The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858

It is our duty to notice one chapter in this book, which, more than anything else it contains, has given it notoriety. We refer to its defence of, or, to speak more mildly, its apology for, Burr's libertinism. All the faults of the author which we have had occasion to notice, examples of which are scattered through the volume, are concentrated in these few pages,—his inconsistency, his inaccuracy, his disposition to draw inferences from facts which they directly contradict, and to rely on evidence which has nothing to do with the case in hand. He argues at great length upon the assumption, that Burr's correspondence with women was unfit for publication, and then, in contradiction to Burr's own positive declaration, asserts that there were "no letters necessarily criminating ladies." To prove this, he publishes two letters, one of which is an apology, written by Burr in his seventy-fourth year, for having addressed a young woman in an improper manner, and the other is a letter from a female, couched in language much warmer than an innocent woman could use. Mr. Parton attacks Davis because that writer stated that Burr left his correspondence to be disposed of by him, and eulogizes his hero because he ordered that the letters should be burned. To establish this position, he quotes Burr's will, which directed Davis "to destroy, or to deliver to all persons interested, such letters, as may, in his estimation, be calculated to affect injuriously the feelings of individuals against whom I have no complaint,"—thus giving Mr. Davis all the discretionary power with which he claims to have been invested, and making him the judge as to what letters should be destroyed. We have no more space to expose Mr. Parton's blunders and sophistry. The evidence of Burr's debauchery, of his heartless vanity, of his utter disregard of the considerations which usually govern even the worst of men, does not rest upon the admissions of Davis alone. Those who are familiar with a scandalous book called the "Secret History of St. Domingo," which consists of a series of letters addressed to Col. Burr by Madame D'Auvergne, will need no further illustration of his influence over women, nor of the character of those with whom he was most intimately associated. The night before his duel with Hamilton, he committed all the letters of his female correspondents to the care and perusal of Theodosia, saying that she would "find in them something to amuse, much to instruct, and more to forgive." When in Europe, he kept a journal in which he recorded his various amorous adventures. This book, as published, is one which no gentleman would place in the hands of a lady, and the editor tells us that the most improper portions of the diary have been expurgated; yet this journal was written, not to amuse a scandal-loving public, not for purposes of gain, but for the private perusal of Theodosia. What can be said of a man who could expose the lascivious expressions of abandoned females and retail his own debaucheries to a gentle and innocent woman, and that woman his own daughter? The mere statement beggars invective. It shows a mind so depraved as to be unconscious of its depravity.

The character of Burr is not difficult to analyze. His life was consistent, and at the beginning a wise man might have foretold the end. Our author complains that Burr's reputation has suffered from the disposition to exaggerate his faults. This may be true; but it is likewise true that he has been benefited by the same disposition to exaggeration. A character is more dramatic which unites great talents with great vices, and therefore he has been represented both as a worse and a greater man than he really was. Burr cannot be called great in any sense. His successes, such as they were, never appear to have been obtained by high mental effort. He has left not a single measure, no speech, no written discussion of the various important subjects that came before him, to which one can point as an exhibition of superior talents. A certain description of ability cannot be denied to him. He did well whatever could be done by address, courage, and industry, joined to moderate talents. His chief power lay in the fascination of personal intercourse. His countenance was pleasing, and illuminated by eyes of singular beauty and vivacity; his bearing was lofty; his self-possession could not be disturbed; he had the tact of a woman, and an intellect which was active and equal to all ordinary occasions. But even in society his range was a narrow one, and he seems to have been successful mainly because he avoided positive effort. It is usual to speak of him as a remarkable conversationalist; but if by that term we mean to describe, a person who is distinguished for his eloquence, grace of expression, information, force and originality of thought, Burr was not a good converser. A distinguished gentleman, who, while young, was much noticed by Burr, being asked in what his personal attraction consisted, replied, "In his manner of listening to you. He seemed to give your thought so much value by the air with which he received it, and to find so much more meaning in your words than you had intended. No flattery was equal to it." We think that this anecdote reveals the entire power of the man. He was strong through the weakness of others, rather than in his own strength. Therefore he was most attractive to young or inferior people. He was not on terms of intimacy with any leading man of his time, unless it was Jeremy Bentham, and the precise nature of their relations is not understood. The philosopher, who could not then boast many disciples, was favorably disposed toward Burr, because the latter had ordered a London bookseller to send him Bentham's works as fast as they were published. Upon acquaintance, he must have been pleased with a gentleman with whom he could have had no cause for dispute, who could supply him with information as to new and interesting forms of society and government, and whose adventurous and romantic career differed so widely from his own life of study and thought.

Burr's conduct in his various public situations affords a perfect measure of his abilities. As a soldier, he was brave, a good disciplinarian, watchful of details, and an excellent executive officer. At the head of a brigade he would have been useful; but he did not possess the foresight, the breadth of mental vision, nor the magnetism of nature awakening the enthusiasm of armies, which are necessary to a great commander. He was an adroit lawyer, an adept in the fence of his profession, skilful to avail himself of the errors of an opponent, and to play upon the foibles of judge or jury; but he had not the faculty for generalization and analysis, nor the nice discrimination in the application of general principles to particular instances, which must be combined in a great lawyer. He cannot by any figure of speech be called a statesman. As a politician, he was one of the first to discover and one of the most skilful in the use of those unworthy arts which have brought the pursuit of politics into disrepute; but we doubt whether he could have succeeded upon the broader field of the present day. Perfectly competent to manage a single city, he would have failed in an attempt to govern a party. His talents were well defined by Jefferson, who spoke of him as a great man in little things, and a small man in great things.

One of the qualities most frequently attributed to Burr is fortitude; upon this characteristic his biographer frequently dwells. And indeed, when one reads of the misfortunes which came upon him,—the disappointments which he encountered,—his poverty abroad,—his terrible afflictions, and dreary old age,—and how gallantly he bore up under all,—unblenching, unmurmuring, struggling cheerfully and patiently to the end,—one cannot repress a feeling of admiration for the courage which endured so much misery, and of pity for the faults which brought that misery upon him. Such a feeling would be justified, if we could believe that fortitude was a positive trait in his character. That is to say, if he had been properly sensible of the odium which covered his name, and had really felt the sorrows which visited him,—if these things had moved him as they do others, and he had still gone on calmly and bravely to the end, hiding the wounds which tortured him, and giving no sign of pain,—he would, indeed, have been worthy of admiration; he would have been a hero. But we think it will appear, upon a closer examination, that his fortitude was a negative, not a positive quality; it was insensibility, not courage. He did not suffer, because he did not feel. The emotional part of our nature he did not possess; at least, it did not show itself in any of the forms which it usually takes,—in love of country, or of kindred,—in the opinions which he professed, or in the subjects which occupied his thoughts. The first act of his manhood was to join in the resistance of his countrymen to foreign oppression. But it was no love of liberty that urged him to arms. He went to the camp at Cambridge from the mere love of adventure. The sacred spirit which gave nobility to so many,—which transformed mechanics, tradesmen, village lawyers, and plain country-gentlemen into statesmen, philosophers, diplomatists, and great captains,—which united the children of many races into one nation, and roused a simple people to deeds of lofty heroism,—awakened no enthusiasm in him. He was in the very flush of youth, yet to his most intimate friends he did not breathe a word of even moderate interest in the cause for which he had drawn his sword. His political life was passed during the first twenty years of our national existence, when men's minds were exercised in the effort to adapt one government to the various and apparently conflicting interests of many communities widely separated by distance, climate, and ancient differences; but these complicated and momentous subjects, so absorbing to all thoughtful men, never weighed upon his mind. He was in Europe when Napoleon was at the height of his power, when his armies swept from the Danube to the Guadalquivir; but that strange story, which the giddiest school-girl cannot read with divided attention, drew no remark from his lips. It is said that he was fond of his daughter;—it was a fondness of the head, not of the heart. He admired her because she was beautiful and intelligent;—had she been plain and dull, he would not have cared for her. He made no return for the affection, warm and generous, which her noble heart lavished upon him, liberal as the sunlight. Had that earnest love touched, for a single instant, a responsive chord in his heart, he could never have written those foul, foul words to make her blush at the record of her father's shame. Nowhere does he express regret for the misfortunes which he brought upon others,—the bereaved family of Hamilton,—the ruin of Blennerhassett,—the victims of his passions and his ambition. He spoke freely, as if they were indifferent matters, of things which most men would have concealed. He laughed at his trial,—alluded to Hamilton as "my friend Hamilton, whom I shot,"—and used to repeat some doggerel lines upon the duel, which he had seen in a strolling exhibition. It is said that he was courteous and amiable, and that he did many kind and generous acts. His courtesy and amiability did not restrain him from perfidy and debauchery; neither did he ever do a kind act when an unkind one would have served his purposes better.

As we have seen, Mr. Parton has described Aaron Burr as suited to many very incongruous conditions in life. If we were to select an epoch in history and a form of society for which he was best adapted, we should place him in France daring the Regency and the reign of Louis XV. There, where a successful bon-mot established a claim to office, and a well-turned leg did more for a man than the best mind in Europe, Burr would have risen to distinction. He might have shone in the literary circles at Sceaux, and in the petits soupers at the Palais Royal. Among the wits, the littérateurs, the fashionable men and women of the time, he would have found society congenial to his tastes, and sufficient employment for his talents. He would have exhibited in his own life and character their vices and their superficial virtues, their extravagance, libertinism, and impiety, their politeness, courage, and wit. He might have borne a distinguished part in the petty statesmanship, the intriguing diplomacy, and the wild speculations of that period. But here, among the stern rebels of the Revolution and the practical statesmen of the early Republic, this trickster and shallow politician, this visionary adventurer and boaster of ladies' favors, was out of place. He has given to his country nothing except a pernicious example. The full light, which shows us that his vices may have been exaggerated, shows likewise that his talents have surely been overestimated. The contrast which gave fascination to his career is destroyed; and for a partial vindication of his character he will pay the penalty which he would most have dreaded, that of being forgotten.

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THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL

A lyric conception—my friend, the Poet, said—hits me like a bullet in the forehead. I have often had the blood drop from my cheeks when it struck, and felt that I turned as white as death. Then comes a creeping as of centipedes running down the spine,—then a gasp and a great jump of the heart,—then a sudden flush and a beating in the vessels of the head,—then a long sigh,—and the poem is written.

It is an impromptu, I suppose, then, if you write it so suddenly,—I replied.

No,—said he,—far from it. I said written, but I did not say copied. Every such poem has a soul and a body, and it is the body of it, or the copy, that men read and publishers pay for. The soul of it is born in an instant in the poet's soul. It comes to him a thought, tangled in the meshes of a few sweet words,—words that have loved each other from the cradle of the language, but have never been wedded until now. Whether it will ever fully embody itself in a bridal train of a dozen stanzas or not is uncertain; but it exists potentially from the instant that the poet turns pale with it. It is enough to stun and scare anybody, to have a hot thought come crashing into his brain, and ploughing up those parallel ruts where the wagon trains of common ideas were jogging along in their regular sequences of association. No wonder the ancients made the poetical impulse wholly external. [Greek: Maenin aeide, Thea], Goddess,—Muse,—divine afflatus,—something outside always. I never wrote any verses worth reading. I can't. I am too stupid. If I ever copied any that were worth reading, I was only a medium.

[I was talking all this time to our boarders, you understand,—telling them what this poet told me. The company listened rather attentively, I thought, considering the literary character of the remarks.]

The old gentleman opposite all at once asked me if I ever read anything better than Pope's "Essay on Man"? Had I ever perused McFingal? He was fond of poetry when he was a boy,—his mother taught him to say many little pieces,—he remembered one beautiful hymn;—and the old gentleman began, in a clear, loud voice, for his years,—

  "The spacious firmament on high,  With all the blue ethereal sky,  And spangled heavens,"–

He stopped, as if startled by our silence, and a faint flush ran up beneath the thin white hairs that fell upon his cheek. As I looked round, I was reminded of a show I once saw at the Museum,—the Sleeping Beauty, I think they called it. The old man's sudden breaking out in this way turned every face towards him, and each kept his posture as if changed to stone. Our Celtic Bridget, or Biddy, is not a foolish fat scullion to burst out crying for a sentiment. She is of the serviceable, red-handed, broad-and-high-shouldered type; one of those imported female servants who are known in public by their amorphous style of person, their stoop forwards, and a headlong and as it were precipitous walk,—the waist plunging downwards into the rocking pelvis at every heavy footfall. Bridget, constituted for action, not for emotion, was about to deposit a plate heaped with something upon the table, when I saw the coarse arm stretched by my shoulder arrested,—motionless as the arm of a terra-cotta caryatid; she couldn't set the plate down while the old gentleman was speaking!

He was quite silent after this, still wearing the slight flush on his cheek. Don't ever think the poetry is dead in an old man because his forehead is wrinkled, or that his manhood has left him when his hand trembles! If they ever were there, they are there still!

By and by we got talking again.—Does a poet love the verses written through him, do you think, Sir?—said the divinity-student.

So long as they are warm from his mind, carry any of his animal heat about them, I know he loves them,—I answered. When they have had time to cool, he is more indifferent.

A good deal as it is with buckwheat cakes,—said the young fellow whom they call John.

The last words, only, reached the ear of the economically organized female in black bombazine.—Buckwheat is skerce and high,—she remarked. [Must be a poor relation sponging on our landlady,—pays nothing,—so she must stand by the guns and be ready to repel boarders.]

I liked the turn the conversation had taken, for I had some things I wanted to say, and so, after waiting a minute, I began again.—I don't think the poems I read you sometimes can be fairly appreciated, given to you as they are in the green state.

–—You don't know what I mean by the green state? Well, then, I will tell you. Certain things are good for nothing until they have been kept a long while; and some are good for nothing until they have been long kept and used. Of the first, wine is the illustrious and immortal example. Of those which must be kept and used, I will name three,—meerschaum pipes, violins, and poems. The meerschaum is but a poor affair until it has burned a thousand offerings to the cloud-compelling deities. It comes to us without complexion or flavor, born of the sea-foam, like Aphrodite, but colorless as pallida Mors herself. The fire is lighted in its central shrine, and gradually the juices which the broad leaves of the Great Vegetable had sucked up from an acre and curdled into a drachm are diffused through its thirsting pores. First a discoloration, then a stain, and at last a rich, glowing, umber tint spreading over the whole surface. Nature true to her old brown autumnal hue, you see,—as true in the fire of the meerschaum as in the sunshine of October! And then the cumulative wealth of its fragrant reminiscences! he who inhales its vapors takes a thousand whiffs in a single breath; and one cannot touch it without awakening the old joys that hang around it, as the smell of flowers clings to the dresses of the daughters of the house of Farina!

[Don't think I use a meerschaum myself, for I do not, though I have owned a calumet since my childhood, which from a naked Pict (of the Mohawk species) my grandsire won, together with a tomahawk and beaded knife-sheath; paying for the lot with a bullet-mark on his right cheek. On the maternal side I inherit the loveliest silver-mounted tobacco-stopper you ever saw. It is a little box-wood Triton, carved with charming liveliness and truth; I have often compared it to a figure in Raphael's "Triumph of Galatea." It came to me in an ancient shagreen case,—how old it is I do not know,—but it must have been made since Sir Walter Raleigh's time. If you are curious, you shall see it any day. Neither will I pretend that I am so unused to the more perishable smoking contrivance, that a few whiffs would make me feel as if I lay in a groundswell on the Bay of Biscay. I am not unacquainted with that fusiform, spiral-wound bundle of chopped stems and miscellaneous incombustibles, the cigar, so called, of the shops,—which to "draw" asks the suction-power of a nursling infant Hercules, and to relish, the leathery palate of an old Silenus. I do not advise you, young man, even if my illustration strikes your fancy, to consecrate the flower of your life to painting the bowl of a pipe, for, let me assure you, the stain of a reverie-breeding narcotic may strike deeper than you think for. I have seen the green leaf of early promise grow brown before its time under such Nicotian regimen, and thought the umbered meerschaum was dearly bought at the cost of a brain enfeebled and a will enslaved.]

Violins, too,—the sweet old Amati!—the divine Straduarius! Played on by ancient maestros until the bow-hand lost its power and the flying fingers stiffened. Bequeathed to the passionate young enthusiast, who made it whisper his hidden love, and cry his inarticulate longings, and scream his untold agonies, and wail his monotonous despair. Passed from his dying hand to the cold virtuoso, who let it slumber in its case for a generation, till, when his hoard was broken up, it came forth once more and rode the stormy symphonies of royal orchestras, beneath the rushing bow of their lord and leader. Into lonely prisons with improvident artists; into convents from which arose, day and night, the holy hymns with which its tones were blended; and back again to orgies in which it learned to howl and laugh as if a legion of devils were shut up in it; then again to the gentle dilettante who calmed it down with easy melodies until it answered him softly as in the days of the old maestros. And so given into our hands, its pores all full of music; stained, like the meerschaum, through and through, with the concentrated hue and sweetness of all the harmonies that have kindled and faded on its strings.

Now I tell you a poem must be kept and used, like a meerschaum, or a violin. A poem is just as porous as the meerschaum;—the more porous it is, the better. I mean to say that a genuine poem is capable of absorbing an indefinite amount of the essence of our own humanity,—its tenderness, its heroism, its regrets, its aspirations, so as to be gradually stained through with a divine secondary color derived from ourselves. So you see it must take time to bring the sentiment of a poem into harmony with our nature, by staining ourselves through every thought and image our being can penetrate.

Then again as to the mere music of a new poem; why, who can expect anything more from that than from the music of a violin fresh from the maker's hands? Now you know very well that there are no less than fifty-eight different pieces in a violin. These pieces are strangers to each other, and it takes a century, more or less, to make them thoroughly acquainted. At last they learn to vibrate in harmony, and the instrument becomes an organic whole, as if it were a great seed-capsule that had grown from a garden-bed in Cremona, or elsewhere. Besides, the wood is juicy and full of sap for fifty years or so, but at the end of fifty or a hundred more gets tolerably dry and comparatively resonant.

Don't you see that all this is just as true of a poem? Counting each word as a piece, there are more pieces in an average copy of verses than in a violin. The poet has forced all these words together, and fastened them, and they don't understand it at first. But let the poem be repeated aloud and murmured over in the mind's muffled whisper often enough, and at length the parts become knit together in such absolute solidarity that you could not change a syllable without the whole world's crying out against you for meddling with the harmonious fabric. Observe, too, how the drying process takes place in the stuff of a poem just as in that of a violin. Here is a Tyrolese fiddle that is just coming to its hundredth birthday,—(Pedro Klauss, Tyroli, fecit, 1760,)—the sap is pretty well out of it. And here is the song of an old poet whom Neaera cheated:—

  "Nox erat, et coelo fulgebat Luna sereno       Inter minora sidera,  Cum tu magnorum numen laesura deorum       In verba jurubas mea."

Don't you perceive the sonorousness of these old dead Latin phrases? Now I tell you that every word fresh from the dictionary brings with it a certain succulence; and though I cannot expect the sheets of the "Pactolian," in which, as I told you, I sometimes print my verses, to get so dry as the crisp papyrus that held those words of Horatius Flaccus, yet you may be sure, that, while the sheets are damp, and while the lines hold their sap, you can't fairly judge of my performances, and that, if made of the true stuff, they will ring better after a while.