Letters from Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler
Letters from Alexander Hamilton to his fiancé and later wife, Elizabeth Schuyler, during the height of the American Revolutionary War.
From: 1780 C.E. To: 1781 C.E.
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From A Few of Hamilton's Letters, by Alexander Hamilton and Gertrude Atherton, 1903.
[These letters, written by Alexander Hamilton, are addressed to his fiancé and later wife, Elizabeth Schuyler, during the American Revolutionary War. They pick up shortly after the discovery of Benedict Arnold’s treachery and the execution of Arnold’s accomplice John André. They end with Hamilton’s departure for the Siege of Yorktown, which would prove to be a major victory for the Continental and French Armies over the British.]
To MISS SCHUYLER
September 25th, 1780.
. . . Arnold, hearing of the plot being detected, immediately fled to the enemy. I went in pursuit of him, but was much too late; and could hardly regret the disappointment when, on my return, I saw an amiable woman frantic with distress for the loss of a husband she tenderly loved, a traitor to his country and his fame, a disgrace to his connexions; it was the most affecting scene I ever was witness to. She, for a considerable time, lost herself. The General went up to see her, and she upbraided him with being in a plot to murder her child. One moment she raved, another she melted into tears. Sometimes she pressed her infant to her bosom, and lamented its fate, occasioned by the imprudence of its father, in a manner that would have pierced insensibility itself.
All the sweetness of beauty, all the loveliness of innocence, all the tenderness of a wife, and all the fondness of a mother, showed themselves in her appearance and conduct. We have every reason to believe that she was entirely unacquainted with the plan, and that the first knowledge of it was when Arnold went to tell her he must banish himself from his country and from her for ever. She instantly fell into a convulsion, and he left her in that situation.
This morning she is more composed. I paid her a visit, and endeavoured to soothe her by every method in my power; though you may imagine she is not easily to be consoled. Added to her other distresses, she is very apprehensive the resentments of her country will fall upon her (who is only unfortunate) for the guilt of her husband.
I have tried to persuade her that her fears are ill-founded; but she will not be convinced. She received us in bed, with every circumstance that would interest our sympathy, and her sufferings were so eloquent, that I wished myself her brother, to have a right to become her defender, as it is I have entreated her to enable me to give her proofs of my friendship. Could I forgive Arnold for sacrificing his honour, reputation, and duty, I could not forgive him for acting a part that must have forfeited the esteem of so fine a woman. At present she almost forgets his tunes; and her horror at the guilt of the traitor is lost in her love of the man. But a virtuous mind cannot long esteem a base one, and time will make her despise, if it cannot make her hate.
To MISS SCHUYLER
Oct. 2, 1780.
Poor Andre suffers to-day; everything that is amiable in virtue, in fortitude, in delicate sentiment, and accomplished manners pleads for him; but hard-hearted policy calls for a sacrifice. He must die I send you my account of Arnold’s affair, and to justify myself to your sentiments, I must inform you, that I urged a compliance with Andre’s request to be shot, and I do not think it would have had an ill effect, but some people are only sensible to motives of policy, and sometimes, from a narrow disposition, mistake it.
When Andre’s tale comes to be told, and present resentment is over, the refusing him the privilege of choosing the manner of his death will be branded with too much obstinacy.
It was proposed to me to suggest to him the idea of an exchange for Arnold; but I knew I should have forfeited his esteem for doing it, and therefore declined it. As a man of honour, he could
not but reject it; and I would not for the world have proposed to him a thing which must have placed me in the unamiable light of supposing him capable of a meanness, or of not feeling, myself, the impropriety of the measure. I confess to you, I had the weakness to value the esteem of a dying man because I reverenced his merit.
To ELIZABETH SCHUYLER
October 13th, 1780.
I would not have you imagine, Miss, that I write you so often to gratify your wishes or please your vanity; but merely to indulge myself, and to comply with that restless propensity of my mind which will not be happy unless I am doing something in which you are concerned. This may seem a very idle disposition in a philosopher and a soldier, but I can plead illustrious examples in my justification. Achilles liked to have sacrificed Greece and his glory to a female captive, and Anthony lost a world for a woman. I am very sorry times are so changed as to oblige me to go to antiquity for my apology, but I confess, to the disgrace of the present time, that I have not been able to find as many who are as far gone as myself in the laudable zeal of the fair sex. I suspect, however, if others knew the charm of my sweetheart as I do, I could have a great number of competitors. I wish I could give an idea of her. You can have no conception of how sweet a girl she is. It is only in my heart that her image is truly drawn. She has a lovely form and still more lovely mind. She is all goodness, the gentlest, the dearest, the tenderest of her sex. Ah, Betsey, how I love her!
Two days since I wrote to you, my dear girl, and sent the letter to the care of Colonel Morris: there was with it a bundle to your mamma, directed to your father, containing a cloak which Miss Livingston sent to my care. I enclosed you in that letter one to my friend Laurens with an account of Arnold’s affair. I mention this for fear of a miscarriage as usual.
Well, my love, here is the middle of October; a few weeks more and you are mine; a sweet reflection to me is it so to my charmer? Do you find yourself more or less anxious for the moment to arrive as it approaches? This is a good criterion to determine the degree of your affection by. You have had an age for consideration, time enough for even a woman to know her mind in. Do you begin to repent or not? Remember you are going to do a very serious thing. For though our sex have generously given up a part of its prerogatives, and husbands have no longer the power of life and death, as the wiser husbands of former days had, yet we still retain the power of happiness and misery; and if you are prudent you will not trust the felicity of your future life to one in whom you have not good reason for implicit confidence. I give you warning don’t blame me if you make an injudicious choice and if you should be disposed to retract, don t give me the trouble of a journey to Albany, and then do as did a certain lady I have mentioned to you, find out the day before we are to be married that you can’t like the man; but of all things I pray you don’t make the discovery afterwards for this would be worse than all. But I do not apprehend its being the case. I think we know each other well enough to understand each other’s feelings, and to be sure our affection will not only last but be progressive.
I stopped to read over my letter it is a motley mixture of fond extravagance and sprightly dullness: the truth is I am too much in love to be either reasonable or witty: I feel in the extreme; and when I attempt to speak of my feelings I rave. I have remarked to you before that real tenderness has also a tincture of sadness, and when I affect the lively my melting heart rebels. It is separated from you and it cannot be cheerful. Love is a sort of insanity and everything I write savors strongly of it; that you return it is the best proof of your madness also. I tell you, my Betsey, you are negligent; you do not write me often enough. Take more care of my happiness, for there is nothing your Hamilton would not do to promote yours.
To MRS. HAMILTON
August, 1781.
In my last letter I informed you that there was a greater prospect of activity now, than there had been heretofore. I did this to prepare your mind for an event, which, I am sure, will give you pain.
I begged your father at the same time to intimate to you by degrees the probability of its taking place. I used this method to prevent a surprise which might be too severe to you. A part of the army, my dear girl, is going to Virginia, and I must of necessity be separated at a much greater distance from my beloved wife. I cannot announce the fatal necessity without feeling everything that a fond husband can feel. I am unhappy; I am unhappy beyond expression. I am unhappy be cause I am to be so remote from you; because I am to hear from you less frequently than I am accustomed to do. I am miserable because I know you will be so; I am wretched at the idea of flying so far from you, without a single hour’s interview, to tell you all my pains and all my love.
But I cannot ask permission to visit you. It might be thought improper to leave my corps at such a time and upon such an occasion. I must go without seeing you, I must go without embracing you: alas! I must go. But let no idea, other than of the distance we shall be asunder, disquiet you. Though I said the prospects of activity will be greater, I said it to give your expectations a different turn, and prepare you for something disagreeable. It is ten to one that our views will be disappointed, by Cornwallis retiring to South Carolina by land. At all events, our operations will be over by the latter end of October, and I will fly to my home. Don’t mention I am going to Virginia.
And a few days later, from the head of the Elk, he writes:
Yesterday, my lovely wife, I wrote to you enclosing you a letter in one to your father, to the care of Mr. Morris. To-morrow the post sets out, and to-morrow we embark for York Town. I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of writing you a few lines. Constantly uppermost in my thoughts and affections, I am happy only when my moments are devoted to some office that respects you. I would give the world to be able to tell you all I feel, and all I wish, but consult your own heart and then you will know mine. What a world will soon be between us! To support the idea all my fortitude is insufficient. What must be the case with you who have the most female of female hearts? I sink at the perspective of your distress, and I look to heaven to be your guardian and supporter.
Circumstances which have just come to my knowledge, assure me that our operations will be expeditious, as well as our success certain. Early in November, as I promised you, we shall certainly meet. Cheer yourself with this idea, and with the assurance of never more being separated. Every day confirms me in the intention of renouncing public life, and devoting myself wholly to you. Let others waste their time and their tranquillity in a vain pursuit of power and glory; be it my object to be happy in a quiet retreat, with my better angel.
And from Annapolis:
How checquered is human life? how precarious is happiness? how easily do we often part with it for a shadow? These are the reflections that frequently intrude themselves upon me, with a painful application. I am going to do my duty. Our operations will be so conducted as to economize the lives of men. Exert your fortitude and rely upon heaven.
Hamilton, Alexander. A Few of Hamilton’s Latters. Edited by Gertrude Atherton, Macmillan, 1903.
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