I
used to occasionally ask the clerk, when I handed them a ten, if they knew whose
picture that was. Mostly, the answer was “some president.” If there was no one waiting, I’d give a short
history lesson by saying, “No, this is Alexander Hamilton, first secretary of
the Treasury. If he hadn’t done his job, by figuring out how to pay off the
Revolutionary War debt and balance the budget, there wouldn’t be a United
States today.” While this is a gloss of all his myriad accomplishments during
the few short years he held the Secretary’s office, I’d hope it would make an
impression. Now, because Hamilton is about to be removed from the $10 by a less
illustrious successor at Treasury, the people who know their American
History—and their Hamilton--are surprised and saddened
Timothy
Geithner as well as other veterans and current occupants of high office have come to
Hamilton’s defense. Ben Bernanke said of Hamilton "…without doubt, the best and most
foresighted economic policymaker in U.S. history." Editorial writers for
the New York Times, US Today, WSJ, and noted historians, like Ron Chernow, whose
biography of Hamilton is now considered the definitive work on his high-powered
subject, have also registered their thoughts upon the matter.
But
I’m a mere fiction writer, and to me there’s always been more to Hamilton than
sterling service to his adopted country. Wanting to connect fully with his personal life, I discovered a wealth of primary source in the form of letters. Fortunately,
Elizabeth, his devoted wife, pursued and collected these in her long years of life after her husband's death. In these
private communications, I was allowed a glimpse of the man behind the myth, his masks,
his follies, instances of teasing and tenderness. Letters allow us, all these
years later, to form an idea of what he was like.
I’ll start my examples with a political slur—on
Hamilton and the American army—which was published in Rivington’s Tory Gazette
in 1779, when he was George Washington’s most effective aide de camp. It evokes
a picture of a bold, cheeky young man:
“Mrs. Washington has a mottled orange tom cat (which
she calls in a complimentary way, ‘Hamilton’) with thirteen stripes around the
tail and its flaunting suggested to congress the thirteen stripes for the
flag.”
In his youth, among his male friends, Hamilton plays the worldly rake. Here are excerpts from a letter sent to a fellow ADC
and dear friend, John Laurens, during the Revolution, a joking discussion of his
requirements for a wife:
“She must be young, handsome (I lay most stress upon
a good shape), sensible ( a little learning will do)…of some good nature…as to
religion, a moderate stock will satisfy me. She must believe in God and hate a
saint. But as to fortune, the larger stock of that the better…though I run no
risk of going to purgatory for my avarice, yet as money is an essential
ingredient to happiness in this world…it must needs be that my wife, if I get
one, bring at least sufficency to administer to her own extravagancies…You will
hear of many competitors for most of the qualifications required who will be
glad to become candidates for such a prize as I am…(and) mind you do justice to
the length of my nose…”
Daily life was far different before the advent of phones
and rapid travel. Letters illuminate the hardships and stresses that might devolve
upon an 18th Century family. Hamilton was often away from home, either riding
the circuit as a lawyer, or while serving in some distant public body.
Sometimes, his wife and children were in Albany with her Schuyler parents to
escape the oppressive, fever-ridden city summers of Philadelphia and New York. Often,
as a result of his indefatigable public life, (in the example below, during a
term in the Continental Congress,) the family was separated. Here's a particularly anxious letter from a young husband to his wife:
“…I have borne your absence with patience ‘till
about a week since, but the period we fixed for our reunion being come I can no
longer reconcile myself. Every hour in the day I feel a severe pang on this
account and half my nights are sleepless. Come my charmer and relieve me. Bring
my darling boy to my bosom. Adieu Heaven bless you and speedily restore you to
your fond husband…”
“I wrote to you my beloved Betsy by the last post…I
count upon setting out to see you in four days; but I shall not be without
apprehensions of being detained ‘till I have begun my journey…at this time,
(attendance in) the House is thin…I give you joy my angel of the happy
conclusion of the important work in which your country has been engaged. Now in
a very short time I hope we shall be happily settled in New York.”
Many letters show concern about the ill
health of their children. Originally, Hamilton had come to America to study
medicine, and a continuing interest in the subject is evident throughout his life.
“The Secretary of the Treasury presents his respects
to the president. The state of health of his little son and the situation of
Mrs. Hamilton in consequence of it oblige him to request the present to excuse
him from attending the interview with the Indians today and also to ask the
President’s permission to make an excursion into the country for a few days to
try the effect of exercise and change of air upon the child…” To George Washington, July 11, 1794
Here, Hamilton, recently returned to the Capitol, writes to
Elizabeth, absent in Albany with her younger children, one seriously ill, on Aug.
17, 1794:
“My Beloved Eliza… I am happy to inform you that the
precious little ones we left behind are well… My heart trembles whenever I open
a letter from you.” (Their youngest, John Church, had several strange "cures” tried
upon his little body that summer, some suggested by his anxious father and others by attending
physicians.) “The experiment of the pink root alarms, but I continue to place
my hope in heaven…Alas, my beloved Johnny--what shall I hear of you! This
question makes my heart sink….”
“…If his fever should appear likely to prove obstinate,
urge the Physician to consider well the propriety of trying the cold bath…”
And this last, a recollection by this same "Johnny," written down many years later:
"...In the morning, early, he awakened me. Taking my hands in his palms, all four hands extended , he told me to repeat the Lord's Prayer. Seventy years have passed over my head, and I have forgotten many things, but not that tender expression when he stood looking at me...nor the prayer we made together the morning just before the duel..."
Whatever his other failings, Hamilton was a man who loved his family. As a writer particularly interested in the "little domestic world," as experienced in the past, this made him particularly fascinating to me.
