No More Learning

Catharine had given him a magnificent triumph, and he had entertained
her in his Taurian Palace with a splendor such as even Russia had never
known before. Then he fell ill, though with high spirit he would not
yield to illness. He ate rich meats and drank rich wines and bore
himself as gallantly as ever. Yet all at once death came upon him while
he was traveling in the south of Russia. His carriage was stopped, a
rug was spread beneath a tree by the roadside, and there he died, in the
country which he had added to the realms of Russia.

The great empress who loved him mourned him deeply during the five years
of life that still remained to her. The names of other men for whom she
had imagined that she cared were nothing to her. But this one man lived
in her heart in death as he had done in life.

Many have written of Catharine as a great ruler, a wise diplomat, a
creature of heroic mold. Others have depicted her as a royal wanton and
have gathered together a mass of vicious tales, the gossip of the palace
kitchens, of the clubs, and of the barrack-rooms. But perhaps one finds
the chief interest of her story to lie in this--that besides being
empress and diplomat and a lover of pleasure she was, beyond all else,
at heart a woman.





MARIE ANTOINETTE AND COUNT FERSEN


The English-speaking world long ago accepted a conventional view of
Marie Antoinette. The eloquence of Edmund Burke in one brilliant passage
has fixed, probably for all time, an enduring picture of this unhappy
queen.

When we speak or think of her we speak and think first of all of a
dazzling and beautiful woman surrounded by the chivalry of France and
gleaming like a star in the most splendid court of Europe. And then
there comes to us the reverse of the picture. We see her despised,
insulted, and made the butt of brutal men and still more fiendish women;
until at last the hideous tumbrel conveys her to the guillotine, where
her head is severed from her body and her corpse is cast down into a
bloody pool.

In these two pictures our emotions are played upon in turn--admiration,
reverence, devotion, and then pity, indignation, and the shudderings of
horror.

Probably in our own country and in England this will remain the historic
Marie Antoinette. Whatever the impartial historian may write, he can
never induce the people at large to understand that this queen was far
from queenly, that the popular idea of her is almost wholly false, and
that both in her domestic life and as the greatest lady in France she
did much to bring on the terrors of that revolution which swept her to
the guillotine.

In the first place, it is mere fiction that represents Maria Antoinette
as having been physically beautiful. The painters and engravers have so
idealized her face as in most cases to have produced a purely imaginary
portrait.

She was born in Vienna, in 1755, the daughter of the Emperor Francis
and of that warrior-queen, Maria Theresa. She was a very German-looking
child. Lady Jackson describes her as having a long, thin face, small,
pig-like eyes, a pinched-up mouth, with the heavy Hapsburg lip, and
with a somewhat misshapen form, so that for years she had to be bandaged
tightly to give her a more natural figure.

At fourteen, when she was betrothed to the heir to the French throne,
she was a dumpy, mean-looking little creature, with no distinction
whatever, and with only her bright golden hair to make amends for her
many blemishes. At fifteen she was married and joined the Dauphin in
French territory.

We must recall for a moment the conditions which prevailed in France.
King Louis XV. was nearing his end. He was a man of the most shameless
life; yet he had concealed or gilded his infamies by an external dignity
and magnificence which, were very pleasing to his people. The French,
liked to think that their king was the most splendid monarch and the
greatest gentleman in Europe. The courtiers about him might be vile
beneath the surface, yet they were compelled to deport themselves with
the form and the etiquette that had become traditional in France. They
might be panders, or stock-jobbers, or sellers of political offices;
yet they must none the less have wit and grace and outward nobility of
manner.

There was also a tradition regarding the French queen. However loose
in character the other women of the court might be, she alone, like
Caesar's wife, must remain above suspicion. She must be purer than the
pure. No breath, of scandal must reach her or be directed against her.

In this way the French court, even under so dissolute a monarch as Louis
XV. , maintained its hold upon the loyalty of the people. Crowds came
every morning to view the king in his bed before he arose; the same
crowds watched him as he was dressed by the gentlemen of the bedchamber,
and as he breakfasted and went through all the functions which are
usually private. The King of France must be a great actor. He must
appear to his people as in reality a king-stately, dignified, and beyond
all other human beings in his remarkable presence.

When the Dauphin and Marie Antoinette came to the French court King
Louis XV. kept up in the case the same semblance of austerity. He
forbade these children to have their sleeping-apartments together. He
tried to teach them that if they were to govern as well as to reign they
must conform to the rigid etiquette of Paris and Versailles.

It proved a difficult task, however. The little German princess had no
natural dignity, though she came from a court where the very strictest
imperial discipline prevailed. Marie Antoinette found that she could
have her own way in many things, and she chose to enjoy life without
regard to ceremony. Her escapades at first would have been thought mild
enough had she not been a "daughter of France"; but they served to shock
the old French king, and likewise, perhaps even more, her own imperial
mother, Maria Theresa.

When a report of the young girl's conduct was brought to her the empress
was at first mute with indignation. Then she cried out:

"Can this girl be a child of mine? She surely must be a changeling! "

The Austrian ambassador to France was instructed to warn the Dauphiness
to be more discreet.

"Tell her," said Maria Theresa, "that she will lose her throne, and even
her life, unless she shows more prudence. "

But advice and remonstrance were of no avail. Perhaps they might have
been had her husband possessed a stronger character; but the young Louis
was little more fitted to be a king than was his wife to be a queen.
Dull of perception and indifferent to affairs of state, he had only two
interests that absorbed him. One was the love of hunting, and the other
was his desire to shut himself up in a sort of blacksmith shop, where he
could hammer away at the anvil, blow the bellows, and manufacture small
trifles of mechanical inventions. From this smudgy den he would emerge,
sooty and greasy, an object of distaste to his frivolous princess, with
her foamy laces and perfumes and pervasive daintiness.

It was hinted in many quarters, and it has been many times repeated,
that Louis was lacking in virility. Certainly he had no interest in the
society of women and was wholly continent. But this charge of physical
incapacity seems to have had no real foundation. It had been made
against some of his predecessors. It was afterward hurled at Napoleon
the Great, and also Napoleon the Little. In France, unless a royal
personage was openly licentious, he was almost sure to be jeered at by
the people as a weakling.

And so poor Louis XVI. , as he came to be, was treated with a mixture
of pity and contempt because he loved to hammer and mend locks in his
smithy or shoot game when he might have been caressing ladies who would
have been proud to have him choose them out.

On the other hand, because of this opinion regarding Louis, people
were the more suspicious of Marie Antoinette. Some of them, in coarse
language, criticized her assumed infidelities; others, with a polite
sneer, affected to defend her. But the result of it all was dangerous to
both, especially as France was already verging toward the deluge which
Louis XV. had cynically predicted would follow after him.

In fact, the end came sooner than any one had guessed. Louis XV. , who
had become hopelessly and helplessly infatuated with the low-born Jeanne
du Barry, was stricken down with smallpox of the most virulent type. For
many days he lay in his gorgeous bed. Courtiers crowded his sick-room
and the adjacent hall, longing for the moment when the breath would
leave his body. He had lived an evil life, and he was to die a loathsome
death; yet he had borne himself before men as a stately monarch. Though
his people had suffered in a thousand ways from his misgovernment, he
was still Louis the Well Beloved, and they blamed his ministers of state
for all the shocking wrongs that France had felt.

The abler men, and some of the leaders of the people, however, looked
forward to the accession of Louis XVI. He at least was frugal in his
habits and almost plebeian in his tastes, and seemed to be one who would
reduce the enormous taxes that had been levied upon France.

The moment came when the Well Beloved died. His death-room was fetid
with disease, and even the long corridors of the palace reeked with
infection, while the motley mob of men and women, clad in silks and
satins and glittering with jewels, hurried from the spot to pay their
homage to the new Louis, who was spoken of as "the Desired. " The body of
the late monarch was hastily thrown into a mass of quick-lime, and was
driven away in a humble wagon, without guards and with no salute,
save from a single veteran, who remembered the glories of Fontenoy and
discharged his musket as the royal corpse was carried through the palace
gates.

This was a critical moment in the history of France; but we have
to consider it only as a critical moment in the history of Marie
Antoinette. She was now queen. She had it in her power to restore to
the French court its old-time grandeur, and, so far as the queen was
concerned, its purity. Above all, being a foreigner, she should have
kept herself free from reproach and above every shadow of suspicion.

But here again the indifference of the king undoubtedly played a strange
part in her life. Had he borne himself as her lord and master she might
have respected him. Had he shown her the affection of a husband she
might have loved him. But he was neither imposing, nor, on the other
hand, was he alluring. She wrote very frankly about him in a letter to
the Count Orsini:

My tastes are not the same as those of the king, who cares only for
hunting and blacksmith work. You will admit that I should not show to
advantage in a forge. I could not appear there as Vulcan, and the part
of Venus might displease him even more than my tastes.

Thus on the one side is a woman in the first bloom of youth, ardent,
eager--and neglected. On the other side is her husband, whose
sluggishness may be judged by quoting from a diary which he kept during
the month in which he was married. Here is a part of it:

Sunday, 13--Left Versailles. Supper and slept at Compignee, at the house
of M. de Saint-Florentin.

Monday, 14--Interview with Mme. la Dauphine.

Tuesday, 15--Supped at La Muette. Slept at Versailles.

Wednesday, 16--My marriage. Apartment in the gallery. Royal banquet in
the Salle d'Opera.

Thursday, 17--Opera of "Perseus. "

Friday, 18--Stag-hunt. Met at La Belle Image. Took one.

Saturday, 19--Dress-ball in the Salle d'Opera. Fireworks.

Thursday, 31--I had an indigestion.

What might have been expected from a young girl placed as this queen was
placed? She was indeed an earlier Eugenie. The first was of royal
blood, the second was almost a plebeian; but each was headstrong,
pleasure-loving, and with no real domestic ties. As Mr. Kipling
expresses it--

The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady
Are sisters under their skins;

and so the Austrian woman of 1776 and the Spanish woman of 1856 found
amusement in very similar ways. They plunged into a sea of strange
frivolity, such as one finds to-day at the centers of high fashion.
Marie Antoinette bedecked herself with eccentric garments. On her head
she wore a hat styled a "what-is-it," towering many feet in height and
flaunting parti-colored plumes. Worse than all this, she refused to wear
corsets, and at some great functions she would appear in what looked
exactly like a bedroom gown.

She would even neglect the ordinary niceties of life. Her hands were not
well cared for. It was very difficult for the ladies in attendance
to persuade her to brush her teeth with regularity. Again, she would
persist in wearing her frilled and lace-trimmed petticoats long after
their dainty edges had been smirched and blackened.

Yet these things might have been counteracted had she gone no further.
Unfortunately, she did go further. She loved to dress at night like
a shop-girl and venture out into the world of Paris, where she was
frequently followed and recognized. Think of it--the Queen of France,
elbowed in dense crowds and seeking to attract the attention of common
soldiers!

Of course, almost every one put the worst construction upon this,
and after a time upon everything she did. When she took a fancy for
constructing labyrinths and secret passages in the palace, all Paris
vowed that she was planning means by which her various lovers might
enter without observation. The hidden printing-presses of Paris swarmed
with gross lampoons about this reckless girl; and, although there
was little truth in what they said, there was enough to cloud her
reputation. When she fell ill with the measles she was attended in her
sick-chamber by four gentlemen of the court. The king was forbidden to
enter lest he might catch the childish disorder.

The apathy of the king, indeed, drove her into many a folly. After four
years of marriage, as Mrs. Mayne records, he had only reached the point
of giving her a chilly kiss. The fact that she had no children became
a serious matter. Her brother, the Emperor Joseph of Austria, when he
visited Paris, ventured to speak to the king upon the subject. Even
the Austrian ambassador had thrown out hints that the house of Bourbon
needed direct heirs. Louis grunted and said little, but he must have
known how good was the advice.

It was at about this time when there came to the French court a young
Swede named Axel de Fersen, who bore the title of count, but who was
received less for his rank than for his winning manner, his knightly
bearing, and his handsome, sympathetic face. Romantic in spirit, he
threw himself at once into a silent inner worship of Marie Antoinette,
who had for him a singular attraction. Wherever he could meet her they
met. To her growing cynicism this breath of pure yet ardent affection
was very grateful. It came as something fresh and sweet into the
feverish life she led.

Other men had had the audacity to woo her--among them Duc de Lauzun,
whose complicity in the famous affair of the diamond necklace afterward
cast her, though innocent, into ruin; the Duc de Biron; and the Baron
de Besenval, who had obtained much influence over her, which he used for
the most evil purposes. Besenval tainted her mind by persuading her to
read indecent books, in the hope that at last she would become his prey.

But none of these men ever meant to Marie Antoinette what Fersen meant.
Though less than twenty years of age, he maintained the reserve of a
great gentleman, and never forced himself upon her notice. Yet their
first acquaintance had occurred in such a way as to give to it a touch
of intimacy. He had gone to a masked ball, and there had chosen for his
partner a lady whose face was quite concealed. Something drew the two
together. The gaiety of the woman and the chivalry of the man blended
most harmoniously. It was only afterward that he discovered that his
chance partner was the first lady in France. She kept his memory in her
mind; for some time later, when he was at a royal drawing-room and she
heard his voice, she exclaimed:

"Ah, an old acquaintance! "

From this time Fersen was among those who were most intimately favored
by the queen. He had the privilege of attending her private receptions
at the palace of the Trianon, and was a conspicuous figure at the feasts
given in the queen's honor by the Princess de Lamballe, a beautiful girl
whose head was destined afterward to be severed from her body and borne
upon a bloody pike through the streets of Paris. But as yet the deluge
had not arrived and the great and noble still danced upon the brink of a
volcano.

Fersen grew more and more infatuated, nor could he quite conceal his
feelings. The queen, in her turn, was neither frightened nor indignant.
His passion, so profound and yet so respectful, deeply moved her. Then
came a time when the truth was made clear to both of them. Fersen was
near her while she was singing to the harpsichord, and "she was betrayed
by her own music into an avowal which song made easy. " She forgot that
she was Queen of France. She only felt that her womanhood had been
starved and slighted, and that here was a noble-minded lover of whom she
could be proud.

Some time after this announcement was officially made of the approaching
accouchement of the queen. It was impossible that malicious tongues
should be silent. The king's brother, the Comte de Provence, who hated
the queen, just as the Bonapartes afterward hated Josephine, did his
best to besmirch her reputation. He had, indeed, the extraordinary
insolence to do so at a time when one would suppose that the vilest
of men would remain silent. The child proved to be a princess, and she
afterward received the title of Duchesse d'Angouleme. The King of Spain
asked to be her godfather at the christening, which was to be held in
the cathedral of Notre Dame. The Spanish king was not present in person,
but asked the Comte de Provence to act as his proxy.

On the appointed day the royal party proceeded to the cathedral, and the
Comte de Provence presented the little child at the baptismal font. The
grand almoner, who presided, asked;

"What name shall be given to this child? "

The Comte de Provence answered in a sneering tone:

"Oh, we don't begin with that. The first thing to find out is who the
father and the mother are! "

These words, spoken at such a place and such a time, and with a strongly
sardonic ring, set all Paris gossiping. It was a thinly veiled innuendo
that the father of the child was not the King of France. Those about the
court immediately began to look at Fersen with significant smiles. The
queen would gladly have kept him near her; but Fersen cared even more
for her good name than for his love of her. It would have been so
easy to remain in the full enjoyment of his conquest; but he was too
chivalrous for that, or, rather, he knew that the various ambassadors
in Paris had told their respective governments of the rising scandal.
In fact, the following secret despatch was sent to the King of Sweden by
his envoy:

I must confide to your majesty that the young Count Fersen has been so
well received by the queen that various persons have taken it amiss. I
own that I am sure that she has a liking for him. I have seen proofs of
it too certain to be doubted. During the last few days the queen has not
taken her eyes off him, and as she gazed they were full of tears. I beg
your majesty to keep their secret to yourself.

The queen wept because Fersen had resolved to leave her lest she should
be exposed to further gossip. If he left her without any apparent
reason, the gossip would only be the more intense. Therefore he decided
to join the French troops who were going to America to fight under
Lafayette. A brilliant but dissolute duchess taunted him when the news
became known.

"How is this? " said she. "Do you forsake your conquest? "

But, "lying like a gentleman," Fersen answered, quietly:

"Had I made a conquest I should not forsake it. I go away free, and,
unfortunately, without leaving any regret. "

Nothing could have been more chivalrous than the pains which Fersen took
to shield the reputation of the queen. He even allowed it to be supposed
that he was planning a marriage with a rich young Swedish woman who
had been naturalized in England.
As a matter of fact, he departed for
America, and not very long afterward the young woman in question married
an Englishman.

Fersen served in America for a time, returning, however, at the end of
three years. He was one of the original Cincinnati, being admitted
to the order by Washington himself. When he returned to France he was
received with high honors and was made colonel of the royal Swedish
regiment.

The dangers threatening Louis and his court, which were now gigantic and
appalling, forbade him to forsake the queen. By her side he did what
he could to check the revolution; and, failing this, he helped her to
maintain an imperial dignity of manner which she might otherwise have
lacked. He faced the bellowing mob which surrounded the Tuileries.
Lafayette tried to make the National Guard obey his orders, but he was
jeered at for his pains. Violent epithets were hurled at the king. The
least insulting name which they could give him was "a fat pig. " As for
the queen, the most filthy phrases were showered upon her by the men,
and even more so by the women, who swarmed out of the slums and sought
her life.

At last, in 1791, it was decided that the king and the queen and their
children, of whom they now had three, should endeavor to escape from
Paris. Fersen planned their flight, but it proved to be a failure. Every
one remembers how they were discovered and halted at Varennes. The royal
party was escorted back to Paris by the mob, which chanted with insolent
additions:

"We've brought back the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy!
Now we shall have bread! "

Against the savage fury which soon animated the French a foreigner like
Fersen could do very little; but he seems to have endeavored, night and
day, to serve the woman whom he loved. His efforts have been described
by Grandat; but they were of no avail. The king and queen were
practically made prisoners. Their eldest son died. They went through
horrors that were stimulated by the wretch Hebert, at the head of his
so-called Madmen (Enrages). The king was executed in January, 1792. The
queen dragged out a brief existence in a prison where she was for ever
under the eyes of human brutes, who guarded her and watched her and
jeered at her at times when even men would be sensitive. Then, at last,
she mounted the scaffold, and her head, with its shining hair, fell into
the bloody basket.

Marie Antoinette shows many contradictions in her character. As a young
girl she was petulant and silly and almost unseemly in her actions. As
a queen, with waning power, she took on a dignity which recalled the
dignity of her imperial mother. At first a flirt, she fell deeply in
love when she met a man who was worthy of that love. She lived for most
part like a mere cocotte. She died every inch a queen.

One finds a curious resemblance between the fate of Marie Antoinette and
that of her gallant lover, who outlived her for nearly twenty years. She
died amid the shrieks and execrations of a maddened populace in Paris;
he was practically torn in pieces by a mob in the streets of Stockholm.
The day of his death was the anniversary of the flight to Varennes. To
the last moment of his existence he remained faithful to the memory of
the royal woman who had given herself so utterly to him.





THE STORY OF AARON BURR


There will come a time when the name of Aaron Burr will be cleared from
the prejudice which now surrounds it, when he will stand in the public
estimation side by side with Alexander Hamilton, whom he shot in a duel
in 1804, but whom in many respects he curiously resembled. When the
white light of history shall have searched them both they will appear as
two remarkable men, each having his own undoubted faults and at the same
time his equally undoubted virtues.

Burr and Hamilton were born within a year of each other--Burr being
a grandson of Jonathan Edwards, and Alexander Hamilton being the
illegitimate son of a Scottish merchant in the West Indies. Each of them
was short in stature, keen of intellect, of great physical endurance,
courage, and impressive personality. Each as a young man served on
the staff of Washington during the Revolutionary War, and each of them
quarreled with him, though in a different way.

On one occasion Burr was quite unjustly suspected by Washington of
looking over the latter's shoulder while he was writing. "Washington
leaped to his feet with the exclamation:

"How dare you, Colonel Burr? "

Burr's eyes flashed fire at the question, and he retorted, haughtily:

"Colonel Burr DARE do anything. "

This, however, was the end of their altercation The cause of Hamilton's
difference with his chief is not known, but it was a much more serious
quarrel; so that the young officer left his staff position in a fury and
took no part in the war until the end, when he was present at the battle
of Yorktown.

Burr, on the other hand, helped Montgomery to storm the heights of
Quebec, and nearly reached the upper citadel when his commander was
shot dead and the Americans retreated. In all this confusion Burr showed
himself a man of mettle. The slain Montgomery was six feet high, but
Burr carried his body away with wonderful strength amid a shower of
musket-balls and grape-shot.

Hamilton had no belief in the American Constitution, which he called "a
shattered, feeble thing. " He could never obtain an elective office,
and he would have preferred to see the United States transformed into
a kingdom. Washington's magnanimity and clear-sightedness made Hamilton
Secretary of the Treasury. Burr, on the other hand, continued his
military service until the war was ended, routing the enemy at
Hackensack, enduring the horrors of Valley Forge, commanding a brigade
at the battle of Monmouth, and heading the defense of the city of New
Haven. He was also attorney-general of New York, was elected to the
United States Senate, was tied with Jefferson for the Presidency, and
then became Vice-President.

Both Hamilton and Burr were effective speakers; but, while Hamilton was
wordy and diffuse, Burr spoke always to the point, with clear and cogent
reasoning. Both were lavish spenders of money, and both were engaged
in duels before the fatal one in which Hamilton fell. Both believed in
dueling as the only way of settling an affair of honor. Neither of them
was averse to love affairs, though it may be said that Hamilton sought
women, while Burr was rather sought by women. When Secretary of the
Treasury, Hamilton was obliged to confess an adulterous amour in order
to save himself from the charge of corrupt practices in public office.
So long as Burr's wife lived he was a devoted, faithful husband to
her. Hamilton was obliged to confess his illicit acts while his wife,
formerly Miss Elizabeth Schuyler, was living. She spent her later years
in buying and destroying the compromising documents which her husband
had published for his countrymen to read.

The most extraordinary thing about Aaron Burr was the magnetic quality
that was felt by every one who approached him. The roots of this
penetrated down into a deep vitality. He was always young, always alert,
polished in manner, courageous with that sort of courage which does not
even recognize the presence of danger, charming in conversation, and
able to adapt it to men or women of any age whatever. His hair was still
dark in his eightieth year. His step was still elastic, his motions were
still as spontaneous and energetic, as those of a youth.

So it was that every one who knew him experienced his fascination. The
rough troops whom he led through the Canadian swamps felt the iron hand
of his discipline; yet they were devoted to him, since he shared all
their toils, faced all their dangers, and ate with them the scraps of
hide which they gnawed to keep the breath of life in their shrunken
bodies.

Burr's discipline was indeed very strict, so that at first raw recruits
rebelled against it. On one occasion the men of an untrained company
resented it so bitterly that they decided to shoot Colonel Burr as he
paraded them for roll-call that evening. Burr somehow got word of it and
contrived to have all the cartridges drawn from their muskets. When the
time for the roll-call came one of the malcontents leaped from the front
line and leveled his weapon at Burr.

"Now is the time, boys! " he shouted.

Like lightning Burr's sword flashed from its scabbard with such a
vigorous stroke as to cut the man's arm completely off and partly to
cleave the musket.

"Take your place in the ranks," said Burr.

The mutineer obeyed, dripping with blood. A month later every man
in that company was devoted to his commander. They had learned that
discipline was the surest source of safety.

But with this high spirit and readiness to fight Burr had a most
pleasing way of meeting every one who came to him. When he was arrested
in the Western forests, charged with high treason, the sound of his
voice won from jury after jury verdicts of acquittal. Often the sheriffs
would not arrest him. One grand jury not merely exonerated him from all
public misdemeanors, but brought in a strong presentment against the
officers of the government for molesting him.

It was the same everywhere. Burr made friends and devoted allies among
all sorts of men. During his stay in France, England, Germany, and
Sweden he interested such men as Charles Lamb, Jeremy Bentham, Sir
Walter Scott, Goethe, and Heeren. They found his mind able to meet
with theirs on equal terms. Burr, indeed, had graduated as a youth
with honors from Princeton, and had continued his studies there after
graduation, which was then a most unusual thing to do. But, of course,
he learned most from his contact with men and women of the world.

Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, in The Minister's Wooing, has given what is
probably an exact likeness of Aaron Burr, with his brilliant gifts and
some of his defects. It is strong testimony to the character of Burr
that Mrs. Stowe set out to paint him as a villain; but before she had
written long she felt his fascination and made her readers, in their
own despite, admirers of this remarkable man. There are many parallels,
indeed, between him and Napoleon--in the quickness of his intellect, the
ready use of his resources, and his power over men, while he was more
than Napoleon in his delightful gift of conversation and the easy play
of his cultured mind.

Those who are full of charm are willing also to be charmed. All his life
Burr was abstemious in food and drink. His tastes were most refined. It
is difficult to believe that such a man could have been an unmitigated
profligate.

In his twentieth year there seems to have begun the first of the
romances that run through the story of his long career. Perhaps one
ought not to call it the first romance, for at eighteen, while he was
studying law at Litchfield, a girl, whose name has been suppressed, made
an open avowal of love for him. Almost at the same time an heiress with
a large fortune would have married him had he been willing to accept her
hand. But at this period he was only a boy and did not take such things
seriously.

Two years later, after Burr had seen hard service at Quebec and on
Manhattan Island, his name was associated with that of a very beautiful
girl named Margaret Moncrieffe. She was the daughter of a British major,
but in some way she had been captured while within the American lines.
Her captivity was regarded as little more than a joke; but while she was
thus a prisoner she saw a great deal of Burr. For several months they
were comrades, after which General Putnam sent her with his compliments
to her father.

Margaret Moncrieffe had a most emotional nature. There can be no doubt
that she deeply loved the handsome young American officer, whom she
never saw again. It is doubtful how far their intimacy was carried.
Later she married a Mr. Coghlan. After reaching middle life she wrote
of Burr in a way which shows that neither years nor the obligations of
marriage could make her forget that young soldier, whom she speaks of
as "the conqueror of her soul. " In the rather florid style of those days
the once youthful Margaret Moncrieffe expresses herself as follows:

Oh, may these pages one day meet the eye of him who subdued my virgin
heart, whom the immutable, unerring laws of nature had pointed out for
my husband, but whose sacred decree the barbarous customs of society
fatally violated!

Commenting on this paragraph, Mr. H. C. Merwin justly remarks that,
whatever may have been Burr's conduct toward Margaret Moncrieffe, the
lady herself, who was the person chiefly concerned, had no complaint
to make of it. It certainly was no very serious affair, since in the
following year Burr met a lady who, while she lived, was the only woman
for whom he ever really cared.

This was Theodosia Prevost, the wife of a major in the British army.
Burr met her first in 1777, while she was living with her sister in
Westchester County. Burr's command was fifteen miles across the river,
but distance and danger made no difference to him. He used to mount a
swift horse, inspect his sentinels and outposts, and then gallop to the
Hudson, where a barge rowed by six soldiers awaited him. The barge was
well supplied with buffalo-skins, upon which the horse was thrown with
his legs bound, and then half an hour's rowing brought them to the
other side. There Burr resumed his horse, galloped to the house of Mrs.
Prevost, and, after spending a few hours with her, returned in the same
way.

Mrs. Prevost was by no means beautiful, but she had an attractiveness
of her own. She was well educated and possessed charming manners, with
a disposition both gentle and affectionate. Her husband died soon after
the beginning of the war, and then Burr married her. No more ideal
family life could be conceived than his, and the letters which passed
between the two are full of adoration. Thus she wrote to him:

Tell me, why do I grow every day more tenacious of your regard? Is it
because each revolving day proves you more deserving?

And thus Burr answered her:

Continue to multiply your letters to me. They are all my solace. The
last six are constantly within my reach. I read them once a day at
least. Write me all that I have asked, and a hundred things which I have
not.

When it is remembered that these letters were written after nine years
of marriage it is hard to believe all the evil things that have been
said of Burr.

His wife died in 1794, and he then gave a double affection to his
daughter Theodosia, whose beauty and accomplishments were known
throughout the country. Burr took the greatest pains in her education,
and believed that she should be trained, as he had been, to be brave,
industrious, and patient. He himself, who has been described as a
voluptuary, delighted in the endurance of cold and heat and of severe
labor.

After his death one of his younger admirers was asked what Burr had done
for him. The reply was characteristic.

"He made me iron," was the answer.

No father ever gave more attention to his daughter's welfare. As to
Theodosia's studies he was very strict, making her read Greek and Latin
every day, with drawing and music and history, in addition to French.
Not long before her marriage to Joseph Allston, of South Carolina, Burr
wrote to her:

I really think, my dear Theo, that you will be very soon beyond all
verbal criticism, and that my whole attention will be presently directed
to the improvement of your style.

Theodosia Burr married into a family of good old English stock, where
riches were abundant, and high character was regarded as the best of
all possessions. Every one has heard of the mysterious tragedy which is
associated with her history. In 1812, when her husband had been elected
Governor of his state, her only child--a sturdy boy of eleven--died, and
Theodosia's health was shattered by her sorrow. In the same year Burr
returned from a sojourn in Europe, and his loving daughter embarked from
Charleston on a schooner, the Patriot, to meet her father in New
York. When Burr arrived he was met by a letter which told him that his
grandson was dead and that Theodosia was coming to him.

Weeks sped by, and no news was heard of the ill-fated Patriot. At last
it became evident that she must have gone down or in some other way have
been lost. Burr and Governor Allston wrote to each other letter after
letter, of which each one seems to surpass the agony of the other. At
last all hope was given up. Governor Allston died soon after of a broken
heart; but Burr, as became a Stoic, acted otherwise.

He concealed everything that reminded him of Theodosia. He never spoke
of his lost daughter. His grief was too deep-seated and too terrible for
speech. Only once did he ever allude to her, and this was in a letter
written to an afflicted friend, which contained the words:

Ever since the event which separated me from mankind I have been able
neither to give nor to receive consolation.

In time the crew of a pirate vessel was captured and sentenced to be
hanged. One of the men, who seemed to be less brutal than the rest,
told how, in 1812, they had captured a schooner, and, after their usual
practice, had compelled the passengers to walk the plank. All hesitated
and showed cowardice, except only one--a beautiful woman whose eyes were
as bright and whose bearing was as unconcerned as if she were safe on
shore. She quickly led the way, and, mounting the plank with a certain
scorn of death, said to the others:

"Come, I will show you how to die. "

It has always been supposed that this intrepid girl may have been
Theodosia Allston. If so, she only acted as her father would have done
and in strict accordance with his teachings.

This resolute courage, this stern joy in danger, this perfect
equanimity, made Burr especially attractive to women, who love courage,
the more so when it is coupled with gentleness and generosity.

Perhaps no man in our country has been so vehemently accused regarding
his relations with the other sex. The most improbable stories were told
about him, even by his friends. As to his enemies, they took boundless
pains to paint him in the blackest colors. According to them, no woman
was safe from his intrigues. He was a perfect devil in leading them
astray and then casting them aside.

Thus one Matthew L. Davis, in whom Burr had confided as a friend, wrote
of him long afterward a most unjust account--unjust because we have
proofs that it was false in the intensity of its abuse. Davis wrote:

It is truly surprising how any individual could become so eminent as a
soldier, as a statesman, and as a professional man who devoted so much
time to the other sex as was devoted by Colonel Burr. For more than
half a century of his life they seemed to absorb his whole thought.
His intrigues were without number; the sacred bonds of friendship were
unhesitatingly violated when they operated as barriers to the indulgence
of his passions. In this particular Burr appears to have been unfeeling
and heartless.

It is impossible to believe that the Spartan Burr, whose life was one of
incessant labor and whose kindliness toward every one was so well known,
should have deserved a commentary like this. The charge of immorality
is so easily made and so difficult of disproof that it has been flung
promiscuously at all the great men of history, including, in our own
country, Washington and Jefferson as well as Burr. In England, when
Gladstone was more than seventy years of age, he once stopped to ask a
question of a woman in the street. Within twenty-four hours the London
clubs were humming with a sort of demoniac glee over the story that
this aged and austere old gentleman was not above seeking common street
amours.

And so with Aaron Burr to a great extent. That he was a man of strict
morality it would be absurd to maintain. That he was a reckless and
licentious profligate would be almost equally untrue. Mr. H. O. Merwin
has very truly said:

Part of Burr's reputation for profligacy was due, no doubt, to that
vanity respecting women of which Davis himself speaks. He never refused
to accept the parentage of a child.

"Why do you allow this woman to saddle you with her child when you KNOW
you are not the father of it? " said a friend to him a few months before
his death.

"Sir," he replied, "when a lady does me the honor to name me the father
of her child I trust I shall always be too gallant to show myself
ungrateful for the favor. "

There are two curious legends relating to Aaron Burr. They serve to show
that his reputation became such that he could not enjoy the society of a
woman without having her regarded as his mistress.

When he was United States Senator from New York he lived in Philadelphia
at the lodging-house of a Mrs. Payne, whose daughter, Dorothy Todd, was
the very youthful widow of an officer. This young woman was rather
free in her manners, and Burr was very responsive in his. At the time,
however, nothing was thought of it; but presently Burr brought to the
house the serious and somewhat pedantic James Madison and introduced him
to the hoyden.

Madison was then forty-seven years of age, a stranger to society, but
gradually rising to a prominent position in politics--"the great little
Madison," as Burr rather lightly called him. Before very long he had
proposed marriage to the young widow. She hesitated, and some one
referred the matter to President Washington.