try was intense, and it is
safe to say that nowhere and for months did conversation wander from the
subject of politics and the new Constitution, for more than ten minutes
at a time. In New York Hamilton was the subject of constant and vicious
attack, the Clintonians sparing no effort to discredit him with the
masses. New York City was nicknamed Hamiltonopolis and jingled in
scurrilous rhymes. In the midst of it all were two diversions: the
fourth of his children, and a letter which he discovered before General
Schuyler or Troup had sorted his mail. As the entire Schuyler family
were now in his house, and his new son was piercingly discontented with
his lot, he took refuge in his chambers in Garden Street, until Betsey
was able to restore peace and happiness to his home. The postman had
orders to bring his mail-bag thither, and it was on the second morning
of his exile that the perfume of violets caused him to make a hasty
journey through the letters.

He found the spring sweetness coincidentally with a large square,
flowingly superscribed. He glanced at the clock. His devoted assistants
would not arrive for half an hour. He broke the seal. It was signed
Eliza Capet Croix, and ran as follows:--

MY DEAR SIR: Do you care anything for the opinion of my humble sex,
I wonder? The humblest of your wondering admirers is driven beyond
the bounds of feminine modesty, sir, to tell you that what you do
not write she no longer cares to read. I was the first to detect--I
claim that honour--such letters by Publius as were not by your
hand, and while I would not disparage efforts so conscientious,
they seem to me like dawn to sunrise. Is this idle flattery? Ah,
sir! I too am greatly flattered. I do not want for admirers. Nor
can I hope to know--to know--so great and busy a man. But my
restless vanity, sir, compels me to force myself upon your notice.
I should die if I passed another day unknown to the man who gives
me the greatest pleasures of my life--I have every line you have
had printed that can be found, and half the booksellers in the
country searching for the lost copies of the _Continentalist_--I
should die, I say, if you were longer ignorant that I have the
intelligence, the ambition, and the erudition to admire you above
all men, living or dead. For that is my pride, sir. Perchance I was
born for politics; at all events you have made