John Jay and Alexander Hamilton

While the decision surprised some, the Spectator in so choosing uncovered a jewel of a character, long obscured by both the politics of his day and Jay’s own self-deprecating manner.

It is Noemie Emery who records this word-portrait of Jay, found in the memoirs of his contemporary, Alexander Graydon. Paraphrasing, she paints in “the tall, lean body, the scholar’s stoop; the aquiline nose and deep black eyes; above all, the serenity of the genuinely devout.”

And then quoting the source directly: “His manner was very gentle and unassuming. His deportment was tranquil, and one who had not known him … would not have been led to suppose that he was in the presence of one eminently gifted with intellectual power…”

That “unassuming” aspect of his character marked Jay and set him apart from his peers. Declining a nomination for governor of New York in 1777, he made this characteristic statement:

“That the office of first magistrate of this State will be more respectable, as well as more lucrative, and consequentially more desirable than the place I now fill, is very apparent.

“But, sir, my object in the course of the present great contest neither has been, nor will be, either rank or money. I am persuaded that I can be more useful to the State in the office I now hold than in the one alluded to, and therefore think it my duty to continue in it.”

It wasn’t that Jay had an unnatural aversion to eminence or pleasure. His legal practice prior to the war had ranked among the most prominent in New York. The office he felt bound to continue in (at age 32) was Chief Justice of the New York Supreme Court. And he was exceptionally happy in his marriage, regretting only the frequency with which duty took him away from his Sally and their children.

But the stakes in the American Revolution were, in his mind, of the highest order and this was no time for personal aggrandizement. He accepted promotions only after weighing the urgency of the need at hand. He sought no personal rewards. And when honors did come, he held them lightly, ready to let them go if higher priorities should present themselves.

In 1778 New York sent him to the Continental Congress. The Congress had little power then, and less money. Pursuit by the British, factions and frustrations all abounded. Yet when elected its president at the end of the year, he accepted, despite the extended separation from family that this would impose.

A year later he was appointed “Minister Plenipotentiary” to Spain. This lofty title boiled down to requesting money and diplomatic recognition from a powerful and opportunistic court. It entailed even further and more prolonged removal from New York. Leaving his ailing father for the last time he set sail for Spain in the fall of 1779. He was now 34.

With no bargaining chips, and not even a budget for his own living expenses, Jay’s position in negotiations was painful. For eighteen long months the Spaniards delighted themselves by dangling promises before him while pressing for rights to the Mississippi River and other concessions. It was a victory just to say no.

Jay took on these titles at such personal cost for two main reasons. First, he, more than most, comprehended both the risks and potential rewards at stake in America’s fragile undertakings.

His ancestors were Huguenots, French Protestants who had fled fierce Catholic persecution in late 17th century France. Jay grew up hearing stories of his great-grandfather’s harrowing escape as royalist troops moved in to destroy their hometown.

Speaking back in 1777 at the opening of the New York Supreme Court, he had described the freedoms that the new state constitution would protect:

“While you possess wisdom to discern and virtue to appoint men of worth and abilities to fill the offices of the State… your lives, your liberties, your property, will be at the disposal only of your Creator and yourselves. You will know no power but such as you will create; no authority unless derived from your grant; no laws but such as acquire all their obligation from your consent.”

These precious American liberties had afforded refuge and life for his family. But they would only continue if America prevailed in the war. But there was a second, deeper reason for Jay’s self-sacrifice. Graydon concluded his portrait by describing Jay as one who “thought and acted under the conviction that there is an accountability far more serious than any which men can have to their fellowmen.”

This sense of accountability used to be called the “fear of God” —a conscious reverence towards the Creator who holds his creatures to account. The conviction that such a reckoning lay ahead disposed Jay to apply sober care and prudence to all he did and said.

At the same time, he drew great comfort from his Biblical understanding that God was good, and graciously provided for those who put their trust in Him. “If men would never forget that the world was under the guidance of a Providence which never erred,” he often remarked, “it would save much useless anxiety, and prevent a great many mistakes.”

This blend of caution in conduct and confidence before God enabled Jay to maintain a sober and serene temperament even in the midst of great trial. Add to this his capacities of reason, expression, and sound judgment and it was no surprise that ever greater responsibilities sought him out.