I really think, my dear Theo, that you will be very soon beyond all verbal criticism, and that my whole attention will be presently directed to the improvement of your style.

Theodosia Burr married into a family of good old English stock, where riches were abundant, and high character was regarded as the best of all possessions.  Every one has heard of the mysterious tragedy which is associated with her history.  In 1812, when her husband had been elected Governor of his state, her only child—­a sturdy boy of eleven—­died, and Theodosia’s health was shattered by her sorrow.  In the same year Burr returned from a sojourn in Europe, and his loving daughter embarked from Charleston on a schooner, the Patriot, to meet her father in New York.  When Burr arrived he was met by a letter which told him that his grandson was dead and that Theodosia was coming to him.

Weeks sped by, and no news was heard of the ill-fated Patriot.  At last it became evident that she must have gone down or in some other way have been lost.  Burr and Governor Allston wrote to each other letter after letter, of which each one seems to surpass the agony of the other.  At last all hope was given up.  Governor Allston died soon after of a broken heart; but Burr, as became a Stoic, acted otherwise.

He concealed everything that reminded him of Theodosia.  He never spoke of his lost daughter.  His grief was too deep-seated and too terrible for speech.  Only once did he ever allude to her, and this was in a letter written to an afflicted friend, which contained the words: 

Ever since the event which separated me from mankind I have been able neither to give nor to receive consolation.

In time the crew of a pirate vessel was captured and sentenced to be hanged.  One of the men, who seemed to be less brutal than the rest, told how, in 1812, they had captured a schooner, and, after their usual practice, had compelled the passengers to walk the plank.  All hesitated and showed cowardice, except only one—­a beautiful woman whose eyes were as bright and whose bearing was as unconcerned as if she were safe on shore.  She quickly led the way, and, mounting the plank with a certain scorn of death, said to the others: 

“Come, I will show you how to die.”

It has always been supposed that this intrepid girl may have been Theodosia Allston.  If so, she only acted as her father would have done and in strict accordance with his teachings.

This resolute courage, this stern joy in danger, this perfect equanimity, made Burr especially attractive to women, who love courage, the more so when it is coupled with gentleness and generosity.

Perhaps no man in our country has been so vehemently accused regarding his relations with the other sex.  The most improbable stories were told about him, even by his friends.  As to his enemies, they took boundless pains to paint him in the blackest colors.  According to them, no woman was safe from his intrigues.  He was a perfect devil in leading them astray and then casting them aside.