General Washington's Silver Camp Cups, 1777

These dozen camp cups were owned by General George Washington, and are now elegantly displayed by the Museum of the American Revolution in a tumble of gleaming silver. According to the museum's placard, Philadelphia silversmith Edmund Milne supplied Washington with "12 Silvr Camp cups," fashioned from "16 Silvr Dollrs" in August, 1777. The cups would have been used by Washington as a hospitable commander-in-chief while dining in his field tent as well as in the army’s various winter encampments, and would have travelled with his other belongings in the army’s baggage wagons. To be sure that the cups’ glorious pedigree would never be forgotten, a later owner (the cups descended through the Washington family) had each one engraved with the inscription "Camp Cup owned and used by General Washington during War of the Revolution."

Of course, given that I still have the characters of  I, Eliza Hamilton much on my mind, I thought of young Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, an aide-de-camp to Washington. I wondered if he ever drank from one of these cups, or if they were reserved only for exalted guests - other generals, visiting dignitaries, foreign diplomats, members of Congress - rather than lesser officers serving as part of the general's military family.

Regardless, it's easy to look at the cups and imagine them being used by Washington and his guests, a determined effort to maintain the appearances and civility of Georgian gentlemen no matter how grim the circumstances or meagre the camp fare. That silver would have reflected the candlelight or fire, and the toasts to liberty and freedom that were drunk from them would have helped seal the camaraderie of these elite men who were risking so much for the sake of the Revolution.

Camp Cups, made in Philadelphia by Edmund Milne, 1777. Museum of the American Revolution.

Read more about Eliza and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel  I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Red Roses in the Snow

This photo comes from our friends at the Schuyler Mansion State Historic Site, Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton's family home in Albany, NY, and the site of her wedding to Alexander Hamilton.

December 14 marked the anniversary of that wedding. There was snow on the ground 238 years ago, and there was snow in Albany last week, too. Nearly all of the flowers in the small formal garden behind the Mansion had long since faded and dropped their petals for the winter. But on the Hamiltons’ anniversary, these two red roses remained in bloom beside one another, gently touching despite the ice and snow that covered them.

Could there be a more romantic symbol of the lasting love of Eliza and Alexander?

For other posts about the wedding see here, here, here, here, and here.

Photograph by Jessie Serfilippi.

Read more about Eliza and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

A White Silk Dress for a Special Portrait of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, 1787

Sitting for a portrait was serious business in 18thc America. Professional artists were few and portraits were expensive, a luxury for only the wealthiest or most prominent of people. Even for them, a portrait was often a once-in-a-lifetime event.

When Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton sat for her portrait in the winter of 1787, she was thirty years old. From a socially prominent New York family, Eliza was the wife of Colonel Alexander Hamilton, an up-and-coming young lawyer and Revolutionary War hero who was already playing an important role in shaping the new country's government. Alexander himself had already sat for several portraits, and now it was Eliza's turn.

The white silk gown that Eliza wears is the first to be recreated by historical mantua-maker and gown designer Samantha McCarty as part of the Fashioning Eliza program for the Museum of the American Revolution, Philadelphia, PA. It's all part of the museum's "Year of Hamilton" celebration that I've previously posted about here.

The white dress is the perfect choice to recreate, too. Eliza would have put a great deal of thought into what she chose to wear for this portrait. She was creating a lasting image of herself, a "selfie" for posterity. Her dress is stylish and appropriate for her status coming from a wealthy family and as Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, with costly imported silk and lace that displayed her husband's success. Her dark hair is frizzled and powdered white in a style made popular by Queen Marie Antoinette of France – a nod not only to French royal fashion, but also to the country that had helped America win its Revolution.

But Eliza pointedly wears only thin black ribbons tied around her wrists and throat instead of jewels or other ornaments. Simplicity in dress – and this dress is without any extra ruffles or fussiness – was praised, and considered patriotic. With Eliza's body shaped by stays (corset), it's easy to overlook the fact that she's pregnant in this portrait, and that she would give birth to the third Hamilton son, James Alexander, in the spring of 1788. Her white silk gown is the color of purity, truth, and virtue, excellent qualities for a woman of the new republic, and for the mother of new citizens as well.

Eliza may also have chosen a white gown for another reason, since this portrait resulted from an unusual act of charity by the Hamiltons. Alexander knew that the American-born portraitist Ralph Earl was imprisoned for debt in the New York City gaol. By the paradoxical laws of the time, the artist wouldn't be released until he'd paid his debts – impossible for him to do as long as he was imprisoned.

Alexander arranged for Earl to be given fresh paints, brushes, and canvas, and he also commissioned this portrait of his wife. Also happy to help the impoverished artist, Eliza sat for Earl in the gaol, her pristine white gown setting her apart from the sordid conditions nearby. Other New York ladies followed her example, and the artist was finally able to pay his debts and resume his career.

There's only one other portrait of Eliza from the years of her marriage, a pastel by James Sharples drawn around 1795. In this, too, she is shown wearing white. The choice of color is probably only a fashionable coincidence, and yet the two white dresses in these portraits stand out in comparison to what was to come. When Alexander died in 1804 of wounds following his fatal duel with Aaron Burr, Eliza immediately began dressing in black for mourning. In the fifty years of her widowhood, she never wore anything else.

Read more about Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton.

Left: "Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton" by Ralph Earl, 1787, Museum of the City of New York.

Right: Museum educator Amy Yandek dressed as Eliza Hamilton. Photograph by Kevin Rossi, Museum of the American Revolution.

A Charming Profile Portrait of Eliza Hamilton, c1796

There are only two known portraits of Eliza Hamilton that date from the years of her marriage to Alexander Hamilton. One of them is the 1787 painting of her by American artist Ralph Earl, currently in the collection of the Museum of the City of New York. The second is this pastel drawing from around 1796 by the British artist James Sharples.

The drawing was likely made at the same time as a companion to this portrait, also drawn by Sharples, of Eliza’s husband Alexander Hamilton. While there are several versions of Alexander’s portrait, this is the only surviving version of Eliza’s. The Hamilton family regarded the Sharples picture of Alexander as the most favorable likeness of him of all his many portraits.

I wonder if they felt the same about this delightful portrait of Eliza. Captured with the hint of a smile, Eliza is shown in profile with her dark eyes, brows, and hair in contrast to her pale complexion. The stiffly arranged and powdered hair that Eliza wore for her 1787 portrait had gone out of fashion, and although ten years separate the two portraits, she looks younger here. Her hair is loosely tied with an oversize bow and draped with a strand of faux pearls. Her dress also reflects the newer styles coming into fashion, and is probably white cotton muslin, soft and airy. (Some of this softness may in fact be due to the condition of the drawing; pastels are fragile, and easily smudged.)

Eliza and Alexander likely sat for their portraits for James Sharples in New York City. An English artist, Sharples sailed to America with his family around 1796, where he found considerable success, capturing the likenesses of most of the famous Americans of the day. George and Martha Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James and Dolley Madison, James Monroe, and Aaron Burr were among those who sat for Sharples. The entire Sharples family worked to meet the demand for portraits, and his wife Ellen, herself a talented artist, often completed portraits for her husband, while his two sons, Felix and James, also drew original portraits and copies.

Sharples portraits like those of the Hamiltons are nearly all in profile, small in size (most are about 7”x9”), and done on the same soft grey paper. After the likeness was sketched, the ground pastel chalk was applied with a brush to complete the image. The Sharples family worked quickly: portraits were usually completed in two hours, at a cost of $10.

In 1799, Sharples was advertising an exhibition and sale of his portraits in his New York house: “Submitted to public inspection upwards of 200 original paintings of the most celebrated personages in the United States, besides foreign ministers and other foreigners of distinction.” Alexander’s portrait was among those featured in the advertisement. Eliza’s was not, which isn’t surprising. Not only was she a mere wife rather than a “celebrated personage”, but the almost ethereal informality of her portrait likely destined it for display not in a public gallery, but in the Hamilton home for family and friends.

Above: “Portrait of Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton” by James Sharples, c1796-1800, private collection.

Read more about Eliza and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Are These Eliza Hamilton's Embroidery Designs?

The last page of the letter shown above was written by General Philip Schuyler to his daughter Eliza Schuyler Hamilton in September, 1799. He was in Albany, NY, while she was in New York City. It’s typical of the letters they exchanged, filled with news of the family, friends, and acquaintances, with remembrances and updates for those far away, as well as Philip’s customary love and affection; in this letter and many others, he calls Eliza “my beloved child.” The letter is in the collection of the Library of Congress, and you can read all of it (or at least try to; Philip’s handwriting is not the easiest to decipher) here.

The letter was important enough to Eliza that she kept it - and yet at some point she apparently used the back of the letter for some random sketching. There is, of course, no absolute proof that these little leaves and fruits are by Eliza - she didn’t sign her doodles - but it’s very likely that they are hers.

My guess is that they’re not simply random, idle drawings, but sketches for needlework. Like many 18thc women of her class, Eliza enjoyed embroidery (see these examples of her stitchery here and here), and continued various forms of handiwork throughout her long life. These little drawings are very similar to the commercially produced patterns for embroidery that were available in the late 18thc, either from the designers themselves or through English publications like The Ladies Magazine (see the 1796 pattern for a winter shawl, below.)

Patterns like this could be worked freehand, or pricked and transferred via pouncing to the fabric. Women adapted the patterns to suit themselves and their projects, and patterns were often shared among friends and family.

The drawings on Philip’s letter not only show the regular repetition of a stylized vine motif and the suggestion of smaller stitches that were used to fill in open spaces, but also hint at shading, whether through different colored threads or the changing direction of stitches. I like to imagine Eliza working out the details of her next project this way, sketching and designing. Her second daughter Eliza was born in November, 1799, only two months after her father wrote this letter to her. Perhaps these twisting vines found their way onto a little whitework baby’s cap or gown.

Below: “A New Pattern for a Winter Shawl” by an anonymous designer, from the 1796 half-year of The Ladies Magazine, collection of Jennie Batchelor.

Many thanks to Jessie Serfilippi for first bringing this letter and the sketches to my attention.

Read more about Eliza and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

George Washington Requests the Pleasure of Alexander Hamilton's Company to Dine, 1790

Before there was Evite, before there were texts, before there was even a telephone, hostesses and hosts invited their guests to dine with a hand-written note. If that hostess or host were sufficiently important, influential, or wealthy (or all of those), a specially engraved invitation like the one shown here might be sent. As elegantly worded and beautifully scribed as this invitation appears, the blanks left for the guest's name and other details made them a boon for those with a busy social life.

This card was sent by President George Washington and his wife Martha Washington to invite Alexander and Elizabeth Hamilton to dine at the presidential mansion in January, 1790. Watch out for all the old-fashioned long-form S's that look like F's in the printed part of the invitation. In contrast, the handwritten S at the end of Hamilton's name is quite ordinary. I don't know why Eliza's name wasn't written in as well; perhaps the 18thc version of the modern "plus one" was understood.

At this time, Washington was the country's first president, and still in the first year of his first term; he had taken the oath of office in April, 1789 in New York City, which was then serving as the capital. In early 1790, Washington, his cabinet, and Congress were still creating what would become the federal government, but creating a presidential "style" was important, too. President and Mrs. Washington had to balance their social life between representing the new country in a properly dignified manner, and appearing too elitist or aristocratic, or even monarchical. New rituals like formal dinners and levees were developed, and invitations like this one would have been prized.

The young - they were both in their early thirties - Hamiltons must have been equally prized as guests. As the first Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton was a member of Washington's cabinet, and at this time he was considered among the most brilliant and powerful men in the country. In the same month in which this invitation was sent, Hamilton had proposed the first of his economic plans to Congress, his Report on Public Credit. Powerful or not, Hamilton or his wife must have realized the significance of this presidential invitation, and preserved it for posterity.

On loan from the New-York Historical Society, the invitation is currently on display at the Museum of the American Revolution in Philadelphia as part of their "Year of Hamilton." In addition to a special exhibition and interactive playscape called Hamilton Was Here: Rising Up in Philadelphia (opening 10/26), the museum is also hosting special programs and displaying many Hamilton-related pieces - including important letters and documents, portraits, and other artifacts - within their permanent collection over the next year. These will be marked with a special "Hamilton Was Here" label to make Hamilton-hunting easier (and for those of you Hamilfans unable to visit Philadelphia, I'll be sharing more, too.)

Above: Invitation, January, 1790, New-York Historical Society. 

Photograph ©2018 Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

A Portrait of John Church Hamilton (1792-1882), the Fourth Son of Eliza & Alexander Hamilton

In the way of famous men, there are many portraits of Alexander Hamilton, making it easy to visualize what he must have looked like. In comparison, there are only a handful of Eliza, and only one of her as a younger women. 

But beyond Alexander and Eliza, there are even fewer surviving paintings of their extended family. Given the circumstances of Alexander's family, it's not surprising that no known images of his mother or father exist, but the senior Schuylers weren't very well-represented, either: there's only one portrait of Eliza's mother Catherine Schuyler, two of her father General Philip Schuyler, and none of Eliza and her many siblings as children. 

Nor did Eliza and Alexander have their own much-loved children drawn or painted as children. Aside from a few tantalizingly brief descriptions of their appearances in letters, we don't know today if their first son Philip* truly was as handsome as everyone claimed, or if their daughter Angelica favored her namesake aunt. Even as adults, the Hamilton children are woefully missing from the visual record.

While chasing down another research rabbit-hole this weekend, however, I came across this wonderful portrait of John Church Hamilton (1792-1882). Despite all the searches I've done about the Hamiltons, this painting had never before turned up, but I'm so glad it did. John Church Hamilton was the fourth son of Eliza and Alexander. Named in honor of Angelica's husband John Barker Church (they returned the complement by naming one of their sons Alexander Hamilton Church), John Church was only eleven when Alexander died following the duel with Aaron Burr in 1804. 

John Church graduated from Columbia College - the same university attended by his father and older brothers - in 1809, and also like his father, he studied law, and served in the United States Army during the War of 1812. He was the Hamilton son most closely tied to preserving his father's history and legacy, and not only did he edit and publish his father's papers in The Works of Alexander Hamilton: Containing His Correspondence, and His Political and Official Writings, Exclusive of the Federalist (a seven-volume endeavor), but he also wrote the comprehensive biography of his father and his times that required another seven volumes. This was the biography that Eliza had so desired to have written; unfortunately, she died before its completion.

The artist of this portrait, Henry Inman (1801-1846) was one of the most skilled and popular portraitists working in New York City in the first half of the 19thc. Although this painting is not much larger than a miniature (8 1/4" x 6 3/4", or smaller than a sheet of notebook paper), Inman captures John Church as a dignified young New York gentleman. What I find most fascinating is how his face is such a combination of his parents' features: Eliza's dark hair and eyes, with Alexander's mouth and nose.  A handsome fellow indeed!

* There is a drawing from a later date that floats around the internet - and even appears in Ron Chernow's "Hamilton" biography - purporting to be of Philip; it's not him, but his younger brother William.

Portrait of John Church Hamilton by Henry Inman, painted between 1825 - 1830, Detroit Institute of Arts.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Angelica Schuyler Church Tells Her Brother About the Hamilton-Burr Duel, July 11, 1804

                                                                                          at Mr. Bayards Greenwich                                                                                                    Wednesday Morn

My dear Brother,

I have the painful task to inform you that General Hamilton was this morning wounded by that wretch Burr, And we have every reason to hope that he will recover. May I advise that you repair immediately to my father as perhaps he may wish to come down. My dear sister bears with saintlike fortitude this affliction. The Town is in consternation, and there exists only the expression of Grief & Indignation. Adieu my dear Brother. Remember me to Sally. Ever Yours,                                                                                                                                                   A. Church

There's nothing quite like an original letter from the past. The majority of surviving letters related to the Hamiltons and Schuylers have been transcribed and are available online on various sites. There's no doubt that this is convenient. It's much easier to read a modern transcription than to decipher the often-faded handwriting of long ago, with its dips and swirls and often-idiosyncratic spelling and punctuation. It also helps preserve the originals from the wear and tear of being removed from preservation storage and studied.

But...

There's so much more to be learned from a handwritten letter than the words alone. Handwriting can reveal the writer's emotions, fears, and wishes, the urgency with which they wrote or the care that they took in choosing just the right word or phrase. I can't think of a better example than the letter above.

The author of this letter was Angelica Schuyler Church, the eldest sister of Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, wife of John Barker Church, and sister-in-law to Alexander Hamilton. Angelica was a well-read, well-traveled, and well-educated 18thc woman, and most of her letters are filled with ideas and thoughts, descriptions of where she has visited and whom she has met, and, depending on her correspondent, often a dollop of flirtation as well. But not here.

Angelica wrote this letter on the morning of July 11, 1804, shortly after Alexander had been rowed back across the Hudson River from NJ back to NY.  His duel with Aaron Burr had gone disastrously wrong, and left him gravely injured. I've written another blog post that gives all the details of the duel, so I won't repeat them here. But when Angelica wrote this letter to her brother Philip, she had clearly just arrived at the house of Alexander's friend William Bayard, right, where the injured Alexander had been brought. Given the severity of his wounds and the amount of blood he'd already lost, it's hard to understand her optimism for her recovery, but perhaps the attending physician was putting the best face on the situation for Angelica and Eliza. 

Or perhaps Angelica did know. The letter was clearly written in haste and anxiety, the words dashed across the page.  The two passages that she underlined - wretch Burr  and expression of grief - are probably the most revealing ones in the entire letter. And because we know what happened after the letter was written, they're also among the saddest.

This letter belongs to The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History, and I saw it on display in the 2018 exhibition Hamilton: The Constitutional Clashes that Shaped a Nation at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia, PA. Many thanks to Jessie Serfilippi of the Schuyler Mansion for her assistance with this post. 

Read more about Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. My latest novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

Dining at The Grange with the Hamiltons (and the Bonapartes, too), 1804

One of the reasons I especially enjoy research with handwritten letters is being able to see the little things that reproduced transcriptions often omit. The excerpt, above, is from the bottom corner of a letter than Alexander Hamilton wrote to Victor Marie du Pont de Nemours in May, 1804. Most of the letter concerns the repayment of a debt, with a complicated explanation of the principal and the interest accrued. As dry as this may be, the letter has importance because of the two parties corresponding - the former Secretary of the U.S. Treasury writing to a prominent French-American diplomat and businessman.

But it's the non-business part of the letter that intrigued me.  Aside from the fact that I wish I could end letters with Hamilton's grandiloquent yet breezy closing sentence ("The multiplicity of my affairs will excuse my delay in completing this business"), it's that little postscript to the left that caught my eye.

"P.S. I sent you some days since a note requesting you to meet Mr. Bonaparte at my house on Sunday three oClock to dine. I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you."

Yes, Hamilton is displaying his typical impatience because Du Pont hadn't responded to his first invitation, but he's also describing what must have been quite a grand dinner. Mr. Bonaparte was Jérôme Bonaparte, the youngest brother of Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France (and soon to become Emperor.) While visiting America, the nineteen-year-old Jérôme had fallen in love with Elizabeth "Betsey" Patterson of Baltimore and had married her. An American merchant's daughter did not fit into Napoleon's dynastic plans, however, and the First Consul had already made his displeasure known.

But in May of 1804, Jérôme and Betsey were glamorous newlyweds, and having them as guests must have been a social coup. In addition to the French-born Du Pont, the guest list included Hamilton's good friend, statesman and bon vivant Gouverneur Morris, who had served as the American Minister Plenipotentiary to France. Considering that Hamilton also spoke French fluently, it's easy to imagine French - the language of 18thc diplomacy and worldly sophistication - as the language of choice during the meal.

Several days after this letter, Hamilton wrote a quick note to his wife, Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, to let her know that "On Sunday Bonaparte & wife...with dine with you. We shall be 16 in number...." Because this note is undated, it's impossible to tell exactly how much warning Hamilton gave Eliza before the dinner. At this time, he had his law office in what is now lower Manhattan, and often remained there overnight instead of making the long trek (which could take a couple of hours, depending on the weather) by horse or carriage to the family's country house, The Grange, in the then-rural northern part of Manhattan. Eliza and the couple's younger children were living at The Grange, which would have been site of the dinner.

In the same note, Hamilton asks Eliza to send the "coachee" to town on Saturday - perhaps he intended to provide transportation for at least some of his guests - and the "waggon", probably for more provisions for the meal.  He also says that it was "my intention to get out Gentis and perhaps Contoix"; Gentis had been employed by the Hamiltons as a cook, and Contoix had also worked for the family. Clearly Hamilton was planning an impressive dinner.

Now Eliza was an accomplished hostess, and I'm betting that none of this fazed her. She would have handled French guests, extra servants, and an elegant meal with gracious aplomb. While sixteen guests could have been a tight fit in The Grange's dining room, right, the accommodating design of the house would have let her open the doors into the parlor and add another leaf or two to the table. I can also imagine Hamilton himself fussing over every detail of his dinner from the menu to the wines, and sparing no expense, either. With the tall windows open to catch the breezes from the river, it must have been a merry and pleasurable evening indeed.

But the hindsight of history casts an undeniable shadow over this luxurious little dinner.

A little over a year later, the marriage of Betsey and Jérôme Bonaparte would be annulled by Napoleon. Betsey would eventually return alone to America with their infant son, while Jérôme would marry the German princess his brother had chosen. At the time of this dinner, Hamilton had already begun exchanging barbs with another New York lawyer, a conflict that would fester and escalate throughout the spring and early summer. This dinner took place on May 13, 1804. Almost exactly two months later, on July 12, Alexander Hamilton would die of wounds suffered in his duel with Aaron Burr.

Thanks to Lucas R. Clawson, reference archivist & Hagley historian, Hagley Museum & Library, for sharing this letter with me.

Above: : Dining room at The Grange, New York, NY. Photo ©2017 Susan Holloway Scott. Below: Detail of a letter from Alexander Hamilton to Victor Marie du Pont de Nemours, May 1804; collection of Winterthur Museum.

Read more about Eliza and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Those Now-Famous Strands of George Washington's Hair (By Way of Eliza Hamilton): The Backstory

If you're reading this blog, you're most likely a history nerd as well as a Hamilton fan, and proud of it, too. It also likely means that somewhere you've recently read this history story in the mainstream media: how a few strands of George Washington's hair were discovered tucked inside a 200-year-old almanac in the rare book library of Union College. Partly because it was around Washington's birthday, and partly because it IS an interesting discovery, the story was everywhere, including the Washington Post, The New York Times, USAToday, Newsweek, Newsday, US News & World Report, and the Smithsonian's SmartNews, NPR, and network and cable outlets as well. Last time I checked, it had appeared in over 200 outlets.

In many versions of these stories, I'm quoted (along with professors of history and hair-experts), describing how hair was a common memento among friends and family in the past.  Which, of course, it was - but there's much more to the story than most journalists have space to tell. I don't have those constraints, and besides, I love all the nerdy-history details. There are even connections to Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, the heroine of my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton.

The almanac  - and the hair - (shown above) were discovered during an inventory of the archival collections of Schaffer Library, Union College. Bound in red leather, Gaines Universal Register or American and British Kalendar for the year 1793 was a popular volume for gentlemen of the time, and contained useful, everyday knowledge such as population estimates for American cities and comparisons of various coins and monies. The almanac is inscribed "Philip Schuyler's a present from his friend Mr. Philip Ten Eycke New York April 20, 1793."

The first thought was that the almanac belonged to Gen. Philip Schuyler (1733-1804), a close friend of Gen. Washington who served under him during the American Revolution. Philip Schuyler was later active in Federalist politics and government as a U.S. senator from Albany, as well as one of the founders of Union College. He was also the father of Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton (1757-1854), and father-in-law to Alexander Hamilton.

Tucked inside the almanac were several pages of handwritten notes and a business letter, which make the owner more likely General Schuyler's son, Philip Jeremiah Schuyler (1768-1835). Also inside the almanac was a slender yellowed envelope, with this written on one side: "Washington's hair, L.L.S. & (crossed out) GBS from James A. Hamilton given him by his mother, Aug.10, 1871." Inside the envelope were a few white hairs, tied together with a thread, left. Who were all these people, and could their identities help prove that the hair really had come from Washington?

A Google search by Phillip Wajda, Union's director of media and public relations brought him to my blog post about historic hair in the collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society. The handwriting accompanying that hair does appear to the be same as is on the envelope, belonging to James Alexander Hamilton (1788-1878.) James was the fourth child of Elizabeth and Alexander Hamilton, and, like his mother, was very aware of both his father's legacy and his family's place in American history.

Locks and strands of hair were often exchanged, especially as tokens of a deceased loved one. While it's impossible to be absolutely certain without DNA testing, the hair's provenance makes a strong case for it having come from Washington. The Hamiltons were close to the Washingtons, and it's likely that Martha shared George's hair with Elizabeth after George's death, if not before. It therefore makes sense that James passed along the hair given to him by his mother, Eliza, as he wrote on the envelopeHe gave the hair to family members who would have appreciated it, too. Thanks to the assistance of Jessie Serfilippi, an interpreter at the Schuyler Mansion in Albany, we determined that the initials refer to James's granddaughters, Louisa Lee Schuyler (1837-1926) and Georgina Schuyler (1841-1924.) The sisters continued the family interest in history through historic preservation - an idea growing in the late 19thc-early 20thc with a renewed appreciation for the country's early history. Together the sisters were instrumental in making Gen. Schuyler's grand colonial house in Albany into a New York historic site in 1917. At some point, the envelope with the hair must have been slipped into the almanac for safekeeping, forgotten, and then later donated to Union.

A digression into the complicated genealogy of Louisa and Georgina: Philip Jeremiah Schuyler (son of Gen. Schuyler, brother of Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, and owner of the almanac) and his second wife, Mary Anne Sawyer, had a son, George Lee Schuyler. George Lee Schuyler married his cousin Eliza Schuyler, the daughter of James Alexander Hamilton (son of Elizabeth and Alexander Hamilton.) George and Eliza became the parents of Louisa Lee and Georgia - who therefore were, through intermarriage, great-granddaughters to both Gen. Philip Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton. Whew!

What I find particularly fascinating about all this is that because Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton lived to be 97, she would have known both Louisa Lee and Georgina as girls. Think of that: they would have heard first-hand stories of the American Revolution from Elizabeth, and yet they themselves lived into the 1920s. It's understandable that Louisa Lee and Georgina would have wanted the Schuyler Mansion to be preserved since they remembered their great-grandmother, who in turn would have remembered when the mansion (then her family's new home, known as The Pastures) was built in the 1760s.

Could there be any better backstory than that?

Thanks to Phillip Wajda, Jessie Serfilippi, and Anne E. Bentley, Curator of Art & Artifacts, Massachusetts Historical Society, for their assistance with this post.

Photo ©2018 Union College.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. My latest novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

Hamilton vs Burr: The Most Infamous Duel in American History

Since I, Eliza Hamilton is a historical novel based on the life of the life of the wife of Alexander Hamilton, I don't think it's a spoiler to say that the duel in my story doesn't end happily for my protagonists. Early on the morning of July 11, 1804, Hamilton had himself rowed across the Hudson River to Weehawken, NJ for an "interview", the term for the arranged time for two gentlemen to meet for a duel, with Aaron Burr.  (For the background to the duel and its aftermath, see Affairs of Honor: National Politics in the New Republic by Joanne B. Freeman. Wonderfully detailed and readable, this is the same book that Lin-Manuel Miranda consulted while he was writing Hamilton: An American Musical.)

Following the conventions of the day, their seconds watched as witnesses, while the attending physician and the boatmen turned their backs. There was disagreement as to what exactly happened when the two pistols fired. Most believe that Hamilton intentionally fired into the air, satisfying the demands of honor, but keeping to his beliefs as a Christian by not taking another man's life. Burr, however, fired towards Hamilton, severely wounding him.

Partially paralyzed, bleeding profusely, and drifting in and out of consciousness, Hamilton was taken back to Manhattan to the home of his friend William Bayard, where he died the following afternoon, surrounded by his grief-stricken family and friends. In addition to his widow Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, he left behind seven children, the youngest still an infant. Less than three years earlier, the Hamiltons' eldest son, Philip, aged 19, had also been killed in a duel defending his father's honor - possibly with the same pistols.

Even in an era long before social media, word of the duel spread swiftly, and by noon all of New York knew of it. The shock, outrage, and sorrow following Hamilton's death were immediate. he had been a popular man in the city he'd made his hometown, and the tragedy of his death plunged New York into deep mourning.

Burr, meanwhile, had fled to avoid being charged with murder. Although he had followed the traditional rules of dueling, Burr was reviled for killing Hamilton, and while the murder charges were eventually dismissed, his life, fortunes, and reputation never recovered.

The entire country was stunned. How could the current vice president of the United States and the former Secretary of the Treasury - both respected gentlemen, lawyers, and veterans from the Revolutionary War - engage in a fatal duel for the sake of honor? The practice was deplored and defended, sermons thundered from pulpits, and the sight of Eliza shrouded in mourning with her fatherless children touched everyone who glimpsed it. Over two hundred years later, the Hamilton-Burr duel remains the most famous/infamous duel in American history, and likely the only one most modern Americans can name.

Within a year of Hamilton's death, a marble monument in his honor had been placed at the site of the duel at Weekhawken. Before long, souvenir-seekers had chipped away so many pieces of the marble that the monument was finally taken down around 1820, and later in the century the original dueling grounds were obliterated by railroad construction. Only the pitted marble plaque from the monument's base remains, now in the New-York Historical Society. Today the duel is commemorated in Weekhawken with a small park at the top of the Palisades overlooking the original site. The park includes a bust statue of Hamilton, the stone where he was traditionally believed to have rested against after being wounded, and a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. It's become such a popular site for visitors that it now has it has a page on TripAdvisor.

And yes, when I wrote the scene with the aftermath of that duel through Eliza Hamilton's eyes, I cried.

Above: Hamilton-Burr Dueling Pistols, replica set, 1976, New-York Historical Society. Photo ©2017 Susan Holloway Scott.  

Read more about the Hamiltons in my historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton. My latest novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

The Fabulous Flock Wallpaper of the Schuyler Mansion

Eliza Schuyler Hamilton moved into her family's new home when she was a young girl. The Pastures (now called the Schuyler Mansion) is a magnificent Georgian brick house built by Eliza's father, landowner, merchant, and politician General Philip Schuyler between 1761-1765, as the centerpiece to his sizable 125-acre estate overlooking the Hudson River.

Philip Schuyler was determined that everything in his new house would be in the latest style, and while on a trip to London in 1761-62 on business, he went on something of a buying spree. He had both considerable wealth and considerable taste, especially for a young man; he was only 28 when the house was begun. It's easy to imagine fashionable shopkeepers racing to bring out their best wares for the consideration of the New Yorker with deep pockets, and I only hope that his wife Catherine, left behind in Albany with their growing family (she'd eventually bear fifteen children), had some say in the decoration of their new home.

Among Philip's stylish indulgences were flock wallpapers. Mimicking the elaborate patterns of woven silk damask, flock (the flock was pulverized, powdered wool, a by-product of the woolen industry, that was applied to the paper with a turpentine-based glue) wallpapers were the height of luxurious display in the 18thc, and the richly patterned and textured papers hung on the walls of royal palaces. The scale of the patterns tended to be large, and looked best in big rooms like the ones that Philip was having built in his new house.

Miraculously, the record of exactly what he purchased remain in an "Invoice of Sundries to America." He bought flock wallpaper, listed by color, as well as "caffy," a kind of flock that copied damask patterns, enough to paper nearly every room. (He also purchased a special scenic wallpaper that I've written about here.) While the original 18thc papers have long vanished from the house's walls, replicas have been created and hung in their place - the expert work of the Peebles Island Resource Center of the Regional Alliance for Preservation. 

As you can see from these photographs (click on the photo above for a slide show), the effect is stunning, the mixture of colors and textures both bold and sophisticated. (It's also tempting, and visitors are cautioned not to touch the lushly fuzzy patterns.) Impressive as it all is today, 18thc guests to the house must have been left in amazement by so much colorful splendor - exactly as Philip would have wished.

The Schuyler Mansion is now a state historic site, and open to the public. See their Facebook page for more information about visiting and tour reservations.

Many thanks to historic interpreter Danielle Funiciello for her expert tour, and her assistance with this post.

All photographs ©2017 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

"Lovesick Alexander Hamilton": A Letter From Alexander to Eliza, July 13, 1781

This is another of the letters that I saw last week at The Morgan Library as part of the Treasures from the Vault exhibition, on display through March 11, 2018. While the letter from fifteen-year-old Philip Hamilton to his father Alexander in the same exhibition was quite legible, this letter from Alexander to Eliza is a challenge to read today. The ink has faded, the paper is stained and worn and torn, yet still the words - and love - remain.

Here's a transcription of the entire letter, thanks to the National Archives:

"I have received my angel two letters from you since my arrival in Camp with a packet of papers, and I have written to you twice since I saw you. I acquainted you with the assurances that had been given me with respect to command, and bad you dismiss all apprehensions for my safety on account of the little prospect of activity.

"With no object of sufficient importance to occupy my attention here I am left to feel all the weight of our separation. I pass a great part of my time in company but my dissipations are a very imperfect suspension of my uneasiness. I was cherishing the melancholy pleasure of thinking of the sweets I had left behind and was so long to be deprived of, when a servant from Head Quarters presented me with your letters. I feasted for some time on the sweet effusions of tenderness they contained, and my heart returned every sensation of yours. Alas my Betsey you have divested it of every other pretender and placed your image there as the sole proprietor. I struggle with an excess which I cannot but deem a weakness and endeavour to bring [end of first page] myself back to reason and duty. I remonstrate with my heart on the impropriety of suffering itself to be engrossed by an individual of the human race when so many millions ought to participate in its affections and in its cares. But it constantly presents you under such amiable forms as seem too well to justify its meditated desertion of the cause of country humanity, and of glory I would say, if there were not something in the sound insipid and ridiculous when compared with the sacrifices by which it is to be attained.

"Indeed Betsey, I am intirely changed—changed for the worse I confess—lost to all the public and splendid passions and absorbed in you. Amiable woman! nature has given you a right to be esteemed to be cherished, to be beloved; but she has given you no right to monopolize a man, whom, to you I may say, she has endowed with qualities to be extensively useful to society. Yes my Betsey, I will encourage my reason to dispute your empire and restrain it within proper bounds, to restore me to myself and to the community. Assist me in this; reproach me for an unmanly surrender of that to love and teach me that your esteem will be the price of my acting well my part as a member of society....

"I write your father all the news we have. Give my love to your mother sisters and brothers. Love me and let your happiness always consist in loving

"Yr. A Hamilton"

Alexander wrote this letter on July 13, 1781. He and Eliza had been married about seven months. They had spent most of their short marriage together, and this was the first lengthy separation they'd faced. After resigning from his position as Gen. Washington's aide-de-camp earlier in the year, Alexander had hoped (and begged) for a field command with the army. Now, in the summer of 1781, it seemed as if his wishes would come true. Although the details were still evolving - and still very secret - the Continental Army was marshaling for a major encounter with the British. Alexander had left Eliza with her family in Albany, and rejoined the army at its encampment at Dobb's Ferry, NY, to await further orders. Before the summer was over, those orders would take Alexander to Yorktown, VA, and the last major battle of the American Revolution.

The Morgan Library's caption calls Alexander "lovesick," but the concern and devotion for Eliza shown in this letter goes deeper than the emotions of a fashionably pining swain.

It was an anxious time for them both. Alexander believed that a role in combat was essential to prove himself, and to gain the reputation for bravery, courage, and leadership that would lift him up to the next level of success and social prominence after the war. But for the first time since he had first left his studies at King's College to join the army, he now had someone else to care for, and to care for him. He loved Eliza, and he missed her. He longed for battle, but he didn't want to leave her a widow.

Eliza understood the stoicism expected of an officer's wife, having watched her mother,  Catherine Van Rensselaer Schuyler, balance a large household and multiple pregnancies with Gen. Philip Schuyler's military career. But from Alexander's reassurances, it's clear that Eliza must have worried endlessly about her new husband. She would have known his desire and reputation for often-reckless glory, as well as how his slight frame and  constitution weren't suited for the rigors of a long and dangerous campaign.

She'd other concerns, too, for by this time she must have known that she was pregnant with their first child, Philip, who would be born in January, 1782. Alexander doesn't mention her pregnancy here (and the first surviving letter that does is dated a month later) so it's possible she's waiting to be sure before she tells him of their coming child. 

This letter would have been sent along with others for Gen. Schuyler and the rest of the family via a military messenger from the army's headquarters - one of the perks for Hamilton of being married to a general's daughter, and still being on good terms with the commander-in-chief. Envelopes weren't yet in use, so if you look to the left side of the page, you'll see the simple "Mrs. Hamilton" which would have been on the outside of the folded and sealed letter, and sufficient address since it was included with Gen. Schuyler's letters.

This letter is over 230 years old, so its condition is to be expected. But when I looked at those deep creases, I imagined how often Eliza must have unfolded the letter to read and reread the contents, seeking reassurance and love from her husband at war.

Above: Alexander Hamilton (1757-1804) Letter to Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, signed and dated Dobbs Ferry, 13 July 1781, The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History. Photograph ©2018 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Hamilton's Wall Street in 1790 - As Imagined in 1913

No matter how much research I do or visits to historic sites I make, there's always a point in which my imagination has to put all the pieces together to create the environment in which my characters live. For I, ELIZA HAMILTON, I had to imagine late 18thc Philadelphia, New York, and Albany in as much detail as I could muster: not just the houses and other buildings, but the smells, the light, and the weather, the wagons and horses and carriages crowding the streets, and the sounds of the churchbells and the cries of street vendors. 

The fancy modern word for all this is "world-building", and though it's most often used in relation to fantasy and sci-fi novels, it certainly applies to recreating an 18thc world, too. Perhaps that's why I've always been drawn to the late 19thc and 20thc illustrators like N.C.Wyeth and Howard Pyle who brought this same early America so dramatically to life in their artwork.

This painting is by another Pennsylvania artist who's not as well-known today, but in the 1890s was called "one of America's best artists." Jennie Augusta Brownscombe (1850-1936) became a highly successful artist in an era when few women made a full-time career in art. The daughter of a farmer, Browscombe was encouraged to draw and paint by her mother, and in time she studied art in New York, Paris, and Rome. Her work appeared in magazines and greeting cards, and in museums and private collections. A member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, she was especially known for her paintings of subjects drawn from early American history.

The painting shown here is an excellent example of her work as well as her devotion to researching her subjects. It's also a scene that could have taken place in I, ELIZA HAMILTON. Called "Wall Street, 1790" (or "Wall Street, West from Hanover"), the painting shows the famous and fashionable street in New York City during the Federal era - when New York was not only the largest city in the new country, but also its capital. The Wall Street romantically imagined here is probably cleaner and tidier than it really was, with neat little sidewalks, no horse manure or other rubbish, and as for that sedan chair - well, that may be an exaggeration for 1790s NY, too.

Ms. Brownscombe has added a few important people to her city-scene, people who in fact maintained houses in the neighborhood. The gentleman crossing the street is Aaron Burr with his beloved daughter Theodosia, more interested in the pigeons. The two gentlemen in conversation are familiar, too: the older man is Gen. Philip Schuyler, Eliza's father, and the man beside him is none other than Alexander Hamilton. I haven't discovered any further information about the other pedestrians, but I wouldn't be surprised if the dark-haired woman in green is supposed to be Eliza, with one of the Hamilton sons - Philip? - beside her. 

Don't know about you, but I'd love the chance to step back in time to join them....

"Wall Street, 1790" (or "Wall Street, West from Hanover") by Jennie Augusta Brownscombe, Published in the year 1913 by C. Klackner, New York. Museum of the City of New York.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton (and their son Philip) in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Recreating the c1765 "Ruins of Rome" Wallpaper in the Schuyler Mansion

When Philip Schuyler (1733-1804) began building his estate near Albany, NY in 1761, he was determined to make it a suitable home for his growing family as well as for his stature as a gentleman of wealth and property.

Then called The Pastures (now called the Schuyler Mansion), the brick house was to be elegant and substantial in its Georgian symmetry, and sit grandly on eighty acres high on the hill overlooking the Hudson (or North) River so that visitors coming to Albany from New York City would be sure to see it first. Twenty-eight-year-old Philip wanted his house to be as impressive inside as it was commanding from the exterior, and while the house was being built, he combined a business trip to London with something of a decorating spending spree.

Among Philip's most impressive acquisitions was the scenic wallpaper he bought for the upstairs and downstairs halls. Unlike most 18thc wallpaper which was block-printed, or "stampt", this paper was painted entirely by hand in tempera paint in shades of grey - en grisaille was the term - to mimic engraved prints. In fact, the entire scheme of the papers was an elaborate trompe l'oeil to represent framed paintings and cartouches, all custom designed for the walls and spaces they would occupy.

This was, of course, extremely expensive, and as much a sign of Philip's deep pockets as his taste. The wallpaper he ordered featured romantically scenic landscapes by the Italian painter Paolo Panini, and was called "Ruins of Rome." The "Ruins of Rome" wallpaper was so rare and costly that there are only two examples of it known to survive in America: in the Jeremiah Lee Mansion in Marblehead, MA, and in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY, which has installed the paper taken from the now-demolished Rensselaerwyck, the nearby home of Stephen Van Rensselaer II, and later, of Philip's third daughter, Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler Van Rensselaer. All status and expense is a matter of degrees, however; the scenic wallpaper was inspired by aristocratic rooms like this one from Ditchley Park, Oxfordshire, UK, which features real Panini paintings in gilded, carved frames and Genoese cut velvet on the walls.

But for colonial New York, the wallpaper was grand indeed. Philip became a general during the American Revolution, and the wallpaper formed the first impression of the house's many illustrious guests during that era, including Benjamin Franklin, the Marquis de Chastellux, the Marquis de Lafayette, and George and Martha Washington, as well as gentlemanly British "prisoners" such as Major John Andre and General John Burgoyne.

Oh, and there was that other young officer who ended up marrying the Schuylers' second daughter Elizabeth: Alexander Hamilton. (Eliza often returned to The Pastures throughout her married life, and the house is something of a secondary character in my new novel, I, Eliza Hamilton.)

Tastes change, however, and cities and families change, too. After General Schuyler's death in 1804, the family sold The Pastures, and the land around it was divided and developed. Albany grew to surround the house, which passed through various owners before finally being purchased by the State of New York and opened as a historic site in 1917.

Philip's original scenic wallpaper has long since been removed and lost. But over the last few years, the state's Peebles Island Resource Center, led by Rich Claus and Erin Moroney, has painstakingly recreated a high-quality digital reproduction of the "Ruins of Rome" based on the wallpaper from both the Lee Mansion and the Van Rensselaer installation in the Met, but redesigned to fit the Schuyler Mansion's walls and woodwork as perfectly as the original once did. The new wallpaper was completed and hung as part of the Mansion's centennial celebration this year. As you can see from these photos (please click on the images above for the slideshow), it's a glorious recreation, ready to impress modern visitors just like their 18thc counterparts. 

Many thanks to Danielle Funiciello of the Schuyler Mansion, and social, cultural, & architectural historian Judy Anderson (former curator of the Jeremiah Lee Mansion & author of Glorious Splendor: the 18thc Wallpaper in the Jeremiah Lee Mansion)  for their help with this post.

The Schuyler Mansion is open for tours; please check their Facebook page or call for days and hours.

All photographs ©2017 Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

"Dear Papa": The Only Surviving Letter from Philip Hamilton to his Father Alexander

There are literally thousands of surviving letters written by Alexander Hamilton, dating from his teenaged years all the way to a few hours before his fateful duel with Aaron Burr.  But there's only one letter written to him by his oldest son Philip that is known to survive today, and this is it. I saw the letter in 2018, when it was on display as part of the Treasures from the Vault exhibition at The Morgan Library in New York City.

Philip followed in his father's footsteps, and studied at Columbia College (formerly King's College) in New York. This letter was written when Philip was a fifteen-year-old student at Columbia. Philip begins with a bit of family news related to his grandfather (his namesake, and his mother Eliza's father Gen. Philip Schuyler), and then, like most college students, complains indignantly about one of his professors. But as the Library's placard notes, "Philip, like his father, had a flair for drama - a trait that would lead to a duel and ultimately his own death at the age of nineteen."

Dear Papa

I just now [received] the inclosed Letter from Grandpapa In answer to a letter I wrote to him In which he has inclosed to me three receipts for Shares in Tontine tavern amounting to 100£ I have given the receipts to Mama; I Delivered my speech to Dr Johnson to examine, he has no objection to my speaking it, But he has Blotted out that sentence which appears to me to be the best & most animated in it which is you may recollect it, "Americans you have fought the Battles of mankind you have enkindled that sacred fire of freedom, which is now, &c. Dear Papa will be so Good as to give my thanks to Grandpapa for the present he has made me but above all for the Good advice his letter Contains which I am very sensible of its being extremely necessary for me to pay particular attention to, in order to be a Good Man.

Above: Philip Hamilton (1782-1801) Letter to Alexander Hamilton, signed and dated New York, 21 April 1797, The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History. Photograph ©2018 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Alexander and Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton in my historical novel I, Eliza Hamilton; order here. My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

Touching the Past at Valley Forge

In late fall 1777-1778, Gen. George Washington and the rest of the Continental Army made their winter encampment at Valley Forge, about 20 miles west of Philadelphia, PA. The army's headquarters were in a small stone farmhouse owned by Isaac Potts, and contained not only the offices of the army, but the lodgings for the General, Mrs. Washington, their servants, and his staff - including a young lieutenant colonel and aide-de-camp named Alexander Hamilton.

I've written before about the headquarters - now part of Valley Forge Historic Park - in this blog post here, but I also wanted to share this photograph from the house. This is the railing to the house's original (and only) staircase that leads to the second-floor bedrooms and the attic. Humbly designed and well-worn over the centuries, it's the same railing smoothed by countless hands that included those of George and Martha Washington, John Laurens, and, of course, Alexander Hamilton. So if you visit (the entire park is free and open to the public), you can run your fingers along the same wooden railing as they did - it's like touching their hands. Guaranteed history chills!

Photograph ©2017 Susan Holloway Scott.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Alexander Hamilton at the Battle of Trenton, December 26, 1776

Most American college students today spend the day after Christmas doing not much of anything. And why shouldn't they? It's winter break, and the return to school and classes is still comfortably in the distance.

For twenty-one-year-old Alexander Hamilton, however, things were a bit different on the day after Christmas in 1776. Yes, he, too, was on a break from his studies as a student at King's College in New York. But he hadn't left school for a holiday; instead he'd volunteered to fight  in the American Revolution, and he never did return to complete his degree.

Hamilton became a captain in command of an artillery company in the Continental Army. Unlike his counterparts with the British forces, he hadn't received any formal training in artillery (the large-caliber guns that were used in ground warfare). Instead he'd learned about cannon and their employment in the same fashion he'd learned everything else: he'd read voraciously, devouring everything he could find on the subject until he'd been able to rely on knowledge to overcome his initial lack of experience.

By the winter of 1776, he'd acquired that field experience. He'd fought in - and survived - the army's battles in New York City and their costly losses, and he and his company had been an integral part of the defense of Gen. Washington's retreat across New Jersey that fall. He'd also begun to attract attention for his skill, his bravery, and his daring.

"I noticed a youth, a mere stripling, small, slender, almost delicate in frame," another officer recalled years later, "marching beside a piece of artillery, with a cocked hat pulled low down over his eyes, apparently lost in thought, with his hand resting on a cannon and every now and then patting it, as if it were a favorite horse or pet plaything."

Although no one ever doubted Hamilton's courage, his "slender...frame" wasn't always up to the rigors that that courage demanded, and there are mentions throughout the war of him being ill, doubtless brought on by exhaustion and stress. At the beginning of Christmas Day, he wasn't with the army, but recuperating in a nearby farmhouse. Yet later in the day he rallied, and he and his company joined the rest of Washington's troops as they made the perilous midnight crossing of the Delaware River, enduring bitter cold and blowing snow, and dodging chunks of ice in the dark water.

Their goal was the town of Trenton, NJ, where 1,400 Hessian troops - mercenary allies of the British - had made their winter encampment. Washington planned to attack early in the morning of December 26, and he was counting on the Hessians to be still recovering from their Christmas celebrations the night before. With a depleted force of less than 2,000 men, surprise would be the Americans' greatest weapon against an unsuspecting enemy.

It was. By 8:00 am, Washington's troops had surrounded Trenton. The Hessians were unprepared and confused by the unexpected attack, stumbling from their quarters in disarray while their officers furiously attempted to mount a counterattack. 

At one end of King Street (what an appropriate name!), the Hessians were met by Hamilton and the two cannon that he and his company had dragged through the snow. As the Hessians fired upon them, Hamilton and his company set the cannon to aim down the narrow street.  At his order, the guns fired rounds of grapeshot and solid shot into the Hessian infantry and artillery, creating deadly havoc, disorganization, and panic in the blowing snow. 

By 9:30 am, the Hessians had surrendered. The Hessian forces had lost 22 men killed in action, 83 wounded (including their commander, who would later die of his wounds), and 896 taken prisoner. The Americans were also able to seize the gunpowder and other supplies that the Hessians had stockpiled for the winter - supplies the ragtag Continental Army desperately needed. Best of all, the battle was a much-needed victory that buoyed American spirits and energy, and renewed enthusiasm for the war.

There aren't any contemporary paintings or drawings of the battle, and the 19thc images created long afterwards focus on Gen. Washington, not the little captain from New York. But in the lower corner of the painting, above, you'll see artillerymen pushing and pulling their cannon through the snow towards the river. And somewhere in the middle of them was Alexander Hamilton.

Above: Passage of the Delaware by Thomas Sully, 1819, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Read more about Alexander Hamilton and his wife Eliza Schuyler Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Cornelia and Catharine: The Other Schuyler Sisters

If your first introduction to the children of Gen. Philip and Catharine Schuyler is "Hamilton: An American Musical", then you'll be forgiven if you believe that there were only three Schuyler sisters. Angelica Schuyler Church (1756–1814), Elizabeth, or Eliza, Schuyler Hamilton (1757–1854), and Margarita, or Peggy, Schuyler Van Rensselaer (1758–1801) are the three oldest of the Schuyler siblings, the three sisters who were probably closest, and, doubtless for the sake of dramatic clarity, the only three who are mentioned in the play.

In reality, however, Catharine Van Rensselaer Schuyler gave birth to fifteen (!) children in the course of her long marriage to Philip Schuyler. Of these, seven died either at birth or before their first birthdays, including sets of twins and triplets. There were three surviving sons: John Bradstreet Schuyler (1765–1795), Philip Jeremiah Schuyler (1768–1835), and Rensselaer Schuyler (1773–1847) - so you can forget the theatrical Angelica's lament about how her father had no sons, too.

But there were also two more Schuyler sisters. Cornelia Schuyler Morton (1776–1808) was born on the eve of the American Revolution. Cornelia was considered beautiful and witty, much like her oldest sister Angelica. She's shown, above left, in her portrait by Thomas Sully.

Also much like Angelica, Cornelia fell in love with a man that failed to impress Gen. Schuyler. Cornelia first met George Washington Morton, a young Princeton-educated lawyer from a prosperous NJ family, at the home of Eliza and Alexander in 1796. Although Washington did ask Cornelia's father for her hand, he was denied, and curtly shown the door. Soon afterwards, the young couple eloped. Tradition says Cornelia jumped into Washington's arms from her second-floor bedroom window, fleeing with nothing but the clothes on her back. Regardless of this dramatic beginning, the Mortons were happily married, with five children. Unfortunately both parents died young: Cornelia in 1808, and her husband in 1810.

Catharine Schuyler Malcom Cochrane (1781–1857), above right as a teenager, shared the same birthday (February 20) with her oldest sister Angelica, but more than a generation separated them in age. Twenty-five years younger, Catharine, or Caty, was truly the baby of the family, and a particular favorite of her aging father. She often visited with her grown, married sisters Angelica and Eliza, whose own children were Caty's contemporaries. (In I, ELIZA HAMILTON, Caty is the baby born soon after the army's winter encampment in New Jersey where Eliza and Alexander fall in love, and become engaged.) 

Caty married twice. Her first husband, Samuel Bayard Malcolm, was from a prominent New York merchant family with Scottish roots, loyal supporters of Alexander Hamilton's Federalist party. After Samuel's death in 1817, Caty married her cousin James Cochran, the son of John Cochran and Gertrude Schuyler Cochran, Philip Schuyler's sister (and who are all mentioned in I, ELIZA HAMILTON, too.) Both Caty and James lived into their late seventies.

The portraits of the sisters, above, courtesy of the Schuyler Mansion, Albany, NY. Many thanks to the Mansion's staff for their assistance with this post.

Read more about Eliza Schuyler, her family, and Alexander Hamilton in my latest historical novel, I, Eliza Hamilton, now available everywhere.

Abigail Adams & Alexander Hamilton's "Wicked Eyes", 1797

One of the most challenging aspects of writing historical fiction is trying to remove all the fusty layers of time and interpretation to capture the immediacy of the past. Whenever possible, I look to primary sources - letters, diaries, journals - that give voices to long-gone people. Seeing those original words reprinted in a book or on-line is useful, of course, but being able to see the originals of those same letters can take research - and inspiration - to an entirely different level.

Earlier this year, I was fortunate to see first-hand one of Abigail Adams' more famous (or more infamous, depending on your perspective) letters now in the collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society. Abigail was no fan of Alexander Hamilton, nor was her husband, John Adams. As young as the American republic was in 1797, vitriol, name-calling, and backstabbing were already part of the political system, and there were few rivalries more bitter than the one between Hamilton and Adams. Each had many reasons, and both were right: Hamilton believed he'd been shut out of the government he'd help create during George Washington's presidency, while Adams felt that Hamilton had undermined his attempts to win a second presidential term himself. Each accused the other of unseemly ambition, and both were justified there, too.

As can be expected, Abigail supported her husband, and loathed Hamilton. The Adamses had always been frank in writing to one another about politics, and her (low) estimation of Hamilton echoed his own. The letter that she wrote in late January, 1797, begins calmly enough, with notes of the weather and the "pain and anxiety of Seperation." Then she launches into gossip she'd heard regarding Hamilton, followed by her own appraisal of his character, only to realize at the letter's end what she's written:

"Mr. Black told me the other day on his return... that Col. H[amilton] was loosing ground with his Friends in Boston. On what account I inquired. Why for the part he is said to have acted in the late Election. Aya, what was that? Why, they say that he tried to keep out both Mr. A[dams] and J[efferson], and that he behaved with great duplicity....that he might himself be the dictator. So you see according to the old adage, Murder will out. I despise a Janus....it is my firm belief that if the people had not been imposed upon by false reports and misrepresentations, the vote would have been nearly unanimous. [Hamilton] dared not risk his popularity to come out openly in opposition, but he went secretly cunningly as he thought to work....

"Beware of that spair Cassius, has always occured to me when I have seen that cock sparrow. O I have read his Heart in his wicked Eyes many a time. The very devil is in them. They are laciviousness itself, or I have no skill in Physiognomy.

"Pray burn this Letter. Dead Men tell no tales. It is really too bad to survive the Flames. I shall not dare to write so freely to you again unless you assure that you have complied with my request."

Obviously, John Adams didn't obey Abigail's request. Read as transcribed here, her words are indeed "bad," but to see them as she wrote them in the original letters showed exactly how angry she was.

Compare the delicacy of Abigail's fond greeting to John in the same letter, above, with the closing paragraphs, below.  By the time she reached "Beware of that spair Cassius..." she was driving the pen across the page, her letters growing darker, wider, and less formed as she pressed the nib of her pen furiously across the paper. How much more powerful - and revealing - those words are in their handwritten version!

Many thanks to Sara Georgini, Historian and Series Editor, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society, for showing this letter and others to me. Excerpt from letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, January 28, 1797, Massachusetts Historical Society.

Above top: Abigail Adams by Jane Stuart (after Gilbert Stuart), c1800, Adams National Historic Park.
Above & below: Excerpt from letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, January 28, 1797, Massachusetts Historical Society. Photos by Susan Holloway Scott.