In this day, when writers are striving to make black appear white, the father who would mingle Christianity with patriotism would not fail to sketch the life of Aaron Burr in contrast with the young Adams.
Burr tells us that at the age of eighteen the Spirit of God came upon him with such power that he fled to the woods to settle that great question which faces every human being—"Shall I be a Christian?" He said to himself: "I purpose as a lawyer to succeed by the tricks of the trade. There is many a short cut in business which a Christian could not take, therefore I shall not be a Christian."
He tells us that the Spirit of God never again troubled him. He sinned against the Spirit, that unpardonable sin. Left to himself, his destiny led him to a high place only to make his fall more terrible. Socially he was the most charming man of his day, but he entered no home which he did not defile. No woman loved him but to her sorrow.
Burr was holding the position of Vice-President as a Republican when he was nominated by the Federalists for Governor of New York. Some of the leading men of that party refused to support him, among them Hamilton. This led to the duel in which Hamilton was killed, July 11, 1804.
Burr was disfranchised and banished by the laws of New York, and was indicted for murder by the authorities of New Jersey for having killed Hamilton on the soil of that State. He could not enter either New York or New Jersey to settle his business. He was bankrupted, and more than $5,000 in debt when all his property had been sold and the results paid over.
The day before the duel Burr had a right to suppose himself a more important man than Hamilton. Was he not Vice-President? Had he not just received a majority of the votes of the City of New York for Governor of that State, in spite of Hamilton's greatest exertions? Yet the day after the duel the dying Hamilton had the sympathy of every human being, and Burr was a fugitive from justice, not knowing friend from foe. Never was there a greater revulsion of feeling.
Southern men tried to console him by their more courteous demeanor. Between the time of the duel and the convening of Congress, Burr had kept himself south of Mason and Dixon's line, for in any Northern State he would have been arrested on a requisition on the Governor.
He went back to Washington and again presided over the Senate, but was simply scorched by the open, daily manifestations of the scorn of Northern Senators. The Southern men were more courteous in their demeanor. On Saturday, March 2d, he took leave of the Senate. That body was in executive session, therefore no spectators were present. Mr. Burr, one of the most eloquent as well as one of the handsomest men of his day, rose in his place after the galleries had been cleared. He began his address by saying that he had intended to remain during his constitutional time, but he felt an indisposition coming upon him and he now desired to take leave of them.
The silence could be felt. There was no shorthand reporter present, and exactly what he said is not now known—perhaps nothing very different from what other retiring Vice-Presidents have said. No reference was made to the duel, none to the scorn he had merited, unless it were in his words, "For injuries received, thank God, I have no memory."
He thanked the Senators for kindness and courtesy. He prophesied that if ever political liberty in this country died its expiring agonies would be witnessed on the floor of the United States Senate. As he walked out no man rose, no man shook hands with him; when the door closed on him it shut him out forever from position, usefulness, home, country, the love of women, and the friendship of men.