Alexander Hamilton (100 page)

Enough rancor toward Hamilton remained in western Pennsylvania that he required a special escort of six soldiers on horseback when he left Pittsburgh in late November. Tired and weather-beaten from almost two months on the road, he galloped toward Philadelphia with an urgent need to see Eliza, who still struggled with a difficult pregnancy and felt alone without him. Even Angelica Church in London knew about the strained situation. “During his absence I know, my love, that you have been very unhappy and I have often thought of you with more than common tenderness,” she wrote to Eliza.
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On November 24, Henry Knox told Hamilton of Eliza’s earnest prayers for his return: “It seems that she has had, or has been in danger of a miscarriage, which has much alarmed her.” The guardian angel of the Hamilton household, Edward Stevens, who seemed to appear at providential moments, now tended Eliza and reassured her that she was in no danger. Nevertheless, Knox informed Hamilton that she was “extremely desirous of your presence [and] in order to tranquilize her this note is transmitted by the President’s request.”
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It turned out that Eliza
did
have a miscarriage, and Hamilton flagellated himself for this misfortune. “My dear Eliza has been lately very ill,” he wrote to Angelica Church in early December, sidestepping direct mention of the miscarriage. “Thank God, she is now quite recovered, except that she continues somewhat weak. My absence on a certain expedition was the cause…. You will see, notwithstanding your disparagement of me, I am still of consequence to her.”
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Ever since the Maria Reynolds fiasco, Hamilton had tried to be attentive to his family, but the ceaseless demands of public life had often denied him the necessary time, and now his absence had yielded dreadful results.

Hamilton now believed that his great opportunities lay behind him. On December 1, 1794, the day he returned to Philadelphia, he told Washington that he would surrender his Treasury post in late January. One wonders whether Eliza’s miscarriage affected this snap decision. With her selfless love for Hamilton, she didn’t care for the blood sport that passed for politics and was disgusted by the unceasing attacks on her husband. It pained her to see the scant appreciation for his sacrifices. Angelica Church wrote to Eliza with mixed emotions when she heard of Hamilton’s rumored resignation, “The country will lose one of her best friends and you, my dear Eliza, will be the only person to whom this change can be either necessary or agreeable. I am inclined to believe that it is your influence [that] induces him to withdraw from public life.”
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Church knew Hamilton’s fun-loving side and agreed that Hamilton needed a respite from politics, telling Eliza that “when you and I are with him, he shall not talk politics to us. A little of his
agreeable nonsense
will do us more good.”
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The news of Hamilton’s departure was a watershed for Washington, who had made him the master builder of the new government. When John Marshall later read through Washington’s correspondence for his authorized biography, he expressed “astonishment at the proportion of it” from Hamilton’s pen.
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In acknowledging Hamilton’s resignation, Washington penned one of his loftiest tributes.

In every relation which you have borne to me, I have found that my confidence in your talents, exertions, and integrity has been well placed. I the more freely render this testimony of my approbation, because I speak from opportunities of information w[hi]ch cannot deceive me and which furnish satisfactory proof of your title to public regard. My most earnest wishes for your happiness will attend you in retirement.
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The letter shows why Washington tended to discount the Jeffersonian invective against Hamilton. Both as general and president, Washington had numberless chances to observe Hamilton and had seen only competence, dedication, and integrity. In yet another tribute to Hamilton, Washington replaced him with his deputy at Treasury, Oliver Wolcott, Jr.

Hamilton was eager to leave office with an unscarred reputation and immediately informed House Speaker Muhlenberg of his planned resignation. He wanted to give the select investigating committee time to pursue any last-minute inquiries so that nobody would ever intimate that he had ducked questions. It was not Hamilton’s style to fade away quietly, and he mustered the strength for one last voluminous report on government finance, which he submitted to the House on January 19, 1795. He wanted to chart a wide-ranging course for the future. Washington had recently asked Congress for plans to retire the public debt and “prevent that progressive accumulation of debt which must ultimately endanger all government.”
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Congress had debated piecemeal proposals instead of a comprehensive plan. For a long time, Hamilton had chafed at the distorted perception that he invariably viewed a public debt as a public blessing; in many circumstances, he knew, a public debt could be a public curse. “The debt of France brought about her revolution,” he wrote. “Financial embarrassments led to those steps which led to the overthrow of the government and to all the terrible scenes which have followed.”
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Despite such disclaimers, Hamilton could not shake the pernicious stereotype that he always favored a large public debt. Jefferson told a friend about the public debt, “The only difference…between the two parties is that the republican one wish it could be paid tomorrow and the fiscal [Federalist] party wish it to be perpetual, because they find in it an engine for corrupting the legislator.”
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Debt was a legitimate concern, with an astounding 55 percent of federal expenditures being siphoned off to service it. Hamilton’s parting shot to Congress, his
Report on a Plan for the Further Support of Public Credit,
called the bluff of Republican opponents and laid out a program for extinguishing the public debt within thirty years. He wanted new taxes passed and old ones made permanent, and he showed painstakingly that he had striven to reduce debt as speedily as possible. He could not resist tweaking the whiskey insurgents by pointing out that any surplus produced by the excise tax on liquor was explicitly pledged to reducing public debt.

Hamilton’s proposals were rolled into a bill passed by Congress within little more than a month of his departure as treasury secretary. He was bothered by amendments proposed by Aaron Burr and others that he thought violated the spirit of his scheme. He told Rufus King that he was “haunted” by the action and railed against this “abominable assassination of the national honor.”
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He wondered why he cared so desperately about the fate of his adopted country and others seemingly so little.

To see the character of the government and the country so sported with, exposed to so indelible a blot, puts my heart to the torture. Am I then more of an American than those who drew their first breath on American ground? Or what is it that thus torments me at a circumstance so calmly viewed by almost everybody else? Am I a fool, a romantic Quixote, or is there a constitutional defect in the American mind? Were it not for yourself and a few others, I…would say…there is something in our climate which belittles every animal, human or brute…. I disclose to you without reserve the state of my mind. It is discontented and gloomy in the extreme. I consider the cause of good government as having been put to an issue and the verdict against it.
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In this melodramatic letter, Hamilton again gave way to despair about the American prospect. No longer constrained by the decorum of public life, he drew on this deep well of anger more often. There was a radical alienation inside Hamilton, a harrowing sense that he remained, on some level, a rootless outsider in America. In the end, Congress enacted Hamilton’s bill largely intact, rejecting the amendments proposed by Burr. Hamilton’s response had been disproportionate to the threat and showed a depressive streak, a chronic tendency to magnify problems. For a man so involved in public life, he was curiously unable to develop a self-protective shell.

Whatever his disappointments, Hamilton, forty, must have left Philadelphia with an immense feeling of accomplishment. The Whiskey Rebellion had been suppressed, the country’s finances flourished, and the investigation into his affairs had ended with a ringing exoneration. He had prevailed in almost every major program he had sponsored—whether the bank, assumption, funding the public debt, the tax system, the Customs Service, or the Coast Guard—despite years of complaints and bitter smears. John Quincy Adams later stated that his financial system “operated like enchantment for the restoration of public credit.”
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Bankrupt when Hamilton took office, the United States now enjoyed a credit rating equal to that of any European nation. He had laid the groundwork for both liberal democracy and capitalism and helped to transform the role of the president from passive administrator to active policy maker, creating the institutional scaffolding for America’s future emergence as a great power. He had demonstrated the creative uses of government and helped to weld the states irreversibly into one nation. He had also defended Washington’s administration more brilliantly than anyone else, articulating its constitutional underpinnings and enunciating key tenets of foreign policy. “We look in vain for a man who, in an equal space of time, has produced such direct and lasting effects upon our institutions and history,” Henry Cabot Lodge was to contend.
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Hamilton’s achievements were never matched because he was present at the government’s inception, when he could draw freely on a blank slate. If Washington was the father of the country and Madison the father of the Constitution, then Alexander Hamilton was surely the father of the American government.

TWENTY-SEVEN

SUGAR PLUMS AND TOYS

A
fter Hamilton and his family left Philadelphia in mid-February 1795, they rented lodgings in New York City for several days before proceeding to the Schuyler residence in Albany for a long-overdue rest. Hamilton found it hard to retrieve his privacy. He was lionized by New York’s merchant community, which treated him to a hero’s homecoming. In late February, the Chamber of Commerce feted him at a huge dinner attended by two hundred people, “the rooms not being large enough to accommodate more,” one newspaper noted.
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It was a merry, boisterous affair, with toasts offered impartially to both commerce and agriculture. Hamilton received nine cheers, compared to three apiece for Washington and Adams. With New York about to overtake Philadelphia and Boston as America’s main seaport, Hamilton was saluted as the patron saint of local prosperity. In his toast, Hamilton paid homage to local businessmen: “The merchants of New York: may they never cease to have honor for their commander, skill for their pilot, and success for their port.”
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Two weeks later, Mayor Richard Varick awarded Hamilton the freedom of the city—a form of honorary citizenship. In the manner of many immigrants who found thriving new identities in New York City, Hamilton had developed a special feeling for his adopted home. “Among the precious testimonies I have received of the approbation of my immediate fellow citizens,” he told Varick, “none is more acceptable or more flattering to me than that which I now acknowledge.”
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After Hamilton left the government, the English artist James Sharples did a sensitive pastel of him in profile that shows that, despite his tireless exertions in Philadelphia and the lethal broadsides hurled by the Jeffersonians, he still exuded good humor. Sharples captured an alert man with keenly observant eyes and an amused air of high spirits. He has a pointed chin, a long, slightly irregular nose, and a receding hairline. Whatever the underlying depths of despair, Hamilton was still very much in his prime and able to project a long career ahead of him.

The news of his resignation unleashed speculation about his future. Cynics perceived deep cunning in his stepping down as treasury secretary, a desire to succeed Washington as president. Detractors and admirers could not conceive that he intended to try private life for a while. When Governor Clinton announced in January that he would not run for reelection, the press pegged Hamilton as a gubernatorial prospect, maybe with his old boss Nicholas Cruger as lieutenant governor. Hamilton instructed Philip Schuyler to dampen this speculation, much of it, he thought, motivated by a wish to present him as a man of irrepressible ambition. When one New York attorney asked Hamilton if he could float his name for governor, he did not answer but appended his own private memo to the message: “This letter was probably written with some ill design. I keep it
without answer
as a clue to future events. A. H.”
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This self-protective action says much about the suspicious atmosphere of the day.

The plain truth was that Hamilton was indebted and needed money badly. This alone refuted accusations that he had been a venal official. If Hamilton had a vice, it was clearly a craving for power, not money, and he left public office much poorer than he entered it. Having taken care of the nation’s finances, he had told Angelica Church, “I go to take a little care of my own, which need my care not a little.”
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He planned “to resign my political family and set seriously about the care of my private family.”
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As treasury secretary, Hamilton had made $3,500 per year, which fell far short of the expenses of his burgeoning family and of what he might have earned as an attorney. He owned little more than his household furniture and estimated it would take five or six years of steady work to repay his debts and replenish his finances. Because such indebtedness did not square with Jeffersonian orthodoxy, it had to be denied. After Hamilton resigned, Madison wrote to Jefferson, saying peevishly of Hamilton, “It is pompously announced in the newspaper that poverty drives him back to the bar for a livelihood.”
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