There are cold hearts also in such a crowd,—worldly men, who come to gather news. What care they for affection’s warm greeting, or the throb of sympathy? What know they of a sister’s love; aye! or of that deeper love which only exists in the breast of woman! which carried her to Pilate’s hall, to Calvary’s scene of blood, and to Joseph’s tomb? The price of cotton, of tobacco, bread-stuffs, rise of fancy stocks, election of a favorite candidate, or the death of a rich relative, are sweeter than angel whispers to their ears, and _a rise of two pence on corn_ is enough to fill a whole exchange with raptures. There were but few such worldlings on the landing place of Quinapiack on the Sabbath eve when the gallant vessel of the pilgrims approached the shore. Silence reigned upon the landing, and a dreadful stillness hung over the approaching ship. Gallantly she entered the harbor, and the boldest on shore trembled for her temerity in carrying such a press of canvass. Not a sail had she handed—not a man was aloft. Her course varied not—neither did the water ripple before her bows. All was now anxiety. A hail went forth from the land,—a moment of breathless curiosity passed, but no answer came. Another hail was treated with the same neglect. At length Mr. Davenport hailed the stranger. As the words slowly burst from the brazen trumpet, a bright ray of sunlight gleamed full upon the vessel. Her top-masts now faded into air—then the sails and rigging down to her courses—her ensign next rolled away upon the breeze, and when the East Rock sent back the last echo of the trumpet, the pilgrims’ ship had vanished away. A similar ship, though of much smaller dimensions, now appeared upon a heavy cloud that hung over Long Island, and faded away with the brightness of the day. “It is the promised sign,” said Mr. Davenport. “Our friends are lost at sea,” cried the multitude. “Eugene is drowned!” screamed Grace Gilman, and the crowd dispersed to weep alone. As the throng moved away from the water side, a maniac girl who had been gathering wild flowers upon the East Rock, came running in from the forest way, chaunting the following words to a plaintive air:— She leaves the port with swelling sails, And gaudy streamer flaunting free, She woos the gentle western gales, And takes her pathway o’er the sea. The vales go down where roses bloom— The hill tops follow green and fair; The lofty beacon sinks in gloom, And purpled mountains hang in air. Along she speeds with snowy wings, Around her breaks the foaming deep; The tempest thro’ her rigging sings, And weary eyes their vigils keep. Loud thunders rattle on the ear; Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace, The boldest bosom sinks in fear, While death stands watching face to face.