Hamilton finds, quite quickly, as Burr speaks, that his own shame and anguish diminishes, until he is energized, bright-eyed. Not helpless.
One palpable hit on the audience: Burr is the omega.
Two: He is with child.
Three: The father is dead, a general, a hero.
And Hamilton rounds on the judge. His turn. "Must this continue?" he cries, righteous, his voice slicing through the tumult of the crowd. "Must you persist in this? Can his grief not be suffered without the prying eyes of half New York?"
He steps out into the center of the room.
"Here, a man, determined to keep the faith of his country and do his duty," with a wide, smooth gesture to Burr, "determined to shoulder his own burden while sheltering the light of a new soul, a gift from a love too short for this world -- Captain Burr is a greater man than any here."
It would sound hyperbolic, coming from nearly anyone else. Hamilton thunders it into the silence.
"And in the face of that, what could I do?" Softer, dropping his volume so that they are quiet, listening. "I could only try to show myself worthy of trust. And, in doing so, I found a way I could help make this, our country, a beacon for the world. Not just of freedom, of reason, of republic, but -- of mercy. Of charity. Of kindness. Far from bringing shame on our army -- what we have seen today shows what Americans can become when we rise. We do not cloak ourselves in ignorance, but reach to our neighbors. We do not turn our backs on the helpless, but lend our labor and our arms to the common defense. We make this country a place safe for every widow and every child."
Three paces in a broad arc, claiming the space and, symbolically, driving the prosecution to the edges. "Have we not all tasted the wretched flavor of a European world? England would have it that all poor wretches are poor wretches forever, ignorant, squalid, starving."
A turn to the other side, ensuring that he addresses each part of this gallery.
"I was a poor wretch. I confess it. Born out of wedlock, to a mother chained by the irons of corrupt and artful laws, to a man who wanted her to suffer. And now I am here, in a city where I can be so much more. Where, if I see myself in an urchin, I need not stand by. Where any man, by virtue of mind and ability, can rise. Where a love crossed by tragedy need not end in tragedy."
The way he paces, he has positioned himself to cross the open floor by where Burr is, at the edge of the gallery. So when he stops, now, and turns as though drawn magnetically towards Burr, it can seem like an accident, or a destined thing, Providence's hand. Like wherever Hamilton goes, he will always find himself here.
"I have nothing to offer you," he says, to Burr. "I have no land, nor title. I have little rank, nor money. Forgive my impudence in offering, Captain, as you have forgiven so much from me: I have only myself, but I give myself freely to you. I would marry you tomorrow if you would but have me."
no subject
One palpable hit on the audience: Burr is the omega.
Two: He is with child.
Three: The father is dead, a general, a hero.
And Hamilton rounds on the judge. His turn. "Must this continue?" he cries, righteous, his voice slicing through the tumult of the crowd. "Must you persist in this? Can his grief not be suffered without the prying eyes of half New York?"
He steps out into the center of the room.
"Here, a man, determined to keep the faith of his country and do his duty," with a wide, smooth gesture to Burr, "determined to shoulder his own burden while sheltering the light of a new soul, a gift from a love too short for this world -- Captain Burr is a greater man than any here."
It would sound hyperbolic, coming from nearly anyone else. Hamilton thunders it into the silence.
"And in the face of that, what could I do?" Softer, dropping his volume so that they are quiet, listening. "I could only try to show myself worthy of trust. And, in doing so, I found a way I could help make this, our country, a beacon for the world. Not just of freedom, of reason, of republic, but -- of mercy. Of charity. Of kindness. Far from bringing shame on our army -- what we have seen today shows what Americans can become when we rise. We do not cloak ourselves in ignorance, but reach to our neighbors. We do not turn our backs on the helpless, but lend our labor and our arms to the common defense. We make this country a place safe for every widow and every child."
Three paces in a broad arc, claiming the space and, symbolically, driving the prosecution to the edges. "Have we not all tasted the wretched flavor of a European world? England would have it that all poor wretches are poor wretches forever, ignorant, squalid, starving."
A turn to the other side, ensuring that he addresses each part of this gallery.
"I was a poor wretch. I confess it. Born out of wedlock, to a mother chained by the irons of corrupt and artful laws, to a man who wanted her to suffer. And now I am here, in a city where I can be so much more. Where, if I see myself in an urchin, I need not stand by. Where any man, by virtue of mind and ability, can rise. Where a love crossed by tragedy need not end in tragedy."
The way he paces, he has positioned himself to cross the open floor by where Burr is, at the edge of the gallery. So when he stops, now, and turns as though drawn magnetically towards Burr, it can seem like an accident, or a destined thing, Providence's hand. Like wherever Hamilton goes, he will always find himself here.
"I have nothing to offer you," he says, to Burr. "I have no land, nor title. I have little rank, nor money. Forgive my impudence in offering, Captain, as you have forgiven so much from me: I have only myself, but I give myself freely to you. I would marry you tomorrow if you would but have me."