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Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler
September 35, 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 to his fame; a disgrace to his connexions; it was the most affecting scene I ever was witness to. She, for a considerable time, entirely 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 forever. 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 resentment 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 crime in his misfortunes; 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.
A. Hamilton.
Hamilton was probably at New Windsor when the following letter was written, which, at the time, was occupied by the American Army:
Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler
(Written probably in October, 1780.)
I have told you and I told you truly that I love you too much. You engross my thoughts too entirely to allow me to think anything else. You not only employ my mind all day, but you intrude on my sleep. I meet you in every dream and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness. 'Tis a pretty story indeed that I am to be thus monopolized by a little nut brown maid like you and from a soldier metamorphosed into a puny over. I believe in my soul you are an enchantress; but I have tried in vain, if not to break, at least to weaken the charm and you maintain your empire in spite of all my efforts and after every new one I make to draw myself from my allegiance, my partial heart still returns and clings to you with increased attachment. To drop figures my lovely girl, you become dearer to me every moment. I am more and more unhappy and impatient under the hard necessity that keeps me from you, and yet the prospect lengthens as I advance. Harrison has just received an account of the death of his Father and will be obliged to go to Virginia. Meade's affairs (as well as his love) compel him to go there also in a little time. There will then remain too few in the family to make it possible for me to leave it till Harrison's return, but I have told him I will not be delayed beyond November.
Oct. 5th.
P. S. I promised you a particular account of Andre. I am writing one of the whole affair of which I will send you a copy.
Indeed, my dear Betsey, you do not write me often enough. I ought at least to hear from you by every post, and your last letter is as old as the middle of September. I have written you twice since my return from Hartford. You will laugh at me for consulting you about such a trifle, but I want to know whether you would prefer my receiving the nuptial benediction in my uniform or in a different habit. It will be just as you please, so consult your whim and what you think most consistent with propriety. . . . Tell my Peggy I will shortly open a correspondence with her. I am composing a piece, of which, from the opinion I have of her qualifications, I shall endeavor to prevail upon her to act the principal character. The tide is "The way to get him, for the benefit of all single ladies who desire to be married." You will ask her if she has any objections to taking part in the piece and tell her that if I am not much mistaken in her, I am sure she will have none. For your own part, your business is now to study the way to keep him, which is said to be much the most difficult task of the two, though in your case I thoroughly believe it will be an easy one and that to succeed effectually you will only have to wish it sincerely. May I only be as successful in pleasing you, and may you as happy as I shall ever wish to make you.
Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler
Tappan, Oct, 2d, 1780.
Poor Andre suffers today. 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 by 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 on the unamiable light of supposing him capable of 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.
A. Hamilton.
There is some doubt about the date of the marriage, the general opinion being that it occurred in December, 1780.
No better place could have been chosen for this happy event than the grand old house of General Schuyler, built in 1765, which has been so well pictured by Chastellux and which has been the scene of so many interesting episodes, among them the famous attempt to kidnap its owner by Waltermeyer—and the dramatic escape of his daughter Margaret from the savages, to which reference has already been made. It was during the Revolution and before, visited by many distinguished people, among them Benjamin Franklin, Charles Carroll, de Noailles, General St. Clair, Baron Riedesel, and even Burgoyne, who enthusiastically described the generous hospitality of Its owner.
But little remains of its former elegance for, like many old places, it has suffered through the ravages of time, or been encroached upon by a growing duty, or has been so altered as to lose its characteristic charm of former days. There is little to carry one back to the joyous happenings that took place within its walls during the American Revolution; it is at present occupied by Sisters of Charity, orphans, and the poor children of the neighborhood.
The house, which is now occupied as a Catholic school, and surrounded by a squalid tenement settlement, retains much of its original attractiveness. ... It is built of yellow brick. On each side of the hexagonal vestibule are three windows; above these are seven windows, measuring the unusual breadth of the house.
Within is a spacious hall sixty feet long, to which the windows on each side of the door give light. It is a noble room, wainscotted in white. Doors lead on one side into the sitting-room, on the other into the drawing-room, splendidly lighted, with deep window-seats and broad mantels handsomely carved. . . .
The main hall is