Congratulations to Esther Edwards Burr, Safely Delivered of a Son Named Aaron, February 6, 1756

Like far too many 18thc women, Esther Edwards Burr (1732–1758) is today remembered mainly because of her father, her husband, and her son. Born along the New England frontier in Northampton, MA, Esther was one of eleven children. She was given an unusually good education for a girl of her time, and from her surviving letters it’s clear she was thoughtful, intelligent, observant, and articulate - all qualities she passed along to her son.

She was also deeply religious. Her father was Jonathan Edwards, regarded today as the most important and influential theologian and clergyman in 18thc America. Esther’s childhood coincided with the Great Awakening, a revival of spiritual fervor with her father and his teachings at its core. Esther often turned to scripture for solace and explanations, but she also seems to have had difficulty reconciling her beliefs with her more worldly thoughts.

She married Aaron Burr, Sr. (1716-1757) in 1752 when she was twenty. He was sixteen years older, a rising star in the evangelical Presbyterian church, and the second president of the still-new College of New Jersey (which would evolve into Princeton University.) They had first met when he had come to Connecticut to converse with her father; she had been only fourteen at the time, but apparently Burr was sufficiently impressed to return six years later to court her. That courtship lasted less than a week before Esther accepted his offer of marriage, and traveled with him back to New Jersey.

The marriage seems to have been a happy one. Esther, however, desperately missed her friends and close-knit family. Her new husband’s duties frequently kept him away from home, and Esther found her own responsibilities as the president’s wife - including what sounds like a constant stream of visiting colleagues and students in their home - exhausting. She made few friends in their social circle, finding most of the women not only much older, but dull and intellectually underwhelming.

After a lengthy visit from her oldest and dearest friend, Sarah Prince, who resided in Boston, the two began to keep journals to compensate for the physical distance between them. Taking the form of continuing letters, the friends intended to exchange the journals at a later date. Only Esther’s journal survives. Intended for Sarah (whom she addressed as “Fidelia”) alone, the letters are startlingly frank, succinctly describing people, places, and events, and sharing both Esther’s dreams and fears as well as the details of her everyday life.

Esther’s journal begins in 1754, after the birth of her daughter Sally and Sarah Prince’s return to Boston, and ends in the autumn of 1757, shortly before the sudden death of Aaron Burr, Sr. From the not-very-flattering portrait of Esther, above, likely painted around the time of her marriage by a now-anonymous artist, it appears that her son’s famously commanding dark eyes, below, also came from his mother.

On February 6, 1756, Esther’s entry in her journal was only a single line: “Fryday morn. Very poorly, not able to write.”

Esther had good reason for feeling “poorly.” Later that day, her son Aaron Burr, Junior was born unexpectedly early. Eighteenth century childbirth was a communal experience, with the mother supported and encouraged through her ordeal by friends and family. When her daughter was born, Esther had had both Sarah Prince and her mother with her. Neither was there for the birth of her second child, and she missed them sorely. It’s also noteworthy that she regretted not having her husband at home for the birth, too. So often fathers in the past are portrayed as being separate and distant during the birth of their children, but it doesn’t sound like that was the case with the Burrs.

Esther didn’t return to her journal until March 26. She’s not joking when she reassures her friend that she is still alive; many 18thc women did perish either from complications or infections while giving birth, or in the days afterwards.

“I am my dear Fidelia yet alive and allowed to tell you so - I have been able to write nothing from the time of my confinement till now…which is 7 weeks since I was delivered of a Son….Had a fine time altho’ it pleased God in infinite wisdome so to order it that Mr Burr was from home….It seemd very gloomy when I found I was actually in Labour to think that I was, as it were, destitute of Earthly friends – No Mother –No Husband and none of my petecular friends…. O my dear God was all these relations more than all to me in the Hour of my distress. Those words in Psalms were my support and comfort thro’ the whole. They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion that cannot be moved but abideth for ever – and these also, As the Mountains are found about Jerusalem so is the Lord to them that put their trust in him, or words to that purpose – I had a very quick and good time – A very good layingin [post-partum recovery] till abut 3 weeks, then…my little Aaron (for so we call him) was taken very sick so that for some days we did not expect his life–he has never been so well since tho’ he is comfortable at present….”

Her “little Aaron” is often sick throughout the journal, and Esther frequently agonizes over his health and fears that she might lose him. Yet he did live on, and thrive, well into his eighty-first year. Sadly it was Esther herself who did not survive, dying of a fever seven months after her husband in the spring of 1758. She was only twenty-six.

Quotations from The Journal of Esther Edwards Burr 1754-1757, edited by Carol F. Karlsen and Laurie Crumpacker, ©1984, Yale University Press.

Above: Mrs. Aaron Burr (Esther Edwards Burr), artist unknown, c1750-1758, Yale University Art Gallery.

Below: Portrait of Aaron Burr by Gilbert Stuart, c1793, New Jersey Historical Society.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

All That Glitters: A Length of 18thc Gold Lace

It’s a common modern misconception that people living in 18thc America wore only rough homespun and drab colors. Nothing could be farther from the fashionable truth. In the global economy of the Georgian era, nearly everything that was available in a shop in London or Paris was also be found in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia. Even a sailor or maidservant could splurge on a bright printed scarf or length of ribbon to brighten his or her appearance. The amount of display rose dramatically with an individual’s wealth, with the most wealthy classes wearing richly colored silks and velvets, enhanced with lace, sequins, and polychromed embroidery.

At the very height of fashion - and cost - would have been this gold lace, now in the collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society. Some time during the mid-18thc, this length (unfolded, it measures 283 cm x 5 cm) of gold wire bobbin lace was made in Europe. Whether bought by an individual there or imported to the American colonies to be sold in a shop here, the lace was purchased and carefully wrapped in blue paper (which has a French watermark) with the price written in iron gall ink. For whatever reason, the lace was never used, but instead put away in its original paper wrapping.

Metallic lace was a costly and luxurious trim, designed to sparkle and shine in 18thc candlelit rooms. It could be used to adorn a woman's gown or a man's waistcoat, or even the cap of a special baby. (I immediately thought of the similar gold bobbin lace that was incorporated in this mat embroidered c1780 by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton.) It’s also found on shoes, stomachers, and even stays (corsets.) Metallic lace was usually a blend of gold and silver or other metals, and over time and wear often tarnished and lost its shine.

But this particular length of lace remains as bright as new, the intricate woven gold glowing against the blue paper.  When the lace was given to the MHS, it was accompanied by a handwritten note from Susan Holmes Upham (1804-1877): "Gold lace given me with other old-fashioned things by my mother." It must indeed have been an old-fashioned curiosity by the mid-19thc. Today it's a sparkling link through the centuries to the shop of the now-forgotten milliner or mantua-maker who made the sale, tallied the price, and wrapped the lace, and the (I hope!) satisfied customer who carried the new purchase home.

Some of you may have been fortunate to see this lace in person last year when it was on display in the MHS exhibition Fashioning the New England Family. It will also be featured in the upcoming book by the same name devoted to the exhibition, to be published by the University of Virginia Press in April, 2020. Included in this book are clothing and accessories from the MHS collections, many that have never before or only rarely been seen by the public. There's so much here: Thomas Hancock's walking stick crowned by a clenched ivory fist; Governor John Leverett's 17thc buff coat worn to fight under Oliver Cromwell in the English Civil War; Rachael Hartwell's light-as-air 1890s wedding dress, with the history of the wearers woven into each piece. The authors of the book are historian Kimberly S. Alexander, who curated the exhibition and teaches museum studies and material culture at the University of New Hampshire, and Anne E. Bentley, Curator of Art at MHS. Fashioning the New England Family can be ordered here. Many thanks to them both for showing the lace to me, and for their assistance with this post.

Above: Gold Lace, 18th century Europe, Collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

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.

An Evocative Portrait in Plaster of Alexander Hamilton, c1816

The most commonly reproduced portraits of Alexander Hamilton are two-dimensional paintings, but there are a number of sculptures as well. (I’ve heard that there are more statues of Hamilton in New York City than any other individual; I believe it, though I can’t prove it - that’s a challenge for someone else.)

The one, above, is unusual because it’s more of a sketch of only his face made in plaster, and yet it captures the energy that so marked Hamilton. It’s also something of a second-hand likeness. The artist, John Henri Isaac Browere (1790-1834), was still a boy when Hamilton died in 1804. Browere never met Hamilton, let alone had him sit for a portrait.

But Browere’s teacher did. Archibald Robertson (1765-1835) was born in Scotland, and studied in London with the celebrated painters Sir Joshua Reynolds and Benjamin West. He emigrated to New York in the early 1790s, and became not only successful artistically as a painter of miniatures, but also socially, traveling in the best circles of Federalist New York City society. He knew Alexander Hamilton so well that he named his second son in Hamilton’s honor.

Around this time he painted a miniature portrait of Hamilton that is now lost; it was engraved, left, in 1834 by J.F.E. Prud’homme for the weighty collective biography National Portrait Gallery of Distinguished Americans. However, after Hamilton’s death, Robertson made a second version of the miniature portrait that featured a 3/4 view of Hamilton, surrounded by law books, pamphlets, and scrolls to represent his various achievements. As a nod to his military career, his uniform hat, sword, and Cincinnati medal are (somewhat incongruously) on the shelf behind him. This version was engraved and sold as a popular, posthumous print of Hamilton, right, by William Rollinson.

Both these Robertson-inspired portraits show Hamilton as steely-eyed and determined, almost fierce. It’s a much different impression of Hamilton than the more familiar portraits by Charles Willson Peale and John Trumbull. Not surprisingly, these are the portraits that are often used to illustrate articles or biographies that stress Hamilton’s shrewdness as a financial genius, or as a statesman who could play the political game for high stakes - because that’s exactly how he looks here.

The original miniature by Robertson and perhaps the engravings based upon it were the inspiration for Browere’s plaster sculpture, above, made around 1816-1817, about the time Browere was studying with Robertson in New York City. Browere became famous for his life and death masks of famous 19thc individuals. Whether he made the study of Hamilton for his own artistic education, or simply because he admired the man and regretted that he hadn’t met him isn’t known, but the portrait that remains is strikingly evocative. I can’t help wonder, too, if Hamilton’s widow Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton ever saw it, and what her reactions might have been.

Above: Alexander Hamilton by John Henri Isaac Browere, 1816-1817, Fenimore Art Museum.

Left: Alexander Hamilton, engraving by J.F.E. Prud’homme after an original by Archibald Robertson, for the National Portrait Gallery of Distinguished Americans by James Herring and James Barton Longacre, 1834.

Right: Alexander Hamilton, engraving by William Rollinson after an original by Archibald Robertson, 1804, National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.

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 also now available everywhere. Order here.

A Lock of Aaron Burr's Hair Preserved, 1836

Preserving the hair of a loved one after death was common in the 18th and 19th centuries, a tangible memento in the age before photographs. I’ve written other posts about the hair of Alexander Hamilton, Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, and George Washington. These people were well-loved by their family, friends, and descendants, and strands of their hair - whether clipped and saved during their lives or on their deathbeds - were treasured as relics, and doled out strand by strand to admirers long after their deaths.

But what if there were no grieving widows or children to cut that hair, or to wear the mourning jewelry designed to hold it? By the time that Aaron Burr died on September 14, 1836, he had outlived his first wife Theodosia Bartow Prevost Burr, their two sons and two daughters, and their sole grandson.

While the hair of Hamilton and Washington is kept in museums and historical societies all over the country, this pendant, above, is the only hair that I’ve encountered that belonged to Aaron Burr. Encased in the plainest of cases, it belongs to the New-York Historical Society, and was recently on view in their exhibition Life Cut Short: Hamilton’s Hair and the Art of Mourning.

Hindsight makes it tempting to see karma at work in Burr’s checkered life in the three decades following the duel, and a comparison between two pieces of mourning jewelry - one for Hamilton, one for Burr - included in this exhibition is no exception.

Strands of Hamilton’s hair, cut by his widow Eliza, were preserved under a glass bezel and set into a gold mourning ring. Nathaniel Pendleton, his good friend and second in the duel, clearly wore and treasured the ring. A poignant letter to Pendleton by the grieving Eliza, who commissioned the ring, is presented nearby. (Read more about this ring and letter here.)

The small pendant containing Burr’s hair is gold-toned metal (pinchbeck?) According to Debra Schmidt Bach, the exhibition’s curator, there’s no record of who commissioned it, or if it was ever even worn at all. Burr was an elderly man when he died, and his once-dark hair had faded with age to the yellowing white found here. The collection’s records report that the hair was cut from Burr’s head soon after he died by a niece named Miss Edwards, though which Miss Edwards in his extended family is not known. There is no accompanying letter to mourn Burr, no grief described by Miss Edwards or any other family member or friend.

Unlike many of the other examples of mourning jewelry in the exhibition, Burr’s hair wasn’t carefully tied with a gold thread, or elaborately braided or woven into a pattern, or enhanced with tiny seed pearls. Instead it appears to have been cut and simply tucked into the glass locket, and that was that: a humble, tousled memento of a man who’d once been vice president.

Many thanks to Debra Schmidt Bach and Marybeth Ihle of the New-York Historical Society for their assistance with this post.

Above: Aaron Burr’s hair in case, 1836. Patricia D. Klingenstein Library, New-York Historical Society. Photograph ©2020 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.

Finding Eliza Hamilton's Aunt Gertrude - Thanks to the Baroness Hyde de Neuville

Although I write historical fiction and base the majority of my characters on people who actually lived, I often have no idea of the appearance of those people. Unlike today, when life can be visually documented on a day by day - even hour by hour - basis through the convenience of camera-phones, the overwhelming majority of 18thc people left behind no image of themselves at all. Even among the elite classes who could afford the cost of a portrait by a professional artist, surviving images are rare and few, especially for early Americans. If I’m lucky, there will be an occasional description of a person written by a contemporary, but more often I have no choice than to turn to my imagination.

Sometimes, however, I’m REALLY lucky, and stumble over a portrait of someone who has become one of my characters, a portrait that I didn’t know existed. I’ll usually gasp and exclaim out loud, too; ask any of my friends who’ve been with me when it’s happened.

Last week I visited a wonderful exhibition currently on display at the New-York Historical Society. Artist in Exile: The Visual Diary of Baroness Hyde de Neuville (through January 26, 2020) featured drawings and watercolors of late 18th-early 19thc America by the talented French Baroness. Anne Marguérite Joséphine Henriette Rouillé de Marigny, Baroness Hyde de Neuville (1771–1849), visited America twice: once as an aristocratic refugee, and a second time accompanying her husband after he’d been appointed a diplomat. She became the first woman artist in America to create a substantial body of work showing the new country and its people. Her eye for detail was extraordinary, and she took the most common of street scenes and people - gossiping servants, children playing, boys on sleds, a man for hire sawing wood - and recorded them for posterity. She never sank to caricature or stereotypes, and she drew enslaved and free Africans, Indigenous Americans, and even the first visitors to America from China with the same respect and thoughtfulness as she did in her portraits of aristocratic friends and family. It’s a remarkable exhibition, and if you’re in New York this month, I hope you’ll go.

Which brings me to the watercolor portrait of the woman, above. Living in New York City, the Baroness became part of the same social circles as the Schuylers, the Hamiltons, the Churches, and Burrs - names that will be familiar to those of you who have read my most recent historical novels. She was particularly close to the family of Angelica Schuyler Church, and even lived as their guest in the northwestern New York town of Angelica - the town that Capt Philip Schuyler Church had planned and named in honor of his mother. On one of the Baroness’s trips across the state, she called upon Gertrude Schuyler Cochran (1724–1813) in Palatine, and sketched not only the lady herself, but her home as well..

If you’ve read I, Eliza Hamilton, you’ll recognize Mrs. Cochran as Eliza Schuyler’s aunt, the sister of her father Gen. Philip Schuyler. When Eliza and the general travel to the Continental Army’s winter encampment in New Jersey in the winter of 1780, Eliza stayed with Aunt Gertrude and her husband, Dr. John Cochran, who was serving as the army’s  Physician & Surgeon General. It didn’t take long for young Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton to find his way to the Cochrans’ house, and during that long, bitter winter, he and Eliza fell in love beneath Aunt Gertrude’s watchful supervision. When the Army broke their winter camp in June, Alexander and Eliza were engaged to be married.

The Baroness met and sketched Mrs. Cochran many years later, around 1808. By this time Aunt Gertrude was eighty-four years old, and widowed twice. To the best of my knowledge, this is the only known portrait of her, and it’s lovely. Dressed in a delicately striped gown and with a cup of tea or coffee in her hand, she looks as if she’s just spotted something particularly interesting from her window. Perhaps she had, and that’s the moment that the Baroness captured her - exactly the way I imagined her, too.

Above: Detail, Woman and Young Girl; Mrs. John Cochran (Gertrude Schuyler, 1724-1813), 1808.

Right: Mrs. John Cochran’s House near Palatine, New York, c1808. Both by Anne Marguérite Joséphine Henriette Rouillé de Marigny, Baroness Hyde de Neuville. New-York Historical Society. Photographs ©2020 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.

Another Mourning Ring for Alexander Hamilton, 1805

I’ve written before about the mourning rings created in honor of Alexander Hamilton following his death from the wound received in his duel with Aaron Burr on July 11, 1804. Mourning jewelry was an important part of the rituals surrounding early 19thc mourning. Often including strands of the deceased’s hair, the jewelry was given to close family and friends as a token and a remembrance.

I’ve seen photographs of the ring shown here, but only this past week did I see it in person. It’s currently on display as part of the excellent exhibition Life Cut Short: Hamilton’s Hair and the Art of Mourning Jewelry at the New-York Historical Society (through May 10, 2020.)

The ring was ordered by Hamilton’s widow Elizabeth for Hamilton’s old acquaintance Nathaniel Pendleton (1756-1821). Like Hamilton, Pendleton was a veteran of the American Revolution as well as a lawyer, and had served the new country as a federal judge appointed by President George Washington. Hamilton chose Pendleton to be his second for his duel with Aaron Burr, and although Pendleton tried to dissuade Hamilton from taking action, he later proved to be as good witness and advocate for his friend’s memory. After Hamilton’s death, he spoke publicly about the details not only of the duel itself, but also the events that led to it. (You can read his joint statements - made along with Burr’s second, William P. Van Ness - here and here.)

The letter that Hamilton’s wife Eliza wrote to Pendleton about the ring is exhibited at NYHS along with the ring. Eliza’s spelling, capitalization, and punctuation are idiosyncratic, as was often the case in the eighteenth century:

to comply my friend with a request I make of you, will be doing me a particular favor. it is that you will ware in Remembrance of your [unclear] friend a precious lock of his hair and some times to recollect me with him.

E. Hamilton

Friday 21.

a person will call in the morning for the size of your finger

Written on June 21, 1805 - nearly a year after Hamilton’s death - the brief letter is melancholy, almost forlorn. Why Eliza waited so long to order the ring for Pendleton is not known. Friends and family noted how she was overwhelmed by grief after her husband’s unexpected death, followed by her father’s death a short time later. Left with seven children, the youngest still an infant, she needed to guide them through their grief as well, and securing the family’s welfare had become her greatest concern. Financial pressures were acute. Hamilton had died without a will and deeply in debt, leaving even their home in risk of being seized by creditors until friends stepped in with assistance.

While mourning rings would have been expected for a man as prominent as Hamilton, it’s possible that Eliza may not have been able to afford them. While Pendleton’s ring is gold, its simple split shank and lack of engraving would have made it comparatively inexpensive beside many other mourning rings of the era. The fact that no others are known to exist suggests that it may have been the only one Eliza commissioned. Three years after Hamilton’s death, she was so short of cash that she was forced to write to Pendleton again, this time to ask humbly for a loan.

As Eliza had hoped, this ring must have become one of Pendleton’s treasured possession. The gold surrounding the compartment containing Hamilton’s hair has lost most of its original black enamel border from wear. Not only did Pendleton keep Eliza’s letter, but he also preserved the ring’s red leather box. It remains there now, nestled in black plush and white satin: a symbol of friendship, loss, and remembrance.

Many thanks to Debra Schmidt Bach, Curator of Decorative Arts, New-York Historical Society, for her assistance with this post.

Top photo: Mourning ring containing lock of Alexander Hamilton’s hair presented to Nathaniel Pendleton by Elizabeth Hamilton, 1805. Maker unknown, New-York Historical Society. Photo courtesy N-YHS.

Middle photo: Letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to Nathaniel Pendleton, June 21, 1805, New-York Historical Society. Photo courtesy N-YHS.

Lower photo: Mourning ring containing lock of Alexander Hamilton’s hair presented to Nathaniel Pendleton by Elizabeth Hamilton, 1805, New-York Historical Society. ©2019 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.

A Festive Dinner Dress for the Winter Holidays, c1824-26

With the Christmas holidays just around the corner, this dress from the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art seems particularly appropriate to share.

It's also a rare pleasure to see a dress like this in person. Several years ago, it was on display as part of the Masterworks: Unpacking Fashion exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of art, and it made everyone who entered the gallery smile. The detailed embellishments - poufs, red silk stuffed cording, and polychrome wool embroidery - add wonderful color and dimension to an otherwise plain white dress. (My friend, writer, and fellow-history-nerd Loretta Chase and I also marveled at how the wearer managed to keep a snow-white dinner dress so perfectly clean, without a single spot of gravy or spilled claret-cup - though that may be revealing more about us at Christmas parties than the unknown wearer.)

Holiday-themed clothing was rare in the past. No one in the 18thc was wearing a t-shirt with a dancing Santa print or an ugly Christmas sweater in the month of December. Clothing was too costly and too valued to be reserved for a single special occasion or holiday. Even brides of the past were expected to rewear their wedding dresses; the dresses would become their “best.”. Yet with its festive holly and red trim, this dress was clearly made for the winter holiday season, and it’s impossible to imagine it being worn at any other time of the year.

The museum's exhibition information is worth repeating:
"Fashionable British dress from the early decades of the nineteenth century reveals a fascination with historical styles. Drawing inspiration from literature, theater costumes and history paintings of medieval and Renaissance subjects, dressmakers incorporated stylistic details from twelfth-through seventeenth-century dress into contemporary fashions. The decoratively slashed sleeves of the sixteenth century, through which linen undershirts were loosely drawn, inspired puffed trimmings such as the bouillons of fine white lawn that encircle the hem of this 1820s dress. Historicized elements such as these reflect a nostalgia for Britain's past, evoking romantic notions of the chivalry or patriotism of earlier eras. The wool crewel-embroidered holly boughs at the hem indicate that the dress was worn in winter, when the plant's berries and foliage provided welcome color and featured prominently in Christmas decorations."

Above: Dinner Dress, maker unknown, British, 1824-26. White cotton lawn embroidered with holly motifs in red and green wool, trimmed with red silk taffeta. Metropolitan Museum of Art. Photographs ©2016 Susan Holloway Scott.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

A Great Cake for Twelfth Night, 1774

In 18thc America, Christmas was celebrated as the beginning of a long winter holiday season that didn’t end until Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, in January. There might not have been a modern Santa Claus or Christmas tree, but there were a great many parties, dinners, balls, weddings, and other celebrations that centered around festive food and drink.

One of the highlights in wealthier households was a special Twelfth Night cake. Often called a Great Cake, this was an ancestor of today’s holiday fruitcakes, dense and rich. There are numerous surviving 18thc recipes, but the one that was first published in 1747 in The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse contains all the essential elements: pounds of butter, currants, almonds, candied fruit, flour, eggs, and multiple spices, and both sack (sherry wine) and French brandy; some versions used rum instead. If you’re feeling ambitious, you can try the modernized recipe here, though be forewarned: following 18thc tradition, it makes one very large cake, or two cakes in contemporary Bundt pans.

In the 18thc, a Twelfth Night cake would have not only been a large cake, but an extravagant and expensive one, too. Many of the ingredients that can today be easily purchased in a modern grocery store only arrived in a colonial kitchen after a lengthy (and often hazardous) voyage from a faraway port. The sack and sherry, sugar, almonds, currants, and many of the spices would have been imported and considered luxuries. The hostess who could present a Twelfth Night cake to her guests was making a statement about the prosperity as well as the hospitality of the household. No wonder a Twelfth Night cake was considered a fitting grand finale for the holidays.

The more sophisticated cakes were covered with snowy-white icing (a version of the modern royal icing), and then decorated with piping and three-dimensional figures made of sugar. Sugar-swans swimming around the top of the cake were particularly popular. Likely beyond the skill of most home bakers at the time, the decorated cakes were usually the work of talented full-time cooks - many of whom in 18thc America were enslaved. The fancier cakes became silent, sugary proof of even further wealth, sufficient to hire - or own - the cooks able to create them.

In my historical novel The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, my heroine Mary is newly-arrived in the colony of New Jersey in 1774. Working in the kitchen and training to be a cook herself, she learns how to make and decorate Theodosia Prevost’s extravagant Twelfth Night cake from the older, more experienced cook Chloe:

“On a cold, clear day in January, Chloe and I were together piping white sugared icing over the sides of the Great Cake for Mistress’s Twelfth Night supper.  The cake truly was aptly named, dark and heavy with wine-soaked fruit beneath the icing, and larger than any other I’d ever baked. Chloe had already made the twelve little sugar swans that had been set aside to harden before they were placed in a circle around the top of the cake.”*

The 18thc-style Great Cake shown, above, was baked by Danielle Funiciello for the 2018 Twelfth Night celebration at the Schuyler Mansion in Albany, NY. This cake was part of the site’s annual holiday celebration, open to the public. Considering how the house’s original owners, tGeneral Philip and Catherine Schuyler and their family (including second daughter Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, wife of Alexander Hamilton) were famous for their hospitality, I expect there will be another cake in January 2020, too. See here for more information.

Curious about the unusual wallpaper in the background behind the cake? It also has a story of its own - see here.

* Excerpt from The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr ©2019 Susan Holloway Scott.

Above: Twelfth Night cake, Schuyler Mansion. Photograph ©2018 Jessie Serfilippi.

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.

Writing Like Alexander Hamilton with a Silver Inkstand, c1790

Desks and their accessories have lost their importance in the last generation. While people with power may still maintain a desk largely for appearance’s sake, the traditional desktop elaborately decorated with a coordinated blotter, pens, calendars, picture frames, and other items has almost disappeared, and with it the piles of important papers to be read and letters to be signed. Now those powers are replaced by digital fies, and power is measured by constantly-updated devices, sleek and expensive. In some fields even the desk itself has disappeared.

But in the 1790s, America’s most important communications were taking place through pens, ink, and paper, and the only kind of word processing was what a writer committed to paper, word by word and one copy at a time. The greatest documents of the age were all first written by hand, as was every sermon, song, novel, legal judgement, school lesson, and love-letter. Penmanship mattered, too. In a world without email, dm’s, or tweets, the ability to write in an elegant “good hand” set an educated person apart from the less refined scrawl.

It’s no surprise, then, that a well-appointed desk mattered as well. While portable or field desks like this one were all well and good for dashing off hasty thoughts or letters while traveling, at home the Founding generation was more particular. Pens were cut from goose quills, the shape and point of the nib being a matter of personal preference. Ink could be purchased, or made at home from various recipes. Paper was still handmade in mills from rags, and most continued to be imported from Great Britain.

The soft, almost velvety surface of laid paper combined with the sharp but flexible nib of quill pens required a desktop covered in a forgiving leather or felt. Other niceties for civilized writing included a pounce pot containing ground powder, or a sander with fine sand, which would be scattered over a freshly written page to absorb excess ink and hasten the drying time. Because envelopes were not yet invented, sealing wax was essential to close a folded letter, and a personalized signet or stamp to press into the still-molten wax added a final touch.

These elements were in themselves symbols of wealth, education, and power. The elaborate silver-plated inkstand, above, further elevated both the writer’s words and the process of writing itself, especially when proudly displayed on a fine desk of mahogany or cherry. Probably made in Birmingham, England by prominent silversmith Matthew Boulton (1728-1809), this boat-shaped inkstand included a pot for ink and another that may have held water for rinsing ink from nibs, with a candle-holder and snuffer in the middle. The candle-holder also serves as a lid for the round container beneath, which may have once held sealing-wax or wafers.

The inkstand’s elegant lines would have been at home in the neoclassical furnishings popular during the Federal era of the late 18thc. It’s nearly a twin to one that appears in the portrait of Alexander Hamilton, left, painted in 1792 by John Trumbull. While Hamilton had requested to be portrayed simply as a citizen (albeit an elite one), the inkstand alludes to his prolific, important writings as well as his gentlemanly taste. lt’s also a tangible symbol of Hamilton’s heady rise from his days as an orphaned adolescent clerk, scrivening accounts for a merchant house in the West Indies, to the new country’s first Secretary of the Treasury.

The inkstand is currently on display in the "Schuyler Sisters & Their Circle" exhibition (on display through December 29, 2019 at the Albany Institute of History & Art in Albany, NY.

Above: Inkstand, probably by Matthew Boulton, c1790. Lent by N. P. Trent Antiques for the “Schuyler Sisters and Their Circle” exhibition, Albany Institute of History and Art. Photo ©2019 by Susan Holloway Scott.

Below: Alexander Hamilton by John Trumbull, 1792, Metropolitan Museum of Art. Photo ©2018 by Susan Holloway Scott.

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

Aaron Burr in 1823: "The wreck of an active keen man"? Not quite....

One of the more poignant display in the “Schuyler Sisters and Their Circle” exhibition (now through 12/29 at the Albany Institute of History and Art) relates not to the Schuyler family or Alexander Hamilton, but to Aaron Burr.

Following the fatal duel between Hamilton and Burr, Burr fled New York to avoid facing charges of murder. In Washington, DC, he completed his term as vice president and by all reports, fulfilled all his final duties admirably. In 1805, he headed to the western frontier, and engaged in various encounters and plots involving the Spanish government. The details of what exactly Burr was doing, and what his intentions were, will probably never be entirely known; still, he was involved in raising an armed force with the intention of overthrowing the Spanish government in Mexico, and it was widely believed that he intended to establish a dictatorship in Mexico. Burr’s actions were considered sufficient for him to be arrested, brought back east, and tried for treason. Despite pressure from President Thomas Jefferson, Burr was acquitted, but his reputation and finances were in such disarray that he was forced to sail to Europe to escape, remaining abroad in exile until 1812. Returning to New York City, he quietly resumed his legal practice as best he could.

But for an entire generation of New Yorkers, Aaron Burr had become something of a bogeyman, a larger-than-life personification of wickedness, as well as a cautionary tale of a once-powerful gentleman who’d made the worst of life’s choices. Whenever Burr was observed in public, he was often described as a nearly-unrecognizable shell of his former glorious self.

In April, 1823, Burr was spotted on board the Albany packet, right, by a now-unknown fellow-passenger.

“On board the Boat is Aaron Burr who killed Hamilton; is near 60 years of age [he was in fact 67] & looks like the wreck of an active keen man – he is rather of a middling size dark eyes hair gray & looks matted together as though it had not been combed for two years his dress otherwise looks neglected – he seems to be a lonesome man although he is in the midst of company – it is said (whether true or not I don’t know) that he never lays down in sleep but sits in his chair & keeps a person by him to awake him every half hour….”

But while this makes Burr sound like a character ripe for an Edgar Allen Poe story, the old lawyer wasn’t quite done yet. In 1834, Burr, aged 78, sat for his final portrait, above, by the New York artist James Van Dyck. (Compare it to earlier portraits here.) Far from seeming a “wreck”, Burr appears sharp-witted and observant, even a little wry. He’s still wearing the long sideburns that he’d first adopted in the 1790s, and with his glasses pushed up on his forehead and his arms crossed (note the gold pinky ring!) he seems to judge the viewer rather than the other way around. This portrait became the standard image of the older Burr, and was commercially reproduced by lithographers and engravers. Burr himself endorsed the painting, calling it “the best Likeness ever Painted of me since 1809.”

Perhaps this image of Burr was the result of his marriage to wealthy widow Eliza Jumel in 1833; perhaps the confidence it shows came from once again living well in Madame Jumel’s elegant house and engaging in various investment schemes with her money. Whatever the reason, it must have been his final hurrah. His new wife soon declared the marriage to be a grievous mistake, ousted him from her home and her bank accounts, and filed for divorce. In a final touch of historical irony, her divorce lawyer was Alexander Hamilton, Jr. In late 1834, Burr suffered a debilitating, crippling stroke, and on September 14, 1836 - the day his divorce from Eliza Jumel Burr became final - he died in a boarding house on Staten Island.

I first saw this portrait several years ago when it was on exhibition loan to the American Revolution Museum at Yorktown. It’s a small painting, only around 8” x 10”, but I was struck by its vibrancy, and how it captured both Burr’s energy and intelligence in a way that most of his earlier portraits don’t. The legend connected to the portrait states that Van Dyck painted it from life in six sittings, and it’s easy to picture Burr wittily conversing the entire time.

Also of note: in the Yorktown exhibition, this portrait was hung in the same case with the famous portrait of Eliza Hamilton by Ralph Earl. I can well imagine what Eliza would have said about that.

Above: Aaron Burr by James Van Dyck, 1834, New-York Historical Society. Photograph ©2017 Susan Holloway Scott.
Left: Journal of a steamboat voyage from New York City to Albany and back, unidentified author, April 4-7, 1823, Albany Institute of History & Art. Photograph ©2019 Susan Holloway Scott.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

A Chalked Floor for a Holiday Wedding Ball, c1840

Every December, Winterthur Museum, Gardens, and Library is decorated for the season. The museum’s Yuletide at Winterthur celebration is now in its fortieth year, and the highlight has always been the holiday tour of Henry Francis du Pont’s mansion, featuring extravagantly ornamented trees, flowers, and other decorations that somehow make this legendary collection of decorative arts and furnishings even more breathtaking.

Some of the rooms are also designed to highlight customs of long-ago holidays. This year the McIntire Bedroom - named for noted architect and craftsman Samuel McIntire (1757-1811), who created some of the room’s furnishings - has been decorated as if hosting a formal ball after a winter wedding, c1840. In 18th-19thc America, Christmas Day was only part of an extended winter holiday season of celebration and hospitality that ran through Twelfth Night. With friends and families already gathering together, this was also a popular time for weddings, especially in New England and Virginia. (Two famous couples who chose winter weddings: Elizabeth Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton, married on December 14, 1780, and Martha Dandridge Custis and George Washington, wed on January 6, 1759.) Wedding ceremonies and the festivities that followed were often held in the bride’s home, with dancing that could last late into the night.

In recreating their wedding celebration, Winterthur’s staff included a popular feature of balls of the time: a chalked floor. Before a ball, a design was drawn on the bare wooden floor in either white or colored chalk. Although colored chalk was more festive, white chalk was preferred. In the early part of the century, the white chalk wouldn’t mark the hems of the ladies’s then-fashionable white muslin dresses, and later, by the 1840s, it likewise wouldn’t discolor the white satin dancing slippers that had come into vogue.

But a chalked floor wasn’t merely decorative. According to 1858’s "Domestic Duties; or, Instructions to Young Married Ladies”, a precursor to today’s lifestyle-advice books, “chalking the floor… is not only ornamental, but useful, as I know by experience, in preventing those awkward and disagreeable accidents which a slippery floor inevitably occasions among the lively votaries of Terpsichore.”

Depending on the formality of the ball, the chalked motifs could be quite elaborate. In a letter to his wife, prominent Federalist politician Harrison Gray Otis described the dancing rooms of an 1818 ball held in November, 1818, in Washington, DC:

“The floor of one dancing room was handsomely decorated by a circle chalk'd with white crayons, in the centre whereof was the armorial shield of Great Britain with the motto of Honi Soit, and on different parts of the circumference were drawn the Prince Regent's crest & other ornaments, which were scuffed over before my entrance. The floor of the other dancing room was chalked with a corresponding circle, containing the arms of the US, and similar decorations.”

Winterthur’s representation of a chalked floor is more suitable for a wedding celebration than a diplomatic event. Hearts and flowers form the borders, and the main motif is centered by a pair of swans whose necks curve together into another heart. Winterthur’s version is also printed on removable Mylar to protect the museum’s floors and furnishings. Still, it’s easy to imagine the newly-married couple beginning their first dance in the center of that swan-heart to music played on the pianoforte and perhaps a fiddle, while all along the walls of the room well-wishers watched, and smiled.

Many thanks to Deborah Harper and Amanda Hinckle of Winterthur for their assistance with this post.

Above: The McIntire Room, Winterthur Museum. Photograph courtesy of Amanda Hinckle.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

Honoring Mary Emmons

One of the parts of writing historical fiction that I enjoy the most is being able to connect with my characters as the real people they once were. I like to look beyond libraries for other kinds of inspiration, hunting for whatever these people left behind - whether letters, clothing, or portraits, a favorite plate or a well-worn ring - that has been preserved by museums, historic sites, and other collections. It all comes together to spark my imagination, and helps bring these people back to life in my stories. They become real to me, which in turn (I hope!) helps make them real to readers as well.

But with Mary Emmons, the heroine of The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, I didn’t have the luxury of museum collections and heirlooms. There are no surviving images of her, no letters, no diary, no baby clothes that she made or recipes that she cooked. With Mary, I had to dig deeper for my inspiration to discover who she was. As I’ve written here before, the only thing that definitely survived from her lifetime were her two children, and the descendants that followed them to the present day.

These same descendants gathered with more distant Burr cousins near Philadelphia in late August to honor John Pierre Burr - the son of Mary Emmons and Aaron Burr - with a new headstone to mark his grave, and to reaffirm his heritage as the son of Aaron Burr. The reunion and the ceremony were coordinated by descendant Sherri Burr, an attorney and professor at the University of New Mexico, who also shared new findings from her continuing research into the family’s history.

John Pierre (1792-1864) was originally buried in Mount Olive cemetery in West Philadelphia. Early in the 20thc, his remains and those of his wife Hester “Hetty” Emory Burr, were moved to Eden Cemetery in Collingswood, not far from the city line. Eden Cemetery was founded in 1902 with the purpose of providing a respectful final resting place for the African American community in the Philadelphia area, and it continues to do so today.

You can read about the ceremony, and how it brought together the extended Burr family as well as members of the Aaron Burr Association and the Sons of the American Revolution in this article from the Washington Post. While the journalist scrambles a few things, her story does capture the joy of the day and the pride the family takes in their illustrious ancestors.

Several weeks later, I was honored to visit Eden Cemetery with Karla Ballard Williams, a 5x great-granddaughter of Mary Emmons and Aaron Burr. The morning was beautiful, with a clear blue sky and the scent of new-mown grass, and Karla and I were alone, the only visitors. She quickly led me to the elegant new headstone, the polished black marble gleaming bright and standing tall among other, more settled stones. But while John Pierre deserves to be honored - he was an abolitionist, a conductor on the Underground Railroad, and a respected and important African-American leader in 19thc Philadelphia - I’d come with another purpose.

In addition to John Pierre and Hetty, the remains of other family members are buried in the same grave. Records were mislaid when the graves were moved over a hundred years ago, and while their exact identities were lost, the family believes that Mary Emmons herself is buried here with her son and daughter-in-law. Standing there before the grave, I believed it, too.

Together Karla and I sat on the grass, burned sage, and spoke of her ancestors, of connections between the past and the present. Then she stepped back to let me have a few moments alone with Mary.

Because Mary was there. I could sense her presence in the warmth of the late-summer sun and the surrounding peace that she so richly deserved. I told her how honored I’d been to imagine her story, how much she’d inspired me, and how much I’d come to admire her. I asked for her blessing, but more importantly I also asked her forgiveness for the things I’d inevitably imagined wrong. I’d often felt Mary’s spirit and strength guiding me while I was writing, and I’d done my best to listen, and find the words that she would want. This moment seemed the fitting culmination to what she and I had shared together, and a privilege it was in every way.

Many thanks to Karla Ballard Williams for guiding me to her ancestors' resting place, & letting me honor them with her.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere. Order here.

A Sentimental Bracelet for a New York Bride, 1785

I’ve always had a weakness for antique sentimental jewelry, and this bracelet definitely made my heart flutter. What could be more sentimental than a bracelet embellished with romantic symbols, a gift from a young groom to a bride around the time of their wedding?

Americans might have parted politically with Great Britain after the Revolution, but they still continued to look to London in matters of taste. Towards the end of the 18thc, fashionable jewelry often included small miniatures, painted in sepia on wafers of ivory. While many of these miniature paintings were memorial pieces, worn as mourning, others were sentimental tokens to be exchanged between lovers and friends. The design motifs were classically inspired, with urns, columns, willows, and often graceful women wearing either ancient dress, or the drifting white cotton gowns newly in vogue.

This bracelet features a wealth of romantic symbols: two winged cherubs carry entwined wreathes in honor of Hymen, the Greek god of marriage, while Cupid, the impish god of desire, stands below with his own attributes, a bow and arrow and a flaming torch of eternal love. There are also two pairs of doves or love-birds, sitting side by side, and a ribbon banner that proclaims “Cupid crowns/Hymen joins”. In other words, Cupid’s darts may inspire that flaming love, but Hymen makes sure you put a ring on it.

Tiny pearls surround the miniature, which is set into the clasp. The bracelet itself is made of gold, with a safety chain to prevent its loss - a wise precaution, considering that this must have been a costly piece of jewelry indeed. The miniature and the bracelet are considered to be the work of Irish artist and goldsmith John Ramage (c1748-1802). Like other artists in pursuit of sitters, Ramage had immigrated to the American colonies on the eve of the Revolution, following his Loyalist patrons first from Boston to Canada, and then to British-occupied New York City, where he remained after the war. His delicate and refined miniature portraits, elegantly presented in gold bracelets and brooches, made him a favorite with wealthy New Yorkers. His most famous sitter was newly-elected President George Washington, whose likeness was worn by his wife Martha.

The interior of this bracelet’s clasp, right, is engraved with a pair of initials - “D.T.-B. and C.S./1785”. Cornelia Stuyvesant (c1765-1825) and Dirck Ten Broeck (1765-1833) were both members of elite New York families with Dutch heritage; she was a descendant of Peter Stuyvesant, the last Dutch governor of New Netherlands, while he was the grandson of Stephen Van Rensselaer I, the 7th Patroon and 4th Lord of the Manor of Rensselaerswyck, and one of the wealthiest landowners in America. Cornelia and Dirck were both around twenty when they married on September 6, 1785, and while it’s certain the families approved of their well-connected union, it was also considered a love match. In the course of their long marriage, Cornelia gave birth to a dozen children who were baptized (only four of whom survived to adulthood) as well as several others who were stillborn.

At around the same time, Dirck Ten Broeck also sat for a miniature portrait, below left, by John Ramage. The portrait matched the wedding miniature, and was similarly engraved on the reverse and encircled with the same tiny pearls. While the portrait doesn’t have the same gold bracelet band, the gold loops on the back indicate that it would have been worn as a slide on a silk or velvet ribbon. In the fashion of the day, Cornelia likely would have worn them together, one on each wrist, as double proof of her love for her new husband.

The Ten Broecks would have moved in the same social circles in New York as Eliza and Alexander Hamilton and Aaron and Theodosia Burr. Not only were the Ten Broecks and the Hamiltons related by marriage, but Dirck had also served as a clerk in Alexander’s law office. In the small world of New York law, the paths of the three lawyers - Ten Broeck, Hamilton, and Burr - would have crossed repeatedly in the courts in Albany and in New York City, and in state and national politics as well.

On July 11, 1804, Dirck Ten Broeck was anticipating a midday meal and legal consultation with his old mentor and friend Alexander Hamilton, unaware that Alexander had another appointment scheduled for earlier that same day in New Jersey. By the time that Dirck arrived at Alexander’s office, the duel between the Alexander and Aaron Burr had already taken place, and Alexander was slowly dying of his wound in the nearby home of William Bayard, Jr.

Both the bracelet and the miniature are on display in the "Schuyler Sisters & Their Circle" exhibition (on display through December 29, 2019 at the Albany Institute of History & Art in Albany, NY.

Top: Bracelet, attributed to John Ramage, 1785, Albany Institute of History and Art. Photograph ©2019 Susan Holloway Scott.

Right: Interior, Bracelet, attributed to John Ramage, 1785, Albany Institute of History and Art. Photograph courtesy of AIHA.

Lower left: Dirck Ten Broeck by John Ramage, 1785, Albany Institute of History and Art. Photograph ©2019 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.

Eliza Hamilton in Illustrious Company

American women in history lost a devoted advocate earlier this year with the death of journalist Cokie Roberts. Through her books and other writings, Ms. Roberts worked tirelessly for the inclusion of women in the American story, and made Abigail Adams’ famous plea to “remember the ladies” into a rallying cry. This week the National Archives Foundation honored Ms. Roberts with the 2019 Records of Achievement Award as well as a national day of remembrance in her honor.

As part of the evening’s ceremony, the Foundation “corrected” one of the murals in the National Archives Rotunda. Two larger-than-life murals - one featuring the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and the other the signers of the Constitution - were commissioned in 1933 to honor the National Archives’ two most important documents. Artist Barry Faulkner spent three years on the paintings’ creation, and they were hung in the new building in 1936 to great praise.

Like much public art, the paintings seem dated now, more reflections of the 1930s than the late 18th century. While the intention of the paintings was to highlight the spirit of the Revolution and the new country that came from it as much as the two documents themselves, what strikes modern eyes is not so much who and what is included as who and what were left out. Clearly diversity and inclusion weren’t on this particular 1930s easel. For the night of the Cokie Roberts celebration, however, at least part of these omissions were corrected. Four important early American women were added to the mural through projections, above, created by artist Samara King.

I was delighted to see Eliza Hamilton, right, included along with Abigail Adams, Dolley Madison, and Martha Washington - august company indeed. Ms. King chose to show Eliza dressed much as she was for her 1787 portrait by Ralph Earl, in a white gown and with her hair fashionably powdered. Eliza is standing beside her husband Alexander Hamilton, which is doubtless where she would have wanted to be.

However, I wonder about Alexander. His profile is, as always, unmistakable, and it appears that Mr. Faulkner wisely relied on the 1796 portrait by James Sharples for that famous profile. But why is Alexander the only one of the signers shown with a drawn sword? Given that the war was over and that Alexander had long before resigned his commission, why is he shown wearing his army uniform, and with a costume-y yellow cloak thrown over his shoulder like a toga? Ah, artistic mysteries of the 1930s….

Read here for more about the award and ceremony. See here for a key to the individuals shown in the mural.

Barry Faulkner mural in National Archives Rotunda with the addition of Abigail Adams, Dolley Madison, Martha Washington, and Eliza Hamilton. Photograph courtesy of the National Archives Foundation.

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.

A Grieving Alexander Hamilton, c1802

Alexander Hamilton was an important man in his time, and he sat for portraits by the most famous American artists of the same era. Some of these paintings were commissioned to reinforce his public persona, and were hung in public buildings as a tribute to his role as the country’s first Secretary of the Treasury, Others were more intimate, and intended for family and friends. Nearly all of these portraits date from the 1780s and 1790s and show Alexander in his prime, his chin raised and his gaze determined, ready to take on whatever challenges the new country threw his way.

But the portrait here is different. By 1802, when it was painted, much had changed in Alexander’s life. He had withdrawn from the government and returned to New York City to concentrate on his family and his law career. The political world that had been so much a part of his life had continued on without him, and as the power of the Federalists, his political party, had begun to fade, his influence had dwindled with it. His friend and mentor George Washington had recently died, leaving him without the wise counsel that the older man had long provided.

But a far greater tragedy darkened Alexander’s life. In November, 1801, his nineteen-year-old son Philip had challenged another young man, George Eacker, to a duel after a squabble in a playhouse. The oldest Hamilton child (and arguably his parents’ favorite), Philip had recently graduated with honors from Columbia College, and had begun reading the law to follow in his father’s footsteps. Before the duel, Alexander advised Philip to fulfill the honorable obligations of the challenge by firing away from his opponent and intentionally not harming him. This Philip had done, while Eacker, with no such compunction, had aimed his fatal shot directly at Philip. Mortally wounded, Philip died the following day in the arms of his parents.

Alexander was inconsolable, not only grieving over the untimely death of his son, but also blaming himself. At Philip’s funeral, he was so distraught that friends needed to support him physically at the grave. Acquaintances who saw Alexander in the weeks and months that followed were shocked by how changed he had become.

The portrait, above, seems proof of that. Despite the familiar hint of smile, Alexander looks weary and burdened with melancholy, and much older than a man in his forties. His gaze is now turned inward, its keenness dulled. Gone are the bright coats he once favored, and instead he is dressed in solemn black that is likely still mourning for Philip. Gone, too, are the trappings of his former power - the costly furnishings of an elegantly appointed office - that appear as the backdrop in earlier portraits. Instead he is shown against a simple dark background that places the entire focus of the painting on his face, and his sadness as well. He’s far removed from the energetic Secretary of the Treasury from a decade before - and also far removed from the heroically handsome Hamilton that now appears on the ten-dollar-bill.

Painted by Albany artist Ezra Ames (1768-1836), this portrait was said to have been a favorite of Eliza Hamilton, who considered it an excellent likeness. Doubtless, too, the sorrow in it reflected her own grief and loss. How could she have known that in 1804, she’d be mourning the loss of her husband in a duel as well?

This portrait (coped by the artist after his own original) is included in the "Schuyler Sisters & Their Circle" exhibition at the Albany Institute of History & Art in Albany, NY., on display through December 29, 2019. I’ve seen reproductions of it many times, but in person the beauty and the sadness of it is heartbreaking. I have to agree with Eliza: it’s now one of my favorites, too.

"Alexander Hamilton" by Ezra Ames, c1810 (copy after an 1802 original), Permanent Collection, Union College. Photograph copyright 2019 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.

Eliza Hamilton's Caps

Last weekend I spoke to a wonderful group of readers and history-fans at the Albany Institute of History & Art. My talk was part of a series of programs surrounding their current special exhibition, The Schuyler Sisters & Their Circle, and what an exhibition it is! It’s a thoughtful, beautiful, and well-researched look at the Schuylers, one of the most influential extended families not only in 18thc Albany, but in the colonies and young country as well. While Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, George Washington, and a number of other gentlemen are included in the exhibition (more than enough to make Hamilfans swoon with delight), the focus is more on the women and their interconnections and friendships, through clothes, portraits, jewelry, needlework, and a wealth of other artifacts and artworks. The exhibition runs through December 29; if you can possibly make your way to Albany by then, go!

I’ll be featuring a number of pieces from the exhibition here on the blog over the next few weeks, and I’m beginning with these two caps with connections to Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, the heroine of I, Eliza Hamilton.

I’ve written before (here) about how Eliza appears to have continued wearing a variation of mourning for her husband Alexander for the fifty remaining years of her life. She also appears to have continued dressing in the fashions of 1804, the year in which he died. Judging by her portraits, her plain black dresses were relieved by a pleated white ruffle at the neck, and a white muslin or linen cap. In the 18thc and early 19thc, white caps were universally worn by women of every class, and ranged from the simplest linen caps worn by servants to extravagant confections of silk gauze that were flirtatious statements of the highest fashion.

As the 19thc progressed, however, caps fell from favor, and by mid-century, they were primarily worn by older women and widows like Eliza. Eliza’s choice of caps, however, didn’t appear to change, but continued as an increasingly old-fashioned style with a wide band, front ruffle, and a gathered crown at the back.

The cap from the exhibition was worn by Eliza, and it’s easy to see why. Unadorned by embroidery, lace, ribbons, silk flowers, or any other ornament, the cotton muslin cap is as no-nonsense as Eliza was herself. With its frill around the face, it’s similar to the cap she wears in the Daniel Huntington portrait, right, painted when she was in her nineties. To her friends, admirers, and numerous grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, such a cap must have been an instantly recognizable part of her.

But they also would have known Eliza for what she did as well as what she wore. Needlework was very much a part of her life, and there are numerous examples of her work still surviving, including the wedding handkerchiefs she made as a bride, a richly embroidered mat for Alexander’s portrait, and a fancy child’s dress (also now on display at AIHA) for a grandchild. In the exhibition is a tiny infant’s cap, left, that she is said to have stitched for her godson Augustus Holly Bissell (1840-1900). Eliza would have been in her eighties when she made this cap, yet the whitework design of the little cap is still beautifully worked - and the sprigs and scattered fill stitches are similar to these sketches she made on the back of a letter in 1799. (There’s also the possibility that, given her age, Eliza cut and sewed the cap from fabric that was previously embroidered - perhaps from one of the white dresses that had been so much in fashion earlier in the century.)

Both caps were carefully preserved as family heirlooms by Louisa Lee Schuyler (1837-1926) and Georgina Schuyler (1841-1923), the great-granddaughters of Eliza and Alexander Hamilton; it’s remarkable to realize that these two women as children knew Eliza, a Revolutionary War widow, yet themselves lived into the 20thc and the Jazz Age. The caps are now part of the collection of the Schuyler Mansion State Historic Site - the 18thc family home of the Schuyler family that was also preserved through the efforts of Louisa Lee and Georgina.

Above: Cap worn by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, unknown maker, 1790—1830. Infant’s cap made by Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, 1840. Both Schuyler Mansion State Historic Site. Photograph copyright 2019 Susan Holloway Scott.

Right: Detail, Portrait of Mrs. Alexander Hamilton (Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton) by Daniel Huntington, mid-1800s. National Museum of American History, Smithsonian.

Read more about 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.

Two Theodosias, Together in Time, c1792

Heirlooms often form more of a family’s traditions and history than written documents. A teacup brought in a trunk by an immigrant, a uniform jacket worn in a long-ago battle, a silk ribbon from a wedding dress pressed into a permanent bow: these are the things that travel through the generations, their significance catalogued through carefully told (and occasionally embellished) stories. Yet without an accompanying story, the teacup, jacket, or ribbon becomes simply one more scrap of the past to be scattered, tossed, or sold on eBay.

For a man as famous - and infamous - as Aaron Burr, there are relatively few artifacts that can be confirmed as having belonged to him or his immediate family. Part of this is due to the fact that both his wife and only daughter predeceased him. Members of the immediate family often become that family’s curators and caretakers, and Burr had no one who’d treasure his one-time belongings.

Perhaps more important was Burr’s own checkered career. Over the course of his life, his financial affairs rose and fell, and things that he acquired - an English painting, a diamond watch - were sold from necessity. He was deep in debt at the time of his duel with Alexander Hamilton. Afterwards, when he was forced to flee to escape charges of murder, his creditors seized and sold everything he’d left behind against his debts.

The stigma of an object having once belonged Aaron Burr must have been a weighty one. Burr was regarded by many as both a murderer and a traitor, it’s likely that sellers consciously separated his previous ownership from an object. Something labeled as being “from the estate of a New York gentleman of taste” would probably have brought a higher price than “from the estate of the murderer of the lamented Gen. Hamilton.”

The pocket-watch shown here is one of the few objects to survive with a clear Burr connection. With a silver case and white enamel face, the watch was manufactured in France around 1790. Burr likely purchased it in New York soon afterwards, and then commissioned a local artist, now unknown, to paint the face with the likenesses of the two people in his life that he loved the most: his wife Theodosia Bartow Prevost Burr, and their daughter, also named Theodosia. The only other known portraits of mother and daughter are the matching dressed portraits by Connecticut artist Mary Way, created about the same time.

While the portraits on the watch’s face are neither skilled nor sophisticated, they do show the two Theodosias stylishly dressed and coifed, and the overall effect is charming. In a 1928 privately published book devoted to Burr portraiture, Dr. John E. Stillwell - a distant relative of Theodosia - noted that Burr had given the watch to his wife as a gift around 1792, and that she had it with her at her death in 1794. After that the watch seems to have remained in Burr’s possession until 1807, when he hurriedly departed New York for exile in Europe.

During the earlier glory-days of the family’s country estate of Richmond Hill, Burr had employed a talented German chef named Anthony Bowrowson. Stillwell isn’t entirely clear as to whether Burr gave Bowrowson the watch as a memento before he sailed, or if in the general confusion, Bowrowson helped himself to it. Regardless, the watch became a keepsake prized by Bowrowson’s daughter, Theodosia Bowrowson Shelburg, who had been named after Burr’s wife. The watch remained in the Shelburg family for the next two centuries, until it was purchased by Brian Davon Hardison, a noted collector of Burr memorabilia.

And through the years, the two Theodosias continue to smile across the hands of time.

Above: Burr’s Pocket-Watch, unknown maker, c1790, collection of Brian Davon Hardison. Photograph courtesy of Brian Davon Hardison.

Right: Aaron Burr by James Sharples, c1796, Bristol Museums, Galleries, & Archives.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is available everywhere, in paperback, ebook, and audiobook. Order now here.

A Luxurious 18thc Kennel Made for Marie-Antoinette's Pets, & Its Twin in a Miniature Portrait

Whenever I go to museums and historic sites, there are always little things that stick in my memory. It’s often not the biggest or most famous “thing”, but something smaller, and often something that must have been meaningful to an individual person long ago.

This luxurious dog kennel falls into the category. Off to one corner in the 18thc French Wrightsman Rooms in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it’s almost overwhelmed by all the splendid furnishings that surround it. But this is a very special pet bed, or niche de chien: it was made by Jean-Baptiste-Claude Sené, a master menuisier, or furniture-maker, and was created for the French Queen Marie-Antoinette.

The kennel was made from gilded beech and pine covered in velvet panels, with cushions and a lining of striped silk. It was designed not only to offer the most elegant quarters for the queen’s favorite dogs (possibly even Coco, the beloved pet who famously joined her in her imprisonment during the French Revolution), but also to compliment the rest of the furnishings in the royal suite. The neoclassical acanthus leaves and Greek keys that ornament the sides were favored by the Queen, and were the height of refined taste at the time.

I remember seeing this kennel long ago when it had just been given to the museum. I was in high school and taking summer classes in art history at the Met, and because our lecturer was a curator in French decorative arts, he made a point of showing the kennel to our class in great detail. Each time I visit the Met now, I always “visit” the kennel as one of my favorite object on display, and someday I’m sure it will appear in one of my books.

Last week I was browsing Instagram, and to my great surprise came across this pendant in my feed. Although the names of the little white dog, the artist, and the pet-owner are now unknown, there’s no doubt that this was a favorite pet. Painted in watercolor on ivory, the portrait might not be the most anatomically accurate (it does look a bit more like a bear than a dog), but the little painting was framed to be worn as a necklace so that owner could keep her or his favorite close.

But more interesting to me is the kennel behind the dog - almost exactly the same as the one owned by the Met. Was this dog, too, a royal pup?

I doubt the Met will ever part with the queen’s kennel, but you’re enamored with the miniature, it’s for sale here.

Above: Dog Kennel by Claude I Senet, c1775-80, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Below: Miniature Portrait of a Dog, 18thc French School, Galerie Jaegy-Theoleyre.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is available everywhere, in paperback, ebook, and audiobook. Order now here.

Giving Away Enslaved Children in 18thc America

Several readers of The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr have asked about one of the threats that my heroine Mary Emmons feared the most during her enslavement: that any child she bore, regardless of the father, would be taken from her and given away. Did this really happen?

The sad and tragic answer is yes. There are so many horrifying aspects to slavery in America, but those pertaining to children and the callous severing of families were particularly cruel. By law, children born to enslaved women were likewise enslaved; the status of the mother determined that of the child.

The plantation culture of the southern colonies and state depended on a large pool of laborers. Enslaved women were encouraged and often forced to have children to increase the slaveholder’s work force and “property.” Enslaved babies and children were easily absorbed into the existing quarters. Mothers took their children with them into the fields, or left them behind in their quarters to be looked after by members of their extended community, often other enslaved women who were considered too old or infirm for field work. Even very young children could be employed in agricultural work, and were considered useful at an early age. Children of every age were considered a commodity of value, and were bought and sold and often separated from their parents and the only homes they’d known.

But in the north, the majority of enslaved people were employed as house servants or other skilled workers. There were far fewer enslaved people per household, and these people seldom had designated quarters in separate buildings. Instead they slept in the slaveholders’ basements, attics, or kitchens, and their presence was much more integrated into the daily life of the slaveholder’s family. In these circumstances, an enslaved baby or child not only required the direct care of the mother, distracting her attention and taking her away from her duties, but were also viewed as expenses in themselves, requiring food and clothing for what could be years before they could be successfully employed within the structure of the household. A crying baby or fretful toddler was also considered a nuisance in the close confines of most northern houses, a noisy and unwelcome intrusion into the middle of a well-ordered home.

Advertisements like the one above from a Boston newspaper in 1769 offered enslaved children to anyone who wished them, much like free kittens or puppies are offered today, and, like those animals, their “breeding” was emphasized to make them sound more appealing. The grim reality was that most children given away like this would have died due to insufficient care and nutrition. This advertisement is only a single line, a classified notice among many, and yet behind it must have been the incalculable loss and heartbreak of a now-unknown mother.

Above: Advertisement from the Massachusetts Gazette and Boston Weekly Newsletter, October 5, 1769. Thanks to Carl Robert Keys, associate professor of history at Assumption College, and his always-fascinating Adverts250 Project.

My new historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.

Theodosia's Gamble: How the Wife of a British Officer Offered Her Home to Gen. Washington

In the summer of 1778, Theodosia Bartow Prevost (1746-1794) was in a precarious position. Her husband, Lieutenant Colonel Jacques-Marc Prévost (also known as James Marcus) was serving in the British army in the colonial rebellion - a rebellion that would become known as the American Revolution. The war had taken Colonel Prevost far from their home, a generous country estate near Hopperstown, New Jersey known as The Hermitage, and Theodosia, left behind with their young children as well as her mother and step-sister, was in charge of overseeing The Hermitage.

During this particular summer, however, that oversight was much more complicated than making sure that the crops were harvested and the estate prepared for winter. The Hermitage lay in the uneasy no-man’s-land of Bergen County, flanked on one side by the Continental forces, and on the other by the British occupying New York City. Both armies raided the region’s farms, cutting down fences , outbuildings, and orchards for firewood, seizing crops and other produce, slaughtering cattle and sheep, and appropriating oxen and horses. Some farmsteads were burned, and those who protested could be arrested and imprisoned as enemies by either side. While the area had showed support for the Patriots early in the war, allegiances now shifted towards whoever was in power; few felt safe.

As the wife of a British officer, there was seemingly little doubt which army Theodosia supported, and the State of New Jersey threatened to confiscate the Prevost property. In order to protect her land and family, she managed the most difficult of balancing acts, and maintained friendships with powerful men on both sides of the conflict. Although she left no records that detail how she achieved this - or even if at heart she herself were a Patriot, or a Loyalist - she clearly must have relied on her much-admired charm, intelligence, and wit to preserve The Hermitage.

Perhaps the most dramatic instance of her political agility occurred in July, 1788; it also inspired one of my favorite chapters in The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr. Commander-in-Chief Gen. George Washington and his army had fought the British in the grueling, day-long Battle of Monmouth on June 28, and were planning an encampment to rest and recover in Bergen County. Learning of this, Theodosia acted swiftly. What better way could there be to prove herself committed to the Patriot’s cause? She sent the letter of invitation, above (and transcribed below) to the general:

Mrs Prevost Presents her best respects to his Excellency Genl Washington [and] requests the Honour of his Company as she flatters herself the accommodations will [be] more Commodious than those to be procured in the Neighborhood. Mrs. Prevost will be particularly happy to make her House agreeable to His Excellency, and family.

Gen. Washington accepted her offer, and arrived at The Hermitage with his army, spending July 11-18 as Theodosia’s guest. The house would have served as the headquarters, acting as an office and site for entertaining, with the General, his officers, aides-de-camp, and servants (the extended military “family” mentioned in the letter) quartered in their tents along with hundreds of their troops. Still, Theodosia did have a houseful of guests, including a number of young ladies exiled from New York City eager to divert the officers with walks and evening entertainments. Among these officers enjoying Theodosia’s hospitality were Baron von Steuben, Lt. Col. John Laurens, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton.

Another young officer there at the time, one that was likely already acquainted with Theodosia. He would later return to The Hermitage to recuperate from the effects of the battle, and eventually become a dear friend, lover, and husband to Theodosia: Lt. Col. Aaron Burr.

Above: Letter by Theodosia Bartow Prevost, from the collection of The Hermitage Museum.

My latest historical novel, The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr, is now available everywhere, in stores and online. Order here.