Hamilton opens like a shoji screen to a mist-soft landscape: first a humble Old English hamel-tūn, “crooked hill farm,” then a Scottish clan crest weathered by North Sea salt, and at last the cool ink on an immigrant’s quill that balanced a fledgling nation’s books—before Broadway gave it a surprising hip-hop afterglow and a certain British racer lasered it onto silver trophies. Through each era he stays composed, three deliberate beats—HAM-uhl-tuhn—solid as a stone lantern resisting winter rain. Parents who choose him tend to appreciate quiet longevity: never vanishing from American records, never elbowing for the spotlight, he simply endures like a garden pine, edges trimmed yet never tamed. Dryly put, that is quite a résumé for a name that began as directions to an oddly shaped hill.
Hamilton Fish - |