If Washington and Lincoln be excepted, it is doubtful if an American was ever more deeply mourned. Had he been President, he could not have been buried with greater pomp, or with manifestations of more profound sorrow. Although he had been hated by his enemies, and at times misunderstood by some of his friends, at his death the people, without division, instantly recognised that his life had been passionately devoted to his country, and they paid him the tribute only accorded the memory of a most illustrious patriot. Such demonstrations were not confined to New York. The sorrow became national; speeches, sermons, and poems without number, were composed in his honour; in every State, some county or town received his name; wherever an American lived, an expression of sympathy found record. It was the consensus of opinion that the life which began in January, 1757 and ended in July, 1804, held in the compass of its forty-seven years the epitome of what America meant for Americans in the days of its greatest peril and its greatest glory. "Had he lived twenty years longer," said Chancellor Kent, "I have very little doubt he would have rivalled Socrates or Bacon, or any other of the sages of ancient or modern times, in researches after truth and in benevolence to mankind. The active and profound statesman, the learned and eloquent lawyer, would probably have disappeared in a great degree before the character of the sage and philosopher, instructing mankind by his wisdom, and elevating the country by his example."[149]
Burr became a name of horror.[150] When Hamilton's death was announced there came a cry of execration on his murderer, which the publication of the correspondence intensified. A coroner's jury pronounced him a murderer, the grand jury instructed the district attorney to prosecute, and the Vice President found it necessary to take refuge in concealment until the first fury of the people had subsided. Cheetham's pen, following him remorselessly, charged that he ransacked the newspapers for the grounds of a challenge; that for three months he daily practised with a pistol; and that while Hamilton lay dying, he sat at the table drinking wine with his friends, and apologising that he had not shot him through the heart.
Within two years Burr was arrested for treason, charged with an attempt to place himself at the head of a new nation formed from the country of the Montezumas and the valley of the Mississippi, and, although he was acquitted, his countrymen believed him guilty of a treasonable ambition. In the State where he had found his chief support, he ever after ranked in infamy next to Benedict Arnold. Thenceforth he became a stranger and a wanderer on the face of the earth. His friends left him and society shunned him. "I have not spoken to the damned reptile for twenty-five years," said former Governor Morgan Lewis, in 1830.[151]
For the moment, one forgets the horrible tragedy of July 11, 1804, and thinks only of the lonely man who lived to lament it. He was in his eighty-first year when he died. On his return from Europe in 1812, only one person welcomed him. This was Matthew L. Davis, his earliest political friend and biographer. Burr made Davis his literary executor, and turned over to him the confidential female correspondence that had accumulated in the days of his popularity as United States senator and Vice President, and that he had carefully filed and indorsed with the full name of each writer. The treachery, falsehood, and desertion with which these letters charged him, seemed to this unnatural man to add to their value, and he gave them to his executor without instructions, that the extent of his gallantries, his power of fascination, and the names of the gifted and beautiful victims of his numerous amours might not become a secret in his grave. One can conceive nothing baser. The preservation of letters to satisfy an erotic mind is low enough, but deliberately to identify each anonymous or initialled letter with the full name of the writer, for the use of a biographer, is an act of treachery of which few men are capable. To the credit of Davis, these letters were either returned to their writers or consigned to the flames.
Burr was a politician by nature, habit and education. In his younger days he easily enlisted the goodwill and sympathy of his associates, surrounding himself with a large circle of devoted, obedient friends; and, though neither a great lawyer nor a brilliant speaker, his natural gifts, supplemented by industry and perseverance, and a very attractive presence, made him a conspicuous member of the New York bar and of the United States Senate. He was, however, the ardent champion of nothing that made for the public good. Indeed, the record of his whole life indicates that he never possessed a great thought, or fathered an important measure. Throughout the long, and, at times, bitter controversy over the establishment of the Union, his silence was broken only to predict its failure within half a century.
It is doubtful if he was ever a happy man. In the very hours when he was the most famous and the most flattered, he described himself as most unhappy. So long, though, as Theodosia lived, he was never alone. When she died, he suffered till the end. There has hardly ever been in the world a more famous pair of lovers than Burr and his gifted, noble daughter, and there is nothing in history more profoundly melancholy than the loss of the ship, driven by the pitiless wind of fate, on which Theodosia had taken passage for her southern home. Yet one is shocked at the unnatural parent who instructs his daughter to read, in the event of his death in the duel with Hamilton, the confidential letters which came to him in the course of his love intrigues and affairs of gallantry. It imports a moral obliquity that, happily for society, is found in few human beings. As he lived, so he died, a strange, lonely, unhappy man, out of tune with the beautiful world in which he was permitted to exist upward of four score years. He had done a great deal of harm, and, except as a Revolutionary soldier, no good whatever.