Theodosia reflected this ideal when she admitted to Burr: “In writing without form or reflection your ideas and feelings of the moment, trusting to the partiality of your friend every imperfect thought, and to his candour every ill-turned phrase. Such are the letters I love, and such I request of those I love.” Burr responded in kind, begging Theodosia to record any ideas she had while reading, praising her comments on Voltaire as containing “more good sense than all the strictures I have seen upon his works put together.” What made this kind of exchange unusual is that this model of intellectual friendship was designed for two men—not husband and wife. This pattern of intellectual honesty set them apart and made their relationship distinctive.62
Theodosia and Aaron Burr were married on July 2, 1782, just a few months after he had been licensed as an attorney and approved as a counselor-at-law—the latter title allowed him to handle cases on his own in the courtroom. In April of that year, Burr had opened a law office in Albany. Perhaps another reason why the marriage occurred that summer is the fact that Theodosia’s favorite sister, Catherine De Visme, had decided to marry Dr. Joseph Browne, a British-born physician turned rebel officer. Catherine was the sister who had informed Burr that Colonel Prevost was dead.63
Catherine offered to make the nuptials a joint affair at the Hermitage. The doctor and his bride had more money at their disposal, and as Theodosia joked in a letter to Sally Reeve, Burr used his last “half Joe” for the parson’s fees. The wedding itself, she added, cost them “nothing.” Nor did they have to do much to prepare for the occasion: Burr was dressed in his “old coat,” and Theodosia’s gown and gloves were “favors from Cathy.” They even had Governor Livingston issue a special license, to dispense with the normal banns of marriage—a formal recognition of betrothal. Sending his congratulations, the governor hoped they would be blessed with love, happiness, and social acceptance. Livingston expected that marriage would bring an end to the malevolence the pair had experienced: “the tongue of malice,” he said, “dare not I think calumniate it.”64
Theodosia gave birth to a daughter a year later, on June 21, 1783. On Burr’s insistence, the little girl was named after her mother. The new father took all of his parental responsibilities seriously, beyond just caring for the young Theodosia. He found a tutor for his wife’s two teenage sons, Frederick and Bartow, giving them clerkships in his law office. On June 20, 1785, Theodosia bore another daughter, Sally, who “passed gently” at the age of three. She also endured two other difficult pregnancies that ended in stillbirths. Illness and death hovered over their union. Theodosia would be the Burrs’ only child to survive to adulthood.65
Burr’s new career placed demands on the marriage. With the official end of war, the British army had evacuated from Manhattan in November. American merchants and local politicians resumed control of the city. In 1783, Burr moved his law practice to New York City, hoping to attract commercial cases in the bustling seaport town. Uncle Timothy warned Burr that the city suffered from “both natural and moral pollution” in the wake of the British occupation. Burr, nevertheless, felt certain that it was the perfect location for an enterprising young lawyer. He settled his family on Wall Street, near City Hall, and the following year moved into a more spacious home on Little Queen Street. In 1790, they moved again, this time to No. 4 Broadway, occupying an even grander house.66
As Burr moved his family into bigger and bigger homes, he handled more and more cases, and made regular appearances in court in Albany. Traveling by stage and aboard ship, Burr often found himself “packed with the rabble” for long hours, as he wrote Theodosia, ending these days “chilled, fatigued, and with a surly headache.” His wife worried about his “tender frame,” questioning whether his health could endure the hectic pace of travel, the tedious paperwork, and ever-increasing bouts of ill-humor.67 At least the Burrs’ intellectual partnership did not suffer. As their third year of marriage began, he was reading her memoranda “as religiously as ever monk did his devotion.”68
They relied on humor to expose each other’s flaws (and, at times, to engage in self-criticism). In a marvelous letter to Tapping Reeve, Theodosia added a postscript, mocking one of Burr’s letters for its unnecessary formality, noting: “he mistook you for a client,” by signing off as “your most humble servant.” At other times, she ironically referred to Burr as “your lordship.” In general, Burr said what he meant, loath to retreat from what he identified as his “natural bluntness.” In his letters, he readily bestowed both praise and criticism on his wife, in a tone no different than that he used in addressing male friends. He never flattered or patronized her, but reveled in candor. In this way, no one could be further from the Chesterfieldian beau in conversing with women. For her part, Theodosia openly disagreed with her husband’s views, never shy to point out his flaws.69
Their relationship was unique in another crucial sense: they both believed that intelligent women could participate in politics. Burr routinely sent his wife political newspapers to read, and assumed she would pass them along to his male friends and colleagues in New York City. After forwarding to her a book about two “eminent characters” on the American political scene, he was so pleased with her portraits of the men that he showed her comments to a “friend of one of the authors.” Yet he sensed how important it was to show discretion—especially because he confided political secrets in her. Anything she might say while traveling in a public carriage could have an impact on his career, and so Burr advised her in 1792—the year after his election to the U.S. Senate—to remain aloof from other political men.70
Theodosia readily engaged in political patronage. In one instance, she asked Burr to consider a friend for an appointment. Activity of this kind became common among elite women in Washington City after 1800, and it was just as true when New York City was the federal capital in 1789–90. George Washington’s administration established the first “republican court,” setting a precedent that would stand for decades. Informal, behind-the-scenes, female influence over politicians’ decisions was all in a day’s business. What makes Theodosia special is the radical tone of her ideas about women’s role in the enlightened nation state. These views crystallized in her admiration for Catherine the Great of Russia. In 1791, Theodosia wrote Burr of the empress: “The ladies should deify her, and consecrate a temple to her praise. It is a diverting thought that the mighty Emperor of the Turks should be subdued by a woman. How enviable that she alone should be the avenger of her sex’s wrongs for so many years past. She seems to have awakened Justice, who appears to be a sleepy dame in the cause of injured innocence.” Such language would be dramatic in any age, but was particularly dramatic in this one.71
Considered by Voltaire to be an “enlightened despot,” the empress of Russia came to symbolize the Enlightenment’s potential to transform the world. For Theodosia, as an American political observer, Catherine demonstrated that educated women could be innovative political leaders; and as a “glorious figure” on the “historical page,” she could revolutionize women’s place in politics. Writing at a time when the U.S. government was still young and untried suggests that she believed American women ought to be politicians.72
Politics, wit, esteem, and friendship—the Burrs’ marriage no doubt supplied ample sexual satisfaction, too. While Burr wished for a marriage based on sense (rather than empty compliments and sentiments), he responded to Theodosia’s sensual prose. In 1781, for instance, he picked up on her allusion to the caress of water, replying: “it kept me awake a whole night, and led to a train of thoughts and sensations which cannot be described.” Theodosia countered with her own brand of pillow talk. She described how “every tender sensation is awake to thee,” and in another letter pictured her “kindred spirit” lying next to her. Like Madame de Staël, and other French writers of the time, Theodosia compared her sexual desires to the euphoric sensations of an exotic opium den. Once, in 1784, she passionately wrote: “Love in all its delirium ho
vers about me; like opium, it lulls me to soft repose!” Openness was the bedrock of their love, if this rich correspondence tells the whole story of Aaron and Theodosia Burr.73
“WOMEN HAVE SOULS!”
The Burrs shared a passionate commitment to education. During the first ten years of their daughter’s life (1783–93), her mother’s role as educator was crucial, especially because her father was often away. Childrearing was a serious intellectual pursuit for this family. The elder Theodosia had read Plutarch and Herodotus; she devoured all four volumes of Edward Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and had little trouble mastering the moral philosophy of the English theologian William Paley. As Burr’s wife showed she could handle the standard eighteenth-century college curriculum, she applied this knowledge (with the aid of tutors) to the rigorous training of her daughter and namesake.74
Theodosia’s beloved Rousseau’s view of childhood also tapped into her husband’s Presbyterian past. The French thinker may have rejected the innate sinfulness of children, but he retained a religious sense of the urgency of saving children from worldly corruption. Rousseau advised parents to “form an enclosure around your child’s soul” and he believed that education represented the sum total of a person’s adult potential: “All that we lack at birth and that we need when we are grown is given by education.” Education was still about saving children’s souls, something that Burr’s ancestors—from Jonathan Edwards to his mother Esther Burr—strongly endorsed. Burr and his wife shared a philosophy of education: learning required self-knowledge and constant introspection.75
Theodosia also felt that education demanded a consciousness of virtue. Children must learn to identify character flaws in others and themselves. They must learn from the good example of their parents, and reject those adults who failed to live up to specific moral standards. Theodosia told her husband, in one instance, that she was delighted by her children’s reaction to a particularly rude guest, who greedily consumed an excessive amount of wine during his visit: “Few parents can boast of children whose minds are so prone to virtue.” She was proud that her children had viewed the guest with “utter contempt.” Why was she so pleased? The children had reacted naturally, without any parental prompting; they were following their own inner monitor. This was the essence of Rousseau’s prescription for raising independent children to become responsible adults.76
Indulgent parents, in this construct, posed a great danger to children. According to Mary Wollstonecraft, sentimentalization was a major defect in the education of daughters, who were, then, only being taught to be superficial—often their mothers were to blame. Petted and pampered, told to be amusing, attractive, and pleasing to men, young girls lacked the self-control that came from the “sober, steady eye of reason.”77
Burr voiced these very sentiments when he wrote to his wife in 1793, after reading Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman. He cursed the “effects of fashionable education,” of which women were the greater “victims,” and which he found so prevalent in Philadelphia high society. He wrote bluntly: “If I could foresee that Theo[dosia] would become a mere fashionable woman, with all the attentive frivolity and vacuity of mind, adorned with whatever grace and allurement, I would earnestly pray God to take her forthwith hence.” His daughter would be spiritually dead. So what was the point of living?78
The Burrs introduced their daughter to a rigorous curriculum early in life. She could read and write by the age of three. She studied mathematics, geography, Latin, Greek, French, and excelled at a pace that was well beyond her years. A typical day for the eight-year-old prodigy was to practice her writing from 5:00 to 8:00 in the morning and for three more hours in the evening. She received demanding lessons from her tutor, devoted three hours to math and French, followed by some kind of exercise: riding, skating, or dancing. She had to be hearty and resilient. Skating was good for her, Burr teased his daughter: “falling twenty times” would teach her the “advantage of a hard head.” He insisted that his children were constantly employed, “that no time is absolutely wasted,” for he believed that busy children excelled and that a regular routine provided discipline. There was a Calvinist ring to his emphasis on industry and dutifulness. Young Theodosia was raised in accordance with (if not surpassing) the educational standards of most men. Few women learned Latin and Greek; she did. By the age of ten, she was reading and translating Horace and Terence, and she mastered Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.79
The Burrs also adopted the conventional emphasis on “good breeding” and refinement. Lord Chesterfield’s Letters to his Son, and others in this genre, gave direction to a young man’s self-fashioning. While Burr rejected Chesterfield’s unsound advice, he approved Chesterfield’s method—letter writing—as an educational tool. Chesterfield had maintained a regular correspondence with his illegitimate son, giving instruction and advice. Theodosia began writing letters to her father by the age of five, which grew into a regular dialogue. He told her to keep a journal, which she sent to him every week. His early letters offered encouragement and criticism in equal amounts—spelling corrrections, vocabulary hints, and ideas to enable Theodosia to refine her writing style. She approached her studies no differently than a boy the same age would.80
Burr’s devotion to his daughter’s education deepened as his wife’s illness worsened. He discovered Wollstonecraft the year before Theodosia’s death. He confirmed for his wife what she no doubt suspected, that “it was the knowledge of your mind which first impressed me with respect for that of your sex.” At the same time, he qualified that female genius was neither automatic nor universal; he had seen little evidence of “female intellectual powers,” he said, “except in you.”
It seems clear that Burr wished his daughter to grow to be capable and intelligent, as a tribute to his wife. In her mother’s time of trial, he felt the mission to raise an accomplished daughter grew stronger in him. Through her, he would amend the “errors of education, of prejudice, or habit” that traditionally made women appear intellectually inferior to men. He said directly that he would make her his “fair experiment,” his personal project for correcting the causes of the apparent “rare display of genius in women.” She would possess ease and grace, showing none of the pomposity of the pedant or the insipid chatter of an untrained mind. Reason would reign. In echoing Wollstonecraft’s words, he emphatically wrote to his wife in 1793: “But I hope yet by her, to convince the world what neither sex appear to believe—that women have souls!”81
Burr was unique in treating his daughter as his apprentice. He conceived of her enlightenment as a professional calling, more or less. By prodding Theodosia to become a scholar, he encouraged her to be more than conventionally ambitious: she had to be socially adept, and self-assured, as well as gifted. He explained to his daughter that he wished her to acquire an inner “serenity” that would enable her to rise above petty insults. From this foundation, she would develop mental “firmness,” a kind of stoic confidence, giving her the tools to surmount life’s inevitable problems. Above all, he said, she must inspire “respect,” a quality Burr himself had conscientiously striven for as a young man.82
These were not feminine virtues. These were the ideals ordinarily associated with “good breeding” in the gentleman, as popularized by conduct books. Judgment, conversational skills, and confident ease, without signs of artificiality or insincerity—these were demands placed on young men, but only on the most promising ones. Thus, Burr expected Theodosia to transcend social convention, and he felt perfectly comfortable instilling in her male ambition. “Resolve to succeed, and you cannot fail,” he urged. She had to walk a fine line: to gain knowledge of the world, to be capable of winning arguments, and to do so without offending a male adversary.83
His ideal vision for Theodosia was that she could transcend the supposed defects of her sex. Wollstonecraft had argued that it was the consciousness of “always being a w
oman” that inhibited women from becoming fully human. Burr’s daughter was not simply meant to be a female version of himself; she was meant to exercise her reason as naturally as any man, and yet no one would doubt that she had the dignity and grace of a woman.84
Remarkably, Theodosia did live up to her father’s expectations. In 1798, an English visitor gave the following description of her when she was fifteen: “Mr. Burr has introduced me to his daughter, whom he has educated with uncommon care; for she is elegant without ostentation, and learned without pedantry. At the same time that she dances with more grace than any young lady of New York, Miss Theodosia Burr speaks French and Italian with facility, is perfectly conversant with the writers of the Augustan age, and not unacquainted with the language of the father of poetry [i.e., Greek].” The significance of this characterization cannot be minimized.85
Lest we forget, Burr was not only a taskmaster, but an emotionally demanding one. He never withheld sharp criticism when he felt Theodosia needed to hear it. Her every mannerism was subject to inspection and reproof. In 1795, for instance, he rebuked her for the “habit of stooping,” calling it “vile,” for it would “disfigure” her body and destroy her health. How so? Burr hyperventilated: stooping would “produce consumption.” And then? “Then farewell papa; farewell pleasure; farewell life!” Burr apparently had a flair for drama when it came to his daughter’s conduct. He refused to listen to any excuses for laziness in her studies, and he made it clear to her that to abandon the effort would indicate “a feebleness of character” that would seriously disappoint him.86
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