In the days after Alexander died, Eliza was so overwhelmed with grief that those closest to her feared for her sanity. She was too distraught to attend the funeral or any of the other events honoring her husband’s memory, and instead remained inside The Grange, shut away with her children and her sorrow. According to the few friends who did see her, her loss appeared unbearable, and she piteously longed for her own death as well so that she might be reunited with Alexander.
At the time of her husband’s death, Eliza was forty-six years old, and considerably stronger than she realized during that grim July in 1804. She not only survived her grief, but lived on another half-century, dying in 1854 at the remarkable age of ninety-seven. Her long life spanned American history from the colonial era to the eve of the Civil War, and she died as the last remaining widow of a Founding Father.
The years immediately following the deaths of her oldest son Philip and Alexander were filled with more sorrow, and considerable challenges. Despite being lauded as a financial genius during his lifetime, Alexander left his personal finances in a shambles at his death. His years of low-paying public service and living beyond his means had combined with the large amounts borrowed to build the Grange, and when he died he was $60,000 in debt, which today could roughly translate to between two and three million dollars. The country estate that he’d so lovingly built for his family now faced foreclosure and public auction, and only the intervention and combined generosity of his many friends kept Eliza and the children from losing their home.
Those same charitable friends also contributed to a trust to provide a small income for Eliza, a fund whose existence was such a deep secret that it was not revealed until the 1930s. Even so, Eliza often scrambled to make ends meet, living on the edge of poverty, and was repeatedly forced to seek small loans from friends.
Alexander had believed that Eliza’s father, Philip Schuyler, would look after her. But the old general’s long history of ill health, coupled with the deaths of his wife and his favorite son-in-law, soon claimed him as well. He died in November 1804, only four months after Alexander. The enormous Schuyler fortune proved to be a myth. Like many wealthy 18th-century families, the family’s wealth was tied up in land and credit, not cash.
The land that surrounded The Pastures was divided and eventually sold, with the profits going to the surviving children. The large brick mansion that had been the centerpiece of the Schuyler family for so many years was also sold. Eliza’s share translated into an income of only around $750 annually. Perhaps more importantly, Eliza lost both the support of her father and the childhood home that had always been her retreat and respite in difficult times.
Her sister Angelica remained at her side throughout it all, sharing Eliza’s grief for Hamilton, offering assistance with the children, and doubtless on occasion helping out financially. Angelica died in New York City in 1814, and is buried in Trinity Church cemetery, not far from Eliza and Alexander. Her husband, John Barker Church, returned to London, where he died four years later; at the time of his death, his mercurial fortune had been reduced to a mere ￡1,500.
Through the years, Eliza persevered. Two things drove her: her children, and her husband’s memory.
Despite her precarious finances, Eliza was determined to do her best for her children. While none of them achieved their father’s rare stellar fame, all grew to be men that clearly carried Alexander’s heritage. Four of the surviving sons became lawyers, and were active in state and federal politics and government. The fifth was a soldier who attended West Point and fought in the Black Hawk Wars on the western frontier.
Tragically, Eliza’s older daughter Angelica’s mental instability deteriorated to the point that she could no longer be kept at home, and lived out her life under the care of a private doctor. The younger daughter, also named Eliza, married Sidney Augustus Holly, and Eliza lived with them in the later years of her life. Eliza was justly proud of her children, and Alexander would have been so, too.
But while Alexander lived on through his children, Eliza was determined that posterity would not forget him in other ways as well. In New York City, that would never be the case. The entire city was swathed in black after his death, and he was mourned by people of every rank. The shock of his sudden death at a relatively young age made New Yorkers remember only his best qualities, and remember, too, all the good he had done for the city, from his commitment to the merchant and banking communities, to his involvement in promoting education and civic matters, and to the countless small charities and good works that benefited from his care and attention. With his death, he had become their martyred hero.
One New Yorker did not mourn, however, and was in fact stunned and a bit disgusted by the vast outpouring of grief. From the instant he fired the shot that killed Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr showed no remorse, let alone guilt, for the duel or its aftermath. Already realizing the possible consequences, he quickly left New York for Philadelphia. Publicly he believed that he had acted entirely by the established codes of dueling that Hamilton had agreed to as well, and therefore was not at fault, nor deserved any blame.
The courts did not agree. A coroner’s jury handed down a verdict that Burr was guilty of murder, and arrest warrants were issued in New York. A grand jury in New Jersey did the same. Gambling that in time the warrants—and the sensation—would fade away, Burr returned to Washington, where the country was stunned by the sight of the current vice president presiding over the Senate while under indictment for murder.
But Burr’s political career was done, and he’d become a pariah to both parties. He was also bankrupt, and when he’d fled New York, his creditors had seized his house and belongings. As soon as his term as vice president was completed, he went to Europe. In time, as he’d predicted, the murder charges were dropped, and he was able to return to America. A misguided scheme to recoup his fortune in the west led to him being charged with treason. He was eventually acquitted, and returned to his law practice in New York, where he remained a social outcast, if not a legal one. Nor was he spared personal tragedy, either: his only grandson died as a child, and his beloved daughter Theodosia was lost at sea. Late in life, he married a wealthy widow, only to have the marriage end in a scandalous divorce after he’d spent much of his new wife’s fortune. He suffered a debilitating stroke in 1834, and finally died alone in a Staten Island boarding house in 1836.