keep mine in my head, sir, or perhaps I should say, in
my heart. I have committed to memory the greater part of the epic."

"Is it possible?"

To Burr's consternation, the host seemed desirous of proving that it
was possible, by reciting the _Iliad_.

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