terms of peculiar intimacy with Madison and his beautiful and
accomplished wife. Burr, in his later years, used to say that it was
he who had brought about the match which made Mrs. Madison an inmate
of the Presidential mansion. With the members of Madison's Cabinet,
too, he had been socially and politically familiar. When Theodosia
perceived that her father had no longer a hope of success in his
Mexican project, she became anxious for his return to America. But
against this was the probability that the Administration would again
arrest him and bring him to trial for the third time. Theodosia
ventured to write to her old friend, Albert Gallatin, Secretary of the
Treasury, asking him to interpose on her father's behalf. A letter
still more interesting than this has recently come to light. It was
addressed by Theodosia to Mrs. Madison. The coldest heart cannot read
this eloquent and pathetic production without emotion. She writes:--
"MADAM,--You may perhaps be surprised at receiving a letter
from one with whom you have had so little intercourse for
the last few years. But your surprise will cease when you
recollect that my father, once your friend, is now in exile;
and that the President only can restore him to me and his
country.
"Ever since the choice of the people was first declared in
favor of Mr. Madison, my heart, amid the universal joy, has
beat with the hope that I, too, should soon have reason to
rejoice. Convinced that Mr. Madison would neither feel nor
judge from the feelings or judgment of others, I had no
doubt of his hastening to relieve a man whose character he
had been enabled to appreciate during a confidential
intercourse of long continuance, and whom [he] must know
incapable of the designs attributed to him. My anxiety on
this subject, has, however, become too painful to be
alleviated by anticipations which no events have yet tended
to justify; and in this state of intolerable suspense I have
determined to address myself to you, and request that you
will, _in my name_, apply to the President for a removal of
the prosecution now existing against AARON BURR. I still
expect it from him as a man of feeling and candor, as one
acting for the world and for posterity.
"Statesmen, I am aware, deem it necessary that sentiments of
liberality, and even justice, should yield to considerations
of policy; but what policy can require the absence of my
father at present? Even had he contemplated the project for
which he stands arraigned, evidently to pursue it any
further would now be impossible. There is not left one
pretext of alarm even to calumny; for bereft of fortune, of
popular favor, and almost of friends, what could he
accomplish? And whatever may be the apprehensions or the
clamors of the ignorant and the interested, surely the
timid, illiberal system which would sacrifice a man to a
remote and unreasonable possibility that he might infringe
some law founded on an unjust, unwarrantable suspicion that
he would desire it, cannot be approved by Mr. Madison, and
must be unnecessary to a President so loved, so honored.
Why, then, is my father banished from a country for which he
has encountered wounds and dangers and fatigue for years?
Why is he driven from his friends, from an only child, to
pass an unlimited time in exile, and that, too, at an age
when others are reaping the harvest of past toils, or ought
at least to be providing seriously for the comfort of
ensuing years? I do not seek to soften you by this
recapitulation. I only wish to remind you of all the
injuries which are inflicted on one of the first characters
the United States ever produced.
"Perhaps it may be well to assure you there is no truth in a
report lately circulated, that my father intends returning
immediately. He never will return to conceal himself in a
country on which he has conferred distinction.
"To whatever fate Mr. Madison may doom this application, I
trust it will be treated with delicacy. Of this I am the
more desirous as Mr. Alston is ignorant of the step I have
taken in writing to you, which, perhaps, nothing could
excuse but the warmth of filial affection. If it be an
error, attribute it to the indiscreet zeal of a daughter
whose soul sinks at the gloomy prospect of a long and
indefinite separation from a father almost adored, and who
can leave unattempted nothing which offers the slightest
hope of procuring him redress. What, indeed, would I not
risk once more to see him, to hang upon him, to place my
child on his knee, and again spend my days in the happy
occupation of endeavoring to anticipate all his wishes.
"Let me entreat, my dear Madam, that you will have the
consideration and goodness to answer me as speedily as
possible; my heart is sore with doubt and patient waiting
for something definitive. No apologies are made for giving
you this trouble, which I am sure you will not deem irksome
to take for a daughter, an affectionate daughter, thus
situated. Inclose your letter for me to A.J. Frederic
Prevost, Esq., near New Rochelle, New York.
"That every happiness may attend you,
"Is the sincere wish of
"THEO. BURR ALSTON."
This letter was probably not ineffectual. Certain it is that
government offered no serious obstacle to Burr's return, and
instituted no further proceedings against him. Probably, too,
Theodosia received some kind of assurance to this effect, for we find
her urging her father, not only to return, but to go boldly to New
York among his old friends, and resume there the practice of his
profession. The great danger to be apprehended was from his creditors,
who then had power to confine a debtor within limits, if not to throw
him into prison. "_If the worst comes to the worst_" wrote this fond
and devoted daughter, "_I will leave everything to suffer with you_."
The Italics are her own.
He came at length. He landed in Boston, and sent word of his arrival
to Theodosia. Rejoiced as she was, she replied vaguely, partly in
cipher, fearing lest her letter might be opened on the way, and the
secret of her father's arrival be prematurely disclosed. She told him
that her own health was tolerable; that her child, then a fine boy of
eleven, was well; that "his little soul warmed at the sound of his
grandfather's name"; and that his education, under a competent tutor,
was proceeding satisfactorily. She gave directions respecting her
father's hoped-for journey to South Carolina in the course of the
summer; and advised him, in case war should be declared with England,
to offer his services to the government. He reached New York in May,
1812, and soon had the pleasure of informing his daughter that his
reception had been more friendly than he could have expected, and that
in time his prospects were fair of a sufficiently lucrative practice.
Surely, now, after so many years of anxiety and sorrow,
Theodosia--still a young woman, not thirty years of age, still
enjoying her husband's love---might have reasonably expected a happy
life. Alas! there was no more happiness in store for her on this side
of the grave. The first letter which Burr received from his son-in-law
after his arrival in New York contained news which struck him to the
heart.
"A few miserable weeks since," writes Mr. Alston, "and in spite of all
the embarrassments, the troubles, and disappointments which have
fallen to our lot since we parted, I would have congratulated you on
your return in the language of happiness. With my wife on one side and
my boy on the other, I felt myself superior to depression. The present
was enjoyed, the future was anticipated with enthusiasm. One dreadful
blow has destroyed us; reduced us to the veriest, the most sublimated
wretchedness. That boy, on whom all rested,--our companion, our
friend,--he who was to have transmitted down the mingled blood of
Theodosia and myself,--he who was to have redeemed all your glory, and
shed new lustre upon our families,--that boy, at once our happiness
and our pride, is taken from us,--_is dead_. We saw him dead. My own
hand surrendered him to the grave; yet we are alive. But it is past. I
will not conceal from you that life is a burden, which, heavy as it
is, we shall both support, if not with dignity, at least with decency
and firmness. Theodosia has endured all that a human being could
endure; but her admirable mind will triumph. She supports herself in a
manner worthy of your daughter."
The mother's heart was almost broken.
"There is no more joy for me," she wrote.
"The world is a blank. I have lost my boy. My child is gone
forever. May Heaven, by other blessings, make you some
amends for the noble grandson you have lost! Alas! my dear
father, I do live, but how does it happen? Of what am I
formed that I live, and why? Of what service can I be in
this world, either to you or any one else, with a body
reduced to premature old age, and a mind enfeebled and
bewildered? Yet, since it is my lot to live, I will endeavor
to fulfil my part, and exert myself to my utmost, though
this life must henceforth be to me a bed of thorns.
Whichever way I turn, the same anguish still assails me. You
talk of consolation. Ah! you know not what you have lost. I
think Omnipotence could give me no equivalent for my boy;
no, none,--none."
She could not be comforted. Her health gave way. Her husband thought
that if anything could restore her to tranquillity and health it would
be the society of her father; and so, at the beginning of winter, it
was resolved that she should attempt the dangerous voyage. Her father
sent a medical friend from New York to attend her.
"Mr. Alston," wrote this gentleman,
"seemed rather hurt that you should conceive it necessary to
send a person here, as he or one of his brothers would
attend Mrs. Alston to New York. I told him you had some
opinion of my medical talents; that you had learned your
daughter was in a low state of health, and required unusual
attention, and medical attention on her voyage; that I had
torn myself from my family to perform this service for my
friend."
And again, a few days after:--
"I have engaged a passage to New York for your daughter in a
pilot-boat that has been out privateering, but has come in
here, and is refitting merely to get to New York. My only
fears are that Governor Alston may think the mode of
conveyance too undignified, and object to it; but Mrs.
Alston is fully bent on going. You must not be surprised, to
see her very low, feeble, and emaciated. Her complaint is an
almost incessant nervous fever."
The rest is known. The vessel sailed. Off Cape Hatteras, during a gale
that swept the coast from Maine to Georgia, the pilot-boat went down,
and not one escaped to tell the tale. The vessel was never heard of
more. So perished this noble, gifted, ill-starred lady.
The agonizing scenes that followed may be imagined. Father and husband
were kept long in suspense. Even when many weeks had elapsed without
bringing tidings of the vessel, there still remained a forlorn hope
that some of her passengers might have been rescued by an
outward-bound ship, and might return, after a year or two had gone by,
from some distant port. Burr, it is said, acquired a habit, when
walking upon the Battery, of looking wistfully down the harbor at the
arriving ships, as if still cherishing a faint, fond hope that his
Theo was coming to him from the other side of the world. When, years
after, the tale was brought to him that his daughter had been carried
off by pirates and might be still alive, he said: "No, no, no; if my
Theo had survived that storm, she would have found her way to me.
Nothing could have kept my Theo from her father."
It was these sad events, the loss of his daughter and her boy, that
severed Aaron Burr from the human race. Hope died within him. Ambition
died. He yielded to his doom, and walked among men, not melancholy,
but indifferent, reckless, and alone. With his daughter and his
grandson to live and strive for, he might have done something in his
later years to redeem his name and atone for his errors. Bereft of
these, he had not in his moral nature that which enables men who have
gone astray to repent and begin a better life.
Theodosia's death broke her husband's heart. Few letters are so
affecting as the one which he wrote to Burr when, at length, the
certainty of her loss could no longer be resisted.
"My boy--my wife--gone both! This, then, is the end of all
the hopes we had formed. You may well observe that you feel
severed from the human race. She was the last tie that bound
us to the species. What have we left? ... Yet, after all, he
is a poor actor who cannot sustain his little hour upon the
stage, be his part what it may. But the man who has been
deemed worthy of the heart of _Theodosia Burr_, and who has
felt what it was to be blessed with such a woman's, will
never forget his elevation."
He survived his wife four years. Among the papers of Theodosia was
found, after her death, a letter which she had written a few years
before she died, at a time when she supposed her end was near. Upon
the envelope was written,--"My husband. To be delivered after my
death. I wish this to be read _immediately_, and before my burial."
Her husband never saw it, for he never had the courage to look into
the trunk that contained her treasures. But after his death the trunk
was sent to Burr, who found and preserved this affecting composition.
We cannot conclude our narrative more fitly than by transcribing the
thoughts that burdened the heart of Theodosia in view of her departure
from the world. First, she gave directions respecting the disposal of
her jewelry and trinkets, giving to each of her friends some token of
her love. Then she besought her husband to provide at once for the
support of "Peggy," an aged servant of her father, formerly
housekeeper at Richmond Hill, to whom, in her father's absence, she
had contrived to pay a small pension. She then proceeded in these
affecting terms:--
"To you, my beloved, I leave our child; the child of my
bosom, who was once a part of myself, and from whom I shall
shortly be separated by the cold grave. You love him now;
henceforth love him for me also. And oh, my husband, attend
to this last prayer of a doting mother. Never, never listen
to what any other person tells you of him. Be yourself his
judge on all occasions. He has faults; see them, and correct
them yourself. Desist not an instant from your endeavors to
secure his confidence. It is a work which requires as much
uniformity of conduct as warmth of affection toward him. I
know, my beloved, that you can perceive what is right on
this subject as on every other. But recollect, these are the
last words I can ever utter. It will tranquillize my last
moments to have disburdened myself of them.
"I fear you will scarcely be able to read this scrawl, but I
feel hurried and agitated. Death is not welcome to me. I
confess it is ever dreaded. You have made me too fond of
life. Adieu, then, thou kind, thou tender husband. Adieu,
friend of my heart. May Heaven prosper you, and may we meet
hereafter. Adieu; perhaps we may never see each other again
in this world. You are away, I wished to hold you fast, and
prevented you from going this morning. But He who is wisdom
itself ordains events; we must submit to them. Least of all
should I murmur. I, on whom so many blessings have been
showered,--whose days have been numbered by bounties,--who
have had such a husband, such a child, and such a father. O
pardon me, my God, if I regret leaving these. I resign
myself. Adieu, once more, and for the last time, my beloved.
Speak of me often to our son. Let him love the memory of his
mother, and let him know how he was loved by her. Your wife,
your fond wife,
"THEO.
"Let my father see my son sometimes. Do not be unkind toward
him whom I have loved so much, I beseech you. Burn all my
papers except my father's letters, which I beg you to return
him. Adieu, my sweet boy. Love your father; be grateful and
affectionate to him while he lives; be the pride of his
meridian, the support of his departing days. Be all that he
wishes; for he made your mother happy. Oh! my heavenly
Father, bless them both. If it is permitted, I will hover
round you, and guard you, and intercede for you. I hope for
happiness in the next world, for I have not been bad in
this.
"I had nearly forgotten to say that I charge you not to
allow me to be stripped and washed, as is usual. I am pure
enough thus to return to dust. Why, then, expose my person?
Pray see to this. If it does not appear contradictory or
silly, I beg to be kept as long as possible before I am
consigned to the earth."
JOHN JACOB ASTOR.
We all feel some curiosity respecting men who have been eminent in
anything,--even in crime; and as this curiosity is natural and
universal, it seems proper that it should be gratified. JOHN JACOB
ASTOR, surpassed all the men of his generation in the accumulation of
wealth. He began life a poor, hungry German boy, and died worth twenty
millions of dollars. These facts are so remarkable, that there is no
one who does not feel a desire to know by which means the result was
produced, and whether the game was played fairly. We all wish, if not
to be rich, yet to have more money than we now possess. We have known
many kinds of men, but never one who felt that he had quite money
enough. The three richest men now living in the United States are
known to be as much interested in the increase of their possessions,
and try as hard to increase them, as ever they did.
This universal desire to accumulate property is right, and necessary
to the progress of the race. Like every other proper and virtuous
desire, it may become excessive, and then it is a vice. So long as a
man seeks property honestly, and values it as the means of
independence, as the means of educating and comforting his family, as
the means of securing a safe, dignified, and tranquil old age, as the
means of private charity and public beneficence, let him bend himself
heartily to his work, and enjoy the reward of his labors. It is a fine
and pleasant thing to prosper in business, and to have a store to fall
back upon in time of trouble.
The reader may learn from Astor's career how money is accumulated.
Whether he can learn from it how money ought to be employed when it is
obtained, he must judge for himself. In founding the Astor Library,
John Jacob Astor did at least one magnificent deed, for which
thousands unborn will honor his memory. That single act would atone
for many errors.
In the hall of the Astor Library, on the sides of two of the pillars
supporting its lofty roof of glass, are two little shelves, each
holding a single work, never taken down and seldom perused, but
nevertheless well worthy the attention of those who are curious in the
subject of which they treat, namely, the human face divine. They are
two marble busts, facing each other; one of the founder of the
Library, the other of its first President, Washington Irving. A finer
study in physiognomy than these two busts present can nowhere be
found; for never were two men more unlike than Astor and Irving, and
never were character and personal history more legibly recorded than
in these portraits in marble. The countenance of the author is round,
full, and handsome, the hair inclining to curl, and the chin to
double. It is the face of a happy and genial man, formed to shine at
the fireside and to beam from the head of a table. It is an open,
candid, liberal, hospitable countenance, indicating far more power to
please than to compel, but displaying in the position and carriage of
the head much of that dignity which we are accustomed to call Roman.
The face of the millionaire, on the contrary, is all strength; every
line in it tells of concentration and power. The hair is straight and
long; the forehead neither lofty nor ample, but powerfully developed
in the perceptive and executive organs; the eyes deeper set in the
head than those of Daniel Webster, and overhung with immense bushy
eyebrows; the nose large, long, and strongly arched, the veritable
nose of a man-compeller; the mouth, chin, and jaws all denoting
firmness and force; the chest, that seat and throne of physical power,
is broad and deep, and the back of the neck has something of the
muscular fulness which we observe in the prize-fighter and the bull;
the head behind the ears showing enough of propelling power, but
almost totally wanting in the passional propensities which waste the
force of the faculties, and divert the man from his principal object.
As the spectator stands midway between the two busts, at some distance
from both, Irving has the larger and the kinglier air, and the face of
Astor seems small and set. It is only when you get close to the bust
of Astor, observing the strength of each feature and its perfect
proportion to the rest,--force everywhere, superfluity nowhere,--that
you recognize the monarch of the counting-room; the brain which
nothing could confuse or disconcert; the purpose that nothing could
divert or defeat; the man who could with ease and pleasure grasp and
control the multitudinous concerns of a business that embraced the
habited and unhabited globe,--that employed ships in every sea, and
men in every clime, and brought in to the coffers of the merchant the
revenue of a king. That speechless bust tells us how it was that this
man, from suffering in his father's poverty-stricken house the
habitual pang of hunger, arrived at the greatest fortune, perhaps,
ever accumulated in a single lifetime; you perceive that whatever
thing this strong and compact man set himself to do, he would be
certain to achieve unless stopped by something as powerful as a law of
nature.
The monument of these two gifted men is the airy and graceful interior
of which their busts are the only ornament. Astor founded the Library,
but it was probably his regard for Irving that induced him to
appropriate part of his wealth for a purpose not in harmony with his
own humor. Irving is known to us all, as only wits and poets are ever
known. But of the singular being who possessed so remarkable a genius
for accumulation, of which this Library is one of the results, little
has been imparted to the public, and of that little the greater part
is fabulous.
A hundred years ago, in the poor little village of Waldorf, in the
duchy of Baden, lived a jovial, good-for-nothing butcher, named Jacob
Astor, who felt himself much more at home in the beer-house than at
the fireside of his own house in the principal street of the village.
At the best, the butcher of Waldorf must have been a poor man; for, at
that day, the inhabitants of a German village enjoyed the luxury of
fresh meat only on great days, such as those of confirmation, baptism,
weddings, and Christmas.
The village itself was remote and insignificant, and though situated
in the valley of the Rhine, the native home of the vine, a region of
proverbial fertility, the immediate vicinity of Waldorf was not a rich
or very populous country. The home of Jacob Astor, therefore, seldom
knew any medium between excessive abundance and extreme scarcity, and
he was not the man to make the superfluity of to-day provide for the
need of to-morrow; which was the more unfortunate as the periods of
abundance were few and far between, and the times of scarcity extended
over the greater part of the year. It was the custom then in Germany
for every farmer to provide a fatted pig, calf, or bullock, against
the time of harvest; and as that joyful season approached, the village
butcher went the round of the neighborhood, stopping a day or two at
each house to kill the animals and convert their flesh into bacon,
sausages, or salt beef. During this happy time, Jacob Astor, a merry
dog, always welcome where pleasure and hilarity were going forward,
had enough to drink, and his family had enough to eat. But the merry
time lasted only six weeks. Then set in the season of scarcity, which
was only relieved when there was a festival of the church, a wedding,
a christening, or a birthday in some family of the village rich enough
to provide an animal for Jacob's knife. The wife of this idle and
improvident butcher was such a wife as such men usually contrive to
pick up,--industrious, saving, and capable; the mainstay of his house.
Often she remonstrated with her wasteful and beer-loving husband; the
domestic sky was often overcast, and the children were glad to fly
from the noise and dust of the tempest.