ould drop all my cares and troubles.

But now every thing is changed." "It is all over with me, Atticus: I
feel it more than ever now that I have lost the only being who still
bound me to life." He purposed to erect on a commanding site, as a
monument to his dear Tullia, a splendid temple, which, as though
dedicated to some god, should survive all the changes of ownership,
and bear to distant futurity the memory of her worth, and of his
sorrow for her. For a long time, he could think of nothing but the
details of this plan, on which he intended to lavish the bulk of his
fortune. He avoided society for almost a year, and never recovered
from the wound which the loss of her gave his heart. Margaret Roper
was the pride and darling of her father, Sir Thomas More, whom in
return she venerated and loved with the whole depth of her heart. The
beauty of their relation cannot be forgotten by those who have read
the life of the great English martyr. It was by her brave duteousness
that his mutilated body was buried in the chancel of Chelsea Church.
His head, exposed upon a pole on London Bridge for fourteen days, was
ordered to be thrown into the Thames; but Margaret rescued it,
preserved it in a leaden box, and directed that, after her death, it
should be placed with her in the grave.

One of the loveliest examples of this class of friendships is
unveiled by William Wirt in the exquisite memoir he wrote of his
daughter, Agnes, after her death at the early age of sixteen. The
example is closely parallel to that of the famous and good John
Evelyn, who, apostrophizing his daughter, Mary, in mournful memory,
says, "Thy affection, duty, and love to me was that of a friend as
well as of a child." So Wirt writes of his Agnes: "To me she was not
only the companion of my studies, but the sweetener of my toils. The
painter, it is said, relieved his aching eyes by looking on a curtain
of green. My mind, in its hour of deepest fatigue, required no other
refreshment than one glance at my beloved child, as she sat beside
me." Not many fathers and daughters have been fonder or faster
friends than Aaron and Theodosia Burr. The character and memory of
Burr, in the popular imagination, have been blackened beyond the hope
of bleaching. Of course, he was a man mixed of good and bad; and was
not such an unmitigated devil as some would paint him. But his
selfishness, sensuality, recklessness, and degradation give, in one
respect, a peculiar interes