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.