Blennerhassett kept hexameters flowing several minutes, marking quantity with tongue and moving finger. "What a pity we lack spondees, in English, colonel. Do you write verse, sir?" "Not I. I suppose you do?" "No; not since leaving college. I admire poetry, but I could never master the meters. It is different with Margaret--I mean my wife. She writes correctly. She is a born poet. You recall Horace, '_poeta nascitur_.' I confine my pen to the composition of music and political essays." "I have heard of your political writings, but not of your musical compositions," said Burr; the last half of the speech being true. "Nor have I had the good fortune to read the poems of Madam Blennerhassett. Are they in print?" "Some have been published, fugitively; the most of them remain in manuscript." "Sir, you could not give me a greater pleasure than the perusal of those poems would afford." The near-sighted sage unlocked a rosewood cabinet and took out three leaves of tinted paper which he gave to Burr. On the pages were written, in fine hand, several stanzas under the title, "Indian Summer." "Read this at your leisure and give me your opinion." Burr, bowing, took the manuscript, and the complaisant husband, pointing to a pile of sheet music, spoke on. "This is of my own composition. Do you play the violoncello?" Burr shook his head. "Perhaps you prefer the violin or the flute?" "No, I cannot play any instrument--not even a jewsharp." "Not even that?" murmured the other, with a sigh of infinite regret. "I am fond of the violincello, the viola da gamba of medieval times. Properly it is not a viol--not a base viol as some suppose, but a violin of extra large size. That is what it is." While imparting this knowledge, the speaker drew from a baize bag the instrument, and tuned it. He placed an open music book upon a rest, and proceeded to entertain his audience of one. He played and played and played. The best way to please such an artist is to humor the illusion that his exertions give pleasure. No human performance can last forever--not even a concert. A string broke, and the musician, putting his 'cello aside with a sigh, suffered the conversation to run in a new channel opened by Burr. "Bravo! You play delightfully. There is magic in your fingers. Beware of such skill; it may charm yourself to your injury. You have read everything; you remember Bunyan's episode of the Enchanted Ground. This island reminds me of that valley of rest. Is it possible you have forgotten the world since abandoning public affairs?" "No, sir; no. I sought retirement for many reasons, but I am a cosmopolitan. I care for the welfare of the race. I may describe myself as a philanthropist, a humanitarian. I know Europe, I am learning America. My local attachments are not strong, though my principles are like iron. I left my native country to seek a larger freedom in the United States."