“No! Margaret, no! It is because they have not the genius, that such small birds are let to sing. Let them but hear the true minstrel--let them but know that there is a muse, and how soon would the senseless twitter which they now tolerate be hushed in undisturbing silence. In the absence of better birds they bear with what they have. In the absence of the true muse they build no temple--they throng not to hear. Nay, even now, already, they look to the west for the minstrel and the muse--to these very woods. There is a tacit and universal feeling in the Atlantic country, that leads them to look with expectation to the Great West, for the genius whose song is to give us fame. 'When?' is the difficult--the only question. Ah! might I but say to them--'now'--the muse is already here!” He took her hand--she did not withhold it; but her look was subdued--the fires had left her eyes--her whole frame trembled with the recoil of those feelings--the relaxation of those nerves--the tension of which we have endeavored feebly to display. Her cheek was no longer flushed but pale; her lips trembled--her voice was low and faint--only a broken and imperfect murmur; and her glance was cast upon the ground. “You!” she exclaimed. “Yes, I! Have I not said I am not altogether what I seem? Ah! I may not yet say more. But I am not without power, Margaret, in other and more powerful regions. I too have had my triumphs; I too can boast that the minds of other men hang for judgment upon the utterance of mine.” She looked upward to his glance with a stranger expression of timidity than her features had before exhibited. The form of Stevens had insensibly risen in seeming elevation as he spoke, and the expression of his face was that of a more human pride. He continued:-- “My voice is one of authority in circles where yours would be one of equal attraction and command. I can not promise you an Italian devotion, Margaret; our people, though sufficiently enthusiastic, are too sensible to ridicule to let the heart and blood speak out with such freedom as they use in the warmer regions of the South: but the homage will be more intellectual, more steady, and the fame more enduring. You must let your song be heard--you must give me the sweet privilege of making it known to ears whose very listening is fame.” “Ah!” she said, “what you say makes me feel how foolishly I have spoken. What is my song? what have I done? what am I? what have I to hope? I have done nothing--I am nothing! I have suffered, like a child, a miserable vanity to delude me, and I have poured into the ears of a stranger those ravings which I have hitherto uttered to the hills and forests. You laugh at me now--you must.” The paleness on her cheek was succeeded by the deepest flush of crimson. She withdrew her hand from his grasp. “Laugh at you, Margaret! You have awakened my wonder. Struck with you when we first met--”