bow.

For ever, _vive_, my dear Public, and, until we meet again (which,
whether we ever do, will depend upon how we are pleased with each
other), _vale_.

THE AUTHOR.




CHAPTER I.

At last the golden orientall gate
Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre,
And Phoebus fresh as brydegrome to his mate,
Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre,
And hurld his glistening beams through gloomy ayre.

SPENSER'S FAERY QUEENE.

It was a lovely morning in the autumn of the year of grace 18--. The
beams of the sun had not yet fallen upon the light veil of mist that
hovered over the tranquil bosom of the river Severn, and rose and
gathered itself into folds, as if preparing for departure at the
approach of an enemy it were in vain to resist. With a murmur, so soft
it was almost imperceptible, glided the stream, blue as the heaven it
mirrored, between banks now green and gently shelving away, crowned
with a growth of oak, hickory, pine, hemlock and savin, now rising
into irregular masses of grey rocks, overgrown with moss, with here