history-corner

[history-corner]

in my unearthing of Old Shit from my defunct laptop i found these illustrations of different moments in burr’s life. unfortunately i have no idea of the source or where i can find higher quality versions but here you go

[history-corner]

i think we all know that ham loved his wife very much and i don't think he really cared that much for maria but do you know how he treated women in general by any chance?

He was known to be very gallant and charming towards women, generally, and he had a particular sympathy towards women in difficult circumstances. At a dinner party in December 1795, when Hamilton moved from conversation with the other men to a “mixed assembly of both sexes,” one guest observed, “the tranquil reserve, noted at the dinner table, had given place to a social and playful manner, as though in this alone he was anxious to excel.” (William Sullivan, “The Public Men of the Revolution”, p.261.) That he was less serious and more playful in female company is reflected in a letter from Angelica Church to Eliza dated about the same year: “[B]ut my dear Eliza, when you and I are with him he shall not talk politics to us. A little of his agreeable nonsense will do us more good.” (Intimate Life of Alexander Hamilton, p.164). He also respected talented and accomplished women; for example, in a letter thanking Mercy Warren for a copy of her latest book of poetry, he wrote:

It is certain that in the Ladies of Castille, the sex will find a new occasion of triumph. Not being a poet myself, I am in the less danger of feeling mortification at the idea, that in the career of dramatic composition at least, female genius in the United States has outstripped the Male. (1 July 1791).

This tendency towards gallantry was often what led him into trouble. Peggy Arnold, of course, famously duped him along with Washington and Lafayette with her performance after her husband’s betrayal. In a letter to Eliza, Hamilton described the scene:

[O]ne moment she raved; another she melted into tears; sometimes she pressed her infant to her bosom and lamented its fate occasioned by the imprudence of its father in a manner that would have pierced insensibility itself. All the sweetness of beauty, all the loveliness of innocence, all the tenderness of a wife and all the fondness of a mother showed themselves in her appearance and conduct. We have every reason to believe she was intirely unacquainted with the plan, and that her first knowlege of it was when Arnold went to tell her he must banish himself from his Country and from her forever. (25 September 1780).

Based on his account of the Reynolds Affair, Maria’s mistreatment and abandonment by her husband was what drew him into her life in the first place. You mention feeling that Hamilton disliked Maria, but even in the Reynolds Pamphlet, he sounds conflicted and confused, vacillating between surety that he’d been duped by her and her husband and the idea that she might, at one point at least, have been truly fond of him.

[history-corner]

“[Hamilton] was, as has been described by the author by some that knew and one that loved him, a small, lithe figure, instinct with life; erect and steady in gait; a military presence, without the intolerable accuracy of a martinet; and his general address was graceful and nervous, indicating the beauty, energy, and activity of his mind. A bright, ruddy complexion; light-colored hair; a mouth infinite in expression, its sweet smile being most observable and most spoken of; eyes lustrous with deep meaning and reflection, or glancing with quick, canny pleasantry, and the whole countenance decidedly Scottish in form and expression. He was, as may be inferred, the welcome guest and cheery companion in all relations of civil and social life. His political enemies frankly spoke of his manner and conversation, and regretted his irresistible charm….His manner, with a natural change, became very calm and grave when ‘deliberation and public care’ claimed his whole attention….[M]oods of engrossing thought came upon him even as he trod the crowded streets, and then his pace would become slower, his head be slightly bent downward, and, with hands joined together behind, he wended his way, his lips moving in concert with the thoughts forming in his mind. This habit of thinking, and this attitude, became involuntary with him as he grew in years.”

—

The Life and Epoch of Alexander Hamilton: A Historical Study, by George Shea, pp.45-46.

The loved one who served as Shea’s source for this sketch of Hamilton was Catherine V.R. Cochrane, Eliza Hamilton’s youngest sister, who was born shortly after Eliza and Alexander’s marriage. Hamilton’s tendency to walk slowly down busy streets talking to himself was a source of great amusement his family during his life. 

[history-corner]

happy anniversary of hamilton standing on a table to sing while burr stared him down with so much tension everyone else got real uncomfortable!

[history-corner]

“In his [Burr’s] wickedly mordant world, everything was reduced to clever small talk, and he enjoyed saying funny, shocking things. ‘We die reasonably fast,’ he wrote during a yellow-fever outbreak in New York. ‘But then Mrs. Smith had twins this morning, so the account is even.’”

— Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow, page 192 (via halestered)

[history-corner]

“He’s a wonderfully self-destructive individual, Alexander Hamilton, but in this case I think there’s two possible reasons why he said [that Caesar was the greatest man that ever lived.] One is, he actually just liked to say things to upset Thomas Jefferson. He really did! And this was a good one, better than he thought. He liked to pushed Jefferson’s buttons, get Jefferson all sort of sputtering and mad, and it worked…So part of it might just have been Hamilton being deliberately irritating…It’s interesting when you look through all of Hamilton’s writings, he doesn’t really speak in praise of Caesar anywhere else, which might lead you to theory number one. ‘Okay, Teej. Let’s see how you deal with this one: I’m all for Julius Caesar. What’re you gonna do?’”

— Joanne Freeman, on a conversation between Jefferson and Hamilton, in which Jefferson explained that Bacon, Newton and Locke were the three greatest men to ever live, and Hamilton decided to give TJeffs the most obnoxious retort possible. (Yale Courses)

[history-corner]

What are some interesting historical facts about Mr. Ham? Love some obscure ones!

I’m not sure how obscure these are, but here are a few random facts about Hamilton that I find interesting:

He enjoyed singing, and his favorite song was called “The Drum.”

He wasn’t a very good artist himself (as you can see from his doodles in his pay book), but he had an eye for good pieces of art.

He held a subscription to and served on the board of Charles Willson Peale’s Philadelphia Museum, which displayed Peale’s paintings as well as various natural curiosities. Parts of the collection of natural curiosities would later be sold to P.T. Barnum.

He often talked aloud to himself, especially when he was writing, much to the amusement of his family and friends.

His favorite spot to sit in the gardens around the Grange was beneath a bower of honeysuckle vines. Eliza could frequently be found sitting alone there after his death.

[history-corner]

Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler, 1780

[Preakness, New Jersey, October 13, 1780]

I would not have you imagine Miss that I write to you so often either to gratify your wishes or to please your vanity; but merely to indulge myself and to comply with that restless propensity of my mind, which will not allow me to be happy when I am not doing something in which you are concerned. This may seem a very idle disposition in a philosopher and a soldier; but I can plead illustrious examples in my justification. Achilles had liked to have sacrificed Greece and his glory to his passion for a female captive; and Anthony lost the world for a woman. I am sorry the times are so changed as to oblige me to summon antiquity for my apology, but I confess, to the disgrace of the present age, that I have not been able to find many who are as far gone as myself in such laudable zeal for the fair sex. I suspect, however, if others knew the charms of my sweetheart as well as I do, I should have a great number of competitors. I wish I could give you an idea of her; you have no conception how sweet a girl she is; it is only in my heart that her image is truly drawn. She has a lovely form, and a mind still more lovely; she is all goodness, the gentlest, the dearest, the tenderest of her sex—ah, Betsey, how I love her!

Two days since I wrote to you my dear girl and sent the letter to the care of Colonel Morris: there was with it a bundle to your mamma, directed to your father, containing a cloak which Miss Livingston sent to my care. I enclosed you in that letter, the copy of a long one to my friend Laurens with an account of Arnold’s affair.3 I mention this for fear of a miscarriage as usual.

Well, my love, here is the middle of October; a few weeks more and you are mine; a sweet reflection to me; is it so to my charmer? Do you find yourself more or less anxious for the moment to arrive as it approaches? This is a good criterion to determine the degree of your affection by. You have had an age for consideration, time enough for even a woman to know her mind in. Do you begin to repent or not? Remember you are going to do a very serious thing. For though our sex have generously given up a part of its prerogatives, and husbands have no longer the power of life and death, as the wiser husbands of former days had, yet we still retain the power of happiness and misery; and if you are prudent you will not trust the felicity of your future life to one in whom you have not good reason for implicit confidence. I give you warning; don’t blame me if you make an injudicious choice; and if you should be disposed to retract, don’t give me the trouble of a journey to Albany, and then do as did a certain lady I have mentioned to you, find out the day before we are to be married that you “can’t like the man”; but of all things I pray you don’t make the discovery afterwards, for this would be worse than all. But I do not apprehend its being the case. I think we know each other well enough to understand each other’s feelings, and to be sure our affection will not only last but be progressive.

I stopped to read over my letter; it is a motley mixture of fond extravagance and sprightly dullness; the truth is I am too much in love to be either reasonable or witty; I feel in the extreme; and when I attempt to speak of my feelings I rave. I have remarked to you before that real tenderness has always a tincture of sadness, and when I affect the lively my melting heart rebels. It is separated from you and it cannot be cheerful. When it has rested itself in your bosom in tears of joy, it will assume a livelier call and laugh without affectation.  What is it in my letters that pleases you so much?  Love is a sort of insanity and every thing I write savors strongly of it; that you return it is the best proof of your madness also.  I hope you have no confidant in our correspondence.  Be assured if you have, that all those follies which delight you because they harmonize with your feelings will be to her so many proofs that I am fit only for Bedlam.  The [paper torn] and my letters will not be as to be read with any other. 

I tell you, my Betsey, you are negligent; you do not write me often enough. Take more care of my happiness, for there is nothing your Hamilton would not do to promote yours.

Source: Columbia University

[history-corner]

What do you think was going through Hamilton’s mind when he was laying in the bottom of the boat as his lifeblood was slowly draining out of him?

Such a sad question! That ride across the river must have been harrowing, not only for Hamilton but also for the friends with him. Based on David Hosack’s account, it seems Hamilton’s mind went to both his legacy and his family. Not long after being wounded, Hamilton lost consciousness, barely breathing and lacking a perceptible pulse. Hosack and Pendleton carried him down to the boat, and, with the assistance of the rowers, laid him down on the bottom to cast off back to New York. After some minutes, Hamilton regained consciousness. As Hosack related to William Coleman:

He breathed; his eyes, hardly opened, wandered, without fixing upon any objects; to our great joy he at length spoke: “My vision is indistinct,” were his first words. His pulse became more perceptible; his respiration more regular; his sight returned. I then examined the wound to know if there was any dangerous discharge of blood; upon slightly pressing his side it gave him pain; on which I desisted. Soon after recovering his sight, he happened to cast his eye upon the case of pistols, and observing the one that he had had in his hand lying on the outside, he said, “Take care of that pistol; it is undischarged, and still cocked; it may go off and do harm;—Pendleton knows, (attempting to turn his head towards him) that I did not intend to fire at him.” “Yes,” said Mr. Pendleton, understanding his wish, “I have already made Dr. Hosack acquainted with your determination as to that.”

It’s interesting that one of Hamilton’s first thoughts upon waking was to again insist that he didn’t intend to fire at Burr. Obviously, we know he had fired, but this statement gives credence to the theory that Hamilton had intended to withhold his fire entirely, and that the gun had discharged accidentally after Hamilton was shot. (This theory also accounts for the odd angle at which Hamilton fired–his bullet was recovered in a tree branch, about six feet up and four feet over from where Burr was standing.)

He remained calm and quiet for much of the ride back, only inquiring from time to time about his pulse and reporting that he had lost all feeling in his legs. His thoughts, during this time, turned to Eliza. “Perceiving that we approached the shore,” Hosack reported, “he said, ‘Let Mrs. Hamilton be immediately sent for—let the event be gradually broken to her; but give her hopes.’“ His thoughts remained on his family for much of the next two days:

The great source of his anxiety seemed to be in his sympathy with his half distracted wife and children. He spoke to me frequently of them—“My beloved wife and children,” were always his expressions.

[history-corner]

Hi! Your blog is excellent. I was wondering What is the closest likeness of Hamilton? And was his hair colour a ginger or a more strawberry blonde shade? It’s hard to tell as his hair was almost always powdered.

Thank you! Hamilton’s family considered the James Sharples profile the best portrait of him. The Cerrachi bust was also apparently a very good likeness, considering John Trumbull borrowed it from Eliza Hamilton to paint the 1806 posthumous portrait of Hamilton (now the basis of his image on the $10 bill).

As for Hamilton’s hair color, it wasn’t the bright, true red I’d associate with calling someone ginger; I’d call it more of a strawberry blonde with some darker brunette undertones. The Charles Shirreff miniature of Hamilton gives a good idea of his coloring, as it is one of the few paintings of him without his hair powdered. A few locks of Hamilton’s hair have also survived, although they were all clipped after his death, by which time he was starting to go pretty gray. Still, it seems the best evidence of his true hair color:

Image Source: New York Times

[history-corner]

I was wondering what Gov Morris & Ham’s relationship was like? I know he helped the family a lot when Ham died and Eliza asking him to be a father to her children should she die but he does seem to be somewhat harsh on him in his diary notes before the funeral (as compared to say Pickering or Fisher Ames) & Phil’s son Allan didn’t seem to like Morris in his grandad’s biography either.

Really great question! Hamilton and Gouverneur Morris both possessed very strong personalities, so as much as they liked each other, they also tended to butt heads from time to time. James Hamilton recalled one such disagreement between them that arose during oral arguments in the Le Guen case:

After speaking in praise of what Hamilton had said, [Morris] used these words: “Before I have done I am confident I shall make my learned friend cry out, ‘Help me Cassius (pointing at Burr), or I sink.’” When Hamilton’s turn came to reply, he treated Morris with great courtesy, reviewed his arguments without mercy–exposing all their weakness, and then alluded to the boast of his friend in a strained irony that turned the laughter of the Court and the audience against him. This so deeply offended Morris that years afterwards, at his own house, referring to that discussion he said to me, “I never forgave your father for his speech on that occasion.” (Reminiscences, p. 12).

The two were sincerely friends, however. They met early in Hamilton’s political career, worked together during the Constitutional Convention, and remained close until the end of Hamilton’s life. Morris often recorded in his diary going out to the nearby Grange for the day to spend time with the Hamilton family.

Morris was harsh on Hamilton in his diary entries around the time of Hamilton’s death. The important thing to keep in mind, however, is that Hamilton’s death caused both profound grief and real anger for many of his dearest friends. Morris was incorrectly informed that Hamilton had been killed immediately in the duel with Burr, and as a consequence didn’t arrive to say goodbye to Hamilton until July 12, a day after the duel. On July 11, Hamilton was in intense, almost unbearable pain, but he also still had energy enough to converse and move. By the second day, he’d been bleeding internally for more than twenty-four hours; he was weak, limp, drowsy, and drugged on laudanum when Morris finally arrived. Morris recorded in his diary:

Go there. When I arrive he is speechless. The scene is too powerful for me, so I am obliged to walk in the garden to take a breath. After having composed myself, I return and sit by his side till he expires….A most melancholy scene–his wife almost frantic with grief, his children in tears, every person present deeply afflicted, the whole city agitated, every countenance dejected….I am wholly unmanned by this day’s spectacle. (Brookhiser, Gentleman Revolutionary, pp. 172-73).

Hamilton’s death was clearly deeply upsetting for Morris, and he had only one day to deal with the conflicting emotions before he was called upon to give the eulogy. The intense heat of summer combined with Hamilton’s autopsy meant there could be no delay in burying him. The harshness in Morris’ diary during that time is, I think, Morris trying to work through his anger and despair that Hamilton had willingly walked in to the situation which was causing so much distress to his family, friends, and the country as a whole.

Oliver Wolcott expressed some of that same palpable anger in his letters to his wife right after Hamilton’s death. On July 11, 1804, Wolcott wrote:

Genl Hamilton has left his opinion, in writing, against Duelling, which he condemns as much as any man living–he determined not to return the fire of his adversary–and reasoned himself into a belief, that though the custom was in the highest degree criminal, yet there were peculiar reasons which rendered it proper for him, to expose himself to Col. Burr in particular….Thus has perished one of the greatest men of this or any age. (Intimate Life, pp. 405-407).

After Philip’s death, Hamilton had spoken out against duelling, and yet, when it counted, when he could have served as an example for the rest of society to bring an end to the barbaric custom, he instead twisted himself into knots to convince himself it was all right for him to answer Burr’s challenge. Hamilton so insecure about his reputation, he was constitutionally incapable of being the man his friends wished him to be. That failing proved fatal, and left those who cared about him trying to pick up the pieces.

As for Allan McLane Hamilton’s opinion of Morris, I think the issue came down to Morris’ later comments about Hamilton’s involvement in the Constitutional Convention. Morris famously wrote much of the Constitution, and it bothered him that Hamilton seemed to be getting more credit that he deserved for his efforts at the Convention; Morris wrote, “[Hamilton] had little share in forming the Constitution. He disliked it, believing a republican government to be radically defective….” (Intimate Life, p.53). Though Hamilton’s influence at the Convention itself was small, given he was outvoted two to one by the rest of the New York delegation, he expended great effort in arranging the convention and afterwards securing the passage of the Constitution. Thus, the Hamilton family, including AMH, rightfully felt this criticism of Hamilton by Morris rather unjust. However, I despite his harsh words and attempts at securing his own legacy, I do think Morris felt a sincere friendship towards Hamilton during his life.

[history-corner]

Alexander Hamilton to Philip Schuyler, 22 March 1801

“My Dear Sir

We did not leave Albany till near twelve on Friday and the next day about one, I arrived here1—where I found the two families in good health.2

The darkness of the night obliged us to come to Anchor in Haverstraw Bay.3 About mid-night we were alarmed with the cry of “All hands upon Deck.” You will imagine we were not slow in our obedience. No sooner were we on Deck than we perceived by a flame issuing out of the Forecastle that the vessel was on Fire. The pilot, a resolute man, possessing himself of a bucket of water, plunged amidst the flames at great hazard of suffocation, and dashed the water upon the part from which the flame issued. This gave it a check, and a repetition of the application soon conquered it.The fire was occasionned by heat communicated below from the bricks of the Cabouse from which the flame penetrated upwards along the Cieling. Five minutes more would probably have rendered it impracticable to save the vessel.

Nothing new here. Eliza joins in tenderest affection to her mother & yourself. Adieu My Dear Sir

A Hamilton”

Hamilton seems to always on ships that catch on fire. I love that the next sentence after this harrowing tale is “Nothing new here,” just shrugging it off, like, yeah, I almost died– again–but I didn’t, same old same old. Philip Schuyler replied to the letter five days later, on March 27, 1801, his affection and concern for his son-in-law plain:

I am happy that you have escaped the danger with which you was threatened by the fire in the vessel in which you were.1 Had you perished, my calamity would have been compleat. I thank heaven that it is otherwise. I am, however, not perfectly at ease on your account—that unremitted exertion of the mind, and without bodily exercise, will injure if not destroy the machine. Let me, therefore, intreat you to attend to your health. We are all well, and all unite in love to you, my dear Eliza and the children.

[history-corner]

Reminiscences of Mrs. Alexander Hamilton

One of the contributions to volume 78 of the Atlantic Monthly, published in 1896, came from an unidentified woman who in her youth had stayed as a guest with Elizabeth Hamilton and her daughter in Washington, D.C. during the 1850s. Over games of backgammon and nights by the fire, she was treated to intimate view of Eliza Hamilton in her old age. Her full account follows:

“When I was a child of twelve or thirteen, I spent the winter in Washington, and had the good fortune to know Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, whom I remember to this day with vivid interest and love. It was probably pleasant for her to have a young person about her, and for days and often weeks at a time she and her widowed daughter would have me with them. General Winfield Scott lived in the house next Mrs. Hamilton’s, and I became familiar with his soldierly figure, and remember how eagerly I watched for him on New Year’s Day, when his six-feet-and-four was arrayed in all the glory of full uniform for the President’s reception. I had my own idea of the God of War, but not Mars himself could have filled it more gorgeously than the general as he crossed the broad sidewalk in a dazzle of gold and color, with waving plume and clanking sword. Bur there was no prancing war-horse, and I had a miserable sense of flatness when all that splendor was swallowed up in a rusty hack and jolted away in the most commonplace manner.

Mrs. Hamilton’s favorite room in her house, which was on H street, near the site of the Presbyterian church, was the front room of the English basement, the dining room being back of it. There, by the window, in her own particular chair, she sat for hours, either looking out, or weaving mats on a small frame with pins along the sides. No longer able to read or even knit, this work was a great resource to her who had always been full of activity. Precluded from any social exertion by her great age (she was then ninety-five), she often seemed pleased to turn to me for amusement. I would read to her, or sit near and sew my bits of work while she was in a talkative mood; or, in fine weather, I would walk with her. Leaning her right hand on a stout cane, and her left arm upon my arm, she would walk several blocks, generally to a florist’s, for she was passionately fond of flowers; and always there was from her a cheerful little stream of talk, either of reminiscences, or of observations of nature, or of philosophical reverie, when everything else seemed to be forgotten. In stormy weather there were her mat-weaving and backgammon, of which she was very fond. I would have to tell her the number on the dice, because she could not see; but she would play for hours. I asked her once if she had always like it. She replied: “Yes, always. When I was young, Mr. Franklin taught me to play. He visited my father’s when I was a girl, and was very kind to me.”

One of her reminiscences that made a deep impression on me was the story of a great gathering of the Indians of eastern New York at Saratoga, which was then only a log fort. All the chiefs and greatest warriors of the Six Nations had met in solemn council, row after row of fine specimens of manhood standing silently around an open space, where a bit of greensward gleamed in the sunshine. Although they were dressed in all the barbaric pomp of war-paint, there was peace on their faces as they stood awaiting the approach of a small group of whites,–one or two officers in full uniform, and a tall commanding man in the prime of life, leading by the hand a slim girl about thirteen, dressed in white, with uncovered head and half-curious, half-frightened eyes. This man was General Philip Schuyler, whom the Indians honored as they did no other white man; and they had met to offer him a tribute of devotion. At a sign from the great chief of their ranks parted to admit General Schuyler, who advanced into the open space, still leading his little daughter. There, with many ceremonies, the child was formally adopted by the Six Nations, the chiefs ending the sacred rites by laying their hands upon her head, and giving her an Indian name meaning “One-of-us.” This incident as told by Mrs. Hamilton was the more impressive because she herself was the little maid thus adopted.

I recall one of her reminiscences of General Washington, because it gave me a new idea of him. She had been talking of men of bodily strength, and she observed that Washington was a very strong man. She then told an incident that must have happened soon after her marriage, for she was at the time at headquarters with her husband. Washington was writing in his office, a room on the second floor of a farmhouse. The farmer’s wife, who was washing clothes, suddenly discovered that the shed-roof was on fire. She rushed screaming into the house, and Washington came bounding down the stairs, picked up one of the large washtubs full of suds, ran upstairs with it, got out on the roof, and emptied it on the blaze; then he ran for another tub, and still another, before he succeeded in putting out the fire.

After dinner, it was the custom for Mrs. Hamilton, if well enough, to spend an hour or so in the large parlors on the first floor, where every evening there were many visitors, friends and strangers. Generally she enjoyed their calls, taking part in the conversation and showing a lively interest in current affairs; but sometimes she was unable to make the exertion. She did not make calls herself, but once I remember she went to one of President Pierce’s receptions. When it was known that the widow of Alexander Hamilton was present, she became the attraction of the evening; and the President, anxious to do her honor, left his place, offered his arm, and escorted her around the East Room.

Her dress, always black, of wool in the morning and of silk or satin in the evening, had been made after the same fashion for years. She wore a plain full skirt, and a plain, rather short waist folded over (not under) a muslin kerchief. Around her neck was a broad, finely plaited ruffle fastened behind, and a small soft shawl was laid over her shoulders. Her face, with its fine features, was framed by a plain snowy cap edged with finely plated ruffle, and tied under the chin. Some of the fire of youth still shone in those dark eyes, as she sat and talked with her guests, or, when they had gone, she slowly walked about the large rooms, leaning on her cane, pausing at one old bit or another of furniture to tell me its history. These rooms were crowded with relics,–swords, books, china, pictures, and many other things whose history I would gladly recall. The side wall near the entrance door was almost covered with a large half-length portrait of Washington, who sat to Stuart for it, and gave it to Hamilton. Under a large handsome centre table in the front parlor was a great silver wine-cooler, also a gift from Washington. I remember nothing more distinctly than a sofa and chairs with spindle legs, upholstered in black broadcloth, embroidered in flowery wreaths by Mrs. Hamilton herself, and a marble bust of Hamilton standing on it pedestal in a draped corner. That bust I can never forget, for the old lady always paused before it in her tour of the rooms, and leaning on her cane, gazed and gazed, as if she could never be satisfied.

She always called him Hamilton. One night, I remember, she seemed sad and absent-minded, and could not go to the parlor where there were visitors, but sat near the fire and played backgammon for a while; when the game was done, she leaned back in her chair a long time with closed eyes, as if lost to all around her. I never heard her complain, and I loved her with a reverent love that made me feel awed as the long silence was broken by the murmured words, “I am so tired,–it is so long. I want to see Hamilton.” What thoughts must have come to her from the past!—for she had griefs and losses beyond the usual grievous lot of woman. It is told in history that her oldest son, Philip, fell in a duel before his father met a similar fate; but it is unwritten history that the oldest daughter, a lovely young creature, was so shocked by her brother’s cruel death that her reason fled forever. In a private asylum she lived to be an old woman.

When Mrs. Hamilton died, at the age of ninety-seven, although an interment in old Trinity churchyard in New York had been for years a forbidden thing, her last request was granted. Quietly, at night, that frail little form was laid to rest there by the side of her beloved and illustrious husband. “

[history-corner]

Did Hamilton really dance on a table while singing a risque song one evening out with his friends? Cause if so thats hilarious that when unbuttoned, combined with the bet he made for (was it Morris?) To go touch Washington, he was apparently "That" kind of friend

I haven’t seen anything about that specific scenario, but I can say that I wouldn’t think it was terribly out of character if it happened–Hamilton was definitely “that” friend! :D He was flirtatious in company, a prankster with a slightly dangerous sense of humor, and he enjoyed putting on a show. The incident with Morris at the Constitutional Convention is a wonderful example. He also famously  caused a frenzy in New York when he convinced the guests at a dinner party that he’d seen a ghost raised in a seance. He had to explain some days later, “It was not till a Day or too ago that Genl Hamilton explained the Mystery & declared [the] whole to be a contrivance between himself Ph. Church & the Pole to frighten the family for amusement, & that it was never intended to be made public.” (See Philip Schuyler to Hamilton, 31 January 1799, n.26). As to Hamilton’s flirtatious nature, William Sullivan described a noticeable shift in Hamilton behavior when he joined the ladies at a dinner party in 1795: “In the evening of the same day, he was in a mixed assembly of both sexes; and the tranquil reserve, noticed a the dinner table, had given place to a social and playful manner, as though in this alone he was ambitious to excel.” (Public Men of the Revolution, p. 261). According to John Church Hamilton, Ham had no problem getting up and singing in front of a large group of people. On July 4, 1804, he attended a celebration at the Society of the Cincinnati: “He was urged to sing, and he replied,–’Well–you shall have it.’ He sang once his favorite song, “The Drum”…Hamilton sang with his usual glee.” (Life of Alexander Hamilton, v. VII, p. 822).

[history-corner]

“The day before the duel I was sitting in a room, when, at a slight noise, I turned around and saw my father in the doorway, standing silently there and looking at me with a most sweet and beautiful expression of countenance. It was full of tenderness, and without any of the business pre-occupation he sometimes had. ‘John,’ he said, when I had discovered him, ‘won’t you come and sleep with me to-night?’ His voice was frank as if he had been my brother instead of my father. That night I went to his bed, and in the morning very early he awakened me, and taking my hands in his palms, all four hands extended, he said and told me to repeat the Lord’s Prayer. Seventy-five years have since passed over my head, and I have forgotten many things, but not that tender expression when he stood looking at me in the door nor the prayer we made together in the morning before the duel. I do not so well recollect seeing him lie upon his deathbed, though I was there. Of course I saw him, but that recollection is only general. I went to the funeral at Trinity Church, and vaguely remember that.”

—

John Church Hamilton on his father’s last days in an interview with The Times (Philadelphia) on July 11, 1878.

That John’s memory of Hamilton’s deathbed isn’t very vivid is really interesting. By all accounts, Hamilton’s deathbed was a heartrending, painful, and haunting scene for those who attended him on his last days. John simply may not have wanted to share that painful memory with the newspaper, but I actually think he’s being honest. Eliza limited the amount of time her children were in the room after the duel, only allowing them in near the very end on the second day to say goodbye. By that time, Hamilton’s pain was more controlled, though he was clearly fading and unable to speak without difficulty. It seems, though, she successfully ensured John’s last memory of his father wasn’t seeing him suffering and in pain.

[history-corner]

The way Richard Kidder Meade referenced Eliza in his letters to Hamilton is so telling about the way Hamilton spoke of her when they were first falling in love:

“[My wife] loves not less than your Betsy, & I fear could not bear a seperation… Molly5 is not with me as I have told you, but she at all times desires me not to omit her best wishes to you & your angel…” (Meade to Hamilton, 13 Jan. 1781)

“And now my Dear friend how do you do, how is my old acquaintance your better half & all your little offspring…” (Meade to Hamilton, 30 Sept. 1794)

Meade and Hamilton fell in love, married, and had children around the same time, and their letters to each other are touchingly open about their feelings towards their wives and children. That Meade chose to refer to Eliza in ways such as “your Betsy,” “your angel,“ and “your better half,” indicates that all Hamilton’s little pet names for her weren’t just a writing convention–he actually spoke about her that way to his close friends, often enough that Meade used them in his own letters inquiring after her.

[history-corner]

do you have any info on eliza and/or alexander’s physical features ?

Sure! Eliza was petite, but fit (she continued to climb fences into her eighties), and her most striking feature seems to have been her eyes. Tench Tilghman described her in his diary after his trip to Albany in 1773 as “a brunette with the most good-natured, dark, lovely eyes that I ever saw, which threw a beam of good humor and benevolence over her entire countenance.” (See Henry Jones Ford, “Alexander Hamilton,” p. 100).

As for Hamilton, I think the best physical description of him comes from William Sullivan in his book the “Public Men of the Revolution”, describing Hamilton at a dinner party in December 1795:

He was under middle size, thin in person, but remarkably erect and dignified in his deportment. His hair was turned back from his forehead, powered and collected in a club behind. His complexion was exceedingly fair, and varying from this only by the almost feminine rosiness of his cheeks. His might be considered, as to figure and color, an uncommonly handsome face. When at rest it had a severe, thoughtful expression, but when engaged in conversation it easily assumed an attractive smile. When he entered a room it was apparent, from the respectful attention of the company, that he was a distinguished person.He was dressed in a blue coat with bright buttons; the skirts of his coat were unusually long. He wore a white waist coat, black silk small clothes, white silk stockings…His mode of speaking was deliberate and serious; his voice engagingly pleasant. (William Sullivan, “Public Men of the Revolution”, pp. 260-261).