Eliza Hamilton Quotes

I think perhaps Hamilton said it better in a letter to Eliza: You engross my thoughts to intirely to allow me to think of anything else- you not only employ my mind all day; but you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you in every dream- and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness.

I’m erasing myself from the narrative. Let future historians wonder how Eliza reacted when you broke her heart.

My wife's the reason anything gets done, she nudges me towards promise by degrees. She is a perfect symphony of one our son is her most beautiful reprise. We chase the melodies that seem to find us until they're finished songs and start to play. When senseless acts of tragedy remind us that nothing here is promised--not one day. This show is proof that history remembers. We live in times when hate and fear seem stronger. We rise and fall and light from dying embers--remembrances that hope and love last longer. And love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love cannot be killed or swept aside. I sing Vanessa's symphony. Eliza tells her story. Now, fill the world with music, love, and pride.

On opening night, standing under the Rogers's marquee, [Lin] realized that if Eliza's struggle was the element of Hamilton's story that had inspired him the most, then the show itself was a part of her legacy.

It was, Eliza Hamilton Holly noted pointedly, the imperative duty that Eliza had bequeathed to all her children: Justice shall be done to the memory of my Hamilton.

But the measure of a man, of a life, of a union of man and wife or even country is not in the falling. It’s in the rising back up again to repair what’s broken, to put right what’s wrong. Your father and I did that. We always did that. He never stopped trying until the day he died. And neither will I.

One would think that since Hamilton and Eliza only just got married, our mothers would be satisfied for a while, but instead they seem to have come to the conclusion that everyone needs to enter into the state of wedded bliss. Quite frankly, they've turned scary.

Ron told Pippa that during the six years he had spent on the book, Valerie Chernow had developed a powerful identification with Hamilton’s wife. “She used to say, ‘Eliza is like me: She’s good, she’s true, she’s loyal, she’s not ambitious.’ There was a purity and a goodness about the character, and that was like Valerie,” he says. In 2006, after 27 years of marriage, Valerie passed away. For her gravestone, Ron chose a line from the letter that Hamilton wrote to Eliza on the night before the duel: “Best of wives and best of women.

Mark my words, Alex. You are a man whose future lies before him for all to marvel at one day. And you, Colonel Hamilton, are mine, and I am yours always.

What a high-minded thing revolution had seemed when it started; but now I wondered if, in trying to bring about liberty, we’d instead opened the gates of endless war, bloodshed, and immorality.

Though the natural weakness of her body hinders her from doing what men can perform, she has a mind as valiant and as active for the good of her country as the best of us. - Plutarch

They'd murdered my husband. They'd taken him from me. But I still had his words, and they were my solace. Hamilton could still speak to me through those pages. His love letters. His Ideas. His essays. Thousands of pages. They could kill him, but they couldn't silence him. Not if his story was told. Not if his work was preserved. And I resolved to collect the pieces of the legacy Alexander left behind.

This letter, my very dear Eliza, will not be delivered to you unless I shall first have terminated my earthly career to begin, as I humbly hope from redeeming grace and divine mercy, a happy immortality. If it had been possible for me to have avoided the interview, my love for you and my precious children would have been alone a decisive motive. But it was not possible without sacrifices which would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem. I need not tell you of the pangs I feel from the idea of quitting you and exposing you to the anguish which I know you would feel. Nor could I dwell on the topic lest it should unman me. The consolations of religion, my beloved, can alone support you and these you have a right to enjoy. Fly to the bosom of your God and be comforted. With my last idea, I shall cherish the sweet hope of meeting you in a better world. Adieu best of wives and best of women. Embrace all my darling children for me. Ever yours A H72

She didn't answer, and in that moment I realized that she felt the same as I. The men we loved would determine our destinies along with their own, no matter how we might wish otherwise. We walked the rest of the way arm in arm, our heads bowed, in sisterly agreement. We said nothing more, nor did we need to. I, Eliza Hamilton

Serving [Hamilton's] legacy didn't just mean commemorating him, though: It also meant continuing his work. [Eliza] crusaded against slavery, as Hamilton had. And this widow of an orphan helped to found the first private orphanage in New York. That's the real power of a legacy: We tell stories of people who are gone because like any powerful stories, they have the potential to inspire, and to change the world.

But remember, dear sister, that the easiest men for us to love are often the same ones who hurt us the most.

In proportion as I discover the worthlessness of other pursuits, the value of my Eliza and of domestic happiness rises in my estimation.

A marriage is like a union of states, requiring countless dinner table bargains to hold it together. There may be irreconcilable differences brewing below the surface that can come to open rupture. And there is, in a marriage, as in a nation, a certain amount of storytelling we do to make it understood. Even if those stories we tell to make our marriage, or country, work don't paint the whole picture, they're still true. But to leave Alexander Hamilton out of the painting entirely is a lie.

No one wanted to serve anymore. Not when, under our new government, any man, whether a gentleman or a scoundrel, could say whatever he pleased and print whatever libels he wished without consequence. And the ignorant populists, spewing tobacco juice as they ranted, took full advantage. As if the notion that all men were created equal somehow meant that one need not aspire to knowledge and ability—all distinctions of class, breeding, or merit discarded, all notions of civility deserted.

It is easy to snicker at such deceit and conclude that Hamilton faked all emotion for his wife, but this would belie the otherwise exemplary nature of their marriage. Eliza Hamilton never expressed anything less than a worshipful attitude toward her husband. His love for her, in turn, was deep and constant if highly imperfect. The problem was that no single woman could seem to satisfy all the needs of this complex man with his checkered childhood. As mirrored in his earliest adolescent poems, Hamilton seemed to need two distinct types of love: love of the faithful, domestic kind and love of the more forbidden, exotic variety. In

And at last, the lonely young man who belonged to no one finally belonged to someone, forever, and the practical girl who would not settle for less then a love story for the ages found the life long romance she had yearned for all her life.

It was probably at this point that a pregnant Eliza first smiled and shook hands with her husband’s future executioner.

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.

Maybe I could get a job in Colonial Williamsburg,” I say, trying to get into the spirit. “I could churn butter. Wear period garb. Like, a calico dress with an apron or whatever they wore in Colonial times. I’ve heard they’re not allowed to speak to each other in modern-day language, and kids are always trying to trip them up. That could be fun. The only thing is, I’m not sure if they hire Asian people because of historical accuracy…” “Lara Jean, we live in the time of Hamilton! Phillipa Soo is half-Chinese, remember? If she can play Eliza Hamilton, you can churn butter.

know you believe that the politics in London are especially uncivil, but you’ll soon see that the style here in America is every bit as ferocious, and marked with backbiting, lies, deceit, and ill will.

In truth, if Kitty's anyone, she's a Jefferson. Wily, stylish, quick with a comeback. Margot's an Angelica, no question. She's been sailing her own ship since she was a little girl. She's always known who she was and what she wanted. I suppose I'm an Eliza, though I'd much rather be an Angelica. In truth I'm probably And Peggy. But I don't want to be the And Peggy of my own story. I want to be the Hamilton.

I was someone before I met Alexander Hamilton. Not someone famous or important or with a learned philosophical understanding of all that was at stake in our revolution. Not a warrior or a philosopher or statesman. But I was a patriot. I was no unformed skein of wool for Hamilton to weave together into any tapestry he wished. That's important for me to remember now, when every thread of my life has become tangled with everything he was. Important, I think, in sorting out what can be forgiven, to remember my own experiences - the ones filled with my own yearnings that had nothing to do with him. I was, long before he came into my life, a young woman struggling to understand her place in a changing world. And torn, even then, between loyalty, duty, and honor in the face of betrayal.

Since both Eliza and Angelica were pregnant, sister Peggy crept downstairs to retrieve the endangered child. The leader of the raiding party barred her way with a musket. “Wench, wench! Where is your master?” he demanded. “Gone to alarm the town,” the coolheaded Peggy said. The intruder, fearing that Schuyler would return with troops, fled in alarm.

Hamilton found it difficult to concentrate on what Eliza was saying. Her lips were moving rapidly, but he couldn't actually decipher what the words coming out of her mouth were. It was such a lovely mouth, and he found it quite quirky, given the fact that it could assume different positions with alarming frequency. Like now, it was pursed in a most attractive manner, and now... it was moving again as if the lady could not get the words out fast enough. His gaze traveled upward, past the eyes that were flashing and settled on her hair. He couldn't help but appreciate the efforts of Mabel. The curls she'd been able to produce on Eliza's head, well, they were tantalizing. He had the strangest urge to reach out and touch them, to feel with his own hand if they were as soft as they appeared, something he'd been contemplating ever since he got a good look at her in the dining room. He pulled abruptly back to reality when Eliza poked him in the chest.

...I greeted him as warmly as if we'd been separated for months, not days. I'd never claimed to possess a sentimental nature, but it did seem that our fondness for each other ha strengthened with that first kiss, as if the very moon her self had blessed our love. I, Eliza Hamilton

Have you ever seen a germ?" Aunt Gertrude asked without waiting for Eliza's reply. "Neither have I, yet I have no doubt they exist, because I have seen their effects on the body. Likewise I have never 'seen' love, yet I have witnessed again and again its transformative effect on human beings.

silly man. I know the man I am marrying is destined for great things, as the many remarkable things he has done thus far have brought himto such a high oint already. Mark my words, Alex. You are a man whose future lies before him for all to marvel at one day. And you, Colonel Hamilton, are mine, and I am yours always.

What Mrs. Schuyler is saying," General Schuyler added, "is that it is the Schuylers who would be honored by a union woth so brilliant and noble a personage as Colonel Hamilton.

For some reason, Eliza had always thought Alexander Hamilton would be dark-haired, but he was in fact a ginger

Alexander Hamilton, widely reputed to be the most eloquent man in the United States of America, had, for the first time in his life, been rendered speechless.

I wore a blue silk Brunswick jacket, close-fitting and edged with dark fur, and a matching petticoat, both quilted with a pattern of diamonds and swirling flowers. My gloves were bright green kidskin, and on my head I wore the one extravagant hat I'd brought, the sweeping brim covered in black velvet and crowned with a profusion of scarlet ribbons. I, Eliza Hamilton.

Perhaps democracy would always naturally devolve to a state when only a man like Burr—a greedy libertine without any care for what the world might say about him—would stand for election. For what gentleman could ever

Now you’re in for it, Mr. Morris,” Eliza warned proudly. “Mr. Hamilton loves to talk finance.” Alex held up his glass to toast his wife. “To poor Mrs. Hamilton, who has heard me go on about this subject one too many times, I’m afraid.

¿Tengo que decirte que cuando estamos separados vuelvo a sentir tu cuerpo en sueños? ¿Que cuando estoy dormido te veo a ti, a la curva de tu cintura, la peca que tienes en la cadera, y que cuando me despierto al día siguiente tengo la sensación de haber estado contigo, que aún siento la caricia de tu mano en mi nuca, reciente y no imaginada? ¿Que siento tu piel en contacto con la mía, y siento todo el cuerpo dolorido? ¿Que durante unos instantes puedo contener la respiración y estar de nuevo contigo, en un sueño, en un millar de habitaciones, o en ningún lugar? Quizás Hamilton lo expresó mejor en una de sus cartas para Eliza: "Tu acaparas mis pensamientos tan enteramente que no puedo pensar en nada más; no solo tienes mi mente ocupada todo el día, además te inmiscuyes en ella cuando estoy dormido. Me encuentro contigo en cada uno de mis sueños, y cuando despierto no puedo volver a cerrar los ojos, porque rememoro tu dulzura una y otra vez".

Quizás Hamilton lo expresó mejor en una de sus cartas para Eliza: «Tú acaparas mis pensamientos tan enteramente que no puedo pensar en nada más; no solo tienes mi mente ocupada todo el día, además te inmiscuyes en ella cuando estoy dormido. Me encuentro contigo en cada uno de mis sueños, y cuando despierto no puedo volver a cerrar los ojos, porque rememoro tu dulzura una y otra vez».

The decades that she devoted to conserving her husband’s legacy made Eliza only more militantly loyal to his memory, and there was one injury she could never forget: the exposure of the Maria Reynolds affair, for which she squarely blamed James Monroe. In the 1820s, after Monroe had completed two terms as president, he called upon Eliza in Washington, D.C., hoping to thaw the frost between them. Eliza was then about seventy and staying at her daughter’s home. She was sitting in the backyard with her fifteen-year-old nephew when a maid emerged and presented the ex-president’s card. Far from being flattered by this distinguished visitor, Eliza was taken aback. “She read the name and stood holding the card, much perturbed,” said her nephew. “Her voice sank and she spoke very low, as she always did when she was angry. ‘What has that man come to see me for?’” The nephew said that Monroe must have stopped by to pay his respects. She wavered. “I will see him,” she finally agreed. So the small woman with the upright carriage and the sturdy, determined step marched stiffly into the house. When she entered the parlor, Monroe rose to greet her. Eliza then did something out of character and socially unthinkable: she stood facing the ex-president but did not invite him to sit down. With a bow, Monroe began what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, stating “that it was many years since they had met, that the lapse of time brought its softening influences, that they both were nearing the grave, when past differences could be forgiven and forgotten.” Eliza saw that Monroe was trying to draw a moral equation between them and apportion blame equally for the long rupture in their relationship. Even at this late date, thirty years after the fact, she was not in a forgiving mood. “Mr. Monroe,” she told him, “if you have come to tell me that you repent, that you are sorry, very sorry, for the misrepresentations and the slanders and the stories you circulated against my dear husband, if you have come to say this, I understand it. But otherwise, no lapse of time, no nearness to the grave, makes any difference.” Monroe took in this rebuke without comment. Stunned by the fiery words delivered by the elderly little woman in widow’s weeds, the ex-president picked up his hat, bid Eliza good day, and left the house, never to return.

This was a far different conversation than the one I'd had earlier with Papa. He clearly believed that colonel Hamilton would in fact be mine for the taking, like an apple that dropped from the tree into my hand of its own accord. Aunt Gertrude, however, expected me to climb to the highest branches of the apple tree, reach for the fruit, and tug it free if I wanted it. And yet I found that I preferred Aunt Gertrude's perspective. Fed only by memory and an impression, I had come this far through snow and ice. I needed to learn if colonel was not only special for for this country, but special for me. If he proved he was, if love grew between us, then I would do whatever I must for the sake of that love. In a land full of soldiers, this would be my battle. And I would win. I. Eliza Hamilton.

That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all? I think perhaps Hamilton said it better in a letter to Eliza: You engross my thoughts too intirely to allow me to think of any thing else—you not only employ my mind all day; but you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you in every dream—and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness.

Hamlet' dwarfs 'Hamilton' - it dwarfs pretty much everything - but there's a revealing similarity between them. Shakespeare's longest play leaves its audience in the dark about some basic and seemingly crucial facts. It's not as if the Bard forgot, in the course of all those words, to tell us whether Hamlet was crazy or only pretending: He wanted us to wonder. He forces us to work on a puzzle that has no definite answer. And this mysteriousness is one reason why we find the play irresistible. 'Hamilton' is riddled with question marks. The first act begins with a question, and so does the second. The entire relationship between Hamilton and Burr is based on a mutual and explicit lack of comprehension: 'I will never understand you,' says Hamilton, and Burr wonders, 'What it is like in his shoes?' Again and again, Lin distinguishes characters by what they wish they knew. 'What'd I miss?' asks Jefferson in the song that introduces him. 'Would that be enough?' asks Eliza in the song that defines her. 'Why do you write like you're running out of time?' asks everybody in a song that marvels at Hamilton's drive, and all but declares that there's no way to explain it. 'Hamilton', like 'Hamlet', gives an audience the chance to watch a bunch of conspicuously intelligent and well-spoken characters fill the stage with 'words, words, words,' only to discover, again and again, the limits to what they can comprehend.

That takes such active, intelligent creativity, analyzing the emotions a composer intends in those scratchy notes on a page, learning and perfecting the technique that gives you the skill to bring those skeletal notations to full-fleshed life in your performance. As far as I am concerned, Eliza, that is the greatest act of intelligence a human being is capable of. Music is air made rapturous, achieving the sublime, catching the harmony of the spheres for a fleeting moment so we can hear it. It is the closest we get to God. So, therefore, it is pure brilliance of the soul.

Or are you suggesting you'd rather exchange passionate letters by candlelight? Should I tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like I've just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all? I think perhaps Hamilton said it better in a letter to Eliza: You engross my thoughts too intirely to allow me to think of any thing else- you not only employ my mind all day; but you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you in every dream- and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness.

Scoot over.” “Where would you suggest I ‘scoot’?” Eliza asked. “You can sit on Hamilton’s lap,” Agatha said. Eliza didn’t have a chance to protest. Hamilton sent her a grin, and the next thing she knew, she was snuggled on his lap, his hand resting on her waist. She felt her cheeks flame and looked around for a distraction. “Why do you have that coat tied around you?” Agatha plopped down on the seat and rolled her eyes. “My pants split all the way down the back when I tried to tackle Eugene.” “They were quite delightful pants while they were still intact,” Zayne remarked cheerfully as he squeezed his lanky frame into the carriage and nodded to Agatha. “Scoot over.” “There’s no room,” Agatha said, “and you shouldn’t have been noticing my pants.” Zayne took Agatha’s hand, pulled her to her feet, took her spot on the seat, and pulled her into his lap. “This is cozy,” he remarked to no one in particular.

Or are you suggesting you'd rather exchange passionate letters by candlelight? Should I tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like I've just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all? I think perhaps Hamilton said it better in a letter to Eliza: You engross my thoughts too intirely to allow me to think of any thing else- you not only employ my mind all day; but you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you in every dream- and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness. We can't change the world, and a lot of time we can't even change people. No more than one bit at a time. So we do what we can to help whenever we get the chance, sweetheart. We save those we can. We do our best. Then we try to find a way to convince ourselves that that will just have to...be enough. So we can live with our failures without drowning.

Eliza, this is the way of honor with gentlemen.” “If it’s honor that you value, then perhaps you ought to guard the esteem your country still has for you by not offering to brawl in the streets like a madman.” “I am not mad.” “No?” I asked, thinking his behavior erratic. To prove it, I held up three different scribblings I’d found on his desk. “What do I see here? An essay in defense of the Jay Treaty that you wrote for the papers under one pen name. A second, written under a different name in which you anonymously praise yourself for writing the first. And then a raving third, pretending to add to the imaginary choir! It’s madness.

the Schuyler Mansion State Historic Site in Albany, Ian Mumpton and Danielle Funiciello, who provided copies of letters and answered a thousand questions, large and small. Though any errors you may find in this manuscript are ours alone. Thanks also go to the Daughters of the American Revolution and their magazine for providing research material of interest for subjects like Sinterklaas and Dutch culture in Eliza’s time. Lars Hedbor for helping to nitpick the historical accuracy of everything from coffee to French uniforms. Alison Morton and Annalori Ferrell for

Miss Sumner, are you all right?” Hamilton asked, pulling her from her thoughts. “Perfectly fine.” Hamilton sent a pointed look to the crushed dinner roll in Eliza’s hand. “Oh,” Eliza said, relaxing her fingers and dropping the roll to her plate before she realized Mrs. Amherst was speaking to her once again.

Have you been having fun, Eliza?” Gloria asked. “She’s danced every dance,” Hamilton said before Eliza could respond. “How wonderful,” Gloria exclaimed. “See, I told you there was no reason for your earlier distress.” “You were distressed?” Mr. Murdock inquired as he leaned forward over Agatha. “It was only a little case of nerves,” Eliza returned, her eyes widening when Hamilton absently traced a finger down her arm. The action was not lost on Mr. Murdock. He sat back in his seat and turned his head to address the guest on his left. “What are you doing?” Eliza hissed. “If you’re not careful, everyone will believe there’s soon to be an announcement.” “That would bother you?” And just what did he mean by that? She took a deep breath and slowly released it. “You’ve obviously lost your mind.” Hamilton sent her a wicked smile and refused to say another word, although he did remove his finger from her skin.

Eliza’s laughter died abruptly when Hamilton dropped down by her side and, for some unknown reason, began to play with the fabric of her skirt that was billowed out around her even as he continued bantering with his brother. She shot a look to Gloria and groaned. Of course the woman would have noticed her son’s actions. She scrambled to her feet, made a circle around the blanket, and dropped back down on the other side of Agatha, far from Hamilton’s reach. “Didn’t like where you were sitting?” Agatha muttered. “I thought I’d get closer to you so we could chat,” Eliza said.

This treasured gift retained a secret meaning for Eliza, for it had been a tacit gesture of solidarity from Washington when her husband was ensnared in the first major sex scandal in American history. The

as alexander hamilton who shared my name with one phillp skylar my mother, and my father eliza who i told to steal my identy in the war, iam nothign more then proud of the work on my deathbed writing again. i always surive true imoratlity and amenia disorder wtih life like reborn disorders cant be cured. but as alexian smith the former princess diana and smauel sabery you just seem unread. unscripted. and missed the point of the burnings of heart and bon fires in reetribution to racism in state and notion. You miss the point of what occured or whatever relaxed to it. I dont hate having multiple personaltiis. or living forever in stupid wayward ideas. that donald bloke has a diosrder called idiocy where hes accidently racist and you liked him for that. no i still dont hate you as avery pines. and no matter what occured when i was tortured in stupid situations, worst then a single one and counting somehow creepily for all of them, because my dad was and i was not. you must understand the history of why it was a town you now never knew of the name of. and why it was occurance and why it was the stories of it. And why nobody knew the musical hamilton was about my father alexander of americas presdient and me the secretary of state. my real name is adam snowflake. and if you loved a dam thing i ever wrteo from death note to creepy stalkings or the kingdom diaries or lspds, and what i built at disney naimating snow white and aruara and filming hawkuseris abotu my lack of faith as scince lik ebuilding jeeus you would know i never often resented it after highschool. and its better to remember a dead name as dead. i am not the evil events that defined me. but i am all the pain of them. and that is my wolrd. And you are ar acit for demanding i be things liek civil war or holocuast. and you are a racist slutty loser like i and bad king actors were steryped to be. and no matter what ever occured or how casuality is evil when in office. i want you to know no matter what i study or why i dress. its th history of me being an emo teenage fagot, and my mother was abusive as reya. and just interputed me to scream her ass off as reya fine an adbucter when orphaned. its easy to blame a color when the person is faceless. did you know im half that story. and did you know in the way i looked like the one you liked? When you have a boogie man, its so easy to hate the things you try to stop. Fuck you ukraine im jewish. and i know what you took. and while i didnt go. Oh god can i never go by frank again as someone in a clsoet room who surived that. and i want you to know as adam i will never be what you did to me. but oh god did you amke it look liket he people from russia fuck you royal.

Angelica! (work, work) Eliza! (work, work) And Peggy!

I suppose I'm an Eliza, though I'D much rather be an Angelica. In truth I'm probably And Peggy. But I don't want to be the And Peggy of my own story. I want to be the Hamilton.

Eliza Hamilton was committed to one holy quest above all others: to rescue her husband’s historical reputation from the gross slanders that had tarnished it.

I know I shall disappoint you in a thousand ways before our time on Earth is through. But I hope that you will always see the good in me and know that this unworthy heart of mine will always be yours, no matter what obstacles or failures I bring to your life.

At first they were no more than a list of names on sheets of paper, but as he perused the litany of Alcotts and Kilkelleys and Williamsons, the Josiahs and Ezekiels and Franklins, Alex had a sense of the awesome responsibility that had been placed in his hands. Each of these men was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s husband—someone’s future. And all of them would be risking their lives at his sole discretion. Alex’s wisdom would be their salvation. His folly would be their death.

This is a new country, as you say. Why shouldn’t it have new laws, new customs? And why should not those customs extend to the home itself. To—to love!

Had they been living in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Angelica would have been Jane Bennet and Eliza, Eliza.

On November 26, 1799, she gave birth to her seventh child, Eliza, but she continued to shelter strays and waifs, a practice that she and Alexander had started in adopting Fanny Antill.