are so many thrilling
incidents in the pathway of human life, calculated to awaken the most
refined emotions, and stir the deepest currents of the human soul?
Would the painter, as he raised his brush to give the last finishing
touch to his picture, draw his colors from fancy? Would he not rather
imitate the color of the natural rose, copy the forest green, the
azure of the sky, or the brilliant hues of the rainbow, as it spans
the heavens with its bow of promise?

Fiction may weave her intricate labyrinths and enchain the fancy by
wandering in mazy circuits, and weaving her mystic web; but truth will
stand in all its primitive lustre, when the foundations of this earth
have passed away. Then let me record the truth in preference to
fiction.

The clouds hung in heavy dense masses, during the day, while a damp
chilly wind from the north-east betokened an uncomfortable winter
rain. It was winter, although the bridge of ice that had been formed
over the Blackstone was broken up, and floated on its surface in huge
masses, as it hurried rapidly along, to empty them into the waters of
the Narragansett Bay, reminding the thoughtful observer of the stream
of time, bearing away its vast multitudes to the ocean of eternity.

Here, where now stands our beautiful village, a few short years since
stood the dense forest--the growth of centuries. Here the rude Indian
roamed, in native wildness, hunted his prey, built his council fire,
or smoked his pipe of peace. Here, where now stands the temple of the
living God, with its heaven directed spire, perchance smoked the
blood of some poor victim, as it was offered upon the altar of savage
brutality; or the rude wigwam stood.

But all these things have passed, as a tale that is told. They have
floated down the current of time, even like the broken masses of ice
that are borne so rapidly down our river, and have passed into the
broad ocean of eternity.

On the banks of that stream, where the pale face first crossed to hold
a council with his red brethren, stands a flourishing village, reared
by the hand of civilization, and offering many facilities to the
industry of its virtuous and well disposed inhabitants. It would be
pleasant to tell a tale of the times of old, of the deeds of the days
of other years, of the Indian that paddled his light canoe upon our
river; but this is not the purport of the story.

It is to scan the different scenes as they lay spread out before
us, upon th