How long have you been, coming here?” asked the astounded Mr. P.

“Nigh on to three days, yer honor, and I drove as fast as I could, hopin’ to get back by the Sunday in time for the Centhral Park, but I had to stop sometimes for feed and wather, and it’s no use me whippin’ up afther all, for sorra the good them horses will be for the Centhral Park on the Sunday.”

“And how much do I owe you for all this?” asked Mr. P.

“Well, sir,” said the man, “I won’t charge your honor nothin’ for the feed and my victuals, for I’d had to have found them if yer hadn’t a hired me; and I’ll only charge ye three dollars a hour, for sure yer honor never give me the least thruble, slapeing there as swate as an infant all the time, and that’ll be jist two hundred and four dollars, and if yet honor could give me a thrifle besides to drink yer health, I’d be obliged to yer honor.”

Mr. P. gazed alternately at the man, the carriage, the horses, and the rock, and then he paid the driver two hundred and four dollars and twenty-five cents.  The worthy Milesian pocketed the money and declared his intention of proceeding to Boston, which was only about forty miles away, and taking the railroad for New York

“If I don’t, ye see, yer honor, I’ll never get back in time for the Sunday; and the horses will be restin’ in the cars.”

As the man made his preparations and departed, Mr. P. stood and watched him until he slowly faded out of sight.

When he had entirely disappeared, Mr. P. sat down upon the rock and reflected.  Now that he was here, what had he best do?  He had never seen the rock before, and as it struck him that possibly some of his patrons might be in the same unfortunate condition, he concluded that he would take a few sketches of it for their benefit.  But he did not succeed very well.  The first drawing he made had a strange appearance.  It looked more like an old woman tied to a post, and surrounded by what seemed to be flames, than anything else.  This surely was not a correct view of this famous rock, and so Mr. P. commenced another sketch.  This, however, looked so much like a man with a broad-brimmed hat, hanging by his neck to a rope, that he concluded to try again.