"To those who with me, abhorring the practice of duelling, may think that I ought under no account to have added to the number of bad examples, I answer, that my relative situation as well in public as in private enforcing all the considerations which constitute what men of the world denominate honor imposed on me a peculiar necessity not to decline the call. The ability to be in future useful, whether in arresting mischief or effecting good in this crisis of our public affairs which seemed likely to happen, would probably be inseparable from a conformity with public prejudice in this particular."
At seven o'clock in the morning of July 11, 1804, at Weehawken, New Jersey, the fatal meeting took place. After the usual formal salutation, the parties were placed in position by their seconds, ten paces apart, the pistols placed in their hands, and the word being given both fired. General Hamilton instantly fell. The statement subsequently given out by the seconds is as follows:
"Colonel Burr then advanced toward General Hamilton with a manner and gesture that appeared to be expressive of regret, but without speaking turned about and withdrew, being urged from the field by his friends. No further communication took place between the principals, and the barge that carried Colonel Burr immediately returned to the city. We conceive it proper to add that the conduct of the parties in this interview was perfectly proper as suited the occasion."
The surgeon in attendance states that after Hamilton was borne to the barge he observed, "Pendleton knows that I did not intend to fire at him." As they approached the shore he said, "Let Mrs. Hamilton be immediately sent for; let the event be gradually broken to her, but give her hopes." His physician adds:
"During the night his mind retained its usual strength and composure. The great source of his anxiety seemed to be in his sympathy with his half-distracted wife and children. 'My beloved wife and children' was his often used expression, but his fortitude triumphed over his situation, dreadful as it was. Once, indeed, at the sight of his children, seven in number, brought to his bedside together, his utterance forsook him. To his wife he said in a firm voice but with a pathetic and impressive manner, 'Remember, my Eliza, that you are a Christian.' His words and the tone in which they were uttered, will never be effaced from my memory."
After indescribable agony, death came at two o'clock of the day succeeding the duel. Thus, at the age of forty-seven, perished Alexander Hamilton, a great man in any country or time. Cities and counties bear his name in almost every American State. The story of his wondrous life and tragic death will never lose its pathetic interest. His unswerving devotion to the country of his adoption, his untiring efforts in the establishment of the national Government, and his friendship for Washington, which knew no abatement, have given Hamilton honored and enduring place in American history.
As to Burr, the proverb found instant verification that "in duels the victor is always the victim." Had he, instead of Hamilton, fallen on that ill-fated July morning, how changed their possible places in history. A halo has gathered about the name of Hamilton. Monuments have been erected to his memory, his statue has been given high place in the Capitol. The hour of his fall was that of his exaltation.
The self-same hour witnessed the ruin of his antagonist. From the fatal field, unharmed in body, he turned away, henceforth to the followed by the execrations of his countrymen. Past services were forgotten, brilliant talents availed nothing. His desperate attempt to found a rival government by the partial dismemberment of the one he had helped to establish was thwarted, and after years of poverty and misfortune abroad, he returned to die in neglect and obscurity in his own country. As was truly said: "He was the last of his race; there was no kindred hand to smooth his couch, or wipe the death-damp from his brow. No banners drooped over his bier; no melancholy music floated upon the reluctant air."
The Hon. Hamilton Spencer, one of the ablest of lawyers, gave me an interesting account of an interview he had with Colonel Burr in Albany not long before his death. Notwithstanding his advanced age, broken health, and ruined fortunes, he deeply impressed Mr. Spencer as a gentleman of most courteous manners, dignified bearing, and commanding presence such as he had rarely seen.
The one object of his love was his daughter, the beautiful Theodosia. Her devotion to her father increased with his accumulating misfortunes. The ship in which she sailed from her home in Charleston, South Carolina, to meet him in New York, never reached its destination. In all history, there are few pictures more pathetic than that of the gray-haired, friendless man, with faded cloak drawn closely about him, day after day wandering alone by the seaside, anxiously awaiting the coming of the one being who loved him, the idolized daughter whose requiem was even then being chanted by the waves.