en all that concerns the fancies and the affections, are caught
up in a moment, as if the mind were nothing but a congeries of
instincts, and the sensibilities, with a thousand delicate antennae,
were ever on the grasp for prey.

Squire Owens was a planter of tolerable condition. He was a widower,
with these two lovely and lovable daughters--no more. But, bless you!
Mine was no calculating heart. Very far from it. Neither the wealth
of the father, nor the beauty of the girls, had yet prompted me to
think of marriage. Life was pleasant enough as it was. Why burden it?
Let well enough alone, say I. I had no wish to be happier. A wife
never entered my thoughts. What might have come of being often with
such damsels, there's no telling; but just then it was quite enough to
dance with Emmeline, and muse with Susannah, and--_vive la bagatelle_!

I need say nothing more of my dreams, since the reader sufficiently
knows the subject. I slept late that day, and only rose in time for
dinner, which, in that almost primitive region, took place at 12
o'clock, M. I had no appetite. A herring and soda water might have
sufficed, but these were matters foreign to the manor. I endured the
day and headache together, as well as I could, slept soundly that
night, with now the most ravishing fancies of Emmeline, and now the
pleasant dreams of Susannah, one or other of whom still usurped the
place of a bright particular star in my most capacious fancy. Truth
is, in those heyday days, my innocent heart never saw any terrors in
polygamy. I rose a new man, refreshed and very eager for a start. I
barely swallowed breakfast when Priam was at the door. While I was
about to mount, with thoughts filled with the meek beauties of
Susannah,--I was arrested by the approach of no less a person than
Ephraim Strong, the village blacksmith.

"You're guine to ride, I see."

"Yes."

"To Squire Owens, I reckon."

"Right."

"Well, keep a sharp look out on the road, for there's news come down
that the famous Archy Dargan has broke Hamilton jail."

"And who's Archy Dargan?"

"What! don't know Archy? Why, he's the madman that's been shut up
there, it's now guine on two years."

"A madman, eh?"

"Yes, and a mighty sevagerous one at that. He's the cunningest white
man going. Talks like a book, and knows how to get out of a
scrape,--is jest as sensible as any man for a time, but, sudden, he
takes a start, like a shying horse, and befor