Affairs of Honor

Affairs
of
Honor
National Politics in the New Republic

Joanne B. Freeman

Yale University Press New Haven and London

 Published with assistance from the Annie Burr Lewis Fund and
with the assistance of the Frederick W. Hilles Publication Fund
of Yale University. Copyright ©2001 by Joanne B. Freeman. All
rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Freeman, Joanne B., 1962–
Affairs of honor : national politics in the New Republic / Joanne B. Freeman.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0–300–08877–9 (alk. paper)
1. United States—Politics and government—1789–1815. 2. Political culture—
United States—History—18th century. 3. Politics and culture—United States—
History—18th century. 4. United States—Social conditions—to 1865. 5. Elite
(Social sciences)—United States—Political activity—History—18th century.
6. Honor—Political aspects—United States—History—18th century. I. Title.
E310.F85 2001
306.2′0973′09034—dc21 2001000915

A catalogue record for this book is available from the

British Library.

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and
durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for
Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 To Mentor
From Mentee
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix
Introduction xiii

Prologue
Walking on Untrodden Ground:
The Challenges of National Politics 1

1
The Theater of National Politics 11

2
Slander, Poison, Whispers, and Fame:
The Art of Political Gossip 62

3
The Art of Paper War 105

4
Dueling as Politics 159
5
An Honor Dispute of Grand Proportions:
The Presidential Election of 1800 199
Epilogue
Constructing American History 262

A Note on Method 289

Notes 295
Bibliography 347
Index 365

{ v ii }
 Acknowledgments

I have been lucky enough to have a great deal of support from advisers,
colleagues, and friends. First of all, I would like to thank “Mentor”
Peter S. Onuf for his amazingly generous help over my years of gradu-
ate school and beyond. He guided me through a host of challenges,
encouraged me to pursue the most improbable leads, introduced me
into the scholarly community, spent many hours listening to me rant
about dead white guys, offered invaluable insights that consistently
sharpened my thinking, fed me meatloaf when times were bad, and,
all in all, provided a model of mentorship and scholarship that I can
only hope to live up to. To Mentor I shall be eternally grateful. In
addition, Kristen Onuf and the entire Onuf clan made me feel like one
of their own, a wonderful gift that was beyond the call of duty.
Other professors at the University of Virginia helped me invalu-
ably in the development of the dissertation that led to this book. Ste-
phen Innes, Joseph Kett, and Edward Ayers provided many hours of
support and guidance, and Patricia Meyer Spacks’s deep understanding
of eighteenth-century British politics and culture profoundly shaped
my thinking. By introducing me to the world of the Roman republic,
Elizabeth Meyer enabled me to examine the American republic from
an unusual and enlightening perspective. I owe a special debt of grati-
tude to J. E. Lendon; our weekly “honor teas” inspired some of my
most provocative and original thinking about honor culture. Several
graduate student colleagues also deserve thanks. Matthew Boesen,
Andrew Burstein, Bruce Coffee, Bob Guffin, Kathy Jones, Albrecht
Koschnik, Richard Samuelson, and Andrew Trees provided intellectual
and emotional encouragement through many years of work. To Todd

{ ix }
 x acknowledgments

Estes and Mark Smith, fellow members of the Fisher Ames Society
and co-authors of “The Ames-iad,” I owe an additional debt of grati-
tude for making me laugh.
Colleagues at Yale have been no less supportive. Several have
been kind enough to read portions of the manuscript; Jennifer Baszile
and Kariann Yokota, in particular, offered invaluable feedback, for
which I thank them. Many others have offered encouragement, advice,
and calming words at crucial moments. John Demos has been particu-
larly enthusiastic about this project, for which I am deeply grateful.
Nancy Godleski generously obtained some valuable primary materials
for the Yale library, and just as generously supported me as a friend.
Two Yale students have also been most helpful. Brian Neff checked
footnotes and quotations (and was warped enough by my teaching to
write a seminar paper on the Griswold-Lyon dispute); I thank him
and look forward to seeing what he will accomplish in his promising
future. The equally promising Luke Bronin was brave enough to read
a draft of the epilogue, for which I thank him as well.
A number of outside scholars have also been extremely generous
with their support, insight and scholarship. Lance Banning, Joseph
Ellis, Richard John, Jan Lewis, Barbara Oberg, Paul Rahe, Herbert
Sloan, Alan Taylor, Gordon Wood, and Bertram Wyatt-Brown repre-
sent the historical community at its finest. Michael McGiffert taught
me invaluable lessons about the fine art of crafting an argument. Dick-
son Bruce, Robert Weir, and Chris Waldrep offered input on dueling
and the honor ethic. Len Travers gave me the unexpected (and enlight-
ening) chance to shoot a black-powder dueling pistol; his friend Victor
Duphily gets special thanks for teaching me how to fire it.
Several friends have gone far above and beyond the call of duty.
Meg Jacobs has supported me through many a writing crisis. Particular
thanks go to Catherine Allgor and Jonathan Lipman, without whom
I would never have survived my final year of writing; their friendship
and love has enriched my life, and I thank them. My family—Allan,
Barbara, Richard, and Marc Freeman—deserve special recognition for
being endlessly receptive to my stories. The supportive Angelica Kaner
deserves special recognition as well. Finally, for his moral support, in-
tellectual stimulation, superb scholarship, and friendship, R. B. Bern-
 acknowledgments xi

stein has earned my eternal gratitude. Almost fifteen years ago, he ush-
ered me into the world of history. He has been an adviser, a colleague,
and a true friend ever since, reading endless drafts and offering invalu-
able criticism, for which I offer him my deepest and most abiding grati-
tude.
The fine scholars at a number of documentary editing projects
and research centers have offered vital assistance. John Catanzariti at
the Thomas Jefferson Papers offered invaluable insights into Jefferson’s
editorial alterations to his memoranda. Lucinda Stanton at Monticello
was equally generous with her time and resources. Dorothy Twohig
and the staff of the George Washington Papers gave me access to their
holdings, and encouragement as well. John Stagg and the staff of the
James Madison Papers helped me untangle some sticky questions. Ene
Sirvet at the John Jay Papers not only offered assistance with my re-
search but extended her hospitality during my research trips. Richard
Ryerson and the folks at the Adams Family Papers not only opened
their resources to me but, as important, fed me sugar and caffeine as
well. Finally, the people at the First Federal Congress Project at
George Washington University were kind enough to let me rummage
through their files on several occasions. Chapter 1 would have been
impossible to write without their generous help. Special thanks to Ken
Bowling for feeding me large quantities of roast beef at lunch.
During my years of graduate study, a number of institutions pro-
vided financial and intellectual support. The International Center for
Jefferson Studies, in league with the Thomas Jefferson Memorial
Foundation, gave me a generous fellowship and an office just up the
road from Monticello. More important, my ongoing conversations
with Director Douglas Wilson not only were enjoyable, but they
helped me work through some of the more challenging aspects of my
project as well. The Intercollegiate Studies Institute was generous in its
support. The financial aid offered by the University of Virginia History
Department and the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences sustained
me throughout my graduate career. Appropriately enough, consider-
ing the nature of my project, the Society of the Cincinnati also pro-
vided funding, as did Yale University, which contributed to the com-
pletion of this book with a Griswold grant.
 xii acknowledgments

A number of archives and libraries have been extremely support-

ive as well. The Massachusetts Historical Society funded a month of
research, enabling me to unearth materials that were crucial for my
project. David Fowler and the staff of the David Library of the Ameri-
can Revolution not only offered funding but extended their hospitality
as well. The American Antiquarian Society and the Library Company
of Philadelphia were kind enough to offer me research grants, though
time constraints prevented me from accepting their generous gifts.
John Riley at the Mount Vernon Library nobly donated time and re-
sources. The staff of the Library of Congress has also been extremely
supportive; in particular, Gerard Gawalt gave me advance access to his
work on John Beckley.
Earlier versions of Chapters 2 and 4 have appeared in the Journal
of the Early Republic (1995) and the William and Mary Quarterly (1996),
respectively, and material in Chapter 5 has appeared in the Yale Law
Journal (1999). My thanks to all three journals for their contributions.
In the final stages of manuscript preparation, my agent Jill
Kneerim was supportive, enthusiastic, savvy, encouraging, and a calm-
ing presence when it was most needed. And my editor Lara Heimert
at Yale University Press offered wonderfully effective advice on revis-
ing and tightening my manuscript, as did Susan Laity, my patient
manuscript editor; indeed, Yale University Press, as a whole, has been
very supportive of this project. I am extremely grateful to all.
Finally, I would like to give special thanks to friends who spent
many a year insisting that I go to graduate school. During the years
that I was employed by the Library of Congress, Diantha Schull, Selma
Thomas, Ingrid Maar, and John Sellers never stopped encouraging me
to pursue graduate studies in history. Like so many others, they went
out of their way to encourage a beginning scholar. I can only hope to
give back to the history karma what it has given me.
 Introduction

On Saturday, July 18, 1795, an angry crowd stood gathered before Fed-
eral Hall in New York City, eager to protest the Jay Treaty, which
eased ongoing tensions between Great Britain and the United States.
Convinced that the treaty was too favorable to the British, leading
Republicans had organized a rally, plastering the city with handbills
and newspaper notices. Several Federalists were also present, thanks
to the last-minute efforts of Alexander Hamilton and a few like-
minded men. Meeting the night before the rally they had arranged to
publish a city-wide appeal in newspapers and handbills urging people
to attend the rally and listen to an orderly examination of the treaty.
The Republican meeting was to start at noon. At the stroke of
twelve, Hamilton mounted a stoop and began to address the crowd,
only to be silenced by “hissings, coughings, and hootings.” Trying a
different approach, he handed someone a resolution to read aloud.
The crowd quieted in anticipation, but when they heard the resolution
declaring it “unnecessary to give an opinion on the treaty,” they erupted
in protest, someone throwing a rock that hit Hamilton in the head.
Calling for the “friends of order” to follow him, Hamilton and a small
body of Federalists stormed off, humiliated and defeated.1
They soon encountered a loud public argument between Repub-
lican James Nicholson and Federalist Josiah Ogden Hoffman. Fearing
that the two would incite a riot, Hamilton tried to quiet them, only
to be silenced by Nicholson, who denounced Hamilton as an “Abettor
of Tories” who had no business interrupting them. When Hamilton
urged the men to settle matters indoors, Nicholson snapped that he
had no reason to heed Hamilton, who had once dodged a duel. “No

{ x ii i }
 x iv introduction

man could affirm that with truth,” Hamilton shot back, pledging “to
convince Mr. Nicholson of his mistake” by challenging him to a duel.
Stalking off, Hamilton and his friends soon encountered a group of
Republicans, sparking a heated political discussion that quickly grew
personal. Still seething from his first clash, Hamilton swore that if his
opponents “were to contend in a personal way,” he would fight the
whole lot of them, one by one. Then, dramatically waving his fist in
the air, he upped the ante, offering “to fight the Whole ‘Detestable fac-
tion’ one by one,” a dare that Republican Maturin Livingston could
not ignore. As “one of the party,” he accepted the challenge and offered
to meet Hamilton with pistols “in half an hour where he pleased.”
Explaining that he already “had an affair on his Hands . . . with one
of the party,” Hamilton swore that when the first duel was settled,
Livingston would get his due. Although Hamilton and Nicholson
came within a day of dueling—Hamilton setting his finances in order
in case of his death—both disputes were settled during negotiations.2
Hissings, coughings, hootings, strong words, clenched fists, and
the threat of gunplay: this story displays America’s founders as real
people caught up in the heat of the moment on a summer afternoon,
exposing with particular clarity the hot-headed, defensive streak that
would cost Hamilton his career, and ultimately his life. But more than
that, the events of July 18 offer insight into the personal reality of being
a political leader in the early republic. Elevating himself above the
crowd both literally and figuratively, Hamilton asserted his right to
guide them as their superior—and the crowd responded with rocks
rather than deference, adding injury to insult. The impact on Hamil-
ton, both physical and spiritual, was profound and immediate, driving
him to issue two duel challenges in a single afternoon. Clearly, far more
than a treaty was under debate. The American political process was
being hashed out on a New York City street. To men accustomed to
power and leadership, this conflict had enormously personal implica-
tions.
This tug-of-war for political power was one of many unexpected
consequences of America’s founding. A new constitution had been
written and a new government put into place, but there was no telling
what kind of polity would emerge. The burgeoning political power
 introduction xv

of the American populace was one of many surprise developments.

Increasingly, politicians needed to win power and prestige from popu-
lar audiences with unpredictable demands and desires. Political meth-
ods had to change, as did the stance of political leadership—and the
transition was a rocky one. Hamilton was fighting a losing battle when
he tried to rein in the masses at the Jay Treaty rally. However aggres-
sively he asserted his authority, in a democratic republic the crowd had
the ultimate say.
It was one thing to establish a polity grounded on public opinion
and the popular will and quite another to feel the full impact of this will
firsthand, as suggested by Hamilton’s dramatic response. By literally
hooting him off the stage, the crowd symbolically dismissed his rights
of leadership, driving him into a defensive, fist-clenched rage. The pre-
cise meaning of political leadership was under debate in the early re-
public, and the practical business of politics compelled politicians to
confront this unsettling assault on settled expectations on a continuing
basis. Whether electioneering, running for office, or simply exercising
the privileges of leadership, America’s ruling elite was dependent on
the whims of the democratic many, a state of affairs that contributed
to the volatility of early national politics and the defensive spirit of
political leadership.
The culture of honor was a source of stability in this contested
political landscape. Democratic politicking shook the earth beneath the
feet of those accustomed to leadership; the tradition-bound culture of
honor provided solid ground, virtually defining genteel status. Gentle-
men restrained their passions and controlled their words. Their man-
ners were refined, and their carriage easy. They were men of integrity
and honesty whose promises could be trusted; their word was their
bond.3 All these things were at the heart of the code of honor, which
set standards of conduct and provided a controlled means of handling
their violation. Its ethic limited and defined acceptable behavior; its
rites and rituals displayed superiority of character through time-
honored traditions recognized the world over. Far more than direc-
tives for negotiating a duel, the code of honor was a way of life. Partic-
ularly in a nation lacking an established aristocracy, this culture of
honor was a crucial proving ground for the elite.
 xvi introduction

It would be hard to overstate the importance of personal honor

to an eighteenth-century gentleman, let alone to a besieged leader
whose status was under attack. Honor was the core of a man’s identity,
his sense of self, his manhood. A man without honor was no man at
all. Honor was also entirely other-directed, determined before the eyes
of the world; it did not exist unless bestowed by others. Indeed, a man
of honor was defined by the respect that he received in public. Imagine,
then, the impact of public disrespect. It struck at a man’s honor and
reduced him as a man. Hamilton’s extreme actions are thus all the more
comprehensible, for his very identity was up for grabs.
Central as the code of honor was to the political elite, it was not
a codified rule book—at least, not entirely. Dueling rule books did
exist, imported to America from Britain well into the nineteenth cen-
tury. But although these books set out general rules and standards,
they left much room for interpretation. Some things were common
knowledge. A man of honor deserved respect, so signs of disrespect
were dangerous. Certain slurs were off limits, tame as they are by mod-
ern standards. Rascal, scoundrel, liar, coward, and puppy: these were
fighting words, and anyone who hurled them at an opponent was risk-
ing his life. The hushed anticipation at their mention is almost palpable
in accounts of honor disputes. Faces blanch. People go still. Back-
ground noise stops. And all eyes turn to the accuser and his victim,
waiting to see how the moment will play out. Hamilton needed no
reminder of the implications of a charge of cowardice. Like any man
of honor, he barely had to think before proffering his challenge.
Other aspects of the code were less predictable, for there could
not help but be a vast gray area when dealing with things as subjective
as honor and reputation. Not all insults demanded extreme action,
for example. Perhaps a remark was unintentional or objectionable but
within bounds; perhaps it was uttered in a drunken haze. Perhaps it
was dropped on the floor of Congress, raising untold complications
about the privilege of debate. Perhaps no one had witnessed the flash-
point of conflict. Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances; ex-
treme youth, extreme age, or even a large family sometimes excused
an offense or ruled out a challenge. There were regional variants of
this code as well.4 Southerners were quicker to duel than northerners,
 introduction xvii

who withstood harsher insults but had their own breaking point. Such
subtleties and subjectivities were the reason for “seconds”—friends
who mediated between the principals and conducted negotiations in
an affair of honor. There were many justifications for not “noticing”
an offense, but a gentleman did so at his own peril, for as suggested
by Nicholson’s cutting remark, ignoring an insult could have serious
consequences.
On the unstructured national political stage, this code assumed
great importance, for politicking was about conflict and competition
above all else. Whether they were debating legislation or campaigning
for election, politicians were competing for limited rewards. This was
no great surprise to the first national officeholders. What did surprise
them was the intensity of the political game. Regional distrust, per-
sonal animosity, accusation, suspicion, implication, and denounce-
ment—this was the tenor of national politics from the outset. The
Union was fragile, and the Union makers were at odds. It was a recipe
for disaster, disunion, and possibly civil war.5
In this maelstrom of discontent, at least one thing held true. Dis-
agree as men might on the purpose, structure, or tenor of national
governance—argue as they did about the meaning of concepts like
federalism and republicanism—clash as they must about the future of
the nation—they expected their opponents to behave like gentlemen.
The penalty for acting otherwise was too severe. And as gentlemen,
there was one accepted way to settle disputes. In essence, the code of
honor was a remedy for the barely controlled chaos of national public
life. There was a method to the madness of early national politics.
Think then of the impact of a democratized politics: when men
of varied rank reached the national plateau, all standards would dis-
solve and chaos reign supreme—so it felt to many elite politicians, as
revealed in their yelps of protest when their ranks were infiltrated. Thus
the 1798 Sedition Act aimed at men who engaged in seditious libel
against the government—but only certain men. The logic behind it is
clear. War with France loomed on the horizon, making order a matter
of national security. Attacks on national leaders upset this order and
reduced the authority of government as well. The honor code chan-
neled such confrontation between equals; offenses had a defined price
 xviii introduction

and path of resolution. But what of one’s inferiors? What of insulting

newspaper editors and parvenu politicians? Before the Sedition Act the
only recourse to an open insult in such cases was physical violence or
a libel suit. The Sedition Act was an attempt to institutionalize and
regulate an aspect of honor defense by providing leaders with a con-
trolled way of defending themselves against inferiors at a time of crisis.
Significantly, it was deployed almost exclusively against newspaper
editors and men of questionable status. Restrictive, repressive, and
wrong-headed as it was, its inherent logic was tied up with the culture
of honor.6
The everyday impact of this culture is plain to see in the
Nicholson-Hamilton clash. The two combatants needed no coaching
on its dictates. In the blink of an eye, they converted a verbal shoving
match into a regimented ritual of honor. A flash of outrage followed
by a scripted stillness: it was a pattern that echoed throughout the
lives of elite men in early national America. The threat of this moment
governed their words and actions, compelling them to approach per-
sonal exchanges with care. Particularly in cockpits of political dissen-
sion like electoral campaigns and congressional debate, shared stan-
dards of honor kept passions in check and channeled those that flamed
out of control. This was all the more necessary on the fragile national
stage.
But the code of honor did more than channel and monitor po-
litical conflict; it formed the very infrastructure of national politics,
providing a governing logic and weapons of war.7 There were no orga-
nized parties in this unstructured new arena, no set teams of combat or
institutionalized rules for battle. Political combat in the new national
government was like a war without uniforms; it was almost impossible
to distinguish friends from foes. National politics was personal, alli-
ances were unpredictable, and victory went to those who trusted the
right people at the right time in the right way. This was a politics of
shifting coalitions and unknown loyalties, where an ally could become
an opponent at the drop of a hat. There were any number of reasons
to change course; regional interests, personal relationships, political
principles and practicalities—all these and more guided a man’s poli-
tics, and rare was the moment when they all agreed. Tempting as it is
 introduction xix

to see a two-party system in the clash of Federalists and Republicans,

national politics had no such clarity to the men in the trenches.8
This is not to say that Federalism and Republicanism were indis-
tinguishable. Certain types of men flocked to one ideological banner,
others to the other. “Money-men” and merchants, New Englanders
and city-dwellers tended to be attracted to the Federalist persuasion,
which favored a strong national government and distrusted mass pop-
ular politicking outside of elections; southerners, farmers, and, even-
tually, ambitious members of the lower ranks tended to migrate to-
ward Republicanism, which preferred a weaker national government
and was friendlier to popular politicking. It was certainly possible to
predict a man’s politics, and amid so much ambiguity, politicians
spent much time and energy doing just that. But absolute assurance
and group discipline were rare commodities, and the most partisan
man could occasionally leap a divide. Even Alexander Hamilton and
Thomas Jefferson—the leading symbols of Federalism and Republi-
canism, respectively—sometimes seemed to drift into the opposite
camp, or so their contemporaries assumed on several occasions. Un-
derneath the ideological umbrellas of Federalism and Republicanism
seethed a profusion of insecurities and unknowns, which this book
seeks to understand. Count and graph votes, lump and split them as
we might, our modern sense of team combat had no place on the early
national political stage. Only in hindsight did political divisions be-
come so clear. As these pages show, in many ways politicians looking
back on the battles of their youth imposed much of the structure and
order now taken for granted.
Reputation was at the heart of this personal form of politics. Men
gained office on the basis of it, formed alliances when they trusted it,
and assumed that they would earn it by accepting high office. Indeed,
so predictable was the concern for reputation that many considered it
a regulated force of government, the ultimate check in an intricate sys-
tem of checks and balances. As Hamilton noted in The Federalist Nos.
69 and 70, only personal responsibility before the eyes of the public—
the threat of dishonor before an ever-vigilant audience—could restrain
self-serving, ambitious politicians.
There were many dimensions to the concept of reputation. Rank,
 xx introduction

credit, fame, character, name, and honor all played a role. Defining
these terms for all civilizations and all times is impossible for they var-
ied according to a particular society’s culture and structure; defining
them for a specific population is likewise no easy task, for their precise
meanings overlapped and shifted depending on the people or circum-
stances under discussion. Still, ambiguous and abstract as they may
appear, these words had clear meanings to those who lived by them.
Rank was a somewhat impersonal way of referring to a person’s
place within the social order. As in most societies, there were subtleties
of rank in early America that are all but invisible now. Credit was a
more personalized quality, encompassing a person’s social and financial
worth; people with good credit were trustworthy enough to merit fi-
nancial risks. Fame embraced both the present and the future, referring
to immediate celebrity as well as future renown; earned through great
acts of public service, it carried a virtuous connotation that many re-
lated terms lacked. Character was personality with a moral dimension,
referring to the mixture of traits, vices, and virtues that determined a
person’s social worth. Taken together, rank, credit, fame, and character
formed a name or reputation—an identity as determined by others.
Reputation was not unlike honor, and indeed, early Americans often
used these words interchangeably. Honor was reputation with a moral
dimension and an elite cast. A man of good reputation was respected
and esteemed; a man of honor had an exalted reputation that encom-
passed qualities like bravery, self-command, and integrity—the core
requirements for leadership.9
Political power and victory thus required close protection of
one’s reputation, as well as the savvy to assess the reputations of one’s
peers. It also required a talent for jabbing at the reputations of one’s
enemies, for a man dishonored or discredited lost his influence and
lost the field. Forging, defending, and attacking reputations—this was
the national political game, and different weapons accomplished these
goals in different ways. Self-presentation was fundamental, for one’s
outward appearance affected one’s reputation in the public eye and
potentially broadcast one’s politics as well. The political elite thought
carefully about their clothing, manners, and lifestyles, costuming and
conducting themselves to earn the right sort of reputation. More ag-
 introduction xxi

gressive weapons centered on the deployment of words, the fodder

for a politics of reputation. Whether spoken or written, words could
stab at a man’s character and destroy his influence. “Such a man is an
apostate, says some impudent Quack. . . . The Calumny is believed
and Character is lost,” quipped one politician. Alexander Pope put
matters even more concisely: “At ev’ry word a reputation dies.” 10
There were several ways to deploy this verbal ammunition. Politi-
cal gossip was the easiest and most direct. “Collected” or “dropped”
in “whisper campaigns,” it was a deliberately deployed weapon gov-
erned by rules and standards. Broadsides, newspapers, pamphlets, and
letters committed gossip to paper, addressing different audiences in
different ways. Politicians opted for one medium over another de-
pending on the nature of an insult or accusation; the subtleties of
honor and reputation governed the logic of paper war. Dueling was
a weapon of extremes, a threat hovering above the political playing
field. Yet, dangerous as they were, duels too were deliberately deployed
at moments of crisis as proof of character; contrary to popular belief,
they were not the mere fallout of a slip of the tongue. Hamilton’s
humiliation at the Jay Treaty rally and his two challenges were cause
and effect, a fact long overlooked by scholars unattuned to the political
significance of dueling.
These weapons were not limited to the national stage, the Ameri-
can republic, or even the late eighteenth century. Politics, power, and
character assassination go hand in hand in many times and cultures,
and gossip still greases the wheels of governance. Neither is honor an
American invention; it has assumed an endless variety of shapes across
time. Indeed, this is precisely the point. In different places and at differ-
ent times, honor culture has shaped politics in different ways, and be-
cause its vocabulary, rituals, and logic are not set in stone, close study
of its impact in a given population offers invaluable information about
a people’s values, culture, and concepts of leadership and manhood.
Thus the remarkable outpouring of honor studies since 1990.11
In the early American republic, the culture of honor met with a
burgeoning democracy and an ambiguous egalitarian ethic of republi-
canism; the former questioned assumptions about political leadership,
the latter renounced the trappings of aristocracy without offering a
 xxii introduction

defined alternative. Threatened from below and above, the political

elite turned to honor culture to prove themselves leaders, as did Hamil-
ton when dismissed by an angry crowd. His claim to leadership directly
challenged, he was all the more ready to prove it through a trial by
fire; thus his remarkable two challenges in a single afternoon. Nichol-
son’s quick thrust at Hamilton grew from similar insecurities, for he
thought that Hamilton’s public attempt to quiet him “implied cen-
sure.” 12
The problem with this logic was its inherent elitism, for honor
culture was an aristocratic holdover premised on social distinctions.
Only equals could duel; inferiors had to be beaten with a cane or pub-
licly proclaimed (posted) as scoundrels. Only a privileged elite could
do such things with impunity. This mindset hardly fit comfortably
with an egalitarian regime. National politicians were not ethereal aris-
tocrats competing for fine degrees of rank and distinction among a
coterie of peers. Their personal and political careers relied on mass
public opinion, as did the entire American political system. Obligated
to be accountable to the body politic, political leaders performed be-
fore a vigilant and judgmental audience, so they adapted honor rituals
to suit their purposes.
Nothing better shows this American difference than the newspa-
per appeals that often followed political duels. Rather than relying on
word of mouth to transmit a duel’s impact to a select few, politicians
advertised their duels in newspapers, displaying their qualities of lead-
ership before the voting public. They were aristocratic democrats,
fighting battles of honor as part of the democratic process.
In early national America, honor, democracy, and republicanism
joined to form a distinctive political culture, governed by a grammar
of political combat: a shared understanding of the weapons at one’s dis-
posal—their power, use, and impact. This grammar was no defined
rule book, no concrete tactical guide. It was a body of assumptions too
familiar to record and thus almost invisible to modern eyes. National
politicians had a remarkably precise understanding of this code, sifting
through a defined spectrum of weapons in response to a corresponding
spectrum of attacks. Publicly insulted by John Adams in 1798, James
Monroe methodically considered these weapons when planning his
 introduction xxiii

response. Ignoring the offense was impossible, for “not to notice it

may with many leave an unfavorable impression agnst me.” Respond-
ing to Adams “personally” with a challenge to a duel was also impos-
sible: “I cannot I presume, as he is an old man & the Presidt.” A pam-
phlet might serve, but Monroe had tried that, and Adams continued
to insult him.13 Here is the application of an honor-bound grammar
of combat.
This book is structured around this grammar, each chapter ex-
ploring a different weapon, its use, logic, and wider implications. Be-
ginning with the fundamentals of reputation on the national stage, it
proceeds from political gossip to the more specialized weapons of pa-
per war and finally to the dramatic extreme and ultimate threat, the
duel. The concluding chapter is a case study of these weapons in action
during the presidential election of 1800. Finally, a brief epilogue looks
back at these first years of national governance through the eyes of
aged veterans who converted it into history in their memoirs, biog-
raphies, and autobiographies. To uncover this hidden world, each
chapter focuses on a politician and a document, using his intentions,
emotions, and language to expose the logic and impact of a specific
weapon.
Within the time span broached by this book, the body politic
learned to assert its power and influence, constructing local political
institutions in the process. The political elite likewise learned the nuts
and bolts of effective mobilization, and the meeting point of these
learning processes represents the birth of a truly national politics. This
complex dialogue between politicians and the public is studied most
frequently from the perspective of the constituent rather than the con-
gressman, detailing the birth of a political consciousness and public
voice among the American people.14 This work explores this inter-
action from another perspective, revealing how the nation’s leaders
struggled to find their public voice. Though elevated to their country’s
highest offices, they did not control this debate. Rather, they were
caught in a difficult bind, torn between an unstoppable wave of demo-
cratic mass empowerment and their own assumptions about their sta-
tus and role in the political process. This book examines the com-
promises they forged between the demands of the people and the
 xxiv introduction

demands of their own psyches. Rather than studying elite politics to

the exclusion of all else, it reveals the enormous impact of the body
politic on the self-perception and political practices of the ruling elite.
Whether seen through the eyes of a national politician or an average
citizen, this interaction between rulers and ruled holds the key to the
birth of our political system.15
On a more general level, this book also demonstrates the impor-
tance of the link between politics and culture.16 Any population has a
code of conduct, a mutual understanding of constraints, fears, assump-
tions, and expectations that shaped decisions both personal and politi-
cal; understanding this mental landscape frames these decisions in new
and unexpected ways. There can be no better test of this theory than
applying it to something as seemingly rigid as the conventional story
of America’s founding, a familiar tale peopled by Founders cast in
stone. By applying the tool of culture, this book recasts this familiar
story, restoring a neglected dimension of its logic; by acknowledging
the link between honor and politics, it reveals a new political world.
 Prologue
Walking on Untrodden Ground
the challenges of national politics

When the American republic sprang to life in the spring of 1789, many
were disappointed. Compared with the members of the Continental
Congress, the roughly one hundred men assembled in the national
capital were none too impressive. “The appointments in general are
not so good,” thought Georgia Representative Abraham Baldwin; the
members were less “heroic” than those in previous congresses, agreed
Massachusetts Representative Fisher Ames.1
There was good reason for such concern, because the new Con-
gress was different from congresses that had come before, representa-
tive in membership and mission in a way that no former interstate
congress had been. The First and Second Continental Congresses
(1774–81) had been focused on the heroic task at hand: organizing and
winning a revolution. The Confederation Congress (1781–89) had
been the administrative center of a league of independent states, its
members appointed diplomats rather than representatives. But the
new Congress was a permanent body devoted to the often tedious
business of politics-as-usual, representative of the American people in
an entirely different way. Aware that their congressmen would be the
lone advocates of their interests in this new arena, voters and legisla-
tors throughout the states had selected true representatives: men of
influence, to be sure, but not necessarily the patriot-heroes of the
“old congress.”
The result was a body of men who were solid and hard-working—
up to the task at hand but a far cry from the Roman senators and

{1}
 2 prologue

“demi-gods” that many had expected. Middle-aged merchants, law-

yers, and leisured gentlemen, some with wigs, some without, they
were practical men of sober manners (with the exception of a few hot-
headed southerners). More than half had shouldered arms during the
Revolution. Nearly all had been legislators, in the Continental or Con-
federation Congress, the Federal Convention, or, most likely, their
state assemblies. They were men of fine oratory and impressive appear-
ance, accustomed to power and leadership, though on a different stage.
Their portraits reveal a gallery of well-fed and watchful faces, keenly
alert to their interests and standing.2
In lifestyle as well as talents and desires, the first Congress com-
posed a sampling of the nation’s ruling elite—to many, an alarming
realization. The collective sigh of disappointment at the first Congress
resulted from the discovery that the new American nation, assembled
in representative form, was not as spectacular as expected. If, as Penn-
sylvania Senator William Maclay suggested, the new government was
supposed to contain “the collected Wisdom and learning of the United
States” (“We hear it ever in Our Ears,” he complained), what were the
implications of its mediocrity? Fisher Ames was philosophical in his
disappointment. Having “reflected coolly” after his initial disillusion-
ment, he decided that “the objects now before us require more infor-
mation, though less of the heroic qualities, than those of the first Con-
gress. . . . [I]f a few understand business, and have, as they will, the
confidence of those who do not, it is better than for all to be such
knowing ones; for they would contend for supremacy; there would
not be a sufficient principle of cohesion.” 3 Mediocrity was a virtue in
a deliberative body, for an assemblage of demi-gods could never man-
age the mutual dependence that got day-to-day work done.
The spirit of the proceedings was no more encouraging. Al-
though the government opened on March 4, 1789, it took almost a
month to achieve a quorum of thirty in the House, and five days more
to collect the requisite twelve senators. Many blamed bad traveling
conditions, but there were also more substantial reasons. Some states
had not set the gears of national governance in motion, and their con-
gressional elections were still pending. Other states may have been act-
ing according to past precedent, for during the Confederation Con-
 prologue 3

gress delegates had drifted in and out on a regular basis, some states
going unrepresented for months and even years at a time. “I am in-
clined to believe that the languor of the old Confederation is transfused
into members of the new Congress,” bemoaned Ames. “This is a very
mortifying situation. . . . We lose £1,000 a day revenue. We lose credit,
spirit, every thing. The public will forget the government before it is
born.” 4
Things were no more auspicious when Congress finally got under
way (fig. 1). Personal ambitions and regional jealousies clogged the
wheels of government, often reducing the national legislature to little
more than a hotbed of name-calling and petty accusations. Illicit bar-
gaining was the rule of the day rather than honest, open debate and
compromise. The public good seemed all but forgotten. Observing
the “yawning listlessness of many here . . . their state prejudices; their
over-refining spirit in relation to trifles,” Ames felt “chagrined” to see
that the picture he “had drawn was so much bigger and fairer than the
life.” George Washington also considered the prevailing “stupor, or
listlessness” a “matter of deep regret.” Maclay agreed. “What must my
feelings be on finding rough and rude manners[,] Glaring folly, and
the basest selfishness, apparent in almost every public Transaction?”
he wondered. Was it not “dreadful to find them in such a place”? 5
To Maclay, as to other participants and onlookers, national poli-
tics was supposed to be something new, distinct from what had come
before. Indeed, many considered America’s experiment in republican
governance an event of global significance. The fledgling nation would
sweep away Old World corruption, initiating a worldwide conversion
to an egalitarian, representative regime. But there was no precise model
for this political experiment. There was no other such government in
the modern world, and the Constitution was little more than a skeletal
infrastructure. There were few absolutes and many questions, almost
every rule, standard, and practice left open to debate; the most trivial
decisions yanked fundamental principles into view.
The personal impact of this mindset was severe. Not only was
the fate of the nation at stake, but the reputations of its first national
officeholders were bound up with their experiment in government to
an enormous degree. Convinced that the American people, and in-
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 1. Federal Hall, the Seat of Congress, by Amos Doolittle, 1790. This is the
only contemporary depiction of Washington’s inauguration; he can be seen
taking the oath of office in the center of the balcony.
(Courtesy of the Library of Congress)
 prologue 5

deed, the entire civilized world, was watching, national politicians be-
haved like actors on a stage, hungry for the applause of their audience.
Some strutted in fine clothes and paraded in carriages; some took to
wearing ceremonial swords; some filled their hometown newspapers
with impressive congressional speeches that had never been delivered.6
Ambition ran high in the new national government, and given the
history of past republics, this could have profound political implica-
tions. Julius Caesar, Catiline—history was weighty with examples of
ambitious men who had thrust themselves into power through force
or persuasion, destroying republics in their wake. Ambitious as they
might be, national politicians were well-advised to mask their desires
or risk losing the trust of their colleagues, as well as of the people at
large.
Where there was opportunity for acclaim, there was also the
chance of dishonor. As Maclay phrased it, the ultimate threat to a na-
tional politician was “disgrace in the public Eye.” 7 Unlike members of
a European court, America’s politicians had no long-standing claims
to elite status; in many cases, they sought just such authority in the
national arena. The result was a population of self-absorbed, self-
conscious strivers. Paradoxically, by creating an elevated stage where
the nation’s best men could consider the general welfare, America’s
new political system encouraged just the opposite, virtually compelling
national politicians to be obsessively concerned with their reputations.
Given that their political careers rested on their reputation in the public
eye, to do otherwise would be self-immolation.
It was personal reputation that made national offices worth vying
for. As John Adams put it, the “Titles and Pagentry” of high office
would lure men to leave the comforts of home for the national stage.
James Madison agreed. Debating the relative salaries of senators and
representatives, he argued that senators should earn more because they
couldn’t display their talents from behind the Senate’s closed doors.
Without monetary compensation, he explained, “men of abilities . . .
men of interprize and genius will naturally prefer a seat in the house,
considering it to be a more conspicuous situation.” Alexander Ham-
ilton acknowledged such ambitions with characteristic bluntness: he
“would not be fool enough to make pecuniary sacrifices and endure a
 6 prologue

life of extreme drudgery without opportunity either to do material

good or to acquire reputation.” 8 A limited number of men had been
raised to the newly created top of the nation’s political hierarchy. Clus-
tered together in the national capital, some with their wives and fam-
ilies, their social lives centered around the nation’s republican king
George Washington, they constituted a “republican court.” 9 In es-
sence, election to national office promoted officeholders to the level
of courtiers, a national elite performing in a political realm of high
status and visibility.
Add the opportunity to walk in the shadow of such classical
“founders” as Solon, Cato, Cicero, and Cincinnatus, and there was
sufficient fodder for the most ambitious political appetites. Just as clas-
sical statesmen were exemplars for the political elite, this same elite
hoped to impress future generations with their virtues and great deeds,
and the surest path to this goal was through public service. The most
glorious accomplishment of all, of course, was to found a nation. Un-
derstood in this context, national politics presented an unparalleled
opportunity to earn reputation of the loftiest kind. As Benjamin Rush
explained to John Adams, “We live in an important era and in a new
country. Much good may be done by individuals, and that too in a
short time.” 10 A national politician could bolster his reputation to an
unprecedented degree, perhaps garnering even world recognition. The
prospect was dizzying, an undercurrent of possibilities that contrib-
uted to the nervous anxiety of national politics.
Finding one’s footing on this new terrain would have been diffi-
cult among trusted friends, but national politicians lacked even this
luxury. Surrounded by strangers of unknown politics from alien
reaches of the republic, they did not know whom to trust. Cultural
clashes were part of the problem, for men from different regions
seemed to come from different countries with different customs, val-
ues, clothing, and manners. Many politicians were experiencing their
first extended contact with people from other parts of the country,
and not surprisingly, the result was often mutual dislike and distrust.
Northerners tended to find southerners loud and showy, their clothes
ostentatious, their oratory flamboyant, and their manners overblown;
more than one New Englander complained about “southern blus-
 prologue 7

terers.” Southerners disliked the stiff formality and holier-than-thou

austerity of the northerners and resented their apparent disdain. As
onlooker Henry Lee confessed to fellow Virginian James Madison,
“I had rather myself submit to all the hazards of war & risk the loss
of every thing dear to me in life, than to live under the rule of a
fixed insolent northern majority.” What Pennsylvania Representative
George Clymer said of New Yorkers could have been said by many
men about delegates from other regions. “The New Yorkers and I are
on an equal footing,” he explained. “Mutual civility without a grain
of good liking between us.” 11 Clearly, a government that was national
in name was not necessarily national in mind.
Given the undecided character of the new government, such cul-
tural conflicts could have far-reaching consequences, for there was no
telling how regional habits might warp the style of national gover-
nance. Whereas all could agree that the new nation would be republi-
can in manner, there was little agreement on the precise nature of re-
publicanism. As good republicans, Americans considered themselves
everything that their corrupt European forebears were not—egalitar-
ian, democratic, representative, straightforward, and virtuous in spirit,
public-minded in practice. Republican leaders were supposedly excep-
tional as well, a natural elite of the talented and worthy who lived
modestly, dressed practically, and behaved forthrightly in a spirit of
accommodation. Yet though most people agreed on such generalities,
concepts like simplicity, virtue, and public-mindedness were entirely
relative, meaningful in comparison with European luxury and corrup-
tion but lacking an intrinsic meaning in and of themselves. Regional
diversity added further complications, for southern simplicity might
be garish extravagance to a New Englander; one man’s virtuous repub-
lican restraint was another man’s monarchical excess.
The looming presence of the European example only complicated
matters. Whether defining themselves against it or striving to match
it, national politicians had European precedent before their eyes. Given
America’s heritage, the example of Parliament had particular relevance.
Faced with establishing a seemingly endless number of institutional
routines and ceremonies, the first Congress looked to the British exam-
ple time and time again. Worried about the new government’s inherent
 8 prologue

weakness, some men favored royal customs like elaborate titles and
formal court ceremony to lend national officeholders authority and
power. Others condemned such efforts as a betrayal of Revolutionary
principles, convinced that their opponents wanted to convert Ameri-
ca’s republican president into a king. All agreed that the easy path was
to fall into old habits, so an American monarchy seemed like a distinct
possibility. With the Revolution less than ten years past, even the most
ardent Anglophiles wanted to avoid being branded monarchists—a
powerful charge that was hurled with abandon.
Some opposed making New York City the national capital for
such reasons, fearful that its high-toned manners would convert na-
tional politicians into aristocratic courtiers, thereby corrupting the en-
tire nation. There is “an Air loci, which governs like the lex loci in all
Countries,” Pennsylvanian Benjamin Rush explained. “Contaminated”
by the decadence and pomp of “a corrupted British army” during the
Revolution, New York City would warp “the manners and morals of
those men who are to form the character of our country.” To Rush,
the plain and sober “Quaker and German manners” of Philadelphia
were far more republican, and thus Philadelphia was much better
suited to be the national capital. Of course, many southerners disliked
Philadelphia for just this reason, dreading its somber influence on the
nation.12
It was hard to pierce the mystery of these strange men from the
republic’s far reaches, particularly given their unknown politics. For
politicians did not arrive on the national scene bearing clear party affil-
iations. Some were nationalists who favored the Constitution and had
dubbed themselves “Federalists” during the ratification debates; other
men had opposed it, earning the name “Anti-Federalists” from their
more mobilized opponents. But these affiliations were not predictors
of votes. As politicians would discover within weeks of the govern-
ment’s launching, these labels were predictors of nothing at all.
With no established political parties—no public badge of politi-
cal identity—it was difficult to determine a man’s views and loyalties.
As South Carolina Representative William Loughton Smith put it,
commenting on a new crop of congressmen, “I can’t judge of their
Complexion.” Their first vote augured well, but it was “impossible to
 prologue 9

predict what turn Members may take when they are tampered with.” 13
Determining reputations on an ongoing basis in this war without uni-
forms, national officeholders filled their correspondence with their as-
sessments. Faced with the undecided character of the new government
and the unstructured nature of its politics, they shared a common set
of concerns. What politics did their fellows have? What tone of gover-
nance did they envision for the new nation? Were they allied with other
congressmen? Would they be a force to contend with? An institutional-
ized party system would have provided answers to such questions;
without one, the political landscape remained a mystery, every man a
potential enemy or friend.
Politicians used strikingly similar metaphors to describe this
charged atmosphere. As Maclay expressed it in the midst of the conten-
tious debate over the location of the national capital, “The Whole
World is a shell and we tread on hollow ground every step.” James
Madison echoed these sentiments, lamenting that “we are in a wilder-
ness without a single footstep to guide us.” Washington, likewise un-
settled by his weighty responsibilities, explained to English historian
Catharine Macaulay Graham, “I walk on untrodden ground.” 14 All
three men felt that they were standing on unstable ground with no
clear path to safety. Raised up to the eminence of national office, scruti-
nized on all sides by a widespread audience, the fate of the republic
and their reputations hanging in the balance, national politicians lived
a self-conscious existence.
With no enlightened assembly, no superior realm of government
staffed by men devoted to the public good, there seemed to be nothing
holding the nation together other than mutual goodwill; without the
ability to achieve the general good, what was the new government but
a tyrannical and bloated version of a state assembly, staffed by an over-
privileged few? Indeed, the mediocrity of the government remained a
lightning rod for controversy throughout its first difficult decades, an
eternal seed of doubt in the republic’s ability to beat the historical odds.
Debate over the best way to handle this fundamental weakness—insti-
tutional bulwarks or a minimized role for the national government—
was at the core of the period’s ongoing war between Federalists and
Republicans. And the alternatives—disunion, foreign dominance, or
 10 prologue

civil war—remained constant threats. The security of hindsight makes

it difficult for us to recapture the contingency of this historical mo-
ment, leading many to deem the period’s emotional extremes illogical
or irrational, the product of empty rhetoric or the unfortunate result
of a shared conspiracy mentality. But the politically minded had good
reason to fear. They were constructing a machine already in motion,
with few instructions and no precise model. The result was a politics
of anxious extremes.
 The Theater of National Politics

Few national politicians were as anxious as Pennsylvania’s Senator Wil-

liam Maclay—or at least, few were as diligent about documenting it.
For throughout the entirety of his two-year term of office, Maclay
memorialized his anxieties on the pages of his diary in lavish detail.
Judging from his entries, Maclay’s fears were legion. He worried about
his oratorical performances on the Senate floor. He worried about the
counterthrusts and jabs of his peers. He worried about his comport-
ment at social events, particularly in the presence of the great George
Washington. He worried about Washington himself, fearful that the
new president would allow corrupt friends and advisers to surround
him with monarchical pomp and splendor. He worried about the polit-
ical implications of almost everything; French lace, fancy carriages, and
formal ceremonies all reeked of monarchical corruption, threatening
the foundations of the new republic. Keenly observant, and anxious
about almost everything he saw, Maclay suffered his way through his
brief senatorial career (fig. 2).
It was not that he was unqualified for office. Like most of his
colleagues, he had a long record of public service in his home state.

{ 11 }
 12 the theater of national politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 2. William Maclay (1737–1804), by

Nick Ruggieri, undated. This portrait
captures Maclay’s dour personality and
watchful eye. (Courtesy of the
Pennsylvania Bar Association)

Fifty-two years old, he boasted twenty-five years of experience in Penn-

sylvania politics, including membership in the State Assembly (1781–
83) and Supreme Executive Council (1786–88), among other offices.1
Trained in law and an experienced surveyor, he was an extensive land-
holder in the western backcountry, one of the largest in Northum-
berland County. He counted Pennsylvania proprietor Thomas Penn
among his surveying clients and had twice traveled to London in
Penn’s interests. Wealthy, well-traveled, and well-connected, Maclay
was an unquestioned member of the ruling elite, one of only six Penn-
sylvanians considered for a Senate seat. Intimidated by Maclay’s bear-
ing and importance, a contemporary confessed, “I was always half
afraid of him; he seemed to awe me into insignificance.” 2
How can we reconcile this wealthy, self-assured landholder with
the fretful grumbler of his diary? In part, the contrast reflects the differ-
 the theater of national politics 13

ence between external appearance and internal reality: Maclay may

have felt far less confident than he appeared. He was also dour and
reserved by nature; “rather rigid and uncomplying” in temper by his
own admission, he was a loner who tended to fear the worst rather
than hope for the best. Though he attended the weekly dinners held
by his state delegation, as well as other seemingly mandatory social
events, he did not enjoy them. “We sat down to dinner half after 3,”
he noted after one Pennsylvania dinner. “Eating stopped our mouths
Untill after about 4 & from that to near 9 I never heard such a Scene
of Beastial Ba[w]dry kept up in my life.” On another occasion, he
“staid till the fumigation began. alias Smoking of Sigars. a thing I never
could bear.” 3 His wonderfully acid sense of humor remained largely
restricted to his diary, where he vented his passions at the end of the
day.
Clearly, Maclay was no hail-fellow-well-met, but the stream of
anxieties that fill his diary, invading even his dreams, suggests that he
was profoundly unsettled by national public life. In part, he was feeling
the impact of the national stage, fretting about his reputation before
a national audience. Dishonor and shame loom large in Maclay’s diary.
As he put it, his new office placed him “on an eminence,” and a poor
performance (or a venomous enemy) could easily pull him down. It
was fear of disgrace that made Maclay so painfully self-conscious; this
same fear was a driving force behind his diary, virtually leaping from
its pages. Like his colleagues, Maclay also feared for the fate of the
new republic, particularly given the disappointing mediocrity of its
first Congress. “The New Government, instead of being a powerful
Machine whose Authority would support any Measure, needs helps
and props on all sides, and must be supported by the ablest names and
the most shining Characters which we can select,” he insisted toward
the start of his tenure.4 The reality was alarmingly far from the mark.
But more than anything else, Maclay’s fears stemmed from his political
convictions, for he was part of a small minority of extreme republicans,
distrustful of the slightest whiff of regal pageantry or aristocratic privi-
lege.
Given his political predilections, Maclay had good reason to be
disturbed. The opening of Congress raised a flood of questions about
 14 the theater of national politics

rules, regulations, and official ceremony, and to the rigidly republican

Pennsylvanian the answers seemed unerringly geared toward con-
verting the republic into a monarchy. The trouble began on April 23,
1789, the day George Washington was due to arrive in New York City,
the new national capital. That morning, with the entire city “on tiptoe”
in anticipation, as Maclay put it, the Senate began to plan Washing-
ton’s inauguration. On “the great important day,” both houses of Con-
gress would receive the president-elect in the Senate chamber to ad-
minister the oath of office—a seemingly simple ceremony that raised
a multitude of questions. When the president arrived in the Senate
chamber, should the senators rise in respect to a superior or sit as be-
fore an equal? The answer risked casting the president as a monarch
or the Senate as a House of Lords, prompting an extended debate.
One senator testified that during the king’s speech, the House of Lords
sat and the House of Commons stood, an observation that seemed to
have deep political significance until another senator made “this saga-
cious discovery, that the Commons stood because they had no seats
to sit on . . . being arrived at the Bar of the House of lords.” An inter-
ruption from the House clerk sparked yet another discussion; how
should the clerk be received? Should he be admitted into the Senate
chamber, or should the Sergeant at Arms (complete with ceremonial
mace) receive his communication at the door? It was, Maclay sighed,
“an Endless business.” 5
Ridiculous as such quibbling might appear (reducing even
Maclay to laughter on at least one occasion), it had deeper implica-
tions. High-toned manners and high-flown ceremony could corrupt
the fledgling government, pushing it ever closer to monarchy. They
were the “fooleries fopperies finerries and pomp of Royal etiquette,”
Maclay charged; they were Old World corruption being foisted on
the republic in its formative years, proof that Americans were already
slipping back into their “old habits and intercourse.” 6 Even worse,
their foremost defender was presiding over the Senate. Vice President
John Adams, a man of national renown whom Maclay himself had
supported for office, seemed intent on creating a royal court and will-
ing to manipulate Senate proceedings to achieve it. A large percentage
of Maclay’s fellow senators seemed similarly inclined. Supported by
 the theater of national politics 15

a majority, facilitated by legislative trickery, and secluded behind the

Senate’s closed doors, this monarchical agenda would almost certainly
gain ground.
Secure in his republican virtue and fearing the fate of the nation,
Maclay saw only one alternative. He would have to wage a war of
resistance. His path would not be easy; the prudent Maclay saw this
all too well. Unknown on the national stage, his talents yet unproven,
he lacked the foremost weapons of political combat: reputation and
personal influence. He had no trusted allies in this new arena, and no
experience in interstate politicking. Alone and undefended, he would
be pitting himself against powerful men of national repute, sacrificing
all hope for reputation and influence in the process. As he concluded
only days after Washington’s arrival, by opposing pompous titles and
“high handed Measures,” he had “sacrificed every chance of being pop-
ular, and every grain of influence in the Senate.” 7
Nor could Maclay count on an enraged citizenry to bolster his
cause. The Senate’s proceedings were private, noted only in an official
record that Maclay considered full of “the grossest Mistakes.” The
public had no knowledge of his campaign against corruption, no evi-
dence of his self-sacrifice. His state legislators—the men with the
power to reappoint him to office—likewise would see no sign of his
struggle, a pressing concern given his brief term of office. One of the
unfortunate few who drew a two-year term when the Senate divided
its members into two-, four-, and six-year classes, Maclay would have
to impress his state audience right from the start.8 Underlying all these
risks and challenges was Maclay’s constant awareness that he was per-
forming on an elevated stage, before a national, even international au-
dience.
Within his first month in office, Maclay began to foresee his fu-
ture. Unpopular and powerless on the national scene, he would earn
powerful enemies, accomplish nothing, fail at reelection, and leave in
disgrace. Desperate to avoid such a fate, he grasped at solutions. He
corresponded with highly placed Pennsylvania friends, explaining his
intentions and motives. He wrote newspaper essays to prod his home
audience to action. He was obsessively attentive to the Senate record,
insisting that it reflect his resistance with absolute accuracy, though
 16 the theater of national politics

Senate secretary Samuel Otis remained uncooperative, his frequent er-

rors seeming to favor Adams’s preferences every time. (“The Minutes
are totally under the direction of our President [Adams] or rather Otis
is his Creature,” Maclay charged.) 9 Ultimately, Maclay’s entire national
career would be little more than a series of “yeas” and “nays” in the
Senate journal—and a poorly kept journal at that.
So in April 1789, Maclay began his own journal, taking cursory
notes of each day’s proceedings and fleshing them out in his diary each
night (fig. 3). To expose his opponents and justify himself, he went
one step further, noting his impressions, guessing at motives and in-
tentions, and recording details of personal appearance and manner for
insight into character and interests. His own contributions featured
prominently, of course, including detailed accounts of his congres-
sional oratory and voting record. But to reveal the depth of his com-
mitment and sacrifice and the logic of his decisions, he had to record
more than formal pronouncements from the Senate floor. He needed
to document the full reality of politics, including the casual conversa-
tions and informal socializing that constituted the guts of political in-
teraction. He thus described his social life in great detail, offering
lengthy accounts of dinner parties and social calls, noting not only
topics of discussion but also the demeanor of the guests, their gestures,
and their tone of voice. To support his claims and accusations, he ap-
pended documentary evidence: newspaper clippings, correspondence,
speaking notes, or suggested resolutions; twice, he solicited an affidavit
from Otis attesting to his vote.
The end result was a massive three-volume diary, its published
edition filling four hundred pages. Unflaggingly diligent, Maclay
missed only twelve days in two years, his passionate and lengthy out-
pourings attesting to his diary’s importance in his public life.10 The
only eyewitness account of proceedings in the first Senate (aside from
the cursory official record), it offers an invaluable insider’s view of the
national government’s first unsteady years, warts and all. Historians
have long recognized the descriptive value of Maclay’s observations.
Rare is the study of the period’s high politics that does not include
some of his descriptive gems, and for good reason, given his eye for
detail and his unabashed criticism of revered Founders like George
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 3. Maclay’s rough notes for September 24, 1789. Recording these notes in
the Senate, Maclay wrote the first lines in Latin to discourage prying eyes,
leaving unsaid the worst of his accusation. They read, “Stayed at the Hall Saw
Wyngate and Wadsworth in conversation, they did not want to talk to me—
Bad sign—Having opportunity to talk to them, they are my personal enemies,
enemies of a happy country—(the reason for such being omitted).”
This is the only known page of Maclay’s rough notes to survive.
(Courtesy of the Library of Congress)
 18 the theater of national politics

Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamil-

ton. But scholars have used the diary only as a sourcebook of anec-
dotes, never looking beneath the surface for Maclay’s deeper message.
He survives as little more than an acerbic quibbler, “one of those, to
be met at almost any meeting, who are always rising to points of or-
der.” 11 His diary in its entirety receives no attention at all.
Yet only when viewed in its entirety is the diary’s message clear.
Maclay was alarmed by an evolving process, not distinct episodes. It
was the larger pattern of events that he considered most important,
and he self-consciously structured his diary to expose their terrifying
implications. He assumed that his political diatribe would be seen by
his state legislators; indeed, when he traveled to Philadelphia between
sessions, his diary was in his saddlebag, ready for the asking.12 Far more
than a mere catalogue of detail, Maclay’s diary is a narrative intended
for people other than himself. A deliberately crafted political tool, it
is a material artifact of an alien political world. It is also a rare testament
to a national politician’s mindset in the new republic. Full of hopes,
fears, assumptions, and expectations, the diary presents one man’s
mental landscape at a critical moment in America’s founding. Illogical
or irrational as Maclay might seem, his diary contains immediate reac-
tions to unfolding events, capturing the emotion and contingency of
the moment as only a personal testimonial can. It offers a window on
the realities of being a national politician on a shaky and unstructured
stage.

“A Man Who Had Never Been Heard of Before”

Maclay’s tribulations began almost upon his arrival in New York City
(fig. 4). Well known and respected in Pennsylvania, he was entirely
unknown on the national stage, a man without a reputation. As Abigail
Adams expressed it, national politicians should be men “whose fame
had resounded throughout the States.” Maclay “might be a good
man,” but there were some who “did not like pensilvana’s chusing a
man who had never been heard of before.” 13 Although friends with
national connections like Benjamin Rush tried to bolster Maclay’s
standing with letters of praise to their high-placed friends, such efforts
 the theater of national politics 19

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 4. A View of the Federal Hall of the City of New York . . . 1797, by H. R.
Robinson (after George Holland), 1847. The view is from upper Broad Street,
looking toward Wall Street; Federal Hall is at center. Maclay saw this scene
daily. He disliked New York City’s narrow, winding streets, or “Alleys,”
as he called them, for “a Pennsylvanian can not call them Streets.”
(Courtesy of the Library of Congress)

did little more than invite people to be favorably disposed toward him.
Maclay would have to prove himself in a new arena amid a multitude
of strangers.
To Maclay, this sudden demotion was a nasty shock from which
he never recovered. Elevated to the top of the political hierarchy, he
had expected his reputation to benefit accordingly. Instead, he found
himself struggling to make his name among inscrutable strangers of
alien habits and conflicting interests. His disorientation justified his
diary on a daily basis. Monitoring his colleagues might enable him to
detect their motives, predict their actions, and plot a safe course. His
diary was a personalized map of a foreign political landscape, every
point within its compass significant in its relation to him alone.
This disorientation was distinctive to national politics, for in a
 20 the theater of national politics

state legislature, members largely were known quantities with familiar

politics, histories, families, and friends. As John Adams put it in his
early political career, “In a Provincial Assembly, where we know a
Man’s Pedigree and Biography, his Education, Profession and Connec-
tions, as well as his Fortune, it is easy to see what it is that governs a
Man and determines him to this Party in Preference to that, to this
System of Politicks rather than another, etc. . . . But here it is quite
otherwise. We frequently see Phenomena which puzzles us. It requires
Time to enquire and learn the Characters and Connections, the Inter-
ests and Views of a Multitude of Strangers.” Conducting politics was
almost impossible among a multitude of strangers, for how could one
form alliances or predict attacks in an assembly of unknowns? Given
the brief tenures of most national officeholders, extended time in office
did little to help matters, for the cast of characters was ever changing.14
In addition, like many of his colleagues, Maclay was experiencing
his first extended interaction with men from other regions—and he
was not impressed. New Englanders seemed arrogant and disdainful,
considering “Good humor[,] affability of temper conversation, and
accomodation of temper and sentiment, as qualities too vulgar, for a
Gentleman.” New Yorkers were “Pompous People” with “high toned
Manners,” and the “Frothy Manners” of the southerners were entirely
off-putting. Whom could Maclay trust in such an odd assemblage? As
he confessed to his diary after a mere eight weeks in office, “I have
been a bird alone. I have had to bear the Chilling cold of the North,
and the intemperate Warmth of the South. Neither of which are fa-
vourable to the Middle State from which I come. . . . I could not find
a confidant, in one of them, or say to my heart, here is the Man I can
trust.” Surrounded by colleagues with alien habits, Maclay grew to
enjoy the “Company of Pennsylvanians” at the end of a trying day.
Rather than broadening Maclay’s perspective, the diversity of national
public life reinforced his provincialism. Amid an array of clashing cul-
tures from foreign nation-states, Maclay became more—not less—
aware of his own.15
Yet much to his alarm, even fellow Pennsylvanians seemed
strange and forbidding in this new arena. In part, they were mirroring
Maclay’s caution; unsure of themselves and their colleagues, they were
 the theater of national politics 21

wise to remain wary. As Maclay observed of representatives George

Clymer and Thomas Fitzsimons, “I know not how it is, but I cannot
get into these Men. There is a kind of guarded distance on their parts,
that seems to preclude sociability. I believe I had best be guarded
too.” 16 Competition also inspired unfriendliness. Desperate to main-
tain their slightest advantage, his Pennsylvania colleagues were often
deliberately difficult and standoffish. For example, Fitzsimons attacked
Maclay for corresponding with Pennsylvania Comptroller General
John Nicholson; to the competitive Fitzsimons, Maclay’s letters were
an ambitious attempt to garner information about state finances. Fitz-
simons “would wish, that no man but himself should know any thing
of the finances of Pennsylvania,” Maclay griped. The status of high
office was itself a reason for hostility, inspiring some delegates to as-
sume airs. “What a Strange Peice of Pomposity this thing is grown,”
Maclay observed of Thomas Hartley after a year in office. Clymer’s
attitude was particularly grating. “The cold distant stiff and let me add
stinking Manner of this Man . . . is really painful to be submitted to,”
Maclay fumed. “I really think out of respect to myself I ought to avoid
his Company.” Other Pennsylvania delegates remained detached out
of a desire to avoid controversy, simply voting with the majority. As
Maclay noted of Henry Wynkoop, “He never speaks never acts in Con-
gress . . . but implicitly follows the Two City Members[.] he does not
seem formed to act alone [in] even the most Triffling affair. well for
him is it that he is not a Woman & handsome, or every fellow would
debauch him.” 17
Whatever the reason, on the elevated stage of national public life,
the wise politician remained a cautious observer, scrutinizing his peers
in search of men to trust. What Maclay perceived as self-interested
aloofness was in fact the mirror image of his own wary disorienta-
tion. Massachusetts Representative Elbridge Gerry declared himself
“a spectator” until he could “form some adequate idea of Men and
Measures.” Fisher Ames felt similarly. “I am as silent as I can possibly
be,” he confessed to a friend in May 1789. “I am resolved to apply
closely to the necessary means of knowledge, as I well know it is the
only means of acquiring reputation.” Even that “Strange Peice of Pom-
posity” Thomas Hartley felt overwhelmed, vowing to “study to under-
 22 the theater of national politics

stand my Duty and endeavour to practice it.” 18 It was too easy to trust
the wrong man or utter the wrong words, irreparably damaging one’s
reputation.
As revealed in Maclay’s diary, close observation was a tool of
survival in this uncharted political world. Each day Maclay scrutinized
groups of congressmen whispering in corners or antechambers, seek-
ing potential alliances. Sometimes, he hoped to manipulate these
“friendships” for political advantage. The camaraderie between House
Secretary John Beckley and Maclay’s fellow Pennsylvanian, Speaker of
the House Frederick Muhlenberg, for example, had potential signifi-
cance. “Buckley is very intimate with the speaker on one hand and
Madison on the other,” Maclay noted. Given Maclay’s familiarity with
Muhlenberg, he could “thro this Channel communicate” what he
pleased to Madison. Having already failed to exchange ideas with
Madison, who would not condescend to hear Maclay’s thoughts,
Maclay had discovered a way to lead Madison without “letting him
. . . see the String.” 19
Other congressional conclaves offered insight into political prin-
ciples and intentions. When in July 1789 a few high-flown senators
began to cluster regularly in conversation, Maclay suspected the forma-
tion of “a Court party” aimed at converting the president into a mon-
arch. South Carolina Senator Ralph Izard confirmed Maclay’s suspi-
cions two weeks later, offering “a short History of the Court party”
and its antipathy to the rigidly republican Maclay. Some months later,
Maclay noted another brewing enclave during the 1790 debate over the
assumption of state debts. The first phase of Secretary of the Treasury
Alexander Hamilton’s financial program, the Funding Act proposed
that the national government pay off state debts remaining from the
Revolution, making creditors beholden to the national government
and thereby enhancing its power and prestige, one of Hamilton’s core
goals. Southerners, who had largely extinguished their debts through
heavy taxes, resented this seeming reward to laggard northerners. Oth-
ers, like Maclay, thought that the plan would benefit money-men and
speculators. In fact, this was partly Hamilton’s intention; he wanted
to bolster the weak national government with the moral and financial
support of the wealthy and powerful. Failure of this fundamental pro-
 the theater of national politics 23

posal meant the end of Hamilton’s plan, his almost certain resignation,
and to many, the collapse of the government, so debate was fierce and
alliances soon emerged. “This the important Week & perhaps the im-
portant day, When the question will be put on the Assumption of the
State debts,” Maclay wrote on March 8, 1790. “I suspect this from the
randevouzing of the Crew of the Hamilton Galley. it seems all hands
are piped to Quarters.” Working in lockstep with Hamilton, the “Sec-
retary’s Gladiators” seemed even more reprehensible than the “Court
party,” whose wrongheaded members were at least no man’s tool.
Maclay was not the only one searching for hidden alliances. When two
new senators from North Carolina took their seats, Maclay heard it
“whispered that means had been Used to attach them to the Secretary’s
System.” 20
Maclay was not alone in his vigilance. He himself was a frequent
subject of observation, his colleagues unsure where his sympathies lay.
On January 7, 1790, he noted that “uncommon pains were taken to
draw from me some information as to the part I would act respecting
the federal residence.” The permanent location of the national capital
was the other major controversy of that congressional session. Al-
though Maclay held back, answering only, “I have mark’d out no
ground for myself [.] my object shall be the Interest of Pennsylvania
subordinate to the good of the Union,” he was unsettled by the experi-
ence nonetheless.21 Every word, every movement was grasped at for
political meaning; he was constantly being questioned, prodded,
pushed, and attacked, and his responses could affect his reputation and
the republic, for better or worse. He could only marvel at the enormity
of it.
Maclay’s anxiety is a reminder of the underlying importance of
such mutual observation. It was difficult enough to hold office in a
government populated by strangers, for there was no telling what they
might do, or how they might affect you. But more important, this
unpredictable population was shaping the new republic during its ear-
liest, most formative years. Their actions could have dire political con-
sequences. The fate of Maclay’s career and reputation was thus more
than a personal matter. In his mind, the failure of a steadfast republican
like himself meant the failure of the republic. If an honest and well-
 24 the theater of national politics

meaning man could not survive on the national stage, what sort of
government was coming to life? By documenting his troubles in his
diary, Maclay was displaying the instability of the government itself.

The Trials and Tribulations of Personal Reputation

Maclay could not hope to effect any change without power and influ-
ence, yet his staid personality and minority principles virtually ensured
his powerless isolation. In his home state, where his reputation was
well known, such virtuous independence had been an advantage, of-
fending no one constituency and thus often pleasing them all. As fel-
low Pennsylvanian John Armstrong, Jr., put it, Maclay’s appointment
was due to “compromise” rather than talent.22 On the national stage,
however, he was beginning anew, and if he wished to make a differ-
ence, he had to bolster his suffering reputation. Much as Maclay might
condemn his fellows for their selfish ambitions, personal reputation
was the currency of national politics.
Congressional oratory was key to this mode of political warfare,
each speaker attempting to shine brightest. Well aware of the impor-
tance of their performances, many politicians prepared them in ad-
vance, scribbling notes on bits of paper that could be hidden in their
hat or the palm of their hand; they were actors who needed a script.
This ruse often proved unsuccessful. Maclay spotted hidden notes on
several occasions and denigrated the speaker accordingly, for in a con-
test of self-presentation, style often mattered more than content. In-
deed, Maclay was frequently more interested in a speaker’s manner
than his words. South Carolinian Pierce Butler would explode in out-
rage at the slightest objection, his lack of “decorum” defeating the
power of his arguments. George Read of Delaware (“the flexible
Reed”) was reliably unreliable, speaking at length but saying nothing
at all. Through such observations, Maclay determined his colleagues’
talents and evaluated their reputations. Nor did he neglect his own
performance. As he explained in his diary, he often spoke in the Senate
not because he had anything to say but because of “a kind of deter-
mination, that I have adopted of saying something every day.” 23 What
 the theater of national politics 25

he said was secondary; Maclay hoped to impress his colleagues with

his rhetorical style.
Given the competitive importance of oratory and the vulnerabil-
ity of reputations, oratorical attacks had a peculiar power. Words could
persuade, conceal, or delay. They could also tear a man to pieces, yank-
ing him into the limelight only to mock his performance and damage
his reputation. Indeed, among men so sensitive to their reputations,
even inattention was a painful slap. “I never was treated with less re-
spect,” Maclay griped after one such instance. “Adams behaved with
Studied inattention[.] He was snuffling up his Nose, kicking his heels
or talking & Sniggering with Otis, the Whole time . . . I was up.”
Pierce Butler, though he bore such disregard with even “less tem-
per” than Maclay, also engaged in “Earnest conversation” as Maclay
spoke.24
Of course, galvanizing the attention of the Senate was virtually
impossible, given the pandemonium of the Senate floor. Rarely were
all members seated, their attention politely focused on the speaker at
hand. Some wrote letters to family and friends; others conversed, read,
or snacked on oranges and cakes. Members wandered into antecham-
bers to propose bargains and formulate legislative strategies. They
stood in small clusters in hallways and corners or around the stoves
in winter, whispering and laughing. The secretary came and went, a
rustle of papers accompanying his passage. The thump of boots on
wooden floors or the rumble of passing carriages drowned out speak-
ers. On one occasion the noise helped to drive Washington, seeking
senatorial advice and consent on a treaty, into a presidential temper
tantrum.25
Orators who bellowed to be heard above the din made matters
worse. On different floors of the same building, the House and Senate
were within earshot of each other, a loud speaker in one house compel-
ling members of the other to shut their windows.26 As Maclay attested
on one chaotic day, “As well might I write . . . the Vagaries of a pan-
tomine, as attempt to Minute the Business of this Morning. What with
the Exits And the entrances of our [Secretary] Otis. The Announcings
the Advancings Speechings drawings & Withdrawings of [House sec-
 26 the theater of national politics

retary] Buckley & [executive secretary] Lear And the comings & go-
ings of our Committees of Enrollment &ca. And the consequent run-
ning of Doorkeepers opening and Slaming of doors the House . . .
seemed in a continual Tempest of Noise & Hurricane. Speaking would
have been Idle. for nobody would or could hear.” 27
Maclay considered the House even worse than the Senate. The
representatives have “certainly greatly debased their dignity,” he wrote
after watching a debate. “Using base invective indecorous language 3
or 4 up at a time. manifest signs of passion. the most disorderly Wan-
dering, in their Speeches, telling Stories, private anecdotes &ca. &ca.”
He knew for a fact that they enjoyed passing around riddles and
rhymes lampooning their most renowned colleagues—men who de-
served a strong dose of humility. John Adams, a favorite target, often
watched from the visitor’s gallery, unaware that he was being mocked
in the notes passed below. Maclay guessed that the representatives
must spend their nights devising such squibs “in Order to pop them
on the Company to the greater advantage,” though in fact, they often
composed them in the midst of debate. “The rhyme-making does not
interrupt our Attention to Business,” swore Virginia Representative
John Page, “for I arose between my 1st and 2nd stanza & rep[orted
for the] committee.” 28 It was difficult to perform in such confusion.
Direct attacks, however, were worst of all, and given their poten-
tial impact—immediate kudos for the attacker and disgrace for the
victim—they flew fast and furious. Maclay felt their sting keenly, one
attack of “the Most sarcastic Severity” literally driving him from the
Senate chamber. “Alas! How shall I write it,” he confessed to his diary
that night. “I lost my Temper & finding no protection from the Chair
left the Room.” Of course, Maclay gave as good as he got, exulting
at a “hard hit” received by his intended target. Within months of taking
office, he was envisioning the Senate as a battleground “where all is
Snip Snap, and Contradiction Short. Where it is a Source of Joy, to
place the Speech of . . . a fellow Senator, in a distorted or ridiculous
point of View.” Unsettled by “buffitings” and “sentimental insults,”
he felt a guilty “Joy” when fellow Pennsylvania Senator Robert Morris
fell victim, observing with pleasure Morris’s “Nostrils Widen, and his
nose flatten like the head of a Viper.” Morris reacted similarly to an
 the theater of national politics 27

oratorical assault during debate over the location of the national capi-
tal, confessing to his wife that it had almost resulted in a “Serious
quarrell”—a euphemism for an affair of honor.29 Where political com-
bat and personal reputation were so intertwined, duels were a constant
threat.
Morris’s emotional response reveals that Maclay was not alone
in his anxiety. On the exposed national stage, even eminent men like
the wealthy Morris bristled at disrespect. Indeed, Maclay’s diary reveals
a population of touchy men. Some bellowed and raged to silence their
critics. Pierce Butler would erupt in wrathful resentment whenever Ad-
ams called him to order; given Butler’s flaming oratory, this happened
more than once. Others turned to the public record to literally erase
their disgrace, as did Ralph Izard when one of his proposals went awry.
When his suggestion for an overly ceremonious mode of communica-
tion between Congress’s two houses reached the House, members of
the Senate could hear the representatives “below laugh at it.” Desper-
ate to destroy all evidence of his embarrassment, Izard tried (unsuc-
cessfully) to have his initial suggestion stricken from the minutes.30
Like Maclay, Izard viewed the congressional record as a chronicle of
reputation, often the only evidence of a senator’s greatest victories or
defeats.
In a population so sensitive to subtleties of reputation, men of
national repute had a peculiar power. Maclay felt insulted by most such
men, wounded by their arrogant disdain. He found James Madison
particularly insulting. “Called on Madison. he made me wait long,”
Maclay complained in February 1790. When Maclay offered his ideas
concerning the assumption of the national debt, Madison ignored
them. “I do not think he attended to one Word,” Maclay griped. “His
pride seems of that kind which repels all communication. he appears
as if he could not bear the Condescention of it.” John Adams’s vanity
and self-importance offended Maclay on a daily basis. And the arro-
gance of Alexander Hamilton (dubbed “his Holiness” by Maclay) was
beyond description.31
Nor was Maclay alone in his feelings. When he asked Pennsylva-
nia Representative Thomas Scott to speak with Madison, Scott refused,
explaining that “he was afraid of Madison’s pride.” It was Adams’s
 28 the theater of national politics

arrogance that made him such a popular target for jokesters in the
House. For example, on February 25, 1790, South Carolina Represen-
tative Thomas Tudor Tucker passed Virginian John Page a note con-
taining the following riddle:
In Gravity clad,
He has nought in his Head,
But Visions of Nobles & Kings,
With Commons below,
Who respectfully bow,
And worship the Dignified Things.
Page solved Tucker’s riddle “Impromptu” in the midst of debate on
the House floor:
The Answer Impromptu by P[age:]
I’ll tell in a Trice—
’Tis Old Daddy Vice
Who carries of Pride an Ass-load;
Who turns up his Nose
Wherever he goes
With Vanity swell’d like a Toad.
This lampoon—and a number of others—eventually circulated
throughout Virginia. George Mason reportedly enjoyed them enough
to make his own copies.32
Given the importance of reputation, an attack on a man’s honor
was the ultimate trump card. The power of such an attack is evident
throughout Maclay’s diary. When honor was at stake, all else fell by
the wayside, for a man’s sense of self and possibly his life were at risk.
For example, Hamilton used his personal honor to withhold Treasury
documents from Maclay. Confronted with Maclay’s request for some
papers concerning congressional business, Hamilton first tried a bu-
reaucratic escape, barraging the Pennsylvanian with a smokescreen of
evasive measures: he refused to deliver the papers, then agreed to sur-
render them if a committee voted for it, then promised Maclay a note
on the subject (which never came), and finally declared that the papers
were locked in the desk of treasurer Michael Hillegas—who was in
 the theater of national politics 29

Philadelphia with the key. When the outraged Maclay “expressed great
Surprize That Mr. Hillegas should lock puplic Papers belonging to the
Treasury in his private desk,” Hamilton resorted to his ultimate
weapon: his honor. As Maclay expressed it, “Hamilton affected to be-
lieve I meant some censure on his Conduct”—he declared himself per-
sonally insulted, an ambiguous threat of an affair of honor that left
Maclay unable to do anything other than sputter in disbelief and leave.
“I need make no comment on all this,” he fumed in his diary. “A
School Boy should be Whipped for such pitiful Evasions.” 33
Congressmen were no less skilled at deploying assaults of honor.
Indeed, carefully phrased honor attacks shaped and channeled congres-
sional debate to an extraordinary degree. During a particularly fierce
debate in the summer of 1789, for example, Izard attacked an oppo-
nent’s honor in a last-ditch effort to forestall his foes. With the vote
extremely close, Tristram Dalton of Massachusetts rose to his feet and
“in the most hesitating, and embarrassed Manner” recanted his vote,
claiming that the previous speaker had “altered his mind.” Enraged,
Izard “jumped up” and declared that nothing had been spoken “that
possibly could convince any Man—that Man might pretend so, but
the thing was impossible.” Dalton was lying, Izard implied, his vote
somehow bought—an attack on Dalton’s private character that imme-
diately shifted the terms of debate. Now the Senate was contesting a
man’s honor, the assault on Dalton’s character and the debate inter-
twined. Those who agreed with him shared his disgrace, their motives
and methods in doubt. Red-faced at such implications, Robert Morris
“rose hastily” and “threw Censure on Mr. Izard[,] declared that the
recanting Man behaved like a Man of honor.” 34 Izard, not Dalton, was
the man dishonored.
Neither Izard nor Dalton sustained permanent damage to his rep-
utation, but not all combatants were so lucky. An insult to a man’s
honor was a dangerous weapon that could explode in one’s face.
Maclay witnessed one such disaster in March 1790, when South Caro-
lina Representative Aedanus Burke made a “Violent personal Attack
on Hamilton . . . which the Men of the blade say must produce a duel”
(fig. 5). Burke had good reason for his assault. Accused of abandoning
his principles to support Hamilton’s proposed assumption of state
 30 the theater of national politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 5. Aedanus Burke (1743–1802),

unidentified artist, undated. This portrait
captures something of the fiery spirit that
drove Burke to give Hamilton
“the lie direct” from the floor of the
House. (Courtesy of the
Charleston Hibernian Society)

debts, Burke was desperate to defend his reputation. (“What poor sup-
ple things Men are,” Maclay reflected upon hearing of Burke’s vote.)35
A public denunciation of Hamilton would prove that Burke was no
man’s tool.
With this goal in mind, Burke seized on a supposed insult against
the southern militia that Hamilton had proffered eight months earlier
during an Independence Day oration. Rising to his feet and turning
toward the visitors’ gallery, Burke hurled a ritualistic insult with high
drama, declaring, “ ‘In the face of this Assembly & in the presence of
this gallery . . . I give the lie to Col. Hamilton.’ ” The attack seemed
to have its desired impact, stunning congressmen and gallery onlookers
 the theater of national politics 31

alike, its shock waves crossing state lines. But Burke had misjudged
his audience. His insult was too “Violent” and ultimately garnered
him ridicule rather than respect. As fellow South Carolinian William
Loughton Smith noted a few days later, Burke’s “mode of speaking &
his roughness only excite Laughter.” 36
Tone was everything in a politics of reputation. Too exaggerated
an attack and you appeared crude and ungentlemanly; too feeble and
you seemed cowardly and weak. Choice of an opponent was equally
important, for an influential man could enlist his high-placed friends
in his cause. Burke’s attack on Hamilton was thus a great risk, inviting
the scorn of Hamilton’s powerful friends and colleagues in the execu-
tive branch. As Burke put it, “Falling out with one of that Sett I made
the whole administration my enemies for drawing all together, like
Mules in a Team they make a common cause of any dispute with
others.” 37
Maclay’s continued opposition to Adams was thus an enormous
risk with a potentially dire impact on Maclay’s reputation. More than
a mere political disagreement, Maclay’s campaign of resistance cast as-
persions on a powerful and influential man. On several occasions,
Maclay tried to calm the waters by urging a mutual friend to attest to
Maclay’s respect. His opposition “did not proceed from any motive
of contempt” but rather from “a Sense of duty,” he himself assured
Adams, exposing the personal attack inherent in his opposition. Yet
despite his best efforts, his campaign against Adams damaged his repu-
tation, putting his motives and wisdom in doubt. As Maclay wrote to
Benjamin Rush, by contesting Adams, he had “obtained the Character
of being No Courtier, or to speak positively of being an indiscreet
Man.” 38 But if antagonizing Adams did no good for Maclay’s reputa-
tion, neither did holding his tongue and betraying his principles. His
diary was an alternate choice, aimed at protecting his reputation back
home from the inevitable impact of his failed national career.

The Challenges of Maintaining a Federal Reputation

Maclay made every effort to appeal to his home audience, for regard-
less of his failure on the national scene, if Pennsylvanians appreciated
 32 the theater of national politics

his efforts, he would remain a respected man who could regain national
office. He thus wrote countless letters to influential Pennsylvanians,
penned newspaper essays to propagate his politics, and urged his
friends to use their influence on his behalf. His diary was central to
this campaign of self-promotion, displaying his steadfast republicanism
in the face of constant opposition from a powerful majority. Yet still
his reputation suffered. Pained at hearing “of the malignant Whispers
Innuendoes and Malevolent Remarks Made respecting me,” Maclay
could not help but demand the specifics. What was the charge “made
Against me?” he asked one nay-sayer. The response: “Nothing in par-
ticular, But every Body says the People don’t like You the People Wont
hear of Your Reelection.” 39 Unsure of how to appeal to his home audi-
ence, Maclay discovered the complications of maintaining a federal
reputation. Somehow he had to prove himself in two distinct arenas,
each with its own demands. Appealing to Pennsylvania onlookers from
a distant political stage would be one of the foremost challenges of
Maclay’s national career.
There were obvious political reasons to worry about one’s home
audience. After all, public accountability was at the heart of republican
governance, particularly for national officeholders, who were far away
and out of sight. But there were profoundly personal reasons for such
fears as well, for accountability was ultimately about public opinion—
and thus, about reputation. During the intertwined controversies over
the assumption of state debts and the national capital, Pennsylvania’s
entire delegation feared a public shaming back home. Eager to pass the
Funding Act (and possibly to benefit personally through speculation),
many of Maclay’s fellows were willing to situate the “federal city” in the
South in exchange for southern assumption votes, thereby depriving
Pennsylvania of the profits and prestige to be reaped as the seat of
government. Thomas Fitzsimons worried “that Stones would be
thrown at him in the Streets of Philada.” because of his vote, and Rob-
ert Morris “looked as if he feared that his conduct . . . would be turned
against him in . . . the public Eye.” Had Maclay himself given such a
vote, he “certainly dared not walk the Streets.” 40
Maclay had similar fears about his own performance, expecting
to read his failure on the faces of his constituents. I feel “ashamed to
 the theater of national politics 33

meet the face of any Pennsylvania[n] Who shall put me to the Question
What have You done for the publick Good,” he confessed. Over-
wrought by the situation, Henry Wynkoop literally fled the scene. As
Maclay recorded with some exasperation, Wynkoop, pressed by two
Hamiltonians for his vote, “paused a little, got up rather hastily, said,
God bless You. Went out of the chamber and actually took his Wife &
proceeded home to Pennsylvania.” Better to avoid the situation en-
tirely than to make enemies with an unpopular vote. But even retreat
afforded no escape, offending all parties and subjecting Wynkoop “to
Ridicule.” The way that “this good Man, can best serve his country is
in superintending his farm,” Maclay griped.41
The disgrace these men feared was palpable. Fitzsimons, Morris,
Maclay, and Wynkoop dreaded public humiliation—sneers, snubs,
ridicule, and even rocks. Some of the delegation’s worst fears were
realized on New York City streets when enraged New Yorkers, mourn-
ing the loss of the capital to Philadelphia (where it would rest for ten
years), yelled out “dirty expressions” at Pennsylvania delegates as they
passed; many of these slurs were pulled from abusive cartoons being
sold in the street (fig. 6). Although other politicians were more central
to the final deal, Morris—an eager negotiator—took much of the
blame. The New Yorkers “lay all the blame of this measure on me,
and abuse me most unmercifully both in the Public Prints private Con-
versations and even in the Streets,” he complained to his wife.42 He
could only hope that Pennsylvanians would appreciate the sacrifice.
As the humiliated Wynkoop had discovered, silence was no pro-
tection from a watchful public. The habitual silence of Massachusetts
Representative David Cobb likewise threatened his reputation before
a home audience. “I have been spoken to by a number of your friends,”
Cobb’s friend William Eustis wrote on December 4, 1794, as the con-
gressional session drew to its end. “It is agreed on all hands you must
make a speech, make one & print it, if it is about the black art, or cock
fighting or Indian fighting or the age of reason, or the age of insan-
ity[—]any thing but make a speech or I will forge one for you & hire
some virtuous printer to make it yours.” Eustis repeated his plea “in
earnest” two days later, and again on December 18. “Make your speech
or you never will have any character in Boston,” he warned, for “this
 34 the theater of national politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 6. Con-g-ss Embark’d on Board the Ship Constitution of America Bound to

Conogocheque by way of Philadelphia, unidentified artist, 1790. Typical of cartoons
sold on the street, here the ship of state—its figurehead not an eagle but a
goose—sails toward disaster at Philadelphia. “This way Bobby,” the devil calls
to Robert Morris as he directs Congress away from an easy passage to
Conogocheque Creek (the Potomac). Following behind is a rowboat of
northern congressmen, one calling to cut the tow rope (secede from the
Union), a second man agreeing because the ship is “going to the devil.” The
“Controller” who cleared the ship’s passage—mentioned by a third
northerner—is President Washington, charged with agreeing to the deal out of
“self gratification” because it holds no profit for “the owners” (the American
people). The men in the boat at the base of the falls desire “the cargo” (the
Treasury) but “never mind the Ship.” (Courtesy of the Library of Congress)

thing is more spoken of than you would imagine, notwithstanding all

your vanity.” 43 Without at least one oratorical performance—con-
trived though it might be—Cobb would leave national public life
without ever taking the stage, destroying his reputation in the process.
Clearly, national politicians had reason to fear a public shaming: peo-
ple were watching.
To avoid such a fate—and, as important, to defend the infant
republic—politicians used a number of tools to communicate with
the people back home. Maclay devoted much time and effort to one
 the theater of national politics 35

such tool, questionably useful as it was: his diary, a testament to

his self-sacrifice. He also made frequent use of another, more com-
monly deployed mode of combat: the newspaper article. Indeed,
Maclay was arguably the most prolific newspaper writer in the first
Congress—not surprising, given his desire to thwart a dangerous ma-
jority. As he expressed it, he wrote “with a design to spirit up the State
Legislatures, to attend to their own importance and instruct the Stat
their Senators on all important questions.” 44 To Maclay, this was the
only way to quash the high-handed measures of men like Clymer and
Morris; he himself might have little influence, but the people could
not be denied.
Because of the power and importance of some of his targets,
Maclay kept his efforts secret, asking Pennsylvania friends like Benja-
min Rush and John Nicholson to arrange for the anonymous publica-
tion of his pieces. On the controversial issue of the assumption of state
debts, he did not even write one of his newspaper contributions, in-
stead sending his speaking notes to Rush for conversion into an article.
Convinced that his speech was effective as it stood, he was furious
when Rush edited (in Maclay’s words, “mutilated”) it.45 As was his
daily practice, Maclay had used these same notes to compose his diary
entry. Through the medium of Rush, Maclay was reading his diary to
a Pennsylvania audience.
Unfortunately, anonymous newspaper combat could not en-
hance Maclay’s reputation and might even damage it. Although he
struggled to mask his efforts—revealing himself only to Representa-
tives Frederick and Peter Muhlenberg, and even then admitting
authorship of only “two or Three pieces”—he worried that his ef-
forts had “betr[a]y’d” him “in One Shape or other,” antagonizing
the president, his cabinet, the vice president, and their “Tools.”
Maclay even betrayed himself on one occasion, making one of his
essays the basis of a speech; the competitive edge of his polished prose
was simply too tempting to let pass by.46 Not surprisingly, his news-
paper campaign ultimately did his reputation little good. Grounded
on the concealment of his identity and written in isolation, it earned
him neither kudos nor allies, and occasionally exposed him to animos-
ity instead.
 36 the theater of national politics

Personal correspondence with influential Pennsylvanians was a

different matter. A private letter was a powerful tool, enabling a politi-
cian to maintain strategic relationships, garner information, and moni-
tor public opinion. Indeed, there was no better proof of local public
opinion than personal letters; seemingly private, they had the credibil-
ity of a personal confession. As unrepresentative as such letters might
be, they enabled national politicians to claim knowledge of the public
voice. Maclay wielded his correspondence for political purpose on sev-
eral occasions. To defeat Hamilton’s financial system, he lobbied his
state delegation with letters in hand. Did Thomas Scott have “any cor-
respondence with Pennsylvania?” Maclay asked. When Scott “declared
No,” Maclay thrust a letter from Comptroller John Nicholson into
his hand. A letter from state representative William Findley followed.
“There were some People discontented in Pennsylvania,” Maclay in-
sisted, reading yet another letter “as a proof of it.” When Scott resisted,
Maclay offered still another letter, this time from Benjamin Rush. In
the end, Maclay’s campaign was only partially successful, convincing
Scott on one or two minor points but failing to sway his vote—the
product of Scott’s sheer laziness, Maclay concluded.47
Maclay himself was swayed by a letter campaign during debate
over the nature and form of the federal judiciary. Concerned that it
would “Swallow by degrees all the State Judiciaries,” he was persuaded
otherwise by a barrage of correspondence. Informed that a number of
noteworthy Pennsylvanians approved of the bill in their private letters,
Maclay acknowledged that “the approbation of so many Men of Char-
acter for abilities has lessened my dislike of it.” Given the authority of
personal letters—and the difficulties of proving public opinion—it was
for good reason that Maclay’s Philadelphia colleagues usually withheld
their correspondence, much to Maclay’s chagrin.48 The man with such
proof of public opinion had power.
Of course, men with different correspondents might have entirely
different conceptions of public opinion, and therein lay a problem.
The “public” was a nebulous entity that could take many forms. Maclay
confronted this issue on several occasions when he and Robert Morris
held opposing views. Enraged by Morris’s insistence that he alone un-
derstood the Pennsylvania public, Maclay claimed just the opposite.
 the theater of national politics 37

He enjoyed “the Confidence of Pennsylvania in as unlimited a Man-

ner” as Morris, he insisted, and thus “the General Sense of the State”
was with him. Neither man could discredit the other, for public opin-
ion was endlessly malleable, easily adapted to suit any cause. “It is thus
that Ambitious Men obtain the Management of Republicks,” Maclay
observed; it was simply too easy to mask one’s ambitions by claiming
subservience to the public will.49
Maclay’s comment strikes at a fundamental contradiction of re-
publican politics. When both personal reputations and political careers
rested on popular approval, what was the distinction between public-
minded lawmaking and demagoguery? This problem hit home for
Maclay during his reelection campaign, when a simple conversation
with a state legislator resulted in charges of “begging of Votes.” The
personal letters of Massachusetts Representative George Thatcher at-
tracted similar abuse. Accused of trying to gain people’s favor, he in-
sisted that he was no “people-pleaser.” Indeed, his “sentiments upon
almost every Subject is different from people in general”—a problem-
atic attitude for a republican representative. Popular legislation raised
similar concerns, as Maclay discovered during debate over congres-
sional salaries. Convinced that he represented the public will, he pro-
posed a minimal wage of $5 a day, a sum that brought Robert Morris
roaring to his feet. Morris “cared not for the Arts people Used to ingra-
tiate themselves with the public,” he raged. He himself, on the other
hand, paid “little respect . . . to the common Opinions of People,”
and thought that $8 a day was a more fitting sum.50 The precise nature
of national leadership was up for debate, and whether leaders should
be superior men of merit or mere representatives of state interests had
yet to be determined.
It was difficult to know how to relate to the public, particularly
given its ambiguities. At different points in his diary, Maclay conceived
of the public as his constituents, state assemblymen, state politicos,
fellow senators, national officeholders, the national political commu-
nity, and on occasion, the nation at large. All these groups populated
Maclay’s audience, no two with precisely the same expectations. Main-
taining the right connection with these conflicting publics was the key
to success in national politics. Maclay never managed it. Uncompro-
 38 the theater of national politics

mising, unpopular, and unknown, he remained a local politician on a

national stage, devoid of power and influence.

The Politics of Self-Presentation

Yet Maclay was not entirely resistant to the demands of national poli-
tics. Even he felt compelled to compromise his principles on occasion.
He found Washington’s weekly levees distressingly monarchical, for
example, and indeed, they precisely mirrored British royal tradition.
Every Tuesday afternoon at three, guests entered the presidential man-
sion and formed a circle. After fifteen minutes the doors were closed,
and Washington began his slow progress around the ring, acknowledg-
ing each man by name and engaging in a moment of small talk before
moving on. As “a feature of Royalty,” the levees were “certainly Anti-
republican,” Maclay noted. “This certainly escapes Nobody.” Yet they
persisted because true republicans were “borne down by fashion And
a fear of being charged with a want of Respect to Genl. Washington.”
Thus, even the recalcitrant Maclay spent many a Tuesday afternoon in
the presidential mansion, adorned in his finest clothing, grumbling all
the while.51
It was this fear of “self-humiliating sensations” that gave monar-
chical precedents their peculiar power. Concern for reputation com-
pelled more modest politicians to live up to the standards set by their
more extravagant colleagues; the “frivolities” and “fopperies” of a few
men could thus corrupt the government, and through emulation, the
entire nation.52
Thus Maclay’s obsessive interest in dinner parties, levees, table
settings, and carriages. It is tempting to dismiss this preoccupation
as the exaggerated fears of an insecure newcomer, but Maclay’s diary
suggests otherwise. For given the unformed character of the new na-
tional government, such seemingly trivial ceremonial matters could
have an enormous influence. Republican leaders would ensure a repub-
lican people, a belief grounded on the assumption that the American
people would naturally emulate their leaders in style, manner, and
dress. As David Hume expressed it, considering the “sympathy or con-
 the theater of national politics 39

tagion of manners” within a nation-state, the influence of leaders “on

the manners of the people, must, at all times, be very considerable.” 53
Whether or not it was true, national politicians assumed that they
were walking exemplars for an impressionable, watchful public. Others
agreed. Worried about the powerful influence of the national exam-
ple, Virginian Walter Jones cautioned Madison to restrain “the ruin-
ous adoption of European Fashions” and “pretensions to European
Ranks” among public men. “There is a wide & secret inlet of mischief
in our manners that if not controlled, will make legislative Forms of
no avail.” 54 Manners, not legislative forms, would determine the fate
of the republic. Adopting a republican way of life was a public respon-
sibility.
Cultural habits could shape the soul of the republic as pervasively
as its constitutional framework did, an assumption that politicized the
trappings of everyday life. As revealed by the meticulous detail of
Maclay’s diary, almost everything had political significance, intensi-
fying the stilted self-consciousness of national politics. Foreign observ-
ers were quick to note the tone of sober circumspection that prevailed
at even the most trifling social events. French minister Comte de
Moustier thought that the nation’s first characters appeared as tense
as “a tight rope”; they were engaged in a “type of play” that seemed
“neither agreeable nor useful.” Moustier was witnessing the emotional
impact of a central challenge of national public life: politicians were
self-consciously crafting a political culture for a polity that was without
precedent in the modern world.55
Personal habits were profoundly political, yet there was no single
path to republican virtue. In general, republicanism encouraged a level-
ing of social distinctions as compared with the aristocratic Old World;
the people reigned supreme. But this formulation raised troubling
questions about the status of national representatives. Should they be
superior men of wealth and standing, or should they mirror the body
politic? What props of authority were appropriate for this new social
rank? 56 Foreign relations complicated matters, presenting yet another
judgmental audience with still different standards. Somehow, national
leaders had to uphold their authority among foreign dignitaries with-
 40 the theater of national politics

out succumbing to monarchical excess. Understood within this con-

text, Maclay’s diary reveals that the period’s seemingly theoretical de-
bate over standards of government was also an inherently personal
battle fought through differences of lifestyle and manner. In devising
a national model of leadership, politicians were determining their
standing and reputation as a ruling elite.
On occasion such issues exploded on the Senate floor. The debate
over congressional salaries, for example, drove senators into “a Violent
Chaff ” about the proper lifestyle for a national representative. Would
wealth and fine living dignify national politicians, or cast them as
would-be aristocrats? The Senate could not agree. Izard argued that
underpaid senators were forced into “boarding Houses[,] lodged in
holes and Corners, associated with improper Company, and conversed
improperly, so as to lower their dignity and Character.” Pierce Butler
added that senators “should not only have a handsome income but
should spend it all,” both men unabashedly claiming that fine living
vested politicians with dignity of character, thereby establishing the
authority of the government (fig. 7).57
The debate erupted in the newspapers with the congressional
election of 1790. The nation’s “high mightinesses” believe that lodg-
ings of “five dollars per week, and travel on horseback . . . degrade the
dignity of their character, and bring a stigma on our wealthy govern-
ment,” charged a writer in the New-York Journal, while lodgings at
“ten dollars per week and travel in a carriage and four” inspire “respect
and awe.” Such unnecessary expense was an attempt to exclude from
office “low fellows (a strange expression in a republic).” Other writers
cited classical statesmen as proof that fine living was not essential to
national leadership. “Was the simplicity of Cato, Cincinnatus, and Fa-
bius . . . despised?” asked one essayist. Another noted that he had “read
Plutarch, and can find no instance, where he praises the tables of his
Grecian and Roman patriots.” 58
The Senate was no more agreed upon ceremonial titles, a topic
that agitated Maclay to distraction. Verbal adornments that conferred
instant status, titles seemed like an ideal way to clothe the new govern-
ment in dignity and authority. For this same reason, others considered
them anathema to republican governance: they were too blatantly Eu-
 the theater of national politics 41

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 7. Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Izard (Alice DeLancey), by John Singleton Copley,
1775. Izard’s high style is readily apparent in this portrait, painted during a stay
in Italy. It is not surprising that he advocated large salaries for congressmen and
considered his horse and carriage essential to his public persona. (Courtesy of
the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston; Edward Ingersoll Brown Fund. Reproduced
with permission. © 2000 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. All rights reserved.)

ropean, too exclusive, too suggestive of an institutionalized breach be-

tween governors and governed.
This debate was more than a political abstraction, particularly to
John Adams. As president of the Senate, what would become of his
title when President Washington entered the Senate chamber? “What
shall I be?” he asked in a panic, throwing himself back in his chair.
Barely able to suppress a giggle (“God forgive me, for it was involun-
tary,” Maclay confessed), Maclay watched as a “Solemn Silence” en-
sued while a senator thumbed through the Constitution and at length
reported “with the most profound gravity” that “where the Senate is
to be, then Sir you must be at the head of them. but further Sir, (here
 42 the theater of national politics

he looked agast, as if some tremendous Gulph had Ya[w]ned before

him) I, shall, not, pretend, to, say.” Adams’s title was so central to his
public identity that he feared he would be obliterated without it. Oth-
ers mocked such pretensions by dispensing silly titles, dubbing the tall
Maclay “Your highness of the Senate” and Adams “Your Rotundity.” 59
But Adams was not alone in his opinions. When a Senate bill
styled some senators “the Honorable,” the House voted to strike out
the word—even before consideration of the bill itself. The Senate re-
sponded, Madison later recalled, with “an amendment to the amendt.
by which the naming of the Senators was left out.” The senators re-
fused to have their names printed without the proper display of re-
spect, charging the House, in turn, with the “Affectation of simplic-
ity.” The controversy was only “apparently of little moment,” Madison
cautioned, aware that it was part of a continuing debate over political
leadership and national character.60
The problem was the lack of precise standards. Every politician
assumed that he was a sound republican, straightforward and virtuous
in spirit, public-minded in practice. It was people with different cul-
tural standards who seemed to threaten national character. Maclay
concluded as much within his first weeks in office. He had once
thought that New Englanders were the most republican people in the
nation, but a “full opportunity of observing the Gentlemen of New
England” had convinced him otherwise. Northern men dwell on “triv-
ial distinctions, and Matters of Mere form,” he complained. They were
not proper republicans. “We have really more republican plainess, and
sincere openess of behaviour in Pennsylvania,” he concluded, per-
plexed that “men born & educated Under republican forms of Govern-
ment, should be so contrasted.” 61
Republicanism was thus far more than a disembodied philosophy
of government; on the precedent-setting national stage, it was a way
of life. Republican virtue was evident in a man’s clothing and manner,
the lace on his jacket or the ornaments on his table speaking volumes
about his political character. Maclay well realized this, scrutinizing his
colleagues’ appearance as much as their votes. Whether engaged in
debate or mingling at a levee, public men were reading each other’s
politics, decoding messages conveyed by demeanor and lifestyle. They
 the theater of national politics 43

were debating national character through self-presentation, each politi-

cian self-consciously crafting his own image of republican leadership.62
Defining themselves as a national elite, public figures variously
avoided, adopted, and adapted past precedents, sometimes succumb-
ing to habit, sometimes making deliberate republican modifications.
Maclay’s diary reveals a wide spectrum of interpretations, politicians
employing different props of leadership according to their regions,
fortunes, personalities, reputations, and politics. Not surprisingly,
he reserved the most commentary for George Washington’s perfor-
mance. As America’s republican monarch, Washington had an exceed-
ingly difficult role: somehow he had to embody the new govern-
ment’s dignity and authority without rising to monarchical excess. It
was an almost impossible task, for there was no clear definition of ex-
cess and, as suggested by Maclay’s obsessive interest, a prevailing as-
sumption about the overriding influence of Washington’s example.
In a sense, Washington was the new nation’s political fault-line, and
all eyes were watching for the first sign of slippage. As Maclay well
recognized, “General Washington stood on as difficult Ground, as he
ever had done in his life.” 63
Even the wary Maclay could perceive that the president was
straining to hold a middle ground. As Washington himself explained,
he aimed for “simplicity of dress, and every thing which can tend to
support propriety of character without partaking of the follies of luxury
and ostentation.” His inaugural suit—made of plain brown American
broadcloth and adorned with gilt buttons and diamond shoe buck-
les—was a particularly skillful compromise; its republican symbolism
was clear, but the homespun was “so handsomely finished” that “it
was universally mistaken for a foreign manufactured cloth.” 64 His pres-
idential uniform—a dignified blue or black suit, ceremonial sword,
and hat—embodied a similar compromise (fig. 8). With it, he was
President Washington. Without it, he was General Washington, a dis-
tinction that even the newspapers acknowledged.65
A family friend saw Washington “become” the president in the
middle of an informal dinner. Informed that some men were waiting
at the door to express their respect, Washington “disappeared, shortly
thereafter making his appearance in full dress.” After addressing his
 44 the theater of national politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 8. George Washington (1732–99), by

Gilbert Stuart, 1796–97. Once owned by
Alexander Hamilton, this portrait shows
Washington wearing his presidential
“uniform”—and reveals something of his
imposing gravitas as well. (Collections of
The New York Public Library, Astor,
Lenox and Tilden Foundations)

visitors, he “again retired and came down to dinner in his usual cos-
tume.” 66 Washington used his finery as a badge of office, hanging it—
and the presidency—in his wardrobe when not in use.
Washington’s costume change reveals the transformative power
of fine clothing. Impressive attire enabled “great” men and women to
appear great, literally enwrapping them in status. William Loughton
Smith used this power to his advantage during a trip into the back-
country to determine public opinion of the new government. Dressed
in plain clothes, he dined with a group of “respectable citizens” who
“spoke their minds freely.” After leaving “to dress” (as if he had been
undressed in plain clothes), Smith stunned his companions upon his
 the theater of national politics 45

return. “We suppose, sir, from your acquaintance with the proceedings
of Congress, that you probably are a member of that body,” one man
nervously asked. Smith identified himself. “Had we known who you
were, we should have spoken with more reserve about Congress,”
came the response (though “they had said nothing offensive”). “It was
on that account I had not discovered who I was,” Smith responded.
He wanted “to hear their opinions about Government with free-
dom.” 67 Smith used plain clothes as a disguise, adopting formal dress
and revealing his identity only upon completion of his mission.
Some men downplayed their apparel as much as possible—with-
out straying too far from the more aristocratic standards set by some
of their peers. For example, Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson wore
relatively plain clothes. Visiting him upon Jefferson’s return from Eu-
rope, Rush noted with satisfaction that he appeared “plain in his dress
and unchanged in his manners.” Maclay was less impressed. Jefferson’s
“cloaths seem too small for him,” he noticed. “His Whole figure has
a loose shackling Air . . . & nothing of that firm collected deportment
which I expected would dignify the presence of a Secretary or Min-
ister.” 68
To Maclay, Jefferson was too lax for a cabinet member (though,
interestingly, not for a congressman); the hierarchy of public office
demanded something more. Yet the perceptive senator detected Jeffer-
son’s way of compensating for his modest appearance. The secretary
tended to ramble in his conversation, scattering “brilliant sentiments”
and quaintly clever aphorisms—the witty style of a salonier that
Maclay recognized as the “tone of European folly.” To Jefferson, the
ideal republican politician joined European cultural sophistication
with an American disdain for luxury, a pose that struck many as decep-
tive. As one English observer put it, Jefferson “has a degree of finesse
about him, which at first is not discernable.” 69
Washington’s self-presentation had a different cast, vesting him
with dignified authority. In manner, too, he self-consciously main-
tained a middle ground between authority and modesty,70 most strik-
ingly, perhaps, in his daily constitutional: at two o’clock each after-
noon, he dispensed with his carriage and strolled around the block in
the muck of the streets like anyone else—a seemingly trivial gesture
 46 the theater of national politics

with a powerful impact. Its graphic egalitarianism proved that Wash-

ington was no king. His afternoon walks won him high praise, particu-
larly among Virginians, who considered a fine equipage the distin-
guishing mark of the planter gentry and thus appreciated the sacrifice.
Given the grandeur of his cream-colored coach, drawn by six matching
horses and manned by liveried coachmen, Washington’s walks were
politically savvy as well, for austere republicans viewed such display
“with regret.” Surrounded by such splendor, Washington identified
himself as the nation’s first character wherever he rode. To one senator,
the executive branch was so weak that the president would only “have
power as far as he would be seen in his Coach and Six.” 71
As demonstrated by Washington’s daily walk, politicians were
self-consciously promoting their republican virtue—and thus, their
reputations as political leaders—by setting arbitrary limits on genteel
display. Such deliberate compromises formed the language of Ameri-
ca’s republican court, in which national politicians struggled to prove
their merit by displaying both their superiority and their republican
sense of sacrifice. The problem was the lack of absolutes. One man’s
dispensable luxury was another man’s essential prop of authority. Tris-
tram Dalton left his carriage at home to avoid the appearance of
“Parading,” for example, but an unnamed senator—possibly Ralph
Izard—considered his carriage so central to his public persona that he
refused to leave the Senate without it, an early adjournment stranding
him alone in the Senate chamber for hours at a time. “This is highly
embarrassing,” Maclay noted, “and some excuse must be formed for
his staying for the Carriage. and he is now lame.” 72
Hamilton exercised a third option, occasionally dispensing with
his carriage but remaining distant and unapproachable even among
common folk in the streets. As newspaper essayist “Machiavel”
quipped, anyone aspiring to be “first lord of the T[reasury]” should
“appear in the streets but seldom, and then let him make care to look
down on the pavement as if lost in thought profound.” 73 By avoiding
eye contact, Hamilton kept himself at a genteel distance, even when
surrounded by people.
“Machiavel’s” attack and the praise for Washington’s afternoon
strolls reveal that national politicians had reason to worry about their
 the theater of national politics 47

self-presentation: they really were being watched, as John Adams dis-

covered on several occasions. Upbraided by an onlooker for using a
carriage, he responded sarcastically that he “walked a league in the
streets of Philadelphia everyday, which is more than any other member
of Congress ever did. So that in this respect I am undoubtedly the
man of the most merit, any where to be found.” Adams may have
made light of the charge, but others took it more seriously. In a letter
to Washington, Virginian David Stuart censured Adams for never ap-
pearing “but in his carryage & six—As trivial as this may appear, it
appears to be more captivating to the generality than matters of more
importance.” Attempting to mitigate Adams’s sin, Washington admit-
ted that the vice president was “high toned” but claimed that Adams
had “never . . . appeared with more than two horses in his Carriage.” 74
To Washington, the difference between two horses and six distin-
guished need from luxury.
Compelled to avoid ostentation, many politicians responded by
glorying in female splendor, appraising social events according to the
number of women present and the magnificence of their costumes. In
his diary, Washington regularly recorded the number of “well dressed
Ladies” at a function. During a 1791 trip to Charleston, South Carolina,
he noted a concert attended by four hundred women, “the number
and appearance of wch. exceeded any thing of the kind I had ever
seen.” Massachusetts Representative Theodore Sedgwick made similar
observations in letters to his wife. On one occasion, he attended an
assembly expressly hoping to “have found all the ladies of Philadelphia
present.” To his great disappointment, “there were not more (strange
circumstance) than twenty single women & perhaps half that number
of married ones.” Even the austere Maclay took note of female splen-
dor in his diary.75 These men enjoyed such pageantry as they would a
theater performance, for in the midst of so much anxious quibbling
over male ostentation it confirmed their prestige as a governing class.
Yet even as they praised female splendor, politicians condemned
it: women would corrupt the national political community—and
thereby the public—with their natural love of luxury. “Aspiring men
in power” would join with “players, Printers, Fops & fine Ladies” to
corrupt the republic, warned Virginian Walter Jones. George Mason
 48 the theater of national politics

likewise thought that “those Damnd Monarchical fellows with the

Vice President, & the Women” would destroy the nation.76 Anxious
about status and reputation but unable to indulge in ostentatious dis-
play, politicians were both attracted to and repelled by female dis-
play—a contradiction that reveals their ambivalence toward luxury and
the pageantry of government.
Not surprisingly, John Adams was particularly sensitive to the
pretense of republican sacrifice. To deny the need for honors and dis-
tinctions was “to practice a strange hypocrysy upon ourselves,” he ar-
gued. Any government needed “signs and Ceremonies” as props of
authority, and the American people were particularly responsive to
such display. It was self-righteous republican politicians (like Maclay)
who complicated matters. Given the state of affairs, Washington’s sec-
retary David Humphreys would “do well to lay aside” the “French
embroidery” that adorned his jacket; among hyper-vigilant republi-
cans, it was sure to cast doubt on Humphreys’s politics. Adams’s own
clothes were French as well, he confessed, left over from his years in
Europe and worn from necessity because his salary would “not admit
. . . of my purchasing new ones, more cheap and plain.” 77 Adams
dressed like an aristocrat because he could not afford to dress like a
republican—an excuse that reveals the contrived nature of republican
simplicity.
Maclay’s awkward self-consciousness was thus not a quirk of
character or a literary guise adopted for self-defense. Nor were his de-
tailed descriptions of personal manners and table settings born of a
mere obsession. They were the natural result of the politics of self-
presentation. National politicians were attempting to devise a style of
national leadership amid conflicting and ambiguous standards, a cul-
tural battle with profound personal and political implications.

The Politics of Indirection

Uncomfortable with Old World pageantry, national politicians were
equally discomfited by the corruption and conspiracies of court poli-
tics. Intent on promoting their fortunes and reputations, traditional
courtiers lived in a netherworld of political intrigue, a semi-institution-
 the theater of national politics 49

alized network of privilege with little if any interest in the common

man. For Americans far removed from royal courts and only recently
divorced from a corrupt ministry of their own, the image was power-
ful. Maclay feared that it was simply a matter of time before America
fell back into its “old habits and intercourse.” 78
His worst fears came true during the debates over the assumption
of state debts and the location of the national capital. As the gears of
government ground to a halt, Maclay watched in horror as republican
accountability gave way to a nefarious “under plot” of private bargains
between champions of assumption and men who wanted the national
capital in their home state. The process of government was unfolding
in secret negotiations hidden from public view, and few men were
more tangled in this web of intrigue than Maclay’s fellow Pennsylva-
nian Robert Morris, whose “propensity for bargaining” was unrivaled
(fig. 9). Informed of one of Morris’s secret vote-trading schemes,
Maclay responded with outrage. This was not the way of republican
governance. “We must be able to declare upon honor that we have no
bargain,” he urged, and his plea hit home, for Morris appeared “a little
hurt.” 79
Maclay felt that such “Jockeying and bargaining” set a dangerous
precedent, and he was not alone. Oliver Ellsworth likewise complained
of “a Secret Understanding a Bargaining, that ran thro’ all our proceed-
ings,” as did William Loughton Smith, who regretted the “negotia-
tions, cabals, meetings, plots & counterplots” that had “more influence
on the public business than fair argument & an attention to the general
good.” Rufus King also railed against intrigue, venting his frustrations
at the control center of political bargaining himself, Alexander Ham-
ilton. Informed by Hamilton that he “had made up his mind ” to sacri-
fice the national capital for his funding system, King protested that
“great & good schemes ought to succeed not by intrigue or the estab-
lishment of bad measures.” By removing the process of government
from the public eye, such scheming circumvented open debate and
compromise—the bedrock of republican governance. As a writer in
the Portland Gazette wrote, “In republics there should be no secrets.” 80
Condemning such behavior in their diaries and letters, national leaders
bore witness to its pervasive influence.
 50 the theater of national politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 9. Robert Morris (1734–1806), by

Robert Edge Pine, ca. 1785. The wealthy
Philadelphia merchant earned national
renown as superintendent of finance from
1781 to 1784. When America’s credit ran
alarmingly low during the difficult postwar
years, Morris pledged his personal credit in
its place. His financial luck ended in 1798
when his speculative empire collapsed and
he was confined to debtor’s prison.
(Courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery,
Smithsonian Institution)

All these men condemned political intrigue, yet none avoided it.
Even as Smith complained about “plots & counterplots,” he confessed
to participating in a “meeting” of negotiation between “New England,
New York & myself.” King made a similar confession, telling an “as-
tonished” Maclay that “he had engaged his Vote for the Assumption,
if the Residence stayed in New York.” And though Maclay never
traded his vote, even he politicked covertly on occasion. Political prac-
ticalities demanded it. Sometimes only a counteroffer could compel a
 the theater of national politics 51

congressman to favor a national compromise over the interests of his

home state. Private negotiations were immoral but alarmingly neces-
sary. “All great Governments resolve themselve[s] into Cabal,” Maclay
reflected sadly. “Our’s is a mere System of Jockeying Opinions. Vote
this way for me, & i’ll vote that way for you.” 81
In his diary, Maclay proudly resisted such intrigue; it would be
the ultimate proof of his virtuous independence—and thus the ulti-
mate explanation of his failure. Rather than resisting the demands of
politics, more practical politicians chose a different course of action.
Ever thinking of their judgmental audience, they devised ways to ne-
gotiate without violating republican sensibilities, creating an indirect
means of politicking that is often illogical—even invisible—to the
modern eye. Maclay recorded one such negotiation during the assump-
tion and national capital crises. Eager to strike a deal with Hamilton,
Morris took a peculiar course of action; rather than simply arranging
a private meeting, he wrote a note to the New Yorker explaining that
he “would be walking early in the Morning on the Battery, and if Col.
Hamilton had anything to propose to him, he might meet him there
as if by accident.” 82 To avoid public censure and maintain the appear-
ance of republican accountability, Morris arranged an elaborate cha-
rade, refitting casual socializing for political purpose.
Foreign ministers were perplexed by this distinctly American pol-
itics of indirection, unsure how to proceed without the ready conve-
nience of back-room politicking. French minister Comte de Moustier
was stunned when Washington refused to speak privately with him
about Franco-American relations. Moustier had addressed himself
“not to the President of the United States, but to General Washington,”
the Frenchman explained. He was a “friend” who had not “the least
idea of making the most remote overture for any negociation whatso-
ever.” By requesting a meeting “in conversation” rather than in writing,
he had “given proof ” that he did not “mean to act officially with the
President of the United States”—an explanation that revealed much
about the subtleties of court etiquette. Moustier understood Washing-
ton’s hesitance, acknowledging the importance of public ceremony,
but back-room bargains were the stuff of politics. Close study of court
etiquette the world over had taught him an important lesson: “Public
 52 the theater of national politics

forms are not to vary, but confidential measures are adapted to circum-
stances.” 83 Moustier saw the need for a semi-institutionalized private
channel of government. Washington did not agree.
If private negotiations were out of bounds, what was the proper
stage for such informal politicking? Maclay’s diary reveals the answer.
As suggested by his close study of proceedings both on and off the
floor of Congress, social events filled the gap. Dinner parties and recep-
tions were ideal political stages, private enough for quiet asides yet
public enough to avoid seeming secretive. Chatting informally at a
dinner table, public figures could negotiate without compromising
their principles or risking their reputations. Foreign observers well rec-
ognized the distinctive function of social events in American politics.
As French minister Pierre Auguste Adet advised a countryman, “Your
Minister could do nothing here did he not often have Congressmen
at his table. . . . [I]t is after dinner that one relaxes, discusses matters,
and it is during the toasts that confidence and persuasion can slip in.” 84
Given the significance of social events, no invitation seemed de-
void of political purpose, no friendly aside without meaning. Maclay
recognized Thomas Mifflin’s dinner party as “an electioneering deci-
sion” intended to help Mifflin become governor of Pennsylvania.
Seemingly innocuous social calls from the Reverend Doctor John Rod-
gers and Thomas Jefferson were attempts to influence Maclay’s vote,
as were invitations to dine with Washington. A visit from Izard was
a “scrutinizing Errand” regarding the national capital. Even Maclay
himself engaged in such social politicking, confessing with some em-
barrassment that a number of social calls were bids for support of his
reelection. Several of his hosts said expressly that they “would support
me at the ensuing Election,” Maclay noted, “believing That to be the
Object of my Visit. As it in some Measure was.” In 1795 Secretary of
State Timothy Pickering exposed the political purpose of social calls
when he declined a dinner invitation from a private citizen, explaining
that his limited finances restricted him to “useful” occasions. It was for
this reason that Adams wanted a higher salary, for without it he could
not entertain—and politick—in the proper manner.85
There was no shortage of social events to adapt to this purpose.
In fact, there was a dinner, reception, theater performance, or levee
 the theater of national politics 53

almost every night of the week. There were Washington’s formal lev-
ees every Tuesday afternoon and his public dinners every Thursday:
attendance at the former was virtually de rigueur for national officials,
the latter were by invitation only. A handful of political wives also
held weekly levees, each claiming a different night of the week. Maclay
also had a weekly dinner with his state delegation, featuring copi-
ous amounts of food, wine, cigars, and dirty jokes. These dinners (like
most dinners at the time) lasted up to six hours—two hours longer
than the average day at Congress.86 Usually they featured several
courses, a generous selection of wines, and, after the tablecloth had
been removed, a lengthy period during which the ladies enjoyed tea
in the parlor and the men drank port, smoked cigars, ate fruit and nuts,
and talked politics in the dining room. The removal of the cloth (and
the exit of the women) signaled the start of serious political talk. As
Maclay noted during one particularly dull presidential dinner, after
“the Cloath was taken away” and “Mrs. Washington at last withdrew
with the Ladies,” he “expected the Men would now begin.” But Wash-
ington’s solemn, unsmiling presence put a damper on the evening—
even after Chief Justice John Jay told a dirty joke. Overcome by the
endless stream of social events, Washington’s fatigue and frustration
were apparent, particularly in his absent-minded habit of banging his
silverware against the table “like a drumstick.” 87
The politicization of socializing vested etiquette with extreme im-
portance, for close adherence to its rules and rituals enabled public
figures to avoid unintentional personal slights that might have political
consequences. Among people so attuned to subtleties of reputation,
a seemingly trivial faux pas could create an enemy for life. So John
Adams discovered in the summer of 1789. Chatting with Washington
at his levee, Adams saw someone bow to him, but he “could not whilst
addressing the President return his bow with Propriety.” Offended by
this perceived snub, the wounded party launched a newspaper attack
on Adams shortly thereafter, deriding Adams’s pomposity and arro-
gance.88 Printed in the Massachusetts Centinel the piece was an attempt
to strike Adams where it would hurt: before his home audience.
Social calls were particularly rule bound, for visiting was a highly
symbolic act; a visit made and returned was a deliberate expression of
 54 the theater of national politics

mutual respect, a vital display in a fragile political community of rela-

tive strangers. Neglecting to return a visit was a serious insult. Public
figures thus carefully calculated visits owed and received, leaving a card
to cancel their debt when someone was not at home. “Complimentary
Visits . . . have kept me more engaged and fatigued me more than
the closest attention to business,” complained Virginia Representative
Alexander White, as did Theodore Sedgwick of Massachusetts, who
considered himself a “very great churl” because he owed more than
fifty visits. Maclay thus had reason to be insulted when John Adams
falsely claimed to have paid him a call, yet another seeming display of
disrespect. Abigail Adams was more skilled at the art of the social call,
deliberately visiting people when they were not at home, a strategy
that enabled her to return as many as twenty visits in an afternoon.89
So serious were such obligations that when Moustier’s sister-in-
law Madame de Bréhan refused to call on congressional wives, she
precipitated an international incident. Of course, Bréhan and Moustier
were none too popular to begin with. Moustier had an annoying habit
of bringing his own food to dinner parties to avoid having to eat Amer-
ican cooking, as he did at a dinner hosted by Hamilton. Even more
distressing was the allegedly “illicit connection” between Bréhan and
her brother-in-law Moustier—“her paramour” as Madison put it.
Thus, when Bréhan declared herself too ill “to spend my life in paying
visits,” she was virtually ostracized, only “Two, or three Ladies” prov-
ing “indulgent” enough to visit, “sometimes without keeping ac-
counts.” The kerchief-tied hairstyle with which she received at least
one visitor was the last straw, straining Franco-American relations
enough to bestir John Jay and James Madison. Writing to Jefferson,
America’s minister to France, they obtained Moustier’s recall. Bréhan
departed at his side.90
Clearly, the symbolism of a visit mattered more than its content.
Washington took full advantage of this fact during his first days in
office, paying a call of respect on every congressman: the national exec-
utive paying homage to the people’s branch. His visits were so sym-
bolic, however, that he barely walked through each boarding-house
door. As Maclay noted in his diary (without surprise), Washington
 the theater of national politics 55

rode up to his boarding house, dismounted, said good day, made two
“complaisant Bows,” mounted his horse, and departed.91
Interaction with the nation’s republican king was the most politi-
cized social intercourse of all, as suggested by Maclay’s befuddlement
around Washington. In part, Maclay’s reaction was due to his near
hero-worship of America’s “first of men.” But it was the political impli-
cations of such socializing that unnerved him more. Note, for example,
his complex reaction to an August 1789 invitation to dine with the
president—his first such invitation: “I really was surprized at the invi-
tation. it will be my duty to go. however I will make no inferences
Whatever. I am convinced all the dinners he can now give or ever
could, will make no difference in my Conduct. perhaps he knew not
of my being in Town. perhaps he has changed his mind of me. I was
long enough in Town however before my going home. It is a thing
of Course and of no Consequence. nor shall it have any with me.” 92
Surprise instantly repressed to a sense of duty—suspicion about the
dinner’s political purpose—a flash of self-doubt—the hope that he
may have mistaken Washington’s disfavor—and a final pat on the back
for his steadfast republicanism spill onto the pages of Maclay’s diary
in the space of a few sentences.
Maclay was no more poised around Washington at the end of
his tenure. An invitation to sit beside the president at a January 1791
reception literally paralyzed Maclay with self-doubt; already moving
toward an empty seat, he was brought to a standstill by Washington’s
friendly gesture. He longed to accept the honor, but would turning
back imply monarchical deference? What was the republican thing to
do? Priding himself on his principles, Maclay kept walking, though he
marveled at Washington’s attentions in his diary that night.93
There was at least one person who did not deign to mask his
political intrigues: Alexander Hamilton. To Maclay, Hamilton was
corruption incarnate, deliberately corrupting the legislature through
illicit after-hours meetings behind closed doors. To a certain extent,
Hamilton would have agreed. In his eyes, private agreements and po-
litical log-rolling were the essence of politics, and a politician was both
foolish and impractical to think otherwise. Without the ability to bar-
 56 the theater of national politics

gain behind closed doors, the government would come to a grinding

halt, its constitutional checks and balances producing a state of perpet-
ual stalemate. It was this assumption that led foreign diplomats to sin-
gle out Hamilton as the most cosmopolitan member of the new gov-
ernment. Unlike many of his peers, Hamilton was willing and eager
to politick privately with diplomats and other functionaries, for it was
in private conversation that alliances were forged and understandings
reached. As British minister George Hammond said of him, “The S[ec-
retary] of the T[reasury] is more a man of the world than J[efferson]
and I like his manners better, and can speak more freely to him. J[effer-
son] . . . prefers writing to conversing and thus it is that we are apart.” 94
Hamilton’s distinctly Old World style of politicking reinforced prevail-
ing American suspicions about his politics, particularly for close wit-
nesses like Thomas Jefferson.
In the public yet private realm of the social event, women became
political actors as well. At a June 1789 dinner party, Robert Morris’s
wife Mary informed Maclay of an invaluable—and alarming—piece of
news. Maclay had “ever been very attentive” to discover Washington’s
private views on monarchical pomp and ceremony. Mary Morris en-
lightened him. During a recent visit, Washington “had declared him-
self in the most pointed Manner for Generous Salaries, and added that
without large Salaries proper Persons, never could be got to fill the
offices of Government with propriety”—a statement that was dis-
tressing enough to merit underlining for emphasis. Considering Wash-
ington’s notoriously icy demeanor, this was valuable information in-
deed. Isabella Bell, the daughter of a close friend, also passed on useful
political news during an afternoon’s walk, explaining that people
thought Morris was playing a double game. Although Maclay reas-
sured Bell of Morris’s integrity, the accusation shook him.95
As political agents, women often had an advantage. Seemingly
powerless and apolitical—a targeted audience for male display—they
often gained access to privileged information. Sometimes flirtation led
to political disclosures; Thomas Jefferson deemed his young secretary
David Salisbury Franks politically unreliable because he had “too little
guard over his lips . . . particularly in the company of women, where
he loses all power over himself and becomes almost frenzied.” 96 Some-
 the theater of national politics 57

times social gallantry inspired political concessions. Abigail Adams as-

sumed as much when she promised to put in a kind word for an office-
seeking relative. Because the president was “always very civil polite and
social with me,” she might be able to “drop a word to him” at a dinner
next week. Sometimes a woman’s apolitical status invited men to let
down their guard. For this reason, Tobias Lear thought that Martha
Washington would be an ideal spy. “As the Ladies are very expert” at
gathering information, she could collect public opinion of her hus-
band’s performance. Lear knew “no person better qualified—her very
serious & benevolent countenance would not suffer a person to hide
a thing from her.” Lear was only half serious, joking that he “would
give a great deal to be present” when his correspondent raised the mat-
ter with Martha Washington.97 Nonetheless, his suggestion reveals that
social events gave women access to pathways of political power.
The political significance of social events explains the contents
and logic of Maclay’s diary. Devoting equal attention to congressional
debate and private socializing, he was attempting to chronicle the en-
tirety of the political record. The indirection of national politicking
made his account all the more important; Maclay would defend his
reputation and reveal political corruption in one stroke. Unfortu-
nately, his message went unheeded. Powerless on the national stage, he
eventually left national office in a haze of obscurity, his diary ignored.

“The Pain & Mortification That I Experienced

in My Honorable Station”
The irony of Maclay’s national career did not escape him. His presti-
gious office had brought him nothing but humiliation, demonstrating
his powerlessness on a highly exposed stage. He had achieved nothing:
congressional salaries were higher than he had hoped, Hamilton’s cor-
rupt engine of aristocratic privilege was still in operation, and monar-
chical precedents seemed to multiply daily. He had been neglected,
insulted, ignored, and dismissed. His unsuccessful bid for reelection
was the final insult, a humiliating public rejection. Indeed, the dis-
honor of his lost election was so devastating that he devised an elabo-
rate escape plan in anticipation of it: he would have his horse “in Readi-
 58 the theater of national politics

ness” and his “letter of Resignation . . . ready all to the filling [of ] the
Date,” enabling him to make a hasty retreat, for “with so many Eyes
Upon” him, there was no telling what he might do. Leaving Congress
Hall on his last day in office, he “gave it a look, with that kind of
Satisfaction which A Man feels on leaving a place Where he has been
ill at Ease. being fully satisfyed that many A Culprit, has served Two
Years at the Wheel-Barrow, without feeling half the pain & mortifica-
tion, that I experienced, in my honorable Station”—his diary’s closing
words.98 This was the ultimate legacy of his national career: the “pain &
mortification” of a wounded reputation.
His only solace was his unflagging diligence. For two years, he
had fought in debate, cajoled his friends, plied his correspondence,
written newspaper essays, and compiled his diary in an attempt to stem
the monarchical “torrent Which is pouring down Upon Us.” Yet in
the end, it was all for naught. “Nothing that I could do either by con-
versation or writing has been wanting to let the People Men see the
danger which is before them,” he insisted, his revision revealing much
about his intended audience. He had focused his efforts primarily on
one group of men—his state assemblymen, the men who could reelect
him to office—yet they had shown no interest in either Maclay or his
efforts, leaving his diary a closed book. As he reflected on December
31, 1790, looking back over the previous year, “This is the last day of
the Year and I have faithfully noted every political transaction, that
has happened to me in it. and of What avail has it been? I thought it
probable, That I would be called on with respect to the part I had
acted in [the] Senate by the Legislature of Pennsylvania, or at least by
some of them. But is there a Man of them, who has thought it Worth
while to ask me a single Question?” No one seemed “to care a farthing”
about his efforts, and Maclay knew why. They were “straining, after
Offices, Posts and preferments” in the new government, not simply
uninterested in the government’s problems but part of the problem
themselves. Without their notice, his diary was of no use, he sadly
concluded, “unless I wish gratification to myself.” 99
This rueful observation holds the key to Maclay’s failure. Rather
than forging a reputation among his peers, he focused his efforts on
his home audience, a logical strategy that was poorly suited to the
 the theater of national politics 59

national stage. In an age before institutionalized parties, reputation

was the currency of national politics, a personalized banner of character
and standing that won or lost political contests. For strangers in a
strange new arena, it was all the more important, for a man without
a reliable reputation was untrustworthy, unknown, and destined for
the sidelines, as Maclay learned over time. Obtaining, maintaining,
and attacking reputations: this was the national political game, played
out before a nebulous audience with conflicting demands. Ironically,
Maclay’s diary—his deliberately chosen path of resistance—was the
worst possible strategy. The key to national politics lay in appealing
to the proper audience, and despite Maclay’s best intentions, his diary
appealed to no audience at all.
It would be more than fifty years after his death before Maclay’s
diary received public notice, and even then the response was lukewarm
at best. In the 1860s, after determining that there was no other detailed
account of proceedings in the first Senate, Maclay’s nephew George
Washington Harris urged Congress to secure the diary’s publication.
In spite of Harris’s best efforts, however, it continued to languish until
1880, when Harris published a highly censored edition at his own ex-
pense; even then, the government refused to purchase copies.100 The
diary was not professionally published until 1890, nearly a hundred
years after the events that it chronicled had transpired. The govern-
ment did not purchase Maclay’s original three volumes until 1941,
when it paid Maclay’s descendants a whopping $750 for the privilege
(fig. 10).101
The value and message of Maclay’s diary went long unnoticed
for good reason. Aside from its accounts of senatorial debates, it ap-
peared to have little significance. Such is the price of an indirect politics
of self-presentation and social events; the very camouflage that justified
such politicking in the 1790s virtually guaranteed its invisibility to later
generations. Yet this camouflage contains an essential truth about
national politics in its earliest decades, revealing the overriding im-
portance of appealing to an audience. National politicians were no
isolated elite, politicking in a bubble of ideology and high ideals. For
reasons both personal and political, they were accountable to a public
with enormous power over their reputations and careers. They shaped
 60 the theater of national politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 10. William Maclay’s Diary. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress)

their politicking and posturing around this nebulous audience, its

ambiguities fueling the anxieties that so colored Maclay’s world. Dif-
ferent national politicians may have attempted to suppress, stifle, or
influence this public in different ways, but as a constant and judg-
mental audience in a culture of reputation, the public had a prevailing
power of its own. This mutual push and pull is the dynamic of republi-
can politics.
Reputation reigned supreme in such an environment, and Maclay’s
diary bears witness to its all-encompassing power. Though he occa-
sionally fretted about his motives and desires, he was concerned pri-
marily with his identity in the eyes of others. Even his diary was other-
directed rather than confessional, a shielding device for his reputation.
Maclay’s aching desire to play the right part, joined with his uncer-
tainty about which part to play, attests to the difficulties of politicking
in a political culture yet in the making. With no defined model for
national leadership, elite politicians were struggling to determine their
political identities, a challenge that could not help but have a profound
impact on their reputations and sense of self.
 the theater of national politics 61

Maclay’s diary thus tells a story that extends far beyond the Senate
floor. By committing his mental landscape to paper, he exposed the
assumptions that gave order to his world. Other national politicians
did the same in their diaries, letters, and pamphlets. In years to come,
still others documented their world in a more deliberate fashion, ex-
plaining their motives, intentions, and experiences in autobiographies,
biographies, and memoirs penned in their old age; John Marshall’s
five-volume Life of Washington, published between 1804 and 1807,
would launch this historical dialogue by infuriating those who dis-
agreed with its Federalist worldview, Thomas Jefferson perhaps most
of all. On the pages of these histories is preserved the politics of the
founding era as its veterans understood it. Between the lines lurks the
logic of politics on the national stage.
 Slander, Poison, Whispers, and Fame
the art of political gossip

Thomas Jefferson was angry. The first histories of the 1790s were ap-
pearing in print, filled with a pattern of Federalist lies. To Jefferson,
the foremost offender was Chief Justice John Marshall’s monumental
five-volume biography of Washington, a history lauded as the most
accurate to date, based on Washington’s actual correspondence, the
most authentic of evidence.1 But Jefferson knew better. This history
would tell the wrong story. He felt sure that it would be a Federalist
diatribe, an intricate lie to dupe the people. To the aging president,
such had been the Federalists’ practice since they had first cast their
shadow across the national stage.
Jefferson responded to this Federalist threat as he always had: he
devised a way to circulate the “truth.” In the past, he had relied on
political weapons both printed and oral to expose partisan intrigue to
the American people. True to Jefferson’s hopes, in 1800 the people
had chosen the right path, rejecting the Federalist regime in what he
termed a “revolution of sentiment.” 2 Now, a decade later, he felt con-

{ 62 }
 the art of political gossip 63

fident that given a choice between Federalist lies and Republican truth,
the people would choose correctly once again.
Jefferson’s present battle differed from the political combat of the
1790s, but it was no less important a contest: he and Marshall were
battling over the construction of history. To Jefferson, it was a critical
fight, for Marshall’s false history threatened to corrupt the future by
misinterpreting the past. Jefferson’s response was to create his own
history. He would refute Marshall’s lies by revealing the events and
personalities of the early republic as Jefferson knew them to be.
Uncomfortable with direct confrontation, in 1809 he tried asking
his friend Joel Barlow to write a history countering Marshall’s, but
Barlow refused. A few years later, Jefferson himself attempted a direct
refutation of Marshall’s work—a page-by-page revision of Marshall’s
fifth (and most offensive) volume, detailing the events of Washington’s
presidency. But by his third correction, Jefferson saw that this ap-
proach would be too limited. Marshall had written, “The continent
was divided into two great political parties, the one of which contem-
plated America as a nation, and laboured incessantly to invest the fed-
eral head with powers competent to the preservation of the union. The
other attached itself to the state authorities, viewed all the powers of
congress with jealousy; and assented reluctantly to measures which
would enable the head to act, in any respect, independently of the
members. Men of enlarged and liberal minds . . . arranged themselves
generally in the first party.” Jefferson recognized this as the opening
volley of an attack on the Republican party. “Here begins the artful
complexion he has given to the two parties, federal and republican,”
he noted. “The real difference consisted in their different degrees of
inclination to monarchy or republicanism.” 3 With this, Jefferson laid
down his pen, for in the face of such a fundamental bias, piecemeal
corrections were useless.
Sometime between 1809 and 1818 Jefferson decided upon a new
strategy: he would prepare a documentary collection of his papers as
secretary of state, and let the manuscripts speak for themselves (fig. 11).
The bulk would be official correspondence. But these could easily be
misinterpreted, for Marshall’s history relied on Washington’s letters,
but it was filled with distortions and lies. So to ensure the proper
 64 the art of political gossip

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 11. Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826),

by Charles Willson Peale, 1791.
Jefferson was forty-eight years old, in
the midst of his tenure as secretary of
state, when this portrait was painted.
It was probably intended for Peale’s
museum of cultural and natural
history, which featured a wall of
portraits of Revolutionary War heroes
and national leaders. (Courtesy
of Independence National
Historical Park)

interpretation of his letters, Jefferson included his private memoranda

as well. For most of his public life, he had habitually recorded sig-
nificant conversations on scraps of paper.4 Supplemented by an ex-
planatory introduction, these informal notes would be his strongest
evidence against Marshall, providing a framing narrative of private
anecdotes that would add meaning to the contents of his public papers.
Jefferson had long known that history unfolded in the spaces be-
tween official transactions. He lamented the impossibility of an accu-
 the art of political gossip 65

rate account of the American Revolution because the real history had
taken place in “discussions . . . conducted by Congress with closed
doors[;] and no member, as far as I know, having even made notes
of them, these which are the life and soul of history must for ever be
unknown.” 5 The “life and soul” of political events occurred in private,
removed from the formal realm of policy declarations, open debate,
and polished legislation. Joined with his public papers, Jefferson’s
memoranda of private conversations would reveal the real history of
Washington’s administration.
In spite of Jefferson’s meticulous ordering and reordering of his
papers and memoranda, his history was never published as compiled.
Confronted with three large volumes of documents, the first editor of
Jefferson’s papers, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, omitted the official
documents to leave room for Jefferson’s “conversations.” Lumping
them with memoranda not included in Jefferson’s volumes and titling
them Ana—Latin for a collection of table talk, anecdotes, or gossip—
Randolph established a precedent followed by all succeeding editors
of Jefferson’s papers. From 1829 to the present, Jefferson’s history has
been dismissed as nothing more than a collection of conversations,
a misperception that has led generations of historians to neglect and
misunderstand the work. In 1992, however, the discovery of Jefferson’s
original table of contents for the volumes revealed the logic and mes-
sage of what would come to be known as Jefferson’s “Anas.” 6
Taken as a whole, Jefferson’s recorded conversations speak with
one voice. The groups of men engaged in private discussion all tell the
same story—Jefferson’s story—of a hidden Federalist plot of monar-
chical aspirations and corruption. Like Jefferson and Maclay, they saw
important political plans unfolding beneath the surface of official trans-
actions. Yet paradoxically, even as these Republicans exposed a subter-
ranean Federalist network of whispered conversations, conspiracy, and
secret agreements, they created a Republican version of their own. In
doing so, they laid the groundwork for a national political alliance.
Thus, in ways that Jefferson never imagined, his history—the
“Anas”—allows readers to see beneath official events to a deeper, more
significant level of personal interaction and private discussion. From
the vantage point of a participant, it demonstrates the logistics and
 66 the art of political gossip

organizational impact of a politics of reputation on the national stage.

Maclay saw politics unfolding at dinner tables; Jefferson’s memoranda
offer us a seat, enabling us to hear conversations and witness their
aftereffects. In essence, Jefferson’s “Anas” reveals that beneath the po-
litical superstructure created by the Constitution, a subterranean poli-
tics of intrigue flourished, fueled by political gossip.7

A Politics of Gossip
Gossip was everywhere. New Yorker William Seton heard enough to
offer Alexander Hamilton “the whisper of the day.” Virginia governor
Henry Lee condemned “that servile custom of re-echoing whatever is
communicated without respect to fact.” Jefferson fumed against Ham-
ilton’s slanders, Hamilton raged against Jefferson’s whispers, and
Washington pleaded for an end to the “wounding suspicions and irri-
tating charges.” To Representative Fisher Ames gossip was a sad fact
of political life. “It is provoking,” he sighed, “that a life of virtue and
eminent usefulness should be embittered by calumny—but it is the
ordinary event of the political drama.” 8
Political gossip—private discussion of revealing, immoral, or
dangerous behavior learned and passed on through unofficial chan-
nels—was an “ordinary event of the political drama” in the early repub-
lic. It was a means of practicing politics. When politicians gossiped,
they sized up their enemies, formed alliances, and agreed on common
goals; they practiced partisan politics framed as conversation between
friends. They were not merely conversing, for their discussions were
urgent, disclosing hidden threats to the republic. They were not merely
mud-slinging, for they substantiated accusations with proof. They did
more than share news, for they attached judgments to their observa-
tions. Sure of their evidence and convinced of the corruption of their
foes, purveyors of gossip believed that they were telling the truth, that
their conversation was innocent, and that their aim was the public
good.9 Yet they denounced identical behavior in their adversaries as
corrupt, dishonest, and self-interested. Condemning in others what
they themselves practiced, politicians revealed the puzzling realities of
inventing a polity envisioned as an exemplar to the world; high ideals
 the art of political gossip 67

did not always mesh with political practicalities, fueling the crisis men-
tality of the period’s politics.
Words used to describe gossip reveal the dread and anger it pro-
voked. Many referred to it as “slander” or “calumny,” suggesting that
their attackers were liars. In a culture of reputation this was no simple
slap, for truthfulness was the foundation of genteel status. A truthful
man could be trusted; a liar was weak, untrustworthy, and inferior—
in sum, he was no gentleman. To give the “lie direct” was equivalent
to striking a man: it became an immediate justification for a challenge
to a duel, and indeed, many supposed liars settled their disputes with
their accusers at gunpoint. “Slander” was thus no frivolous accusation,
and those who hurled it were angry enough to risk violent repercus-
sions.10
Some referred to gossip as “poison” and labeled their attempts
to contradict it an “antidote.” In a pamphlet written to defend him-
self against gossip, South Carolina Representative William Loughton
Smith included an entire passage deprecating this form of character
assassination. ‘‘Slander is in a moral what poison is in a physical sense:
it is the resource of cowards. It is a species of attack against which it
is impossible to defend ourselves. . . . It is at the convivial board, in
the gay circles that the character of a virtuous man is blasted and deliv-
ered up to public execration. Not being present to defend himself (for
were he present, these slanderers would be silent) . . . the most abomi-
nable falsehoods soon acquire the semblance of truth; the hearers don’t
take the trouble to enquire if the thing be true, they only remember
to have heard it said.” Gossip was poison, almost impossible to fight
once it gained circulation. Sometimes the best strategy was to contra-
dict a rumor before it started; Hamilton, concerned that a congres-
sional investigation into his conduct as secretary of the treasury would
provoke vicious rumors in Europe, sent a signed statement of inno-
cence to an American diplomat overseas—“the antidote, to be em-
ployed or not as you may see occasion.” 11
Gossip was also maddeningly elusive, never occurring in its vic-
tim’s presence. Many described it as “whispers,” a discernible murmur
that was frustratingly indistinct. A whisper campaign could destroy a
political reputation quickly, quietly, and invisibly. As one of Hamil-
 68 the art of political gossip

ton’s friends warned, “The throat of your political reputation is to be

cut, in Whispers.” Hamilton well understood the sting of such mur-
murings. In a phrase that captures the lurking but elusive threat of
gossip, he called it “malicious intrigues to stab me in the dark.” 12
Gossip had to originate somewhere, and behind the scenes, in-
dustrious political “anecdote-hunters” stalked their victims, intently
watching for a revealing moment. Presidential adviser Robert R. Liv-
ingston thought that Washington should hire “young men of gentle
manners” specifically for this purpose; circulating at receptions and
dinners, they would learn “many things which it will be not unimpor-
tant for” the president to know.13 People described this process as “ex-
tracting” or “collecting” information, as though they were seizing a
powerful substance against painful resistance. Indeed, gossip was po-
tent enough to assume almost concrete form; it “fell” from people’s
lips or was “dropped” in conversation. Always, people stressed that
what they had learned was privileged and therefore valuable, because
someone did not want it known.
Given the political importance of social events, even a person’s
movements—his friends, enemies, and social engagements—were
worth collecting. Republican politico John Beckley committed his spy-
ing technique to paper in the pivotal 1800 presidential contest, urging
a friend to organize a secret “Committee of Observation” to guard
against Federalist corruption. According to Beckley’s careful instruc-
tions, committee members should “notice & report all Strangers” who
came to town, “mark their persons, abodes, apparent business and in-
tercourse,” and pay particular attention to the comings and goings in
“Senatorial boarding houses.” Republicans were not the only ones fo-
cused on such comings and goings. In 1799 the infuriated Jefferson
canceled a visit to Madison because of the vigilance of Albermarle
County Clerk John Nicholas, alias “the little wretch in Charlottesville,
who would make it a subject of some political slander, & perhaps of
some political injury.” 14
The power of gossip was its ability to savage one’s reputation
now and forever, a double threat for the posterity-minded founding
generation. Hamilton was thinking of both the present and the future
 the art of political gossip 69

when he tried to extricate himself from a 1791 blackmailing scheme,

documenting his every action to ward off future allegations, for a “di-
sastrous event might interest my fame.” Indeed, gossip could so effec-
tively destroy a reputation for all time that some men collapsed the
entire process into one word, referring to gossip as “fame.” 15
As documented in Maclay’s diary, such insecurities about honor
and reputation made national politics particularly volatile. In a govern-
ment lacking formal precedents and institutional routines, reputation
was the glue that held the polity together. The fragile new republic
was a government of character striving to become a government of
rules within its new constitutional framework. In this highly personal
political realm, an attack on a government measure was an attack on
a politician, and an attack on a politician immediately questioned his
honor and reputation. As one statesmen noted, “It is impossible to
censure measures without condemning men.” In this politics of per-
sonal reputation, gossip was the ultimate weapon. Focused on at-
tacking and defending reputations, it was the language of national poli-
tics.16

The Etiquette of Gossip

To discourage unbridled conflict and deflect charges of slander, politi-
cians observed an etiquette of gossip, a code of unwritten rules that
made gossip seem like congenial socializing among friends. These rules
transformed the true nature of gossip so effectively that two centuries
later it remains elusive and difficult to define. Jefferson’s “Anas” vio-
lated the foremost rule of gossip: gossip should not be written.17 Personal
correspondence was not always private in the eighteenth century. Let-
ters miscarried or turned up in the hands of enemies who circulated
or published them. An accusation in a signed letter could easily become
public knowledge, transforming it into an open insult that dishonored
the victim in the public eye. Tangible and durable, written gossip made
its purveyors vulnerable to charges of slander or worse, if the victim
felt compelled to challenge his offender to a duel. It was the newspa-
per publication of a letter describing Hamilton’s dinner conversation,
 70 the art of political gossip

rather than the conversation itself, that invited Aaron Burr’s challenge.
In effect, written gossip converted one man’s accusations into another
man’s weapon.
Careful political correspondents only hinted at gossip in their let-
ters, promising full disclosure in later conversation. In 1792, for exam-
ple, New Yorker Robert Troup warned Hamilton, “With regard to
Burr’s election I have a secret to tell you which I cannot communicate
till I see you. . . . No good can result from any explanations at present;
and therefore I shall be quiet. This hint is most confidentially commu-
nicated.” Troup feared recording even this cryptic “hint.” From Henry
Lee, Hamilton received an even more urgent warning: “Was I with
you I would talk an hour with doors bolted & windows shut, as my
heart is much afflicted by some whispers which I have heard.” 18
Writers who did gossip in their correspondence usually took pre-
cautions, using nicknames, pseudonyms, initials, or ciphers to conceal
the subject of their accusations. Maclay sometimes resorted to Latin
when recording accusations about someone nearby. Even in his private
memoranda, Jefferson resorted to cryptic concealment when recording
something particularly inflammatory. For example, one memorandum
reads,

the affair of Reynolds & his wife.—Clingham Muhlenb’s clerk.

testibus F. A. Muhl. Monroe. Venable.—also Wolcott et ⬍forsan⬎ Wadsworth.
known to J.M. E.R. Beckley & Webb.

Found among a collection of fully narrated anecdotes, this abbreviated

entry stands out (fig. 12). Decoded, it refers to Hamilton’s adulterous
affair with Maria Reynolds, believed by some to be a fabrication con-
cealing shady financial dealings between Hamilton and Maria’s hus-
band, James. “Clingham” was Jacob Clingman, whose arrest for fi-
nancial misdealings along with Reynolds initiated the controversy. The
second list of names includes those who investigated the affair (Freder-
ick A. Muhlenberg, James Monroe, and Abraham Venable) and those
who heard of it through Hamilton (Oliver Wolcott and Jeremiah
Wadsworth); the third line notes those who learned of it through gos-
sip: James Madison, Edmund Randolph, Clerk of the House John
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 12. A memorandum from Jefferson’s “Anas,” December 17, 1792. This
cryptic note discusses Hamilton’s dalliance with Maria Reynolds. The crossed-
out word forsan, “perhaps,” suggests that Jefferson later learned that Wadsworth
knew about the affair. The last paragraph, probably crossed out when Jefferson
edited his memoranda in his old age, discusses the history of the affair and
suggests that Jefferson thought more than a romantic liaison was at play:
“Reynolds was speculating agent in the specul[ation]s of Govt. arrearages. He
was furnished by Duer with a list of the claims of arrearages due to the
Virga. & Carola. lines & bought them up, against which the Resolns of
Congress of June 4 1790 were levelled. Hamilton advised the President
to give his negative to those resolns.” Hamilton is the most heavily
canceled word of all. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress)
 72 the art of political gossip

Beckley, and Beckley’s clerk Bernard Webb—men included in Jeffer-

son’s gossip circle. So effective was this gossip ring that Jefferson knew
of the affair a mere forty-eight hours after Hamilton confidentially con-
fessed to it.19
As suggested by Jefferson’s precautions, no matter where it was
recorded, written gossip could threaten the writer’s reputation. For
similar reasons, politicians followed the second rule of gossip eti-
quette: avoid gossiping without proof. Unsubstantiated accusations de-
generated into mere verbal abuse, but proof painted gossip as objective
fact. The reputation of the gossiper counted for much: gossip gained
credibility when it came from an informed and reputable insider and
lost credibility when an insider contradicted it. Virginians believed
reports that Aedanus Burke had killed Hamilton in a duel until a let-
ter from another Virginian, Madison, set matters straight. Although
Burke had only insulted Hamilton, the probable repercussions of his
action were clear, and the farther the news traveled from its source,
the more likely seemed such an outcome.20 In a sense, chains of gossip
were like modern games of “telephone,” the message at one end often
bearing little relation to the message at the other.
Wise politicians evaluated a rumor before passing it on, apprais-
ing its source and substantiating evidence, sometimes even researching
its authenticity (and spreading the gossip in the process). Most valu-
able of all was eyewitness (or ear-witness) testimony, but any proof
would do. Since many informants preferred to remain comfortably
anonymous and thus uninvolved in another man’s conflict, this re-
search was often challenging and time-consuming. Jefferson’s memo-
randa reveal that as he collected circulating gossip, he meticulously
credited, questioned, or discarded tales depending on the result of his
research; many memoranda include detailed genealogies of rumors and
their documentation. Even when compiling his history a generation
later, he continued to appraise each anecdote, assuring his readers in
the introduction to his volumes that he had removed all gossip that
was “incorrect or doubtful.” 21
More problematic were incidents that Jefferson himself had ob-
served or anecdotes that he had “extracted” that had no proof other
than Jefferson’s word—which he promptly pledged when recording
 the art of political gossip 73

them. He introduced one anecdote by swearing “for the truth of

which, I attest [before] the God who made me.” On another occasion,
after transcribing a conversation in which Hamilton discussed the ben-
efits of monarchy, Jefferson wrote at its conclusion, “Th:J has commit-
ted it to writing in the moment of A. H’s leaving the room.” 22
Many of the most calculated searches for proof focused on the
authorship of anonymous newspaper essays and pamphlets. Everyone
seemed to enjoy the game of “guess the author.” Those who could
prove a piece’s authorship won respect for their political connections
and gained a valuable piece of gossip to deploy against the writer. In
one such instance, Clerk of the House Beckley told Jefferson that some
newspaper essays attacking Washington had been written by Treasury
official William Irvine, who had disguised himself as a Republican to
win Washington to the Federalists’ side. Beckley had learned this from
John Swaine, the printer who received the pieces, but Swaine wanted
his name withheld, so Jefferson was left without any proof. Anxious
to expose Irvine, Jefferson asked Washington’s secretary Tobias Lear to
“get at some of Irving’s acquaintances and inform himself ”—to mingle
with Irvine’s friends and surreptitiously “collect” proof of authorship.23
In the case of the Irvine essays, Jefferson believed that the gossip
was truthful, yet he honored the request of his source and sought other
means of verification. By doing so, he obeyed a third rule of gossip
etiquette: never reveal your source without permission. Unauthorized dis-
closure amounted to gossiping about a friend, a hostile act. Yet even
the most substantiated accusation would not be believed if it fell from
a man with personal motives. Effective purveyors of gossip obeyed a
fourth rule: show no malice when gossiping. Conspicuous hostility was
bad politics, making the accuser seem petty and indiscreet, and reduc-
ing the credibility of his claim. Ironically, a weapon grounded on per-
sonal relations and political enmity was most effective when there was
no evidence of either. Purveyors of gossip maintained a pose of calm
detachment. They were merely repeating what they heard from others.
They were only discussing what others raised first.
Throughout the “Anas,” Jefferson consistently referred to gossip
in this manner, depicting himself as a passive conversationalist dis-
cussing topics raised by others. For example, on April 7, 1793, he re-
 74 the art of political gossip

corded that “Mr. Lear called on me and introduced of himself a con-

versation of the affairs of the US”—a “conversation” full of proper
Republican stories of Federalist intrigue. Even when Hamilton directly
accused him of issuing “the most unkind whispers,” Jefferson defended
his conduct as “the mere enunciation of my sentiments in conversation,
and chiefly among those who, expressing the same sentiments, drew
mine from me.” 24 Claiming that “they had heard” or “it is said,” poli-
ticians who gossiped saw themselves as passive conduits for other
people’s aggression. It was a form of combat ideally suited to a popula-
tion threatened by political conflict and discomfited by ambitious self-
promotion.

A Community of Gossip
Those who gossiped shared an understanding of hidden meanings.
They spoke of common enemies violating a recognized moral standard
and exchanged hostile stories to expose the transgressors. This shared
understanding was an unwritten code that enabled like-minded men
to decipher gossip and appreciate its significance. Hamilton’s praise of
the British constitution, for example, was noteworthy only when one
“knew” that Hamilton was a secret monarchist. Jefferson’s “Anas” ex-
emplifies the consistent worldview fostered by a community of gossip.
In the “Anas,” anecdote after anecdote offers variations on the
same theme. Monarchist, money-man, corruptor, and schemer: these
allegations appear again and again, always attached to a Federalist and
supplemented by a revealing anecdote. South Carolina Senator Pierce
Butler described a dinner he attended during which Hamilton de-
fended monarchy so vehemently that he broke up the party—proof
of Hamilton’s monarchism and the Republican loyalty of those who
contested him. (Indeed, the dispute had been so violent that Butler
himself suggested keeping it confidential, advice he clearly did not fol-
low.) Washington’s secretary Tobias Lear told Attorney General Ed-
mund Randolph a story about Washington that Randolph in turn re-
peated to Jefferson and Madison. The story reported how Washington
had resisted instituting levees for three weeks and how when he finally
agreed to them, he was humiliated by an aide who formally trumpeted
 the art of political gossip 75

his entrance by loudly announcing, “The President of the United

States.” After the company had left, Washington reportedly growled
to his aide, “Well, you have taken me in once, but by god you shall
never take me in a second time.” Not only did this story prove that
the Federalists were trying to transform the president into a monarch,
it showed Washington’s virtuous resistance as well.25
These repeated accusations against the Federalists demonstrate
one part of gossip’s persuasive power. Frequent repetition transformed
allegations into assumptions, giving the impression of universal agree-
ment and potentially swaying the uncommitted. Repetition was what
gossipers hoped for, for once a rumor was in circulation, the battle
was near won. As one newspaper correspondent wrote, “Where so
much was said there must be some foundation in fact.” 26
Politicians with opposing convictions—men entrenched firmly
in conflicting worldviews—could not share gossip, for it was difficult
to grasp the value of an anecdote when one disagreed with its code
of allegations. Increasingly during the strife-ridden 1790s, national pol-
iticians seemed to speak different languages, making it difficult for
friends to converse across partisan lines. The period was rife with frag-
ile or broken friendships. Republican Henry Lee worried about his
friendship with Hamilton; Virginian George Mason fretted about his
friendship with Madison; Jefferson tried to patch up his relationship
with John Adams. “Party animosities here have raised a wall . . . be-
tween those who differ in political sentiments,” Jefferson observed in
1798. Clashing principles and clashing gossip had raised impenetrable
barriers between political opponents. One man’s truth was another
man’s slander.27
Washington and Jefferson experienced one such communication
gap when Jefferson tried to pass on some damaging gossip in 1792. At
a dinner a few months earlier, New York Federalist Philip Schuyler had
argued within the hearing of Jefferson and Washington that hereditary
government assured honesty and wisdom. To Jefferson, this could
mean only one thing: Schuyler and his friends were monarchists intent
on subverting the new republican regime. In a flash of clarity, this
casual comment exposed a web of conspirators, a secret network of
corrupt men. And because Schuyler was father-in-law to Hamilton,
 76 the art of political gossip

the monarchist ringleader, Schuyler’s comment tainted Hamilton as

well. It was gossip well-collected, as Jefferson told Madison a few days
later, delighted that Washington had been listening, for it seemed im-
possible for him to miss the story’s implications. At last the president
would perceive the monarchical Federalist plot that Jefferson so
wanted to reveal.28
The “Anas” includes Jefferson’s conversation with Washington:
“I recalled to his memory a dispute at his own table a little before we
left Philada., between Genl. Schuyler on one side and Pinckney and
myself on the other, wherein the former maintained the position that
hereditary descent was as likely to produce good magistrates as elec-
tion. I told him that tho’ the people were sound, there was a numerous
sect who had monarchy in contemplation. That the Secy. of the Trea-
sury was one of these.” To Jefferson’s utter astonishment, the president
remained unconvinced.29 What was patently obvious to Jefferson was
invisible to Washington. Jefferson’s “proof ” simultaneously revealed
everything—and nothing.
This failed conversation between the two men, one of many in
the “Anas,” suggests one reason for Jefferson’s increasing distance from
the president. In his mind Washington was unwilling to face the truth.
In frustration, Jefferson ultimately concluded that old age had im-
paired the president’s memory, diminished his energy, and induced “a
willingness to let others act and even think for him.” 30 Washington’s
blindness to the Federalist threat was born of fatigue and corrupt min-
isters; it was surely not the result of simple disagreement, which would
either depict Federalism as a viable alternative or place Washington
among the politically damned.
Aside from Washington, the men seen gossiping with Jefferson
in the “Anas” shared his worldview. John Beckley, George Mason, and
Pierce Butler assumed that they were depositing valuable information
with a trusted friend. These men also shared their gossip with others,
forging an extensive national network. Indeed, the gossip in the
“Anas” can be traced from friend to friend, reconstructing the forma-
tion of a national alliance. For example, in March 1793 Beckley gave
Jefferson information about speculating congressmen; roughly six
 the art of political gossip 77

months earlier, Beckley had offered this same information to Philadel-

phia Republican Benjamin Rush. Rush obviously valued both the in-
formation and the informant, for a few weeks later he introduced Beck-
ley to New Yorker Aaron Burr as a “fund of information about men &
things.” 31 Burr would ultimately funnel information about New York
Federalists to Jefferson in the national capital.
Few women were included in Jefferson’s gossip network, though
women were as skilled as men at collecting and dropping strategic an-
ecdotes. Abigail Adams, for example, recorded entire dinner conversa-
tions for the use of her husband and son, though she was somewhat
ashamed of herself for doing so. “It is a little too much in the Tench
Coxe stile to commit it to writing,” she confessed on one occasion,
referring to Coxe’s penchant for publishing personal letters as political
attacks. Abigail’s transcribed conversations reveal that she actively poli-
ticked at the dinner table (and seems to have taken particular pleasure
in prying information out of Jefferson). Jefferson, however, saw a di-
vide between women and politics, and the “Anas” reveals the outcome.
Although women were doubtless at many of the social events he de-
scribed, they are almost entirely invisible in his memoranda. To Jeffer-
son, women simply did not exist in the political realm. They were not
political friends.32
Friendship spread gossip, and gossip spread friendship, reinforc-
ing a network of friends—a community of gossip—people who shared
the same worldview and trusted one another with valuable anecdotes
about common foes. Friends who gossiped saw themselves engaged in
important private conversations. But to the victims of these exchanges,
these same friends constituted a political faction. It was for good rea-
son that political alliances were often denoted as the “particular
friends” of one or another leader (“the particular friends of Mr. Jeffer-
son,” “the particular friends of Mr. Hamilton”). Indeed, politicians
often evaluated a politician’s power and skill on the basis of his ability
to attract and steer friends; thus the wary Maclay’s ailing reputation.
Clearly, friend was a charged word with a multitude of meanings, re-
flecting the bond between the personal and the political that character-
ized the period’s politics.33
 78 the art of political gossip

Thus the slippery divide between socializing and politicking.

When Jefferson and Madison vacationed together in New York in 1791,
they insisted that their trip was innocent of political purpose. But Fed-
eralists just as reasonably saw political intrigue behind the journey,
which included a host of dinner parties with leading New York Repub-
licans. Robert Troup spoke for most Federalists when he warned Ham-
ilton, “There was every appearance of a pasionate courtship between
the Chancellor, Burr, Jefferson & Madison when the two latter were
in Town. Delenda est Carthago I suppose is the Maxim adopted with
respect to you.” 34 As innocently social as the trip might have seemed
to Jefferson and Madison, by forging friendships over dinner, they
were building a national alliance.
Other such meetings were more overtly political, particularly
when orchestrated by the ever-direct Hamilton. For example, in Au-
gust 1792 Hamilton arranged “several private interviews” with Virginia
customs collector William Heth, during which they “spoke confiden-
tially on several . . . subjects.” Blatantly private meetings rather than
seemingly innocuous social calls, they quickly attracted the attention
of Beckley, who warned Madison. A strategic chat with Heth revealed
one of their topics of conversation. As Beckley explained to Madison,
Heth said “that Mr: H[amilton] unequivocally declares, that yo. are
his personal and political enemy”—a declaration of open warfare that
Hamilton had deliberately asked Heth to transmit to Madison.35
When politicians struggled to detect nascent friendships, they
were charting the course of political activity; such was the purpose of
Maclay’s diary, a log of relationships suspected and proven. Politicians
were forced to speculate about friendships and enmities because of the
unpredictable nature of friendship itself. A government grounded on
networks of friends was volatile and hard to manage, and gossiping
politicians revealed their anxiety over their inability to predict or con-
trol its course. Yet even as they gossiped, politicians devised a solution:
they formed and reinforced alliances and animosities, devised politi-
cal strategies, and shared goals.36 They created the very things they
feared—communities of friends that were in reality political factions.
Anxiety over gossip was anxiety over the alarming realities of national
political life.
 the art of political gossip 79

Channels of Gossip
National politicians were not the only men who gossiped. Local politi-
cal leaders, eager to establish prestigious connections with national of-
ficeholders, sometimes offered gossip as an inducement to initiate a
correspondence. Jefferson complained about this sort of behavior in
the introduction to his history, charging that Marshall’s history was
full of such letters from ambitious men eager to establish a correspon-
dence with Washington by offering valuable but (to Jefferson) errone-
ous information. As Jefferson explained, “We are not to suppose that
everything found among Gen. Washington’s papers is to be taken as
gospel truth. . . . With him were deposited suspicions and certainties,
rumors and realities, facts and falsehoods, by all those who were or
who wished to be thought in correspondence with him.” 37
For national politicians, such “facts and falsehoods” were not en-
tirely unwelcome. Isolated in the nation’s capital, they were cut off
from public opinion, and such letters, regardless of their accuracy,
hinted at the prevailing attitude of the people toward their govern-
ment.38 Networks of local friends were thus an invaluable means of
bridging the gap between leader and constituent. Mingling with the
people and reporting their conversations, local correspondents were
collectors of gossip.
Eavesdropping in taverns was a popular method of collection.
“You know I am no grog drinker,” swore a New Englander to Massa-
chusetts Representative Theodore Sedgwick, “hence you will conclude
that my motives for mingling upon the footing with those who profess
liberty and equality are of an other sort.” “Public opinion” was largely
the transmission of local gossip to national leaders, the transmission
itself forging valuable links between the national government and the
nation.39
Jefferson’s “Anas” contains numerous conversations in which
Washington agonized about his inability to ascertain public sentiment.
On occasion Washington would travel around the nation in person,
observing and listening for signs of public acceptance or disapproval.
More frequently, however, he dispatched agents who could mingle
informally, as he could not. As surrogate ears for the president, these
 80 the art of political gossip

men collected useful information that circulated beyond his reach. One
such agent, Arthur St. Clair, asked Maclay for his opinion of Washing-
ton’s newly devised system of public access; overwhelmed by well-
wishers, Washington had decided not to accept social invitations and
would be seen publicly only during his Tuesday afternoon levees and
Martha’s Friday evening receptions. Aware that the policy was contro-
versial (and probably egged on by Washington), St. Clair “wished to
collect Men’s Sentiments . . . to communicate them to the General.”
Tobias Lear served the same purpose when Washington was consider-
ing a second presidential term. As reported by Jefferson in a memoran-
dum, Washington asked Lear “to find out from conversations, without
appearing to make the enquiry, whether any other person would be
desired by any body.” He instructed Lear to pose as a disinterested
conversationalist—to collect gossip. Lear accomplished his mission
well, enabling Washington to inform Jefferson that “it was the univer-
sal desire he should continue.” 40
Of course, political accountability was only part of the story. There
were less benign reasons for seeking local gossip. Often national politi-
cians hoped to discover damaging truths about their foes, for the most
useful information usually originated in a victim’s home state, where he
was best known. Hamilton, a New Yorker, was the primary Republican
target, and the “Anas” reveals a continual stream of gossip flowing from
New York to Philadelphia, the national political center (fig. 13). New
Yorker Melancton Smith offered “proof ” that Hamilton had written a
refutation of Thomas Paine’s patriotic pamphlet “Common Sense.”
John Beckley reported that a New Yorker had assured him that Hamil-
ton’s friend, the corrupt speculator William Duer, could “unfold such
a scene of villainy as will astonish the world.” Beckley traveled to New
York himself and returned with an abundance of gossip: about Hamil-
ton’s hopes for a monarchy during the Federal Convention, about his
secret service as a British agent, about the asylum secured for him in
England if his attempt to institute an American monarchy failed.41
Republicans believed that they were searching for the truth about
a dangerous enemy leading a corrupt squadron against the fragile re-
public. But Hamilton saw a secret plot to destroy him and his friends,
topple those in power, and overthrow the government. The more pas-
 the art of political gossip 81

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 13. Alexander Hamilton (1755?–

1804), by Charles Willson Peale,
1791. Painted in the same year as
Peale’s portrait of Jefferson, this was
likewise intended for Peale’s
museum. Hamilton had been
secretary of the treasury for roughly
two years, and was either thirty-four
or thirty-six years old (depending on
his precise birth date, which is not
known). (Courtesy of Independence
National Historical Park)

sionately the Republicans tried to protect the nation, the more Hamil-
ton and his friends discerned a plot against it. Men who considered
themselves virtuous republicans were also devious, aggressive politi-
cians deploying damaging information against constituted authorities.
The “Anas” displays this mix of political ideals and devious tactics
in its account of Republican dealings with former Treasury employee
Andrew Fraunces and Jacob Clingman (the same Clingman later impli-
cated in the Reynolds affair). On June 12, 1793, Jefferson recorded valu-
 82 the art of political gossip

able gossip implicating Hamilton in a corrupt speculating scheme;

Fraunces had offered this information to Clingman, who had offered
it to Beckley, who repeated it to Jefferson, the careful annotator of
this chain of conversations. Fraunces was an invaluable informant for
the Republicans. Having been fired by Hamilton and facing poor pros-
pects for future employment, he was a man with a grudge who hun-
gered for a useful alliance. According to Beckley, Fraunces had said
that he “could, if he pleased, hang Hamilton”—a lead worth follow-
ing, regardless of the methods required. The most likely things to
grease this wheel would be alcohol or money, Beckley stated, for he
knew that “Fraunces is fond of drink and very avaricious, and that a
judicious appeal to either of those passions, would induce him to . . .
tell all he knows.” 42
Not surprisingly, this search for evidence prompted Federalist
suspicion—and gossip. As Beckley discovered, Hamilton soon learned
of the Republican foray, sent for Clingman, “used every artifice to
make a friend of him, and asked many leading questions about, who
were his friends?” Beckley learned this from Clingman, who described
the interview in detail. Beckley, in turn, reported the conversation with
great precision to an unnamed friend. Hamilton asked,

1st Was he (Clingman) intimate with Mr. A. G. Fraunces

of New York?
Answer. He knew him.
2nd Did he ever board at his house?
Answer. He never did.
3d. Did he not frequently dine and sup with him?
Answer. He had once dined with him at a stranger’s house.
4th. Did he not frequently visit Mr. Fraunces’s Office?
Answer. He had been there several times.
5th. Did he not visit Mr. Beckley sometimes?
Answer. He knew Mr. Beckley, as he had seen him at Mr.
Muhlenberg’s.
Mr. Hamilton then observed that Clingman did not put
that confidence in him that he ought, as every thing that
he (Clingman) said, was as secret as the grave.43
 the art of political gossip 83

Anxious to track the flow of damaging information, Hamilton tried

to win Clingman’s trust and determine his friends—his gossip circle—
hoping to collect information to deploy in his own defense.
Over the next two weeks, Republicans struggled to manage
Fraunces, who swore that he had proof of Hamilton’s corruption but
revealed little concrete evidence, a serious problem for Republicans
who wanted to spread truth, not lies; better to drop the entire affair
than to risk the dishonor of circulating blatant falsehoods. No sim-
ple assurance would do; Beckley wanted affidavits, certificates, sworn
oaths, and original documents. This search for evidence, in turn,
alerted Hamilton’s friends to the attack on his reputation. “Your ene-
mies are at work upon Mr. Francis,” William Willcocks warned. “They
give out that he is to make affidavits, criminating you in the highest
degree, as to some money matters.” Eleven days later, he wrote a more
urgent letter: “Slander is gratifying to the evil dis[position] of mankind
and you may rest assured, [that as in] all other instances, so in this,
nothing to your disadvantage is lost in the course of circulation. The
Idea was, that Mr. Francis can substantiate some official criminallity
against you, of a very serious nature. And yet no one pretends to any
precision. Thus as you have written—The throat of your political repu-
tation is to be cut, in Whispers.” 44 Willcocks’s evocative metaphor re-
veals the destructive power of a gossip campaign; whispers lurking just
beyond Hamilton’s reach would cut the “throat” of his reputation.
Hamilton responded as would any man of honor confronted by
a base or cowardly foe: he “posted” Fraunces with a signed newspaper
announcement, publicly defaming the former clerk and thereby dis-
crediting his information.

One Andrew G. Fraunces, lately a clerk in the treasury de-

partment, has been endeavoring to have it believed, that he
is possessed of some facts, of a nature to criminate the offi-
cial conduct of the Secretary of the Treasury; an idea to
which, for obvious reasons, an extensive circulation has
been given, by a certain description of persons. The Public
may be assured, that the said Fraunces has been regularly
and repeatedly called upon, to declare the grounds of his
 84 the art of political gossip

suggestion; that he has repeatedly evaded the enquiry; that

he possesses no facts of the nature pretended; and that he
is a dispicable calumniator.

Hamilton thus flung the lie direct at Fraunces, accusing him of circulat-
ing rumors without evidence—dramatic proof of the need to substan-
tiate one’s gossip. To stop the whisper campaign at its source, Ham-
ilton strategically published his defense in a New York newspaper.
Accusations from seeming intimates on his home ground were bound
to be believed, and the worst damage to his reputation was being done
in his absence. (Fraunces returned the favor by declaring in the next
day’s paper that Hamilton was a liar, but Hamilton didn’t take the
bait.)45
In the Fraunces campaign, Republicans strategically collected
and deployed gossip to dishonor an enemy and destroy his career
and cause. That same year Jefferson himself attempted a similar ma-
neuver, as detailed in the “Anas.” On March 23, 1793, he recorded a
memorandum listing congressmen who owned stock in the Bank of
the United States—an obvious conflict of interest, for their votes in
Congress could affect the bank. To Jefferson this list would be the
ultimate proof that a squadron of Federalists were manipulating gov-
ernment policy for their own greedy ends. As detailed in his memoran-
dum, most of the names came from Beckley, who continued to feed
Jefferson names as he discovered them. Jefferson recorded this process
of transmission in dated and signed annotations to his list. In addition
to Beckley’s fodder, several men had “avowed” themselves stockhold-
ers “in the presence of T. J.,” Jefferson’s signed initials verifying his
claim.46
Jefferson’s friend Madison was in on this collecting mission as
well; nine months before receiving Beckley’s list of names, Jefferson
had asked Madison for an earlier list in preparation for a meeting with
Washington. As he explained to Madison, if “the P[resident] asks me
for a list of particulars, I may enumerate names to him, without nam-
ing my authority, and shew him that I have not been speaking merely
at random.” 47 Jefferson would not gossip about congressmen without
proof, but in accordance with gossip etiquette, he would not name his
 the art of political gossip 85

“authority,” hoping that his ability to cite names would be enough to

spark Washington’s curiosity.
True to form, Jefferson described his meeting with Washington
in a detailed memorandum. Setting the stage for his list, he warned
the president that “there was a considerable squadron . . . whose votes
were devoted to the paper and stock-jobbing interest, that the names of
a weighty number were known and several others suspected on good
grounds. That on examining the votes of these men they would be
found uniformly for every treasury measure.” The lure was cast, but
Washington didn’t take it, saying “not a word on the corruption of the
legislature” but defending Hamilton’s Funding Act instead. Finding
Washington “really approving the treasury system,” Jefferson had no
cause to produce his evidence, and the conversation ended.48 Because
Washington did not share Jefferson’s worldview, he did not even rec-
ognize the problem.

Jefferson the Politician

The three men at the heart of the Republican persuasion each had a
specific role. John Beckley was the primary gatherer of gossip, as well
as a skillful hands-on politico.49 As clerk of the House of Representa-
tives, he had easy access to files full of information about voting pat-
terns and alliances. Present in the House but uninvolved in the debates,
he could observe meetings and overhear conversations. Because he
constantly shuffled congressional papers, he knew the handwriting of
the representatives; joined with his familiarity with the printers who
printed legislation and edited newspapers, this ideally positioned him
to prove authorship of anonymous pamphlets and newspaper essays.
Clearly, Beckley’s office was the ideal platform for collecting gossip.
James Madison was the alliance’s strategic coordinator as well as
a national clearinghouse for information. In 1792 Madison was the man
contacted when some New Yorkers wanted to run Aaron Burr for vice
president. Prospective newspaper essayists and pamphleteers also con-
sulted Madison, who filtered out the best efforts and passed them on to
Jefferson for his approval.50 With James Monroe’s assistance, Madison
guided a community of mobilized friends.
 86 the art of political gossip

As suggested by Madison’s filtering process, Jefferson was often

comfortably detached from such paper-shuffling and negotiation, pre-
ferring to politick in different ways. In part, this stemmed from his
notorious discomfort with conflict and confrontation. It also kept his
hands (and reputation) clean from the dirty entanglements of routine
politics, an ideal stance for the symbolic leader of a political persua-
sion. But Jefferson’s detachment was deceptive, for he was a master
of dinner-table politicking—a vital skill for national political success,
as demonstrated by the failure of the standoffish Maclay.51 The political
intentions of Jefferson’s dinner parties reveal that the seemingly aloof
Virginian was a skilled politician.
Jefferson subtly set his dinner table as a political stage, inviting
the proper mix of persuaded and persuadable guests, plying them with
fine wines and deploying conversational props to direct the conversa-
tion. At an 1804 dinner during Jefferson’s presidency, for example,
New Hampshire Senator William Plumer (a Federalist with wavering
sympathies) observed that among the eight types of wine and the
“great variety of pies, fruit & nuts” were two bottles of water from
the Mississippi River and a piece of the “Mammoth Cheese”—an enor-
mous, 1,200-pound wheel of cheese, four feet in diameter, that had
been presented to Jefferson during his 1801 inauguration. (Forcing
down some of this cheese three years after Jefferson received it, Plumer
declared it “very far from being good.”) The stage was literally set to
woo guests with an evening of stimulating conversation, focused
around topics of interest—the Mississippi River, the Mammoth
Cheese—that, by chance, showed Jefferson in a particularly good light.
“Dominating the situation but never the conversation,” Jefferson mas-
terfully drew information from his guests and deposited information
of his own.52
Even his dumbwaiter played a role in Jefferson’s Epicurean stage
management. By discouraging interruptions, it encouraged free con-
versation, capitalizing on the potential for guests to drop bits of useful
information. As one guest observed, the dumbwaiter kept conversa-
tion uninterrupted and prevented “officious tattling domestics” from
divulging topics of conversation to others. As suggested by Plumer’s
experience, Jefferson used dinner parties to good effect during his pres-
 the art of political gossip 87

idency to instruct and direct a cadre of congressional agents.53 For rea-

sons personal, political, and organizational, Jefferson’s method was
ideally adapted to the early national political world.
Ironically, this technique is best revealed in memoranda intended
to incriminate Jefferson’s enemies. On page after page, Jefferson en-
courages people to talk—soaks up information—records it in detail—
passes on what seems important—and urges others to collect gossip
in service of the Republican cause. In essence, his notes reveal Jefferson
the politician at work. On January 2, 1792, for example, he invited
Representatives Thomas Fitzsimons of Pennsylvania, Amassa Learned
of Connecticut, and Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts to dinner, along
with several other guests. After everyone but the three congressmen
had left, the conversation magically “turned” to “the subject of Refer-
ences by the legislature to the heads of departments”—to what Jeffer-
son considered the key to Hamilton’s power. The secretary of the trea-
sury was the only cabinet position that had an explicit connection with
Congress. As set out in the Treasury Act, the secretary was to respond
to congressional requests for information and prepare reports on the
revenue, opportunities that Hamilton used to full advantage, success-
fully proposing legislation on more than one occasion.54 The four men
discussed the “mischief ” inherent in this practice, leading Jefferson to
note in a memorandum at evening’s end that Gerry and Fitzsimons
were “clearly opposed” to it. Two days later, when the House referred
a question to Hamilton, Jefferson noted on the same memorandum
with satisfaction, “Gerry and FitzSimmons opposed it.” Two weeks
later, Fitzsimons again opposed a reference to Hamilton, and Jefferson
again took careful note of it on that same page. Finally, six weeks later,
on March 7, Republicans in Congress broached the issue in earnest,
arguing that the House was capable of doing its own business. After
an animated debate, Hamilton’s supporters prevailed. “Gerry changed
sides” in favor of Hamilton, Jefferson observed, concluding, “On the
whole it shewed that treasury influence was tottering.” 55 His innocent
dinner party had in truth been a deliberate attempt to test and reinforce
the sympathies of potential supporters in the House, the start of a
campaign against Hamilton’s congressional influence that was docu-
mented in Jefferson’s detailed memorandum.
 88 the art of political gossip

In contrast to Jefferson’s politics of persuasion, Federalist strat-

egy and spirit revolved around the industrious Hamilton. Bold, ener-
getic, and organized, with a passion for military command, Hamilton
was skilled at organizing, directing, and manipulating campaigns on a
huge scale. He was ever the commander-in-chief, sizing up the enemy,
devising campaign tactics, marshaling his troops, issuing them orders,
and spurring them into battle. At his disposal was a national network
of Treasury employees (customs collectors and revenue officers) built
into the infrastructure of the government. (An “Organized System of
Espionage thro’ the medium of Revenue Officers,” Beckley called it.)
The organized, hierarchical, quasi-military style of Hamilton’s leader-
ship was, in fact, what most disturbed his opponents. It was no coinci-
dence that Jefferson frequently resorted to military terminology when
complaining about Hamilton’s methods: Hamilton headed a “squad-
ron,” a “corps,” a “campaign.” 56
Yet despite its usefulness in marshaling and deploying political
forces, Hamilton’s political style restricted the scope of national Fed-
eralist activity to the limits of his energies and interests. Commanded
rather than persuaded, some supporters felt disconnected, unimpor-
tant, or unappreciated, leading them to ignore his advice and act inde-
pendently, making it difficult for Federalists to spread a unified mes-
sage. Equally problematic, Hamilton’s national network was inner
directed, focused on collecting and relaying information but rarely ad-
dressing the body politic—a strategic error that Hamilton would come
to see over time. Ironically, Hamilton the devoted nationalist was of-
ten ineffective at coordinating national campaigns.57
The limits of Hamilton’s method—and the effectiveness of Jeffer-
son’s—are apparent in the 1790 controversy over the assumption of
state debts. As Jefferson relates it in his 1818 introduction to the “Anas,”
on his way to visit Washington one day, he met Hamilton in the street:

He walked me backwards and forwards before the Presi-

dent’s door for half an hour. He painted pathetically the
temper into which the legislature had been wrought; the
danger of the secession of their members, and the separation
of the States. He observed that the members of the adminis-
 the art of political gossip 89

tration ought to act in concert; that though this question

was not of my department, yet a common duty should make
it a common concern . . . and that the question having been
lost by a small majority only, it was probable that an appeal
from me to the judgment and discretion of some of my
friends, might effect a change in the vote, and the machine
of government, now suspended, might be again set into
motion.

True to character, Hamilton issued instructions, asking Jefferson to

speak with his southern friends. Jefferson was equally true to form,
proposing a dinner party: “I told him that I was really a stranger to
the whole subject. . . . I proposed to him, however, to dine with me
the next day, and I would invite another friend or two, bring them
into conference together, and I thought it impossible that reasonable
men, consulting together coolly, could fail, by some mutual sacrifices
of opinion, to form a compromise which was to save the Union.” 58
At the ensuing dinner, Madison and Hamilton forged a compro-
mise, Madison agreeing to moderate his opposition, and Hamilton
agreeing not to block the relocation of the capital to the banks of the
Potomac. Looking back on this dinner in later years, Jefferson declared
it the single greatest regret of his life, insisting that he had been duped
by Hamilton. He had taken no part in the deal “but an exhortatory
one,” he insisted, claiming the deniability of a mere host. But given
that such dinner parties were Jefferson’s political modus operandi, such
protestations become suspect, at best. Nothing better attests to his
appreciation of the political importance of such gatherings than his
lifelong habit of describing them on scraps of paper.
Jefferson was, indeed, simply talking with friends. Yet he was
also engaged in political discussions criticizing Hamilton’s influence
and policies. Thus, in the same way that Jefferson was justified in at-
tacking Hamilton’s command of a squadron of supporters, Hamilton
had every right to accuse Jefferson of orchestrating a whisper campaign
devoted to Hamilton’s subversion. To Hamilton, Jefferson’s clandes-
tine politicking was dishonest, self-serving, and opposed to the princi-
ples of honest government. It was Jefferson’s denial of his active poli-
 90 the art of political gossip

ticking that so enraged Hamilton, leading him to brand Jefferson a

hypocrite. As Hamilton wrote in the Gazette of the United States in
September 1792, “Mr. Jefferson has hitherto been distinguished as the
quiet modest, retiring philosopher—as the plain simple unambitious
republican. He shall not now for the first time be regarded as . . . the
aspiring turbulent competitor.” 59
In the same way that Jefferson could boast of his unwillingness
to influence congressmen, Hamilton could pride himself on his candor
and honesty in acknowledging that his political strategy sessions were
just that. Unlike Jefferson, when Hamilton wanted to engage in a po-
litical discussion, he said so. Compare Jefferson’s masterfully indirect
dinner with a similar dinner orchestrated by Hamilton. “I wish to have
the advantage of a conversation with you,” he wrote to Robert Morris
in November 1790. “If you will name a day for taking a family dinner
with me, I shall think it the best arrangement. . . . The chief subjects
will be additional funds for public Debt and the Bank. Would you have
any objection that Mr. Fitsimmons should be of the party?” 60
In the end, the Republican network of mobilized friends was bet-
ter adapted to joining people in shared cause and spreading the word,
and many Federalists perceived its wide-reaching power. Charles Car-
roll suspected that “a communication of Sentiments is maintained by
the leaders of this party throughout the United States.” Fisher Ames
wrote that the Republicans “make up by union what they lack in num-
bers and by zeal and clamor what is wanting in proof till a little knot
of conspirators of a thousand or two thousand persons shall lead the
satisfied and unapprehensive million to the brink of ruin.” Federalists
never created such a network of passionate believers; they saw no need
to. They were too confidently situated in office, too sure of their suc-
cess. As Ames warned, “Success is poison to party zeal. . . . The op-
posers are industrious, watchful, united.” 61
Ultimately, it was their staggering loss in the election of 1800
that taught Federalists their error. The Federalists had “neglected the
cultivation of popular favour,” Hamilton ruefully admitted. James
McHenry put matters more bluntly. “Have our party shown that they
possess the necessary skill and courage to deserve to be continued to
govern?” he asked. “What have they done? . . . They write private
 the art of political gossip 91

letters to each other, but do nothing to give a proper direction to the

public mind. They observe even in their conversations generally, a dis-
creet circumspection, illy calculated to diffuse information or prepare
the mass of the people for the result they meditate in private.” 62 Feder-
alists had been too “discreet” in their conversations, limiting their
sphere of influence in the process.

The Citizen Genet Affair

The 1793 “Citizen Genet” affair was a significant exception to standard
Federalist practice. Under normal circumstances, Federalists discour-
aged popular rabble-rousing. They believed that the people should
allow their elected rulers to rule; if they were dissatisfied, they could
vote for new leaders at the next election. But the gaffes of the impulsive
French minister Edmond Genet were too tempting an opportunity to
let slip by. So Federalists orchestrated a strategic leak of confidential
information to the general public, attempting to destroy Genet and
the French-loving Republicans in the process. Effective as their public
gossip campaign would prove to be, Federalists considered it the ex-
ception that proved the rule—an emergency measure born of a crisis.
“Citizen” Genet stirred up trouble almost immediately upon his
arrival on American shores. Viewing him as a spokesman for the
French Revolution, many Americans showered him with their love for
the French cause, seemingly a noble offspring of the American Revolu-
tion; through France—and Genet—America’s spark of liberty would
spread over the earth (fig. 14). Democratic-Republican societies were
one product of this revolutionary fervor. Clubs that met regularly to
coordinate displays of enthusiasm and support for France, they com-
municated with one another, state to state, in what the Federalists
came to see as an extraconstitutional effort to steer foreign affairs, con-
trol the political process, and overthrow the government. Although it
is easy to dismiss these anxieties as paranoid delusions born of a siege
mentality, Federalists had good reason to fear, for “self-created” com-
mittees of correspondence, communicating state to state, had fueled
the American Revolution and overthrown the British government less
than twenty years past.63
 92 the art of political gossip

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 14. Edmond Charles “Citizen” Genet

(1763–1834), by Gilles-Louis Fouquet
Chrétien, 1793. Dating to the height of
Genet’s popularity in America, this profile
is encircled by Genet’s official title.
After the scandal, Genet married
Cornelia Clinton, daughter of the
powerful New York Republican George
Clinton, and took up residence in the
United States. (Collection of the Albany
Institute of History and Art, Bequest
of Augusta Georgia Kirtland
[Mrs. George Clinton] Genet)

Thus, when Genet tried to capitalize on the popular uproar by

stirring up support for France, Federalists were quick to detect an im-
pending crisis. As New Yorker Rufus King protested, “But this is alto-
gether wrong. We have with great Trouble established a Constitution
which vests competent powers in the hands of the Executive. . . . It
was never expected that the executive should sit with folded Arms, and
that the Government should be carried on by Town Meetings, and
those irregular measures, which disorganize the Society, destroy the
 the art of political gossip 93

salutary influence of regular Government, and render the Magistracy

a mere pageant.” 64
Such disorder was bad enough, but when Genet went one step
further and crossed the line of diplomatic relations, Federalists leaped
into action. Genet made his mistake on July 6, 1793; confronted by
the national government’s insistent neutrality in the conflict between
France and England, he threatened to go above Washington’s head to
the American people, asking them to help outfit French privateers in
American ports (fig. 15). Genet supposedly voiced his threat to Alexan-
der Dallas, an emissary of Pennsylvania governor Thomas Mifflin. Dal-
las repeated the story to Mifflin and later to Secretary of State Thomas
Jefferson, who went to Genet to investigate matters. Mifflin, mean-
while, spread the story to Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamil-
ton and Secretary of War Henry Knox. The entire cabinet then told
President Washington.
Regardless of their feelings toward France, Washington’s advisers
agreed that this was an ill-advised attack on American sovereignty, an
attempt by one nation to override the government of another. But
publicizing the issue could precipitate an international incident, so un-
til they decided on a course of action, the president and his cabinet
decided to keep the affair quiet. Hamilton, however, was quick to see
the advantages of Genet’s insult. Properly communicated to the Ameri-
can public, this rude dismissal of the government—and even worse,
of the great Washington—could sway public opinion against Genet,
France, and the French Revolution, and guide foreign policy in the
process. This would do more than distance America from the revolu-
tion’s social chaos: it could potentially inspire goodwill toward Great
Britain, discrediting French-loving Republicans in the process. Skill-
fully manipulated, the Genet affair could convert the nation to the
Federalist point of view.
Even without encouragement, news of Genet’s actions was
spreading. On July 16, New Yorker Aaron Burr asked John Nicholson
in Philadelphia whether he, too, had heard “a rumor . . . that Genet has
come to an open rupture with the President—That he has publickly
threatened to appeal to the people.” Three days later, William Smith
in Baltimore asked his son-in-law Otho Williams if he could confirm
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 15. Broadside, August 1793. Part of Genet’s campaign to recruit Americans
to support France in its war against England, this broadside openly defies
American neutrality—precisely the sort of gesture that panicked Federalists and
ultimately destroyed Genet’s diplomatic career. It was printed at the height of
the controversy, at least three weeks after his threat to go directly to the
American people. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress)
 the art of political gossip 95

the tale. Everyone had heard the story, but no one could ascertain its
truth, for the handful of men with proof were maintaining an official
silence. And the farther the gossip traveled from its source, the less
accurate it became. By the time the news reached New Hampshire,
the report was that Genet had assassinated the president.65 Without
direct knowledge of events or reputations, gossip was difficult to eval-
uate.
Encouraged by the piecemeal public discovery of Genet’s actions,
Hamilton urged Washington to explain the entire affair to the Ameri-
can people in a published statement—a distinctly un-Hamiltonian sug-
gestion. As Jefferson explained to Madison, “Hamilton & Knox have
pressed an appeal to the people with an eagerness I never before saw
in them.” Afraid of the complications inherent in a public statement,
Washington maintained his official silence, but Federalists soon filled
the void. Unable to communicate Genet’s actions through official
channels, they turned to less formal means. Hamilton opened the cam-
paign on July 31 in a Philadelphia newspaper, writing as “No Jacobin”
that it “is publicly rumoured in this City that the Minister of the French
Republic has threatened to appeal from The President of the United States
to the People.” 66 But his report of a public rumor had no substantiation,
for almost anything Hamilton added would reveal that “No Jacobin”
was a cabinet member going above Washington’s head, thereby dis-
crediting himself and damaging the Federalist cause by association.
Gossip about Genet would have to spread through less official chan-
nels.
Aware of the demands of the moment, Senator Rufus King and
Chief Justice John Jay took action, revealing Genet’s indiscretion in a
signed statement that appeared in the New York Diary: “Certain late
publications render it proper for us to authorize you to inform the
public, that a Report having reached this City from Philadelphia, that
Mr. Genet, the french minister, had said he would appeal to the People
from certain Decisions of the President; we were asked on our return
from that place whether he had made such a declaration, we answered
that he had, and we also mentioned it to others, authorising them to
say that we had so informed them.” 67 Jay and King were validating a
piece of gossip in writing with the authority of their names and reputa-
 96 the art of political gossip

tions. In doing so, they committed its transmission to paper: a rumor

from Philadelphia had reached New York; to substantiate it, people
had consulted with two men recently returned from Philadelphia; the
two witnesses had confirmed the rumor; they had then passed it on
under the sanction of their name, encouraging people to spread the
word.
Jay and King claimed responsibility for their gossip, but by print-
ing it in a newspaper under the authority of their names, they inti-
mated that it was something more. Secret information made public
and attributed to public figures did not sound like gossip; it sounded
official. Robert R. Livingston thought that the two Federalists spoke
for Washington: “I am certainly surprized at Jay & King’s certificate—
They certainly would not have taken this step without having been
well aprized of the president’s approbation & yet it appears to me that
it lessens the dignity of government to resent an affront in this indirect
way.” 68 Jay and King could not have chosen a more efficient way to
disseminate their information.
During the next few months, the gossip spread. People talked of
both Genet’s threat and the equally shocking Diary gossip certificate,
eventually driving Genet to defend himself publicly. Predictably, he
and his supporters attacked Jay and King where they were most vulner-
able, accusing them of gossiping without proof. As one anonymous
author wrote, “Any school-boy knows hearsay testimony to be inad-
missable even before a Justice of the Peace when not five Shillings is
at stake and yet a Chief Justice & Senator when prosecuting or rather
persecuting the French minister before the awful tribunal of the pub-
lic—and when his & their characters are at stake—bring forward noth-
ing but hearsay declarations & those are third or fourth hand.” 69 Gos-
sip could be a powerful political tool, but in this case it was proving
to be problematic.
Ultimate proof rested with Republicans Dallas and Jefferson, the
only men who had spoken with Genet—the only eyewitnesses. Cor-
nered by the Federalist campaign and concerned by its apparent suc-
cess, both men felt pressed to publish statements of their own. On
December 9, 1793, Dallas published an ambiguous account in the Daily
Advertiser admitting that he had spoken with Genet but implying that
 the art of political gossip 97

Genet had not threatened to appeal to the people. Dallas’s statement

offered evidence, however weak, that the Federalists might be lying.
His publication thus proved useful to Jefferson, who had been prepar-
ing a public statement of his own.70
Jefferson was caught in an uncomfortable situation. He knew
that Genet had indeed threatened to appeal to the people. “You will
see much said & gainsaid about G[enet]’s threat to appeal to the peo-
ple,” he wrote to Madison. “I can assure you it is a fact.” Trying to
quash Federalist rumors without lying outright, Jefferson side-stepped
the issue by manipulating Genet’s words: Genet’s appeal to the “peo-
ple” was actually an attempt to appeal to Congress, he argued. The
“Anas” includes Jefferson’s carefully worded 1793 memorandum ex-
plaining that Genet’s dim understanding of the American Constitu-
tion, joined with his volatile temper, had garbled an intended congres-
sional appeal. Evidence suggests that Genet was, indeed, confused by
constitutional law, for in the midst of the melée, he bought a copy of
“the Laws of the United States” from Republican editor Philip Fre-
neau.71 Still, Jefferson’s explanation was not entirely convincing, and
Dallas’s ambiguous statement allowed him to withhold it from publi-
cation. As Monroe informed Jefferson, in a valiant attempt to untangle
a chain of conversations, “I find the establishment of the charge agnst
Mr. Genet will depend principally upon what you heard Mr. Dallas
say. This latter will deny that he ever said anything like what the cer-
tificate states. Jay & King heard it from Hamilton & Knox, these latter
from Mifflin & I am told that there is a difference between those
gentn. & Mifflin, & likewise between him & Dallas as to what they
respectively stated.” Jefferson could hide behind Dallas’s ambiguity,
for Federalist charges were too difficult to substantiate.72 Monroe’s let-
ter reveals the problem with using gossip as a political tool. Powerful
because it was as natural as conversation, like conversation gossip al-
tered from person to person. When needed for official purposes, rumor
and gossip could be frustratingly imprecise.
Jefferson’s silence damned him in the eyes of the Federalists, just
as publication damned Jay and King in the eyes of the Republicans.
(Genet had called Jay and King “Lyars” and had “proved that they were
so,” cheered his future wife, Cornelia Clinton.) But nothing could save
 98 the art of political gossip

Genet. Even if he had meant to appeal to Congress rather than the

general public, he had slighted Washington and set off a national
chorus of support for the president and his administration. As Hamil-
ton intended, gossip was helping to destroy both Genet and popular
support of France. The usually pessimistic Fisher Ames rejoiced, “The
town is less frenchified than it was. Citizen Genet is out of credit. . . .
I like the horizon better than I did; there are less clouds.” The more
effusive Robert Troup wrote, “No measure was ever better timed—
and none has ever been attended with more powerful & happy effects.
If you were now with us you would suppose the millennium had ar-
rived or was near at hand.” 73
Alarmed at the Federalist “millennium,” Madison planned a
counterattack. Unable to save the impulsive French minister, he set
out to separate the Republicans from Genet, and Genet from France.
He first scripted a statement explaining that Republicans did not sup-
port Genet, nor did the minister properly represent France. He then
assigned Monroe the task of carrying the message throughout Vir-
ginia, offering it to reputable men to be read at district courts as a
means of swaying public opinion. In addition, the two men sent letters
to reputable Republicans, attacking Federalist motives along familiar
lines: the Federalists were publicizing Genet’s indiscretion to create
“an unnatural connection with Great Britain.” 74 Good Republicans
should counter this offense by offering the people the “truth”—the
Republican view.
Madison undertook his dissemination campaign so that the “gen-
uine sense of the people could be collected”—a word choice that
reveals much about the dynamics of conversation. Politicians who
claimed to be dispassionate “collectors” of public opinion were de-
scribing the process as they envisioned it. In reality, no conversation
purposefully aimed at leading an audience to discuss political events
was a mere collection of public sentiment: it was the proper seeding
of public opinion and the reaping of the desired response. In fact, on
at least one occasion, Madison prepared scripted statements of “public
opinion” to be disseminated and then “collected” back. People who
gathered public opinion in taverns attempted a similar maneuver when
 the art of political gossip 99

they tried to “make bar-room converts,” as did William Loughton

Smith when he collected public opinion by observing what newspapers
were being read—and gave Federalist papers to those reading the
“wrong” one. When audience members did not respond properly, they
were the “wrong” public. To national politicians, public opinion repre-
sented the response to strategic conversations orchestrated by political
leaders. As Republicans eventually understood more fully than Feder-
alists, the game of government could be won by the party that best
orchestrated these conversations.75

The Defense Pamphlet

During the Genet affair, Jefferson, Genet, Jay, King, and Dallas had
considered publishing statements to counter rumors that threatened
their reputations. Each man saw that the most effective defense against
gossip was a signed, printed refutation, an official but personal state-
ment. Aside from Jefferson’s memoranda, this type of written defense
constitutes the most telling evidence of a largely oral political weapon.
Print was effective for many reasons. A controlled means of pre-
senting an argument, printed refutations displayed substantiating
evidence in a manner not possible by word of mouth. In written
statements, individual politicians virtually stood before the reader in
person, contradicting rumors with evidence and the weight of their
reputations. There could hardly be a more direct way to silence whis-
pers. Gossip left tone, insinuation, and accuracy in the hands of the
speaker; print allowed writers to present their case as they wished it
understood.
Aware of the power of print, politicians crafted their defenses
with care, selecting the best medium for their message. Broadsides,
newspaper essays, pamphlets, and public-minded personal letters had
different tones and readerships, forming an arsenal of paper weapons
that were each adapted to a different purpose. Hamilton, for exam-
ple, first refuted Andrew Fraunces with a posting in a newspaper, dis-
missing both Fraunces and his charges as too base for further action.
When Fraunces received more credence (and Republican support)
 100 the art of political gossip

than Hamilton expected, he began work on a pamphlet, collecting

affidavits, certificates, and correspondence to prove his point.76 Such
choices constitute the shared logic of paper war.
As suggested by Hamilton’s actions, pamphlets were the ideal
medium for refuting rumors substantiated by impressive evidence or
stellar reputations. Long-lived, dignified, and typically aimed at a small
circle of “men of influence,” they easily encompassed lengthy legalis-
tic arguments, and writers could assume a certain degree of insider’s
knowledge. “Defense pamphlets” were a public means of silencing pri-
vate conversation; they removed gossip from the shadows and exposed
it as malicious lies.77
Many early national political pamphlets, long misinterpreted as
petty personal diatribes, become logical methods of defense when rec-
ognized as defense pamphlets. They conform to a genre: they are
signed public statements that begin with an explanation of the “truth”
and an attack on the accuser’s motives, followed by documentary evi-
dence. When Jefferson threatened to defend himself in print at the
height of his opposition to Hamilton, he had in mind a defense pam-
phlet. In a long letter of outrage to Washington, he reserved the right
to appeal to his “country, subscribing my name to whatever I write, &
using with freedom & truth the facts & names necessary to place the
cause in it’s just form”—the precise definition of a defense pamphlet.78
Understood in this context, the “Anas” is a logical response to
Marshall’s “five volumed libel.” 79 It was Jefferson’s defense pamphlet,
and like any author of such a tract, Jefferson signed his name to his
work. He began with an introductory statement, explaining the truth
and maligning the motives of Marshall and his Federalist friends, and
appended documentary evidence—his public papers and private mem-
oranda—as corroboration. By adopting the conventions of the defense
pamphlet, Jefferson betrayed his true purpose in compiling his history.
His seemingly objective collection of documents was actually a highly
personal attempt to defend his reputation and the Republican world-
view.
Jefferson’s public papers were appropriate fodder for a defense
pamphlet: they were signed public statements. But his private memo-
 the art of political gossip 101

randa—formerly seen by no one but himself—were unusual pieces of

evidence with little proof of authenticity. For this reason, he attested to
their physical existence in his introduction, depicting them as “ragged,
rubbed, and scribbled” scraps of aged paper that had been bound into
his three volumes while he watched. To confirm their accuracy, he
added, “After the lapse of twenty-five years, or more, from their dates,
I have given to the whole a calm revisal, when the passions of the time
are passed away, and the reasons of the transactions act alone on the
judgment. Some of the informations I had recorded are now cut out
from the rest, because I have seen that they were incorrect or doubtful,
or merely personal or private, with which we have nothing to do.” 80
Jefferson thus implied that all of the anecdotes in the “Anas” were
authentic and accurate. By offering them to his readers, he believed
that he was practicing good politics, defeating corrupt and deceitful
foes by revealing the historical truth to the American public. To Jeffer-
son, gossip was indeed “the life and soul” of history. It was his strong-
est evidence—the reality of political event.
The reality Jefferson presented was a Republican view of the
1790s: the Federalists were corrupt monarchists, the Republicans sav-
iors of the republic. Yet sincere as his professions might be, Jefferson
understood the difficulties of persuading his audience. As with all gos-
sip, certain rules governed authenticity. Most important was the ques-
tion of Jefferson’s motives. If he seemed too obviously partisan, his
charges would be dismissed as the ranting of an ambitious politician
with a personal grudge. Jefferson knew that he could never pass as an
unbiased observer of the events of the 1790s, but he could moderate
his tone and control his evidence to obscure his personal involvement.
The more impartial he seemed, the more believable his account would
appear.
Thus, throughout his history, Jefferson took care to remove all
evidence of his involvement in political intrigue. Though he himself
drafted the “Giles Resolutions” (congressional resolutions calling for
an investigation of Hamilton’s activities as secretary of the treasury),
he did not include the draft in his three volumes. Instead, he inserted
an ambiguous memorandum that stated, “See in the papers of this
 102 the art of political gossip

date, Mr. Giles’s resolutions.” He similarly excluded three letters to

Washington chock full of accusations against Hamilton, for they
would defeat the pose of impartiality he was struggling to achieve.81
Jefferson’s biggest problem in preparing his history was Alexan-
der Hamilton. Although the work was intended to discredit the New
Yorker, Jefferson’s evidence would not be convincing if he showed
personal animosity. Somehow he had to indict Hamilton without
allowing his emotions to leak into his argument. In part, he achieved
this through the selective inclusion of evidence. His carefully moder-
ated introduction served the same purpose. There he allowed Hamil-
ton to indict himself in an anecdote describing how he praised the
“corruption” of the British monarchy while seated at Jefferson’s dinner
table. Aware of the animosity underlying this story, Jefferson then re-
established the proper tone by praising Hamilton as “a singular charac-
ter” of “acute understanding, disinterested, honest, and honorable in
all private transactions, amiable in society, and duly valuing virtue in
private life.” 82
To veil his animosity, Jefferson also annotated his memoranda
of more than twenty years past—part of the “calm revisal” that he
touted in his introduction. In the memorandum reporting the story
that Hamilton had secured asylum in England, for example, Jefferson
added in the margin, “Impossible as to Hamilton; he was far above
that.” Under Beckley’s story about Hamilton’s supposed attempt to
institute a monarchy in the 1780s, Jefferson added, “Beckley is a man
of perfect truth as to what he affirms of his own knowledge, but too
credulous as to what he hears from others.” Jefferson considered these
memoranda dangerously hostile toward his longtime foe, but impor-
tant enough to include, so he edited them. Memoranda that were too
nasty to edit were withheld altogether.83
Like others who gossiped, Jefferson protected his friends and
sources by excluding them from his accusations. Madison is barely
mentioned in the “Anas,” despite his pivotal importance to the Repub-
licans and his close friendship with Jefferson. Discussing the 1790
dinner deal concerning the Funding Act and the national capital,
Jefferson’s history mentions only a dinner attended by Jefferson,
Hamilton, and “a friend or two,” although Jefferson’s original 1792
 the art of political gossip 103

account of the negotiation reveals Madison’s central role in the pro-

cess.84 Ironically, such attempts at impartiality made Jefferson’s history
intensely personal by centering it entirely around his enemies and
friends.
Despite his meticulous attention to detail, Jefferson never pub-
lished his history, a seeming paradox that was actually a final attempt to
appear impartial. By leaving his three bound volumes to be discovered
among his papers, Jefferson implied that they were little more than a
compendium of raw materials, carefully arranged by the writer, but
authentic nonetheless. If Jefferson himself had brought his history into
public view, readers would have recognized it for what it was—a per-
sonal defense. As its self-proclaimed “author,” Jefferson would have
thrust himself into the political arena as a partisan combatant, damag-
ing his reputation as a bystander to political intrigue and destroying
his history’s credibility in the process. By aggressively taking aim at
his opponents, he also would have bolstered the Federalist worldview
by acknowledging it as a threat. In essence, personally publishing his
history would have undermined his purpose for creating it. Leaving his
work among his papers like a ticking time bomb, Jefferson remained
comfortably detached from political conflict, a passive conversational-
ist, like all purveyors of gossip. Ultimately, he distanced himself from
his work by capitalizing on the detachment of death.85
Jefferson’s alterations may seem overtly manipulative, but he
never would have conceded this charge. He was so firmly convinced
of the truth of his vision that he saw no conflict in editing documentary
evidence.86 He well knew that surface events often clouded the “truth”
of political contests. In his eyes he was merely making this truth clear
for posterity, pushing aside “false facts” of Federalist duplicity in ser-
vice of the true facts of Republicanism. For Jefferson, as for so many
others in the founding generation, the construction of history contin-
ued the party battles of the 1790s. He and his opponents were appeal-
ing to posterity, attempting to win future political battles with care-
fully crafted presentations of the past.
Posterity did not always receive Jefferson’s message. As with all
gossip, credibility depends on the perspective of one’s audience. For
those who disliked Jefferson or disagreed with his convictions, the
 104 the art of political gossip

“Anas” was damning evidence of an ambitious, cunning politician—

a pack of lies from a self-serving partisan. In fact, condemnation of
Jefferson’s “Anas” would reverberate well into the nineteenth century.
Critics echoed the sentiments of Theodore Dwight, author of The
Character of Thomas Jefferson (1839). “No frank, open-hearted, sincere
man, ever made a practice of noting down private conversations be-
tween himself and those with whom he was accustomed to associate.
. . . Whoever does it, must be actuated by some secret, sinister, and
insidious design,” Dwight argued, and in many ways, he was right.87
Jefferson’s history was a personal attack with an ulterior motive, filled
with surreptitiously recorded private conversations. But these very hu-
man characteristics give the work its value. The “Anas” reveals how
Republican politicians understood the period’s politics, allowing us to
view the world through Republican eyes.
Thus, in ways that Jefferson never understood or intended, gos-
sip is indeed history. Properly deciphered, it offers a window into the
heart of national politics in the early republic. Rather than impartially
relating historical fact, it reveals a hidden level of government—an un-
dercurrent of personal interaction that forged political alliances and
enmities—a world that politicians recognized as the grounding of na-
tional politics in the unstructured new nation.
 The Art of Paper War

John Adams lacked Jefferson’s political finesse. He was too prone to

emotional outbursts, too trusting, too honest, too passionate by half
about friends and enemies. As his secretary of war James McHenry
explained, whether Adams was “sportful, playful, witty, kind, cold,
drunk, sober, angry, easy, stiff, jealous, careless, cautious, confident,
close, open, it is almost always in the wrong place or to the wrong per-
sons” (fig. 16). McHenry knew firsthand about Adams’s emotional
eruptions; near the close of Adams’s presidency, in 1800, the secretary
resigned his office during a presidential temper tantrum over Alexan-
der Hamilton. As McHenry recorded it, Adams ranted that “Hamilton
is an intriguant—the greatest intriguant in the World—a man devoid
of every moral principle” and “a Bastard.” 1 Clearly, unlike Jefferson,
Adams was not careful with words, a fatal flaw in a politics of reputa-
tion; in 1800 this failing subjected Adams to the most venomous attack
of his public career—written by none other than Hamilton himself.
To Adams, few tormentors of the pen were as aggravating as

{ 1 05 }
 106 the art of paper war

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 16. John Adams (1735–1826), by Gilbert Stuart, ca. 1800–1815. Begun after
Adams stepped down from the presidency and never finished, this portrait was
commissioned by the Massachusetts Legislature to be hung in the House of
Representatives. Adams appears somewhat wary, but humor plays over his
features as well. He enjoyed sitting for Stuart, who kept him “constantly
amused by his conversation.” (Gift of Mrs. Robert Homans, Photograph
© Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.)

Hamilton—on this, he and Jefferson agreed. Unlike Jefferson, how-

ever, the irascible Adams unleashed his abuse against the New Yorker
in his diary, his letters, and even his autobiography. “The bastard brat
of a Scotch pedlar,” Adams called Hamilton on more than one occa-
sion, an “insolent coxcomb who rarely dined in good company, where
there was good wine, without getting silly and vaporing about his ad-
ministration like a young girl about her brilliants and trinkets.” Some
of this animosity stemmed from a simple clash of personalities. Adams
was stubbornly independent, and Hamilton tried to steer him. Adams
had a strict sense of virtue concerning women; Hamilton did not.
There were practical political reasons for Adams’s dislike as well: he
resented Hamilton’s persistent meddling in elections, cabinet meet-
ings, foreign policy, and in fact, much of the doings of Adams’s admin-
 the art of paper war 107

istration. A private citizen, Hamilton nonetheless received regular dis-

patches from Adams’s cabinet for much of his presidency, for most of
the cabinet members were holdovers from Washington’s administra-
tion. But there was one thing above all others that Adams could never
forgive, and it grew from his eruption against Hamilton in 1800.2
That year Adams had discovered the extent of Hamilton’s influ-
ence over his cabinet and had dismissed or forced the resignation of
most of the members in a rage. Shutting Hamilton out of national
politics was bad enough, but the enraged president went a step further,
attacking Hamilton in private conversation as the head of “a British
faction” more devoted to England than America—as good as a charge
of traitor to this generation of Revolutionary War veterans. “Mr. Ad-
am’s personal friends seconded by the Jacobins will completely run us
down in the public opinion,” Hamilton fretted when he learned of Ad-
ams’s charge, well aware of the power and reach of gossip. Hamilton’s
friend McHenry added fuel to the fire by giving Hamilton a transcrip-
tion of his last, explosive meeting with the president. Fearful for his
reputation, furious at Adams, and thinking ahead to the pending presi-
dential election of 1800, Hamilton lashed back.3
Hamilton’s “Letter . . . Concerning the Public Conduct and
Character of John Adams” served a double purpose. A vindication of
Hamilton and his supporters, it was also an attempt to destroy Adams’s
hopes for the presidency in the next campaign. As suggested by its
title, it not only criticized Adams’s political career, but it maligned his
character as well—the egotism, vanity, and ungovernable temper that
deprived Adams of “self command,” the central pillar of manhood.4
To Adams, this egregious attack demanded a response. Not only
was Hamilton stabbing at Adams’s reputation in the here and now,
but he was stabbing at his immortal fame as well, the lodestar of Ad-
ams’s public life. Uncomfortable with his ambitions yet ambitious
nonetheless, Adams channeled his desires into that greatest of goals,
recognition as the founder of a nation.5
Given Adams’s discomfort with self-promotion, an open defense
of the sort waged by Hamilton was out of the question. So Adams
chose a more roundabout form of defense, devoting his energies to
tending the historical record. He deposited public documents with the
 108 the art of paper war

Massachusetts Historical Society and published them in newspapers

to inscribe his accomplishments in the public record. He aggressively
corrected inaccurate works of history that came his way, including the
efforts of former family friend Mercy Otis Warren, whose History of
the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution (1805) he
lambasted with particular fervor. (The perceptive Warren told Adams
that had he not “been suffering suspicions that his fame had not been
sufficiently attended to, he would not have put such a perverse con-
struction on [my] every passage.”) He began an autobiography so that
“Posterity” might see in his “own hand Writing a proof of the false-
hood of that Mass of odious Abuse of my Character, with which News
Papers, private Letters and public Pamphlets and Histories have been
disgraced for thirty Years.” In private letters, Adams railed along the
same lines. He even drafted a page-by-page refutation of Hamilton’s
pamphlet, though he consigned it to his private papers without pub-
lishing it, possibly intending it to enlighten future generations in the
manner of Jefferson’s “history.” Hamilton’s death did nothing to arrest
this campaign. As Adams himself put it, he would not permit his
“Character to lie under infamous Calumnies, because the Author of
them, with a Pistol Bullet through his Spinal Marrow, died a Peni-
tent.” 6
Much as Adams’s efforts might have vented some spleen, they
did little for his reputation after decades of abuse. Increasingly, he
feared that posterity might never glance his way at all. Great acts did
not always garner great rewards; the deserving man was not always
credited for his accomplishments and their legacy. The passage of time
had revealed an alarming truth to Adams: a leader in the fight for
American independence, a diplomat who had sacrificed his domestic
happiness to the national cause, a vice president during the nation’s
precarious first years, a president who saved his country from the rav-
ages of war, he might still die an obscure man.
Hungry for recognition yet unable and unwilling to court it, Ad-
ams bitterly watched himself fade into obscurity—until 1809, when
the seventy-four-year-old found himself in the political arena once
again. With hostilities brewing between America, France, and En-
gland, two Massachusetts countrymen, Erastus Lyman and Daniel
 the art of paper war 109

Wright, sought Adams’s counsel. “Venerable father of New-England!”

they pleaded, “O save your native state from ruin and destruction!”
Adams’s advice would be “commanding still,” they insisted. “Thou-
sands will hear your voice.” 7 At this moment of crisis, people were
turning to Adams for guidance. To Adams, not responding to such a
plea would be a sacrilege, violating the pledge to public service that
had fueled his career. And who could offer better counsel than a former
president, who had taken the nation through a similar crisis?
In fact, foreign affairs had dominated Adams’s presidency.
Throughout the 1790s, the fledgling nation had been caught up in a
longstanding conflict between two warring powers, England and
France. A friendly gesture toward one of these nations unavoidably
soured relations with the other. And Americans were themselves di-
vided about the British and the French. Federalists favored England
for its stable system of government and sound commerce; Republicans
favored France for its republican revolt against the aristocratic standing
order. During Washington’s presidency, the balance had tipped to-
ward England with the 1795 Jay Treaty, and the French had retaliated
by ordering the seizure of American ships carrying cargo to British
ports. To avoid war, Adams had sent peace commissioners to France,
where the French minister refused to meet them unless they paid a
massive bribe. The affair roused a wave of patriotic fury in America,
and the nation’s armed forces were readied for war. The resulting
“Quasi-War” was a boon to the Federalists, who gloried in the oppor-
tunity to war against France, discredit the French-loving Republicans,
and build up America’s military in one fell swoop, enjoying enormous
public support all the while (fig. 17).
But Adams burst this bubble in 1799 by sending a diplomatic
mission to France when the French seemed willing to seek peace. Not
surprisingly, this peace mission enraged most Federalists, including
Hamilton, whose active meddling in this affair sparked Adams’s
anger—and Hamilton’s response. In the end, Adams avoided war but
sacrificed his reputation (and thus the presidential election) in the pro-
cess. Given the importance of self-sacrifice to his sense of self, it is
no wonder that he considered the 1799 peace mission the crowning
achievement of his public career. In his eyes, the mission should “be
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 17. A New Display of the United States,

by Amos Doolittle, August 14, 1799.
Created during the Quasi-War with
France, this engraving shows popular
approval of the president in a time of
crisis—the type of tribute that Adams
received all too rarely. (Courtesy of the
Library of Congress)
 the art of paper war 111

transmitted to posterity as the most glorious period in American His-

tory, and as the most disinterested, prudent, and successful conduct
in my whole life. For I was obliged to give peace and unexampled
prosperity to my country for eight years . . . against the advice, intreat-
ies, and intrigues of all my Ministers, and all the leading Federalists in
both houses of Congress.” Since that time, the Federalists had pursued
Adams “with the most unrelenting hatred,” joining with the Republi-
cans “to conceal from the people all the services of my life.” To Adams
they had “succeeded to a degree, that I should scarcely have believed
it possible for a union of both parties to effect.” 8
Now, with another foreign conflict brewing, Adams was being
called out of obscurity with a direct reference to the very act that had
cast him into the shadows, and his answer would serve the public dur-
ing a time of crisis. The appeal was irresistible. So on March 24, 1809,
Adams responded to Lyman and Wright by pleading for neutrality—
and recognition as well. He had always considered “the whole Nation
as my Children,” he confessed at the conclusion of his letter, but “they
have almost all been undutiful to me. . . . You two Gentlemen are
almost the only ones out of my own house, who have for a long time,
and I thank you for it, expressed a filial affection.” Although Lyman
and Wright had said nothing about publication, their appeal to Adams
to address “thousands” made it difficult to assume otherwise. And
indeed, his response appeared in newspapers and broadsides within
weeks, provoking a mixed reaction.9
At least one acquaintance felt sympathy for the forgotten
founder. “I know not when my sensibilities have been more exqui-
sitely touched, than they were by . . . the concluding sentence of your
letter,” wrote William Cunningham, an ardent Federalist and distant
relation.10 Those panting for war with either England or France were
less kind, decrying Adams’s letter in newspapers and goading the for-
mer president to reply in turn. For the first time in his life, Adams
found himself defending his reputation in print before a national audi-
ence.
The unexpected turn of events was a windfall for a man who had
been stewing over his reputation for decades. Adams was “all at once
and very unexpectedly, a man of . . . much importance in the world,”
 112 the art of paper war

he observed wryly. Called into the public eye, he decided to seize the
moment to redeem his name. “I will either throw off that intolerable
load of obloquy and insolence that they [his enemies] have thrown
upon me, or I will perish in the struggle,” he declared to Cunningham.
Noting a recently founded newspaper called the Boston Patriot, Adams
addressed a letter to its editors, requesting “a little room” to explain
his French mission, the first in a series of almost three hundred letters
published twice a week, every week, for three years. “My pen shall go
as long as my fingers can hold it,” he swore to Cunningham. “I will
not die for nothing.” 11
Adams’s Boston Patriot letters were a remarkable phenomenon.
After years of silence, a former president was pleading his case in that
most public forum: a newspaper. Unprecedented in America, the ac-
tion was also uncharacteristic for Adams, and his heartfelt confessions
and accusations, signed and claimed by their author, were unusual
newspaper fodder as well. Cunningham immediately recognized the
novelty of Adams’s actions, and his ensuing questions and comments
opened an active correspondence with the author. With typical candor,
Adams explained himself in detail during the course of the exchange.
The result would be one of many controversies in Adams’s life sparked
by his carelessness with words. In the end, Adams’s Boston Patriot let-
ters would affect his reputation in ways he had never hoped for or
imagined.
Adams’s sufferings reveal the risks in committing one’s thoughts
to paper. Not only did a writer endanger his own reputation, but he
entangled other reputations as well. Such would be the outcome of
Adams’s Boston Patriot essays, one link in a long paper chain of personal
defenses. Seen outside this larger context, Adams’s newspaper cam-
paign seems like little more than an illogical temper tantrum, and so
it is typically treated—as is Hamilton’s “Letter.” 12 However, framed
in a culture of honor and reputation, and tied in with the other voices
in this dialogue, these works become much more. Given the severity
of Hamilton’s attack, Adams had every reason to rant. By the rules of
paper combat, he also had every reason to stage a counterattack. This
contemporaries expected. Hamilton likewise had ample reasons for
writing his pamphlet, as a chorus of supporters well understood. The
 the art of paper war 113

real question is why the two campaigns failed, and to understand that,
we must wrestle with the logic of paper war.

The Weapons of Paper War

Most politicians in Adams’s situation would have chosen a different
course of action. A defense pamphlet would have been the usual me-
dium for combating Hamilton’s publication; the best forum for an
extended argument advanced with documentary evidence, it was the
customary vehicle for a lengthy character defense and the medium that
Hamilton himself had used to wage his attack. Indeed, many Federal-
ists expected such a publication. “I have reason to suspect that the
President will, like some other great men, write a vindication of his
official conduct,” wrote Adams’s secretary of the treasury Oliver Wol-
cott, who began stockpiling documents in case he needed to respond.
Others expected pamphlets from McHenry and Timothy Pickering,
both dishonorably dismissed from Adams’s cabinet. One man even
expected some such response to Adams’s Boston Patriot essays. Such
expectations—and the prevailing surprise that Adams chose a news-
paper—reveal the shared assumptions underlying paper war. Strategi-
cally written “private” letters, pamphlets, broadsides, and newspapers
each had a different power and reach, and politicians chose the medium
best adapted to their purposes.13 It is an idea worth repeating: when
politicians chose a medium for their writings, they declared their in-
tended purpose and audience—a useful fact for scholars trying to inter-
pret those writings today.
At the core of such decisions was a fundamental question: How
much of his reputation should a writer invest? A signed attack bore
the clout of its writer’s reputation but risked it by thrusting him into
the public eye.14 Unsigned publications offered the safety of anonym-
ity, but without the authority of a name they had less power. A poor
choice of medium could backfire, as Adams would learn all too well.
Hence the ongoing stream of letters from men seeking advice on paper
war. Although the stubbornly independent Adams consulted no one
before launching his Boston Patriot campaign, most politicians were
more cautious. For example, Virginian John Taylor of Caroline sought
 114 the art of paper war

James Madison’s advice concerning a 1793 manuscript attacking the

National Bank. “Ought it to appear in a pamp[h]let or in the news-
papers?” he asked. “The latter are meer ephemere, and tho’ containing
merit, read & forgotten. The best political essays being often supposed
to proceed from the printers in a course of trade.” The abundance of
such letters suggests the importance of selecting the right weapon—
and the risks involved with choosing the wrong one.15

Public-Minded Personal Letters

Personal letters were the most private paper weapon, though they be-
came public all too easily. Letters fell out of mailbags, were misplaced
by postmasters, and could be published in newspapers if they fell into
the wrong hands. Private correspondence was none too private in an
age of difficult and erratic communication, yet it was fundamental to
national politics, linking representative to constituent when the gov-
ernment was in session, and ally to ally when it was not. There was a
good reason why correspondents catalogued letters sent and received
at the opening of their own letters, or scrawled “Confidential” on the
wrapper or in the heading.16
Some private letters were simply that: personal communications
between allies or friends, although even such simple exchanges had
risks. Note the fate of Philadelphia visitor Count Paolo Andriani, who
ridiculed America’s new government in a letter to friends overseas.
When an American abroad heard tell of it, he sent the letter to Presi-
dent Washington, who had it “handed about” in Philadelphia so that
Andriani “might be treated in the way that he ought”—evidence of
Washington’s oft-overlooked political savvy. As one of Andriani’s
friends noted, the count became so “detested” that he soon found it
necessary to “decamp.” 17
Some letters had more complex purposes. Framed as a private
address from one gentleman to another, these public-minded personal
letters were in fact intended to be circulated among small numbers of
elite readers; endorsed with “the authority of a name,” a public-minded
letter was a sworn statement of fact, the writer staking his honor on
its veracity. Seeking to prove circulating charges about Republicans,
one Massachusetts Federalist insisted that it “ought to be mentioned
 the art of paper war 115

in private letters that the Rascals may be known upon good authority.”
In essence, signed letters were a written form of face-to-face communi-
cation, the signature standing in for the writer’s physical presence and
identity.18 Adams’s letters were rarely this contrived, which was part
of his problem. He was not self-conscious enough about what he com-
mitted to paper.
Politicians typically used such letters to defend themselves before
small circles of intimates or to sway fence-sitters in preparation for
battle. For example, to refute accusations of financial malfeasance in
1792, Hamilton wrote to a supporter in the state where the charges
originated, giving the lie to his accuser by denouncing the assertion
as “a gross and wicked slander.” Considering its extreme language, he
intended to restrict the letter to a small circle of men but not to publish
it in a newspaper, and he so instructed his correspondent. Jefferson
wrote a similar letter in 1803 responding to charges that he had trifled
with the wife of his (now former) friend John Walker as a young man.
Instigated by Walker’s demand for “satisfaction” and negotiated
through seconds, this was a formal affair of honor. To redeem his
wife’s reputation, Walker demanded—and received—a written state-
ment from Jefferson confessing to his dalliance, to be shown to a select
group of Walker’s friends, but the Federalist Walker circulated the pre-
cious document more widely than Jefferson expected. Ultimately, it
reached a large enough audience that Jefferson felt compelled to write
yet another letter, this time to defend his reputation among “particular
friends.” 19 In the presidential election of 1800, such public-minded let-
ters held together the northern and southern components of both the
Federalist and the Republican persuasion.
Sometimes beleaguered politicians solicited such letters to use as
affidavits. Incredibly, at the height of their opposition in 1793, Hamil-
ton asked Jefferson for such a letter to refute charges that he had mis-
managed foreign loans, counting on Jefferson’s honor as a gentleman
to attest to the truth. As Jefferson explained to Madison, Hamilton
told him that “his object was perhaps to shew it to some friends whom
he wished to satisfy.” Although Jefferson complied with Hamilton’s
wishes (running his draft by Madison before delivering it), he made
sure that Hamilton would “not find my letter to answer his purpose.” 20
 116 the art of paper war

Public-minded letters had particular importance in the print-

deprived South. In New England, newspapers broadcast national po-
litical news on a wide scale; in the South, circular letters filled this role.
A genre used by southern Federalists and Republicans alike, circular
letters were printed progress reports from national congressmen, is-
sued in batches of several hundred and sent to local men of influence
who could disseminate their news. Framed like personal letters, com-
plete with a conventional opening, closing, and signature, they yoked
the personal authority and man-to-man intimacy of private correspon-
dence to a public cause. For national politicians far from home, these
public letters maintained the pose of personal accountability to individ-
ual constituents. John Adams deemed the practice “correct and repub-
lican.” 21
These letters declared their intended audience. Others were more
deceptive. Reputedly private but written for display, they capitalized
on the power of private information; the more private a piece of writ-
ing, the more truthful it appeared to be. Such letters, signed by a na-
tional politician, had added value as inside knowledge. When Repub-
lican John Taylor of Caroline feared that a supporter was swaying in
his convictions, he told Madison that “the most likely thing to fix him,
would be a letter from you. Some thing in a kind of friendly stile.
And having three or four pointed sentences against the bank law, and
expressing a necessity for its repeal.” Even if the letter did not “fix” its
target, Taylor was confident that the man would show it to others,
inspiring them “to take up the idea, and gore” him upon the subject.22
Grounded on the status and reputation of the letter writer, this form
of persuasion masked political wrangling as casual communication be-
tween friends.

Pamphlets
Political pamphlets aimed at wider circles of elite readers—“the think-
ing part of the nation” who could “set the people to rights,” as Jeffer-
son put it or, as Hamilton phrased it, men of the “first” and “second
class.” Usually dignified in tone and lengthy, they were ideal platforms
for presenting a detailed argument. Indeed, they virtually required
such detail. So Washington assumed when he read Hamilton’s draft
 the art of paper war 117

of his farewell address. Far too long to appear in a newspaper, it would

have to dilate “more on the present state of matters” if it appeared in
a pamphlet.23
Printed in mass quantities during presidential elections—witness
Republican John Beckley’s distribution of roughly 1,200 pro-Jefferson
tracts in 1796 and 5,000 such tracts in 1800—pamphlets were more
commonly printed in batches of several hundred and distributed to
men of influence. Thus, pamphlet writers who addressed themselves
to “the people” did so more for effect than for accuracy. As one Mas-
sachusetts Federalist fumed in 1796, Republican Edmund Randolph
might claim to be addressing the people in a recent pamphlet, “but
the people will never read it, and—he knew it! Knew—it would be
impossible to have it scarce read at all, in a Pamphlet, except in the
large Seaports.” 24
The truth of this statement is particularly evident in the South,
where scattered settlement patterns made it difficult to circulate publi-
cations on a wide scale. Note, for example, the pamphleteering efforts
of Virginian John Preston from Montgomery County, in the far south-
west portion of the state. A candidate in an upcoming election, in Janu-
ary 1796 Preston asked a friend to deliver a pamphlet manuscript to a
printer in Richmond, who may have been the closest one, though he
was almost an entire state away. The printer received it on February
2 with a request for five hundred copies. A second friend, Richmond
resident Robert Gamble, informed Preston a week later that the printer
would finish the job in roughly two weeks, a longer delay than Preston
had hoped. The logistics became even more difficult when Gamble
tried to send Preston the completed pamphlets. Unable to “hear of
any waggon from your part of the Country or to your part,” Gamble
pressed pamphlets on anyone headed in Preston’s direction: over the
course of five weeks, a William King took ninety copies, one Gordon
Cloyd fifty (and ultimately agreed to “struggle” with a hundred); Da-
vid Kean and “a Mr. Jno. George” (a complete stranger) took thirty;
Patrick Boyd took only fifteen or twenty, but Captain Caperton took
fifty, promising to distribute them in “Different parts of the County
[where] he thinks the . . . influential people live”; John Glen took as
many as he could hold; and Mr. A. Smith refused to carry any. By
 118 the art of paper war

March 26—roughly two months after the printer had received Pres-
ton’s manuscript—Gamble still had 240 copies in hand. In the end,
it took two and a half months for Preston to print and receive his
pamphlets, yet even so, he declared himself pleased.25
Because of their limited range and impact, pamphlets were best
published and circulated with precision, coordinated with the political
calendar, and given to “gentlemen of wieght [sic] and influence” who
could “make proper use of them,” as one Massachusetts Federalist put
it. Note, for example, the precise plans for the publication of Taylor’s
1793 pamphlet. It would have maximum impact if it appeared just be-
fore the opening of Congress, Jefferson calculated, making it “a new
thing” that congressmen could “get into their hands while yet unoccu-
pied.” These carefully laid plans were almost spoiled when Republican
editor Philip Freneau printed extracts in the National Gazette before
the pamphlet’s publication. Because pamphlets derived much of their
power and impact from their relative exclusivity, such piecemeal publi-
cation in a newspaper could prove disastrous. Freneau’s actions were
“both unwise and indelicate,” Taylor told Madison. “Unwise, as muti-
lated anticipations, will weaken its effect, if it should appear in a pam-
phlet. Indelicate, as in that event, the performance will exhibit the ludi-
crous aspect, of a compilation from his newspapers.” 26 Taylor’s ideas
would seem far less weighty if culled from newspapers.
There were various reasons to publish a pamphlet. Sometimes
writers hoped to instigate a public discussion—or more precisely, to
instigate an elite discussion that could be strategically transmitted to
the masses. Most such pamphlets were stripped of all regional and
personal ties to appear unbiased and thus more convincing. Some,
however, relied on just such evidence for their impact; Albert Gallatin,
Tench Coxe, DeWitt Clinton, John Beckley, Alexander Hamilton,
William Loughton Smith, and James Madison all wrote anonymous
pamphlets sprinkled with details that revealed their authors to have
inside connections.
Other pamphlets were spawned by heated newspaper debates, an
argument shifting to higher ground when it became serious enough
to merit an extended discussion. Such was the case when a newspaper
debate about the Burr-Hamilton duel suddenly vanished from news-
 the art of paper war 119

print. Some Boston printers attempted to do the same with Adams’s

Patriot letters, though Adams wanted “nothing to do with it.” He was
seeking a much wider audience.27
Most personal of all were defense pamphlets. Signed, structured
character defenses brimming with hard evidence, they were legal briefs
argued before a tribunal of one’s peers, the writer personally vouching
for their veracity. As one reader remarked concerning Hamilton’s at-
tack on Adams, “the assertions of ye pamphlet, I take it for granted,
are true.” 28 They demanded the greatest risk, the authority of the au-
thor’s name and reputation, but to the victim of a serious attack, this
was a risk worth taking. Of course, personal as they were, defense pam-
phlets were political publications aimed at attacking foes as much as
defending friends, but their defensive tone masked their intentions;
like gossip and dinner-table politicking, pamphlets justified and chan-
neled aggression by framing it as something else.
Such was the logic behind Hamilton’s pamphlet (fig. 18). En-
raged by Adams’s insults and eager to promote Charles Cotesworth
Pinckney for the presidency in his place, Hamilton thought that he
could accomplish both purposes in “the shape of a defence of my self ”—
a delicate balance that required a more restrained pen than his proved
to be. In the end, his “Letter” sounded more like a vindictive personal
assault than a rational self-defense, suggesting that Hamilton, not
Adams, had the flawed character. In contrast to the dignified tone of
most pamphlets, Hamilton’s ranting seemed all the more excessive. A
weapon of paper war misused, Hamilton’s “Letter” backfired, destroy-
ing his reputation. “Some very worthy & sensible men say you have
exhibited the same vanity in your book which you charge as a danger-
ous quality & great weakness in Mr. Adams,” wrote one Federalist.
Another was harsher. “I do not believe it has altered a single vote in the
late election,” wrote Hamilton’s friend Robert Troup. “The influence
however of this letter upon Hamilton’s character is extremely unfortu-
nate. An opinion has grown out of it, which at present obtains almost
universally, that his character is radically deficient in discretion. . . . Hence
he is considered as an unfit head of the party.” 29 Discretion—caution
with words—was essential to political leadership. Here was the price
for poor choices in print.
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 18. “Letter . . . Concerning the Public Conduct and Character of John
Adams,” by Alexander Hamilton, 1800. Adams’s rage over the accusations in
this defense pamphlet fueled his self-defense in the Boston Patriot nine years
later. Although Hamilton initially intended it for a small circle of elite
readers, unauthorized newspaper excerpts ultimately compelled him to
publish it in newspapers in its entirety. (From the author’s collection)
 the art of paper war 121

Broadsides
High emotion was better suited to less personal media like broadsides
and handbills, which were mainly intended to rouse public passions.
Hastily printed, usually anonymous sheets tacked onto buildings, sign-
posts, and trees or distributed hand-to-hand, they were low-risk pub-
lications that appealed to a mass audience. As Jefferson put it, they
should be “short, simple, and levelled to every capacity.” Their broad
local impact made them particularly useful during elections. In the
presidential contests of 1796 and 1800, politicians sent packets of
broadsides to men of influence around the nation with instructions to
distribute them widely; in 1796, John Beckley distributed a thousand
such postings throughout Pennsylvania. And incredibly, in prepara-
tion for the election of 1800, Jefferson planned to print ten to twenty
thousand handbills and distribute them “through all the U.S.” en-
closed in private letters from Republican congressmen.30 Such mass
mailings helped nationalize partisan battles at the seat of government.
When Adams’s two public supplicants converted his letter into a
broadside in 1809, they were hoping for an immediate local impact,
probably with a view toward the state elections a few weeks away.
Aimed at a general audience, broadside attacks were usually con-
sidered beneath the notice of elite politicians. So Burr assumed in 1800
when confronted with one of the period’s most infamous election-
eering broadsides—“Aaron Burr!”—a catalogue of the supposed sins
of “this accomplished and but too successful debauchee” (fig. 19).31
Despite (or because of ) the broadside’s extreme claims, Burr forbade
his friends to respond “either by recrimination or by any printed de-
nial,” deeming it too low to merit a counterattack.
Such an undignified medium was no place for the personal poli-
ticking of a high-ranking politician. Plus, a signed personal attack
printed on a broadside came perilously close to being a ritualistic post-
ing, the prescribed way to obtain satisfaction from an offender who
was too low or cowardly to duel: with no other way to redeem his
reputation, the wounded party was entitled to “post” his offender with
broadsides tacked up in public spaces, declaring him a liar, rascal,
scoundrel, and coward—ritualistic honor insults all. On the same page
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 19. Aaron Burr! 1804. This notorious broadside was reprinted for the
heated New York gubernatorial campaign of 1804—the contest that would
eventually lead to the Burr-Hamilton duel. Posted as handbills and printed in a
newspaper, it was the most explicit attack on Burr’s morals yet in print,
accusing him of seducing countless young women. Burr forbade friends from
responding, declaring that he presumed friends would “treat as false, every
thing, said of me, which ought not to be true.” (© Collection of the
New-York Historical Society)
 the art of paper war 123

as one of Adams’s Patriot essays, the newspaper reported one such

incident in Virginia, where a man posted a signed broadside “at the
corners of public streets” declaring his offender “ ‘to be a slanderous
lying rascal.’ ” 32
Thus, the consequences were potentially fatal when Hamilton’s
1792 defense against charges of financial wrongdoing appeared in a
broadside during a congressional campaign. Given his letter’s extreme
language—he had given the lie direct to his accuser, Republican candi-
date John Francis Mercer—he intended to restrict its circulation. But
his Federalist correspondent served his own electoral purposes by pub-
lishing Hamilton’s letter in a broadside—effectively posting Mercer as
a liar. Mercer was outraged. “Decorum of situation” was not “in the
least regarded, in committing your name, with the harsh expressions
you have used in regard to me, to be publickly handed about and
pasted upon Sign Posts to influence the weak and uninform’d during
a contested Election,” he fumed. Hamilton responded that he had au-
thorized only “a free personal communication” of the letter, which
could be “inferred from my prohibition of its insertion in a News Paper
which became possible by its circulation in a hand bill”—a striking
reference to the hierarchy of print. Addressing select men of influence,
Hamilton had been more abusive than he would have dared in a more
public attack. It was one thing to malign someone among a few
friends, another to dishonor him before the world. The incident almost
resulted in a duel.33

Newspapers
Most wide-reaching of all was the newspaper. Printed in a single news-
paper, an essay or news item easily migrated into others, forming a
national bridge of communication beyond any one man’s control. By
linking regions together with bonds of political consciousness, inter-
connected partisan newspapers were a nationalizing influence, a literal
arm of government connecting the extended republic through chains
of information. In a new polity that was exploring its political and
regional bounds, newspapers were a vital part of the growing process.
Foreign observers were quick to note the distinctive role that newspa-
pers played in the infant republic. “All, from the Congressman to the
 124 the art of paper war

work-man, read one or other of the thousands of newspapers which

appear,” wrote one French observer. French traveler Brissot de War-
ville agreed, declaring newspapers “the channel of information in
America.” Many Federalists blamed their loss of the presidency in 1800
on Republican skill with this powerful weapon.34
There were indeed thousands of newspapers in early national
America, but they bore little resemblance to the newspapers of today.
Usually consisting of a single folded sheet, these four-page publica-
tions typically had international news on the first page or two, national
and local news on the second and third pages, and advertisements and
poetry on the fourth. The format varied during international or na-
tional controversies, and different types of papers (mercantile gazettes,
for example) had slight modifications. The size of their readership var-
ied greatly. Whereas the nation’s largest newspaper, the Boston Colum-
bian Centinel, printed roughly four thousand copies twice a week, most
newspapers were much smaller, the average daily paper claiming a cir-
culation of roughly five hundred copies. Still, multiplied out, in 1790
the United States postal system delivered approximately five hundred
thousand newspapers in a country with a population of 3.8 million;
add to that the people reached by newspaper sharing or group readings
in public spaces—both common practices—and newspapers reached
an impressive percentage of the population.35
A blend of political propaganda, local gossip, domestic news, and
foreign reports, some documented, some hearsay, newspapers made
it difficult to evaluate news. For such reasons, in 1797 Gazette of the
United States editor John Ward Fenno refused to print an article by
Secretary of State Timothy Pickering because its insider details would
suggest that it was “an official publication, tho’ anonymous.” 36 Hence
the countless letters to national politicians and their families seeking
validation of newspaper reports.
John Adams’s son Thomas sought such reassurance in 1800 after
the publication of one of his father’s letters filled with accusations
against Thomas Pinckney. The Philadelphia Aurora had reported that
Pinckney and a friend had called on the president to demand an “expla-
nation” for the charges in the letter—the first step in an affair of honor.
 the art of paper war 125

Thomas knew that the report must be a lie, he wrote his mother, but
a written denial “from good authority would have a good effect,” en-
abling him to deny the charge to others. The rumor was not true,
Abigail responded, but was written “with a design to tempt the Pr[esi-
den]t to say something which they could catch hold of and by misrep-
resentation use and pervert to the vilest purposes.” 37 Counting on Ad-
ams to make an unguarded comment, the newspaper writer knew his
target.
Clearly newspaper writers had to watch their words, for poor
judgment could have dire consequences. In this sense, a newspaper’s
wide reach was both its power and its threat. Particularly for a politi-
cian, whose reputation was his livelihood, newspaper exposure could
do as much damage as good. Witness the many affairs of honor that
erupted over newspaper squibs. This was why Jefferson considered
newspapers “a curb on our functionaries.” For reasons both profes-
sional and personal, the threat of dishonor before a wide audience was
a powerful restraining influence. Newspapers were thus far more than
mere partisan rags. In essence, they were a vehicle of government, en-
forcing the accountability of public representatives to a vigilant public;
they were public opinion incarnate, their potential impact on elite rep-
utations giving them enormous power over national actors and affairs.
This was the reason Maclay objected to the Senate’s closed doors. “I
am now more fully convinced than ever I have been at the propriety
of Opening our doors,” he wrote after a 1791 debate concerning the
National Bank. “I am confident some Gentlemen would have been
ashamed to have seen their Speeches of this day, reflected in a News
paper of tomorrow.” 38
Subtleties of audience, influence, tone, and reputation had to be
taken into account when planning a print attack. Hamilton, for ex-
ample, followed a careful (if flawed) process of reasoning before pub-
lishing his 1800 “Letter.” Adams’s accusations were serious enough
to merit a written response, Hamilton reasoned. A newspaper would
have the widest possible impact, but decorum precluded using it; a
refutation of the president of the United States required a more select
and dignified forum. Far better to attack Adams with a defense pam-
 126 the art of paper war

phlet that would bear the force of Hamilton’s reputation and could
be “addressed to so many respectable men of influence as may give its
contents general circulation.” 39
Directing himself to this audience, Hamilton gave his venom free
rein, confident that those familiar with his character would grasp his
meaning. But he overshot his mark, drawing disapproval and disbelief
down on his head. Matters were made worse when the Aurora and
the New London Bee published juicy snippets from the pamphlet, the
result of an advance copy obtained surreptitiously. The news that his
pamphlet was being broadcast in a newspaper left Hamilton speechless
(a rare occurrence), but “soon afterwards he recollected himself.” 40 His
unplanned newspaper appearance in effect placed him before the pub-
lic screaming epithets at the top of his lungs, hardly the actions of a
wise or discreet man. “We must soon search for common sense exclu-
sively among the old women of our nation!” wrote William Vans Mur-
ray to John Quincy Adams. No “correct & temperate man” could ap-
prove of Hamilton’s pamphlet, agreed Hamilton’s friend Rufus King.
“May every Enemy of the President write a Pamphlet,” toasted Ad-
ams’s friend William Tudor shortly after Hamilton’s fiasco.41
Adams went through the same process of reasoning when he de-
cided to refute Hamilton’s pamphlet in the Boston Patriot. In his mind,
only a newspaper could reach the broad public that Hamilton had poi-
soned; and unlike a pamphlet, a newspaper could circulate widely
enough to prove Adams “Father of the Nation” rather than simply
New England. Adams’s reasoning was sound, but he characteristically
underestimated the power of his words. Raging against Hamilton in
the public press, he seemed cruel, hysterical, and unbalanced—just as
Hamilton had pronounced him to be. Such excess would have been
damaging enough in a pamphlet circulating among Adams’s peers. But
broadcast from a newspaper, it became a tantrum on paper, an explo-
sive “breaking out of a stifled resentment in print,” as Cunningham
put it.42 Whatever good Adams did his suffering ego, he achieved little
for his reputation, exposing his vulnerabilities rather than vindicating
his name, and sparking a string of angry retorts that would extend over
decades.
 the art of paper war 127

The Authority of a Name

Part of what differentiated weapons of paper war was the presence or
absence of a signature. A man who gave information “with his own
signature” staked his reputation on the veracity of his words, thereby
giving them weight and power. Hamilton banked on this fact when
he signed his name to his attack on Adams. As he put it, given the
source of the attack and the severe damage to his reputation, “facts
must be stated with some authentic stamp. . . . Anonymous publica-
tions can now affect nothing.” Adams followed the same logic when
he signed his name to his Boston Patriot letters. In his mind, only such
extreme measures could counter the “vile slanders” that obscured his
true worth.43
It was the power of a signature that made politicians so wary of
the mails, inducing them to use ciphers or cryptic comments in letters
rather than risk exposing sworn statements to their enemies. In a cul-
ture where gentlemen cultivated a distinctive hand, even an unsigned
letter could bear the reputation of its penman. John Beckley, for exam-
ple, attributed an essay to Hamilton because it was “in the handwriting
of one of his Clerks.” And according to Adams, Jefferson’s handwriting
was “more universally known” than his face. So powerful was such
personal authority that correspondents sending implausible or impor-
tant news sometimes enclosed torn fragments of letters from men of
known reputation to display an assertion in the writer’s own hand.
Some writers included detachable pages in their private letters for the
same reason.44
As Adams well knew, readers evaluated information by consid-
ering the character of its source. During the 1800 election, his son
Thomas had dismissed some charges against his father because they
came from men of low character. “The reputation of these people is
literally so bad, especially for veracity, that they are obliged to take
their oaths to everything they lay before the public,” Thomas assured
his mother; their words were thus no threat. As with gossip, unaccred-
ited news was thus problematic. In January 1801, when diplomat Wil-
liam Vans Murray heard that letters from America were declaring Jef-
 128 the art of paper war

ferson the new president, he did not know whether to believe them,
for he was “ignorant of the credit of their writers.” 45
Hence the careful attribution of many unsigned newspaper re-
ports. Note, for example, the contents of one page of the Boston Patriot.
Rhode Island election news came from “a gentleman from Providence
last evening.” A description of a “shocking” murder at sea came from
“a letter politely handed us, (dated Gottenburg, June 28th).” News of
Franco-Russian relations was learned “verbally from a gentleman pas-
senger in a vessel arrived off Sandy-Hook, from a port in Ireland,
whence she sailed about the 22d of July.” In all three cases, editors
David Everett and Isaac Munroe authenticated their news by ex-
plaining exactly how they got it (in a conversation the previous night,
from a letter passed from person to person) and specifying the genteel
status of their informant (a “gentleman passenger,” a letter “politely
handed us”). A gentleman was always true to his word; such was the
very definition of gentleman.46 It was the central importance of truth-
telling to genteel status that made “giving the lie” an insult grievous
enough to demand a duel.
Thus, even the most outrageous assertions seemed credible com-
ing from a man of character and influence. During the presidential
election of 1800, thousands of handbills were printed in Maryland,
claiming that Jefferson had told Republican Peregrine Fitzhugh that
John Adams was at heart a sound republican. “Fitzhugh is a man of
known honour and integrity; his veracity is not questioned by any-
one,” worried Maryland Republican Gabriel Duvall. “Is it possible that
Mr. Jefferson, after reading Mr. Adams’s volumes . . . should be of
opinion that he is a republican?” His own confidence in Jefferson
shaken by the authority of Fitzhugh’s name, Duvall had good reason
to fear that the handbill would “influence many.” 47
The trick to effective print warfare lay in manipulating the au-
thority of one’s name without implicating it. A skilled politician knew
how to invest just enough of his reputation to have an impact, and
no more. Thus the power of pseudonyms. Anonymous print attacks
enabled politicians to malign their foes without owning their com-
ments. Often the sting of such attacks lay not in their anonymity but
in just the opposite: in the insular world of high politics, elite readers
 the art of paper war 129

often had little difficulty guessing the authors of such pieces, giving
them the authority of a reputation without the liability of blame.
Anonymous attacks were not without risk—witness the many duels
they provoked—but they provided deniability for both their authors
and their victims. An unaccredited insult could be dismissed as low
abuse from a low source; given the option of ignoring an attack, many
politicians chose not to notice.
Printers suffered the downside of this ambiguity. If they surrend-
ered the name of an offending writer, they destroyed their reputation
for confidentiality and lost work as a result. If they refused to reveal
a writer’s name, they risked taking the blame for his offenses, and a
caning or libel suit would be the likely consequence. In 1804, the print-
ers of a pamphlet by Burrite William Van Ness were threatened with
a libel suit unless they gave up the author, but if they did, the printers
complained, “All hopes of succour from the Burrites would . . . have
been at an End.” Although Burr and his friends had promised to de-
fend the printers in case of legal action, the Burr-Hamilton duel had
intervened, and Van Ness and Burr had fled town, leaving the printers
in the lurch.48
Because it enabled men of honor to behave dishonorably, anony-
mous print warfare had equivocal status. Many considered it a cow-
ardly means of attacking one’s foes without fear of retribution. And
responding to such attacks was particularly challenging, for answering
them—with or without using one’s name—might give them a weight
they did not deserve, while ignoring them could harm one’s reputa-
tion. Hamilton’s anonymous newspaper campaign against Jefferson
at the height of their opposition was thus infuriatingly difficult to
counter. Without the investment of his name, Hamilton could not be
held responsible, yet everyone knew him to be the author, giving his
essays the authority of his name. It was a win-win situation for Hamil-
ton; either he would compel Jefferson or his defenders to oppose the
government in print, or he would reign victorious through Jefferson’s
silence. Jefferson’s desire to cut Hamilton “to pieces” was a visceral
response to the pain of such public exposure.49
The ever prickly James Monroe was well versed in such matters.
“Good men” often choose to “avoid dissipating scandal by newspaper
 130 the art of paper war

discussion lest possibly doubts may thereby be created where none

existed before,” Monroe explained. “But this modest timidity . . . is
often carried too far, & to the injury of the soundest reputations, for it
often happens that the slanders wh[ich] are thus circulated in whispers,
poison where the antidote never extends.” Far better for the “injured
person” or his friends to provoke a public discussion through print.50
Newspaper defenses could repair wounded reputations, but given a
newspaper’s wide reach, this cure required a bold hand.
Jefferson overcame this risk by defending his name through
champions of the pen like Madison, Monroe, or Beckley, who wrote
on his behalf. Fiercely independent and distrustful of political ties of
convenience, Adams usually allowed scandal and accusation to circu-
late unopposed, savaging his reputation in the process. A master of
opportune alliances, Aaron Burr chose the same strategy for different
reasons; convinced that political muckraking was beneath notice, he
forbade his followers to respond, with grim results. As Burr’s loyal
lieutenant Matthew Davis hyperbolized, Burr’s enemies took advan-
tage of his “sullen silence” to topple him “from the proud eminence
he once enjoyed to a condition more mortifying and more prostrate
than any distinguished man has ever experienced in the United
States.” 51 As Monroe suggested, it was often better to initiate a public
discussion, particularly if friends were willing to defend your name. A
supporter who championed his “chief ” in the public papers defended
his leader’s reputation with both his words and his loyalty. It was stub-
bornly independent men like Burr, Hamilton, and Adams whose repu-
tations were most damaged in print.
Indeed, Adams’s distrust of allowing anyone but himself to
champion his cause was what pushed him into his Patriot campaign
in the first place. As he explained to Cunningham, “No human being
but myself, can do me justice,” and even he himself would not be be-
lieved. “All I can say will be imputed to vanity and self love,” he pre-
dicted (accurately). His only hope for redeeming his name was to in-
vest it fully—no holds barred. As Monroe had suggested, Adams could
salvage his reputation by making it a topic of debate in the public
realm. He might also dishonor himself, but to Adams this was a risk
worth taking. Assailants could not “sink me lower than the bottom,”
 the art of paper war 131

he told Cunningham, “and I have been safely landed there these eight
years.” 52 By requesting the authority of Adams’s name, Lyman and
Wright had called it into the public realm, but this time it would be
on Adams’s terms, for better or worse.

The “Scorching Flames” of Dishonor

Grounded on personal reputation and character, paper war struck at
the core of a politician’s career and identity, inflicting an almost palpa-
ble wound. Adams exposed the near-physical pain of such dishonor
in one of his Boston Patriot letters. Looking back on the “opposition
and embarrassments” of his public career, he sometimes compared
himself in his “jocular moments” to “an animal I have seen, take hold
of the end of a cord with his teeth and be drawn slowly up by pullies,
through a storm of squibs, crackers, and rockets, flashing and blazing
round him every moment: and though the scorching flames made him
groan, and mourn, and roar, he would not let go his hold till he had
reached the ceiling of a lofty theatre, where he hung sometime, still
suffering a flight of rockets, and at last descended through another
storm of burning powder, and never let go, till his four feet were safely
landed on the floor.” 53 Underlying Adams’s “jocular” metaphor is the
agony of a wounded reputation.
The written word would be the medium of his salvation. Yet this
very medium had inflicted his wound. It was the “eternal revilings”
of newspapers and pamphlets—both Republican and Federalist—that
most disturbed him. “The causes of my retirement are to be found in
the writings of Freneau, Markoe, Ned Church, Andrew Brown, Paine,
Callender, Hamilton, Cobbett, and John Ward Fenno,” he claimed in
March 1809, citing a long list of printers and pamphleteering foes as
his main tormentors.54 It was for good reason that some referred to a
newspaper attack as an “assassination,” a “character inquisition,” or a
“beating.” Jefferson’s desire to destroy Hamilton in the press is surpris-
ingly savage when viewed in this light. “For god’s sake, my dear Sir,
take up your pen, select the most striking heresies, and cut him to
peices [sic] in the face of the public,” he begged Madison in 1793, un-
willing to inflict the blows himself but glorying in the prospect.55
 132 the art of paper war

Adams likewise could be a fierce print assailant in thought, if not

in deed. Attacked in the newspapers by his former secretary of state
Timothy Pickering, Adams longed to “whip the rogue . . . till the blood
come,” but friends advised him to remain silent. Pickering, in turn,
responded to Adams’s Patriot essays by reveling in the thought of the
Federalist counterattacks that were sure to follow. Adams “will be
scourged,” Pickering wrote, “& his vanity won’t let him see it, but it
will torture him as tho’ skinning him alive.” 56 Such blood-lust reveals
the rage beneath the surface of paper war. Where reputations had such
importance, a print attack was more vicious—and painful—than we
might imagine. Clearly, newspapers and pamphlets were vital outlets
for the stifled aggressions of self-controlled public men. A politician
might not be able to strike his opponents at will, but he could wield
the club of print as effectively.
Pitting man against man in the public eye, print warfare was a
bloodless duel that could affect reputations as profoundly as an “inter-
view” on the field of honor (fig. 20). In fact, print combatants often
adopted the language of the duel; Massachusetts Federalist Joseph
Ward was typical of many when he offered to “challenge opposers to
meet us in the field of argument before the tribunal of the public.”
Even the retiring Thomas Jefferson was a self-declared paper duelist.
As he explained during one battle, by defending himself in letters to
be circulated among his friends, he fought in “such a way as shall not
be derogatory either to the public liberty or my own personal honor.”
In this epistolary mode of combat, Jefferson was willing to “meet every
one.” Adams, on the other hand, usually preferred not to fight at all.
As he himself put it, “I never hired scribblers to defame my rivals. I
never wrote a line of slander against my bitterest enemy, nor encour-
aged it in any other.” 57 Rather than malice, it was his habitual candor
on paper that provoked controversy time and time again.
If print attacks were the equivalent of a public beating, then
women, children, and the dead were inappropriate targets. Assailing
such defenseless people in print was like dueling unarmed opponents;
there was no honor in an unfair fight. As Fisher Ames put it when his
wife was attacked in the public papers, “The newspapering [of ] a
woman is an outrage I had hoped Hottentots would not commit.”
 the art of paper war 133

For Orville Carpenter of Maryland, the sacred status of women proved

a convenient shield. Eager to defend the ladies of Baltimore from a
newspaper attack on their “dress and manners,” Carpenter wrote his
refutation in the guise of a woman to avoid provoking an honor dis-
pute. As he explained to his sister, the disguise had “the desired ef-
fect—The beaus left their walking sticks at home,” unable and unwill-
ing to defend their names by caning a woman.58
Adams’s relentless Patriot attack on Hamilton—killed five years
past—thus earned Adams criticism. Such abuse was “coarse and un-
manly,” charged Hamilton’s friend James McHenry. Cunningham was
equally alarmed, urging Adams to restrain his venom. Such bitterness
might not be “the method of treating Hamilton, the best adapted to
the satisfaction of the public of your own vast superiority,” Cunning-
ham suggested diplomatically.59
As with political gossip, rules were central to a mode of combat
with such high stakes. Without them, political conflict would be a
deadly free-for-all; with them, there could be at least a modicum of
control. Given the risk entailed in exchanging words, even personal
correspondence conformed to such strictures. Of course, rules could
be manipulated, like the fellow who was instructed not to make a copy
of a letter—so he recited it from memory. But as much as he violated
the spirit of the law, the man hadn’t broken the “law” itself. As Adams
wrote to Cunningham after revealing his innermost feelings in dozens
of letters, misuse of correspondence was “a breach of honour and of
plighted faith.” 60 Adams had committed his feelings to paper out of
trust; betraying that trust was dishonorable in the extreme, potentially
destroying the betrayer’s reputation.
How, then, can we explain the multitude of private letters that
were leaked to the press or the many pamphlets that were shown to
the very people from whom they were intended to remain hidden?
The fervor of partisanship holds part of the answer. To a politician in
the throes of a political crisis, exposing a threat could be an honorable
act—in fact, if publishing a private document served the public good,
then withholding it was the dishonorable course. Given the crisis men-
tality of the period’s politics, such logic prevailed increasingly through-
out the turbulent 1790s, a trend that contemporaries noticed.61
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 20. Pages from “A Plan for the Improvement of the Art of
Paper War,” by Francis Hopkinson, 1792. Hopkinson
humorously suggests a system for committing anger to print
using a sample “newspaper quarrel” between M[erchant] and
L[awyer], showing through typeface the slow buildup of steam
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

that could lead to ritualistic insults—and worse. From this

point, “M” and “L” would have transferred their argument from
the page to the field of honor. (Courtesy Beinecke Rare Book
and Manuscript Library, Yale University)
 136 the art of paper war

Even Cunningham succumbed to such partisan fervor. “No man

is more deeply penetrated with a sense of the inviolability of confiden-
tial trusts,” he wrote to Adams in 1810, but “a promise nor an oath of
secrecy, is not to be constructed to extend to the transgression of the
duty we are under from the instant of our birth”—the duty of patrio-
tism. A “sense of public duty” might require him to publicize Adams’s
letters. Cunningham voiced this threat as his friendship with Adams
drew to a close, for friends did not expose friends. Publishing a friend’s
letter against his will was the moral equivalent of gossiping about
him—a hostile act.62
Former friends, however, had little reason to withhold letters,
and given the high emotion and shifting loyalties of politics, there were
many broken friendships—and many private letters published in news-
papers against the writer’s will. As Abigail Adams ruefully advised her
husband,
Say no more unto your Friend
than you would to your Foe
For he that is your friend today
May be your foe tomorrow
and then [reveal] what you have said
Unto your grief and Sorrow.63
A second explanation for such betrayal lies in the other-mind-
edness of honor. Leaking a private document to the press was not
sinful in itself; what mattered was whether you were caught: “The man
of honor does not care if he stinks, but he does care that someone has
accused him of stinking.” Dishonor required an audience. With the
vulnerabilities of the mails and the carelessness of printer’s boys, there
were any number of covert ways to bring private documents before
public eyes. For example, depending on whom one believes, it could
have been Aaron Burr, John Beckley, a disloyal clerk, or some combi-
nation of the above who surreptitiously obtained the advance copy of
Hamilton’s “Letter” that was leaked to the press.64
Such treachery was not uncommon, but neither was it the rule.
In fact, considering the intimacy of the early national political commu-
nity, a striking number of private documents remained private. In 1800
 the art of paper war 137

Adams could not even get a glimpse of many of the handbills and
pamphlets that attacked him.65 He did not see one such pamphlet until
1812, when a friend mailed him a reprinted edition; claiming to be
amused by its excesses, Adams nonetheless wrote a six-page letter of
correction to the printer. Adams assumed that Hamilton’s “Letter” had
remained private as well, declaring that Cunningham had never read
it in its entirety but seen only the newspaper excerpts. Cunningham’s
response—that a friend who had received a copy from Hamilton had
shown it to him—reveals the relative control maintained over such
publications.66 Even a controversial pamphlet by a well-known author
had not been readily available, tendered to Cunningham by a single
friend. Without an understanding of the overriding importance of
honor, it is impossible to understand how politicians could have as-
sumed that some of their inflammatory writings could remain limited
in circulation.
This is not to say that politicians were too honorable to violate
the rules of print combat; rather, they feared the consequences. Dis-
honorably exposing another gentleman could endanger one’s standing
among the elite. During the presidential election of 1800, Virginia Re-
publicans were outraged when someone proved “so ungentlemanly as
to give up” an electioneering letter to the press. Cunningham similarly
rebuked someone who apparently released one of Adams’s private let-
ters to the press, though he himself would commit the same crime
years later. And Adams could scarcely contain his rage at Timothy Pick-
ering for providing Hamilton with many of the documents and cabinet
secrets that pepper his “Letter.” As Adams put it, such a betrayal was
“Treachery and Perfidy” of the worst kind.67
A personal correspondence was thus a mark of trust, each writer
trusting the other to protect his reputation; the more confidential in-
formation contained in a letter, the more faith the writer placed in the
recipient. Violating this trust was a personal betrayal, as suggested by
the howls of protest from correspondents who were thus exposed,
however inadvertently. William Eustis of Massachusetts was “d----d
mad . . . to be sure,” when Massachusetts Representative David
Cobb—relaying news from home—showed one of Eustis’s letters to
Vice President Adams in 1794. “Never shew to the Vice [President]
 138 the art of paper war

or any other creature any nonsense of mine for I have some little pride,”
Eustis warned. “The next time you expose me to any living creature,
I will give to Wm. Cooper some of your heresies to be made public
in the Chronicle.” 68 By revealing private letters, friends exposed friends
to the world without their full public armor.
Given the risks inherent in transcribing one’s intimate thoughts
and feelings, an expressive, confessional correspondent had to be trust-
ing indeed, as was John Adams, whose letters reveal his emotions in
full force, even at the distance of two centuries. Far from unrealistic
as a politician, Adams nonetheless bestowed his trust freely—and was
stunned by betrayal again and again. His well-known correspondence
with Thomas Jefferson in their final years shows his habitual candor
at its best. Adams’s letters are a jumble of feelings, confessions, and
observations, as he questioned, chided, lectured, and praised his old
friend into a wide-ranging discussion of their lives, careers, and intel-
lectual pursuits, all with characteristic self-deprecating humor. (“In the
89 year of his age still too fat to last much longer,” he quipped in the
closing of one letter).69 Jefferson’s letters, though framed with obvious
affection and respect, are stiff and guarded by comparison. He consid-
ered his every word. Adams did not.
It was this quality that Hamilton attacked with his pamphlet and
that Benjamin Franklin memorialized by describing Adams as “always
an honest Man, often a wise one, but sometimes, and in some things,
absolutely out of his senses.” Adams himself admitted as much in his
better moments, confessing that there had “been very many times in
my life when I have been so agitated in my own mind as to have no
consideration at all of the light in which my words, actions, and even
writings would be considered by others.” 70 Combined with his fist-
clenched independence, Adams’s impulsive self-disclosure could not
help but hurt his public image. Not only did he often say things that
he later regretted, but he had few allies to champion his cause and
redeem his name.
And yet his emotional outbursts were honest reactions to mali-
cious abuse—particularly the outbursts during his presidency, the fod-
der for Hamilton’s “Letter.” So Adams explained in a public address
on his birthday given two years after the publication of the pamphlet:
 the art of paper war 139

“Under the Continual provocations breaking and pouring in upon me

from unexpected as well as expected quarters, during the two last years
of my Administration, he must have been more of a modern Epicurean
Phylosopher, than I ever was or ever will be, to have born [sic] them
all, without some incautious expressions at times of an inutterable In-
dignation.” Any man would have done the same, he suggested, and
he had “no other Apology to make to Individuals or the Public.” 71
Adams did not, however, surrender total control of his emotions.
Though he denounced Hamilton heartily in his Patriot essays, he still
exercised some restraint, slight though it was. When Cunningham sug-
gested that Adams’s attack on Hamilton was too harsh, Adams spilled
his real feelings into a letter so filled with bile that he demanded the
original back with no copy taken. He did the same when Cunningham
defended Hamilton’s character by citing Hamilton’s final statement,
written the night before his duel. Surely a man who had spoken with
such “moving tenderness of his ‘Wife and Children’ ” was not as de-
praved as Adams imagined, Cunningham wrote. Adams responded
with a stream of venom intense enough to shock Cunningham and
once again requested his letter back uncopied.72
Here was the undiluted agony of a wounded reputation, the
emotional fuel guiding Adams’s pen. Yet trusting as he was, even Ad-
ams knew better than to release control of these acid letters. Though
Cunningham possessed Adams’s “sacred confidence”—as had Cun-
ningham’s grandfather, grandmother, and father before him—there
was no telling who might see the letters by mistake.73 Adams’s caution
was well taken, for in years to come he would discover that personal
honor and partisan fervor were uncomfortable bedfellows, making one
man’s public duty another man’s personal betrayal.

“The Arena of Political Controversy”

Adams expected some negative response to his newspaper essays. Cun-
ningham expected it as well. “I cannot conceal from you my apprehen-
sion, that in throwing yourself into the troubled element of dispute,
you will meet with many angry surges,” he fretted in May 1809. A
month later, he gave Adams a full report on this swelling tide. William
 140 the art of paper war

Coleman, editor of Hamilton’s journalistic mouthpiece the New-York

Evening Post, was going to respond to Adams’s essays, Cunningham
noted. Smaller local papers, “mere puppies of the pack,” were also dar-
ing “to bark” at some of Adams’s essays. The Boston Repertory, “the
highest note on the Federal gamut,” was making similar accusations.
Even the clergy were gossiping. One minister “made a pass” at Adams
in an election sermon. Another “elderly and respectable Clergyman”
reported that Adams’s minister had said that Adams’s family disap-
proved of his campaign but that the former president was “inexorable
to their entreaties to desist”—an idea that afforded Adams and his
family “a delicious laugh” around the dinner table.74 Adams seemed
to be deliberately placing himself in the “arena of political contro-
versy.” Of course, to Adams, this was precisely the point. He was using
a political crisis to bolster his reputation, a campaign that relied on
public notice.
Regardless of what medium they chose, national politicians
thrust their reputations into public view when they picked up their
pens, sending a written representation of themselves out into the
world. The response to these writings hints at the impact of national
politics and politicians on a wider public. For example, the insatiable
hunger for letters from national politicians is a reminder of how diffi-
cult it was to get reliable news outside of the capital. Newspapers were
some help, but it was difficult to separate rumor from reality. News
issued under the authority of a name, however, was as good as fact.
Hence the onslaught of questioning letters to national officeholders.
“Is Randolph really in discredit, as the gazettes allege?” asked former
Representative Fisher Ames of Representative Josiah Quincy in 1806,
the first in a string of inquiries about newspaper claims. Apologizing
for his barrage of questions, Ames reminded Quincy of the value of
such information: “While you are seeing the play, I, who have no
ticket, should like to know the dramatis personae a little better.” Mas-
sachusetts Republican Henry Langdon put matters more concisely,
thanking fellow Republican William Eustis for sending “all the polit-
ical information that you Congress folks think is proper for us to
have.” 75
It was Cunningham’s hunger for reliable political information
 the art of paper war 141

that had first led him to Adams, years before the Boston Patriot contro-
versy. Eager to write a pamphlet attacking Jefferson before the 1804
presidential election, he had asked Adams to aid his “patriotic pur-
poses” by providing “interesting incidents” in Jefferson’s career; Cun-
ningham was an anecdote hunter seeking useful political gossip. Aware
of the risk in transcribing such information, he offered to visit Adams
if he would rather disclose himself “in conversation than in writing”—
an offer that Adams accepted on at least one occasion.76
Sometimes the contents of a letter from a high-ranking politician
were all but irrelevant, for the simple receipt of a letter from a man of
national repute aggrandized the recipient by association. Republican
Hugh Henry Brackenridge was particularly blunt in making such a
request of Jefferson in January 1801, as the nation anxiously awaited the
outcome of the presidential election. “Address a letter to me, should it
contain but a News paper,” Brackenridge wrote to Jefferson. “It will
have the effect of giving me consequence and power to support myself
and my friends in this country.” John Ogden sought a correspondence
with Jefferson for less elevated purposes; he was hoping to impress
his mother-in-law.77 A correspondence was a mutual exchange of re-
spect and trust, so a letter from a national politician displayed respect
of the highest kind.
Not all such letters were welcome. Because correspondence
linked reputations, a letter from the wrong national figure could have
dire consequences. In 1798, for example, several Connecticut Federal-
ists were discredited for receiving letters from Vermont Representative
Matthew Lyon, a rabid Republican. Hearing a rumor that Lyon and
some southern Republicans had cultivated correspondents throughout
Connecticut (it is worth noting that this was considered news), Massa-
chusetts Federalist Peter Van Schaack “wrote immediately” to an “utter
stranger” of reputation in Connecticut for confirmation. The man
proved remarkably well informed about mail throughout his entire
state. Virginian William Branch Giles had “not written letters nor
franked news papers to any Citizen” of Connecticut, the informant
reported, but Lyon had forwarded letters and copies of the Republican
Philadelphia Aurora to one person in each of the towns of Sharon,
Salisbury, Cornwall, and Canaan. The writer had even seen one of Ly-
 142 the art of paper war

on’s letters, “filled with beastly invectives against the Executive and the
Connecticut representation in Congress.” To Van Schaack, any Feder-
alist who received such a letter was “both a hypocrite & a Jacobin.”
Franked mail from a congressman was particularly revealing of one’s
politics, for the writer’s name was inscribed on the wrapper as postage,
leading one Republican congressman to ask a more moderate colleague
to frank his letters to New Englanders.78
If reputation was the currency of politics, correspondence with
a national politician was a windfall. Indeed, some national politicians
took advantage of this fact to forge channels of communication
throughout their districts, writing regularly to local individuals and
empowering them as politicos in the process; in return, they received
invaluable information about local affairs and public opinion in their
home state. Thus were national webs of political influence and alliance
formed. For example, Representative Theodore Sedgwick was a pri-
mary news source in parts of his own Massachusetts as well as in up-
state New York. Though he wrote every few days to Peter and Henry
Van Schaack, his main conduits, he could not write fast enough. “Give
us something from Congress that we may have something to talk
about,” wrote Henry in 1798. “At present we are gazing and gaping
as if [we] were stupified.” Roughly two weeks later, he again urged
Sedgwick for a letter, hinting, “I wait impatiently for tomorrow’s
mail.” More desperate a month later, he implored Sedgwick, “For
God’s sake give me a letter by every mail.—You know I am one of
the under labourers in the federal vineyard—without information
from the fountain head—what can I do?” Pennsylvanian Joseph
Chambers wanted to serve the same role in Wade County, begging
Albert Gallatin to correspond with him as a means of informing the
“respectable proportion of staunch persevering Republicans.” 79
Following the path of Sedgwick’s news reveals much about the
dissemination of national political influence and information. Sedg-
wick regularly forwarded national newspapers, privileged news, and
copies of his congressional speeches to friends like the Van Schaacks
back home; they spread this Federalist fodder among their friends and
neighbors by word of mouth, letter, and hand-to-hand passage, ulti-
mately proffering it to Loring Andrews, the editor of the Albany Centi-
 the art of paper war 143

nel. Sedgwick also sold subscriptions to Andrew’s paper and, equally

important, occasionally convinced national newspaper editors like Wil-
liam Cobbett of Porcupine’s Gazette or John Ward Fenno of the Gazette
of the United States to reprint excerpts from the Centinel in the hope
of giving Andrews “some consequence.” 80
As suggested by this one network among many, the mails were
a central vehicle of national governance. Yet this political system,
grounded on personal relationships and the written word, was tenuous
at best. The primitive state of the mails only complicated matters.
There was no telling how long it might take mail to travel between
two points; a lame horse or a sick post rider could delay it for days.
In 1797 the absence of “the Young man who keeps the P[ost] Office”
prevented people in Charlottesville, Virginia, from receiving their mail
for almost a week.81
Equally problematic was the sporadic closure of the government
between congressional sessions, for without a central clearinghouse of
information, it was almost impossible to get a national perspective. As
William Vans Murray of Maryland put it, he knew nothing of politics
to the north or south, because “no one hears of such things except at
Philad.,” and without letters from the national capital, he was “in the
dark.” 82 In 1807, Massachusetts Republican James Sullivan tried to sur-
mount this problem by creating a second information center. What
was needed was “a central point of communication and influence, to
which the leading characters in the States can repair, as to a centre of
union and information,” he wrote to Jefferson. “You sir ought to as-
sume the trouble of being that centre.” South Carolina Representative
Robert Goodloe Harper made a similar suggestion to Hamilton.83
Given the personal and political value of national correspon-
dence, “men of influence” who didn’t receive any had reason to take
offense. Asked how he avoided offending such men, Matthew Lyon
revealed that he took advantage of the poor state of the mails: “When
I am canvassing my district, and I come across a man who looks dis-
tantly and coldly at me, I go up cordially to him and say, ‘My dear
friend, you got my printed letter last session, of course?’ ‘No, Sir,’
replies the man with offended dignity, ‘I got no such thing.’ ‘No!’ I
cry out in a passion. ‘No! Damn that post-office!’ Then I make a memo-
 144 the art of paper war

randum of the man’s name and address, and when I get back to Wash-
ington I write him an autograph letter, and all is put to rights.” In
1800, Massachusetts Federalist George Cabot poked fun at this same
phenomenon, writing to Hamilton that he expected a copy of his “Let-
ter . . . Concerning the Public Conduct and Character of John Adams”
despite the fact that he was “not ‘an influential man.’ ” 84
Given the prestige and information they channeled from the na-
tional center, letters from national politicians were often treated like
public commodities by constituents. Nowhere is this better seen than
in post offices, where national political letters often became public
property. A letter from Republican Representative Edward Living-
ston, for example, attracted “a curious crowd . . . at the NY post office,
where the letter was handed around from one person to another.” As
reported by Republican newspaper editor John Daly Burk, the Federal-
ists in attendance handled the letter “with evident marks of inquietude
and alarm, lest the sedition or treason should ooze out and convert
them to the cause of democracy.” During the closely contested election
of 1800, a letter from Representative Theodore Sedgwick caused a sim-
ilar sensation, as explained by his son, who was studying law in Kinder-
hook, New York. As he wrote to his father, “The morning that I re-
ceived your letter I was summoned at sunrise by two young men of
this place to go to the Post Office and open a letter from you which
was the only one for this town. . . . [W]hen I arrived there was a Troop
headed by my [School] Master all waiting with staring eyes, and open
mouths, to hear the news. When lo it contained nothing but what we
had heard, you may Judge what was the disappointment of such a clan
of Newsmongers.” The arrival of Sedgwick’s letter had an immediate
impact, attracting a crowd at sunrise that had no qualms about de-
manding to hear the contents of the town’s only letter. It is no wonder
that politicians often asked if their letters had arrived properly sealed.
When Secretary of War James McHenry sent President Washington
a letter with a faulty seal, he was reprimanded.85
Close surveillance of the mails made post offices politically treach-
erous spaces, enabling eagle-eyed observers to spy letters from national
politicians and scrutinize people’s faces as they read their mail.86 Sur-
rounded by friends and neighbors in a post office, a man who refused
 the art of paper war 145

to read aloud his mail from a national politician could seriously im-
plicate his character and politics, as did Samuel Canfield of Connect-
icut, a supposed Federalist who received a letter from Matthew Lyon.
Canfield “utterly refused to share his mail,” Peter Van Schaack in-
formed Theodore Sedgwick, proving Canfield “both a Jacobin & a
liar.” Aware that he might need to “perform” his correspondence, Fed-
eralist Harrison Gray Otis asked his wife to discuss confidential mat-
ters at the end of her letters, so he could avoid the awkwardness of
skipping a line when reading them aloud.87 Rather than spontaneous
expressions of thought and feeling, letters were artfully contrived
performances.
Local postmasters had inordinate power in this system of postal
espionage, for they could screen mail from political allies or expose
mail from foes to reveal alliances in the making. The two Van Schaacks
were particularly concerned about their local postmaster, repeatedly
pleading with Sedgwick to “purify the Post Offices” by purging them
of Republicans. With a “Jacobin” postmaster, “a thousand disorganiz-
ing papers and letters may come and go without it being known,”
complained Peter. Even worse was the postmaster’s access to Federalist
mail, particularly since he lodged with the town’s two Republican
newspaper editors. “Now Mr Sedgwick,” wrote Van Schaack with
high sarcasm, “our Post Master is the Landlord of these Editors, and
they his tenants, have the care of this self same Office in the absence
of the principal, and which by the bye is not seldom—What conclusion
will you draw from this, methinks, I hear you ask? To one less penetrat-
ing and less cal[l]ous to the public good, I would say that all the Post
Masters, and all those attending in Post Offices, ought to be federal
men.” 88
To Van Schaack, disloyal postmasters were a serious political lia-
bility. Only “sound Federalists in the different Post Offices” could
choke off the Republican fount of disorder, for from “the subscription
on Letters and papers corrupted channels may be discerned.” And if
these links between local men and national politicians were severed,
the Republican cause would wither and die. Not surprisingly, when
the Federalist Porcupine’s Gazette did not reach Kinderhook for several
weeks, Van Schaack immediately blamed Republican postmasters. If
 146 the art of paper war

Cobbett was sending his papers on schedule, then there was “some-
thing rotten somewhere” that Van Schaack vowed to expose.89
Some of Van Schaack’s worst fears came true when his local post-
master began peddling newspapers for the editors housed in his post
office. “[A] few days ago I was at the Post Office here, and was intro-
duced by [Postmaster] Danforth to the Editor Merrill,” he wrote to
Sedgwick in 1798. “I was asked by the former—will you subscribe to
the Berkshire Gazette? Not until I know the political sentiments of
the Editors—‘They will print nothing ag[ains]t the government.’
Upon which two of the papers were put in my hands.” 90 This very
personal process of persuasion reveals another way the mails spread
national political influence: newspaper subscriptions. Not only did
newspapers disseminate national news throughout the nation, but
they carried national reputations as well. Subscriptions traveled along
lines of friendship—the central organizing force of national politics—
calling forth the faithful, exposing the faithless, and forcing fence-
straddlers to take a stand.
The mechanics of this process offers a fascinating glimpse at the
power of personal reputation. Madison, for example, took full ad-
vantage of his public standing to gain subscriptions for the National
Gazette, making subscribing a matter of honor and loyalty. As he ex-
plained in letters to potential subscribers, he sought their patronage
not only to promote a valuable “vehicle of information” but also “from
a desire of testifying my esteem & friendship to Mr. Freneau by con-
tributing to render his profits as commensurate as possible to his mer-
its.” Withholding aid not only betrayed Madison, it dishonored him
in Freneau’s eyes, and by reducing Freneau’s profits, it dishonored the
editor as well. To further emphasize the personal nature of his appeal,
Madison delivered his letters through Francis Childs, who handed
them to the recipients in person.91 Equally persuasive was the practice
of some elite politicians who subscribed friends to national news-
papers—unbeknownst to them—and then demanded repayment. To
preserve their friendship with a man of influence, these involuntary
subscribers were well advised to pay. Such efforts reinforced and ex-
tended networks of friends, helping to stretch loyalties across state
bounds.
 the art of paper war 147

Thus, even as they helped shape public opinion on a massive

scale, newspapers were also profoundly personal documents, linking
subscribers in a shared cause. Indeed, subscribing to a newspaper—
and thereby contributing the authority of one’s name—was as good
as a pledge of faith to its political bias, inspiring some national politi-
cians to avoid subscription lists entirely. By 1813, with the Republicans
well in power and his political career at an end, Jefferson felt far easier
about giving the authority of his name to a partisan paper, subscribing
to New Yorker Tunis Wortman’s Standard of the Union as a stab at the
opposing press.92 As Jefferson well knew, becoming a subscriber would
be as good as an advertisement for the paper; the prestige of his reputa-
tion would attract other subscribers eager to gain status by association.
Hence the efforts of editors to solicit from the political elite the “sanc-
tion of your name.” 93
Given the intertwining of their personal reputations with the
press, men of influence faced serious consequences if a national news-
paper failed to deliver, literally or otherwise. Henry Van Schaack will-
ingly plied subscriptions to Cobbett’s Gazette until he discovered that
the papers were arriving embarrassingly late or not at all. Cobbett was
dishonoring him, Van Schaack complained to Sedgwick; having con-
vinced his friends to subscribe, Van Schaack was personally “pledged
for punctuality.” When little had changed six months later, he swore
that he would never again seek subscribers for Cobbett, whose inatten-
tion had cost him at least twenty subscriptions. But two weeks later,
Van Schaack changed his mind when a Williams College student asked
for the paper. The student body was “poisoned with antifederal trash,”
which Van Schaack hoped to counteract through this one subscrip-
tion.94
Although far removed from Massachusetts in the national capital,
Sedgwick was a vital link in this subscription chain. While Van Schaack
drummed up new patrons for the Gazette, Sedgwick often ended up
footing the bill. When subscriptions came due in March 1798, at least
five friends in Massachusetts asked him to pay their debt, promising to
reimburse him later.95 Thomas Jefferson and South Carolina Federalist
John Rutledge did the same for their local friends. At times, the finan-
cial outlay for such a service was substantial. Virginia Representative
 148 the art of paper war

John Page bluntly noted the demands on his purse in a circular letter,
remarking that if a district relied solely on its national representatives
for news of “the proceedings in Congress, it must depend in no small
degree on the length of his purse. . . . However dexterous he may be
in writing and making up letters, if he cannot afford to buy newspa-
pers, and pay for the printing of copies of his letters, he can send but
little information to his District.” 96 As Page’s complaint suggests,
newspapers were vital purveyors of national news, but their passage
relied on personal relationships. An impersonal print medium in many
ways—disseminated to a widespread audience and filled with anony-
mous essays—newspapers were also a highly personal form of commu-
nication, grounded on reputation, status, and friendship as much as
on devotion to a cause. Through a web of solicitors and subscribers,
politicians used this fact to get national newspapers sold.
It was the power of a national reputation that prompted Lyman
and Wright’s letter to Adams. By yoking the authority of Adams’s
name to their cause, they could attract state and even national atten-
tion. This same power was what troubled Cunningham. Battered as
Adams’s reputation was, it would still lend enormous weight to his
words; as Cunningham explained to Adams, regardless of the accuracy
of his Boston Patriot essays, “the profound respect which has been im-
bibed for your name” would undoubtedly sway a credulous public.97
This power would be no threat if Adams intended merely to defend
his name. But increasingly, he seemed more interested in defaming
Hamilton, condemning the cause of Federalism in his wake. Such be-
havior was dangerous during a time of crisis, Cunningham thought,
for there was no telling what unwise alliances the French-loving Re-
publicans might forge if left to their own devices. For the sake of Fed-
eralism and national security, something had to be done.

“Your Letters, if They Are Not History,

They Are Nearly Allied to History”
At first Cunningham tried persuasion. Adams had asked for his opin-
ion of his essays, so Cunningham complied. His comments centered
around Adams’s primary target: Alexander Hamilton. To Cunning-
 the art of paper war 149

ham, Adams’s attack on the New Yorker was far too personal—as in-
deed it was (fig. 21). Hamilton was not native born, Adams reminded
his readers; he knew nothing of the American character, had no respect
for the real Revolutionary patriots, was guilty of countless debaucher-
ies and “indelicate pleasures,” put his personal ambitions above all else,
lacked the military knowledge of a drill sergeant, was more juvenile
than an awkward schoolboy, maligned any man who seemed superior
in the public eye, and spent his time writing “ambitious reports” while
his underlings conducted the actual business of the Treasury. Adams
even mocked Hamilton’s virility, sneering that he was feeble-framed
and short—an insult that the small-statured Cunningham found par-
ticularly harsh.98 By striking at Hamilton, Adams had struck at Federal-
ism, and as a fervent Federalist, Cunningham felt the blow.
Did Adams have to be so bitterly personal? Cunningham asked.
Did he have to destroy Hamilton to vindicate the Adams name? And
in striking so cruelly at Hamilton, had he not struck at Hamilton’s
friends and followers as well? If the New Yorker was deluded and igno-
rant, what did this say about his supporters? If he was as awkward as
a schoolboy, did this not reflect on anyone who had trusted his talents?
On the universities that had bestowed him with honors? On the histo-
rians who had praised his accomplishments? 99 A blast at one reputation
left a host of others wounded in its wake.
In fact, according to Cunningham’s logic Adams need not have
replied to Hamilton’s pamphlet at all, for it violated the rules of honor.
Hamilton had laid the groundwork for his publication by demand-
ing to know whether Adams had accused him of leading a British fac-
tion; ritualistic in form and content, Hamilton’s letter to Adams was
the opening of an affair of honor, as contemporaries well recognized.
When Adams (predictably) responded with a chilling silence, the code
of honor entitled Hamilton to post the president, condemning his
character before the world. Hamilton’s “Letter” had been just that—
a ritualistic public posting with a political purpose. In his eagerness
to provoke a fight, however, Hamilton had never specified a precise
moment of offense—ironically, the very charge that he would hurl at
Burr during their duel negotiations four years later. “The demands
made by Hamilton were very indefinite, and unauthorised by the laws
 [To view this image, refer to
the print version of this title.]

Fig. 21. Boston Patriot, June 3, 1809. Adams’s self-defense appears on the front
page of this issue, as it did for much of his three-year campaign. Here he
begins by refuting Hamilton’s pamphlet but quickly moves on to denounce
Hamilton as a foreigner who spent his time indulging his “pleasures.”
(Courtesy of the American Antiquarian Society)
 the art of paper war 151

of honour,” Cunningham explained, so Adams was not compelled to

respond.100
Cunningham had put his finger on a central reason for Adams’s
newspaper campaign. His Patriot essays were more than an emotional
eruption. They were a return volley in an affair of honor begun nine
years past. Prevented by the dignity of his office from responding, and
unwilling to fight Hamilton head to head in the press, the outraged
Adams had held his tongue (and pen) for almost a decade. But when
fate called him into the public eye, he seized the chance to clear his
name, well aware that his primary target could not respond from the
silence of the grave.
Enemies yet living were spared. Most notably, Timothy Picker-
ing’s name is missing from the Patriot essays, despite Adams’s towering
hatred of the man. His silence was not due to lack of evidence, for
Adams filled several letters to Cunningham with harsh criticism of
Pickering, accusing the former secretary of being the main conduit
of Hamilton’s influence over his cabinet. But though Pickering had
done his part to destroy Adams’s reputation, Adams did not wish to
address him in the press. “I have no disposition to enter into news-
paper controversies with Pickering, or his friends or Editors,” Adams
explained.101
His silence was telling to at least one man. In the Hudson, N.Y.,
Northern Whig, a “gentleman in Massachusetts” noted, “There is a per-
son of unspotted and incorruptible integrity, who was connected with
the old man in his highest state of elevation, who can, and I presume
will in proper time, shew documents, to prove the fallacy and turpitude
of his recent statements. . . . In all the elaborate pieces that dotage has
produced and sent out to the world, not once has the writer mentioned
this man’s name! no—and because the man is living and can too ably
defend himself and too ably expose his antagonist.” Although un-
named, the “person of unspotted and incorruptible integrity” con-
nected with Adams’s presidency was undoubtedly Pickering, spared by
Adams because he would “ably defend himself.” And indeed, Pickering
began planning a response after the appearance of only a handful of
Adams’s essays. The former president was “giving a history of his ad-
ministration, in his own way,” he wrote to McHenry, a fellow sufferer
 152 the art of paper war

at Adams’s hand. “Doubtless it may become proper that this history

be reviewed.” 102
Adams’s cautions show that his Patriot essays were not an unbri-
dled three-year rant. Indeed, compared with his initial 1801 draft re-
sponse to Hamilton’s pamphlet, the 1809 essays were relatively tame.
Adams’s 1801 draft, for example, described Hamilton’s “exuberant
Vanity and insatiable Egotism,” which prompted him to be “ever rest-
less, and busy and meddling, with Things far above his Capacity and
inflame[d] him with an absolute rage to arrogate to himself the Honor
of Suggesting every measure of Government”—Adams’s words spill-
ing over themselves in anger. In a later draft, he entirely omitted this
passage. The Patriot follows the edited version almost exactly, with
one additional swipe at Hamilton’s ignorance and egotism.103 Adams’s
Patriot essays were more tightly focused on Hamilton than his final
1801 draft, but they were not as enraged as his initial outpourings.
It is in the differences between the 1801 and 1809 tracts that Ad-
ams’s ulterior motives peek through. The final version of the 1801 draft
was an embryonic defense pamphlet, refuting the charges in Hamil-
ton’s “Letter” page by page. The 1809 campaign was aimed at defaming
Hamilton as much as at vindicating Adams’s name, using passages
from Hamilton’s pamphlet as entry points into a larger critique of the
New Yorker’s character and accomplishments.104 By mocking Hamil-
ton’s virility, intelligence, morality, and political insight, Adams was
attacking his heroic reputation and all that he stood for, and in so
doing, discrediting the Federalists of 1809 as well.
This in itself would have been unsettling to an ardent Federalist
like Cunningham, but Adams’s timing was even more alarming. At a
time when America needed to protect itself against Napoleonic France,
Adams was ridiculing the man who had best understood the French
threat. Perhaps Adams’s emotions were running away with him,
Cunningham suggested hopefully. But increasingly, Adams’s private
letters implied otherwise. When Cunningham worried that Adams was
antagonizing the Federalists, Adams was defiant. Let them “spit their
venom and hiss like serpents,” he declared. He expected no mercy
“from British Bears and Tory Tigers,” whose system would “lead this
country to misery”—a stray comment that put Cunningham on the
 the art of paper war 153

alert. Surely Adams did not mean to condemn all Federalists indiscrim-
inately? 105
All of his past contact with Cunningham suggested otherwise.
In 1803 and 1804 Adams had been all too willing to provide Cunning-
ham with anecdotes to deploy against Jefferson. Adams had likewise
been far more charitable toward Hamilton in the past. As Cunningham
related in a letter, during one conversation, Adams had professed his
respect for Hamilton and, turning his eyes toward heaven, “breathed
a desire for his forgiveness.” Cunningham could cite Adams’s conversa-
tions of years past because he had recorded them; like any effective
partisan, he had documented table talk and gossip for future use, never
expecting to employ them against Adams himself.106
Suspicious of Adams’s motives, Cunningham harped on the same
theme in letter after letter, seeking reassurance that Adams was doing
nothing more than defending his name. Finally, on August 13, Adams
confessed his intentions outright. “I should have gone to my grave
without writing a word, if the very system of Hamilton, a war with
France, had not been revived, and apparently adopted by a majority
of New-England. The British faction, and the old tories, appeared to
have disciplined the Federalists to a system which appeared to me fun-
damentally wrong, and I determined to oppose it.” This was no per-
sonal defense. It was a political attack. As Cunningham bluntly put it,
“Under the semblance of a personal vindication,” Adams was waging
political war. His “personal complaints” about his wounded reputation
were nothing more than “a convenient apology” for his public appear-
ance.107
And indeed, for months before his first essay, Adams had been
increasingly alarmed at foreign developments, as relations between En-
gland, France, and America grew ever shakier, and Federalists began
to murmur about war with France. It was an echo of the crowning
events of Adams’s presidency, and he felt uniquely prepared to offer
advice. Yet he knew that no one would listen if he simply stepped
forward. “To what purpose, my friend, is it for me to give my opinion
when every appearance indicates that it will not be followed now any
more than it was in 1800?” he asked a friend shortly before the Patriot
campaign.108
 154 the art of paper war

Lyman and Wright had provided the answer. By requesting the

authority of Adams’s name for political purposes, they had pushed a
willing victim into the political arena, enabling him to redeem his repu-
tation and promote his politics by offering selfless advice at a time of
crisis. It was the Adams equation of public life. This same public-
minded patriotism fueled Cunningham’s response to Adams’s cam-
paign. If Adams continued to denounce Hamilton and his cause under
the “authority” of his “august name,” Cunningham felt sure that he
would either drive the nation into war with Britain or split it in two.109
So on December 29, 1809, Cunningham took action. “I wish my-
self enlarged from your injunctions” of secrecy, he told Adams; given
the seriousness of the pending foreign crisis, Cunningham wanted per-
mission to publish Adams’s past and present letters to display his flip-
flopping politics and weaken the authority of his name. So concerned
was Cunningham about Adams’s evil influence that he was even pre-
pared to publish Adams’s letters without his permission. “I can hardly
persuade myself, that my obligations to you are paramount to those
which I owe my country,” he declared. Regardless of “the inviolability
of confidential trusts,” he would obey the demands of patriotism.110
The honorable path would be to violate Adams’s trust.
Though he would have been loath to admit it, there was also a
personal dimension to Cunningham’s actions, for in abandoning his
former politics, Adams had abandoned Cunningham as well. “I do not
know that I have an opinion on any political subject unsupported by
your authority,” Cunningham explained toward the end of their corre-
spondence. “It would be an endless labour to recite the sentiments,
written and oral, of yours, upon which most of my political specula-
tions have been founded.” For years, Cunningham had used his friend-
ship with Adams as a claim to political authority. Adams’s conversion
cut off this font of prestige and influence, thereby slapping at Cunning-
ham’s reputation.111 For Cunningham, publishing Adams’s letters was
thus more than a political gesture. By exposing Adams’s inconstancy
to the world, Cunningham would be defending himself.
Despite Cunningham’s threats, he ultimately published only a
few fragments, and he sent these to Adams for approval before publi-
cation, so strong was his conviction in the sacred trust of private cor-
 the art of paper war 155

respondence between friends—even former friends. “I shall be scru-

pulously cautious against bringing myself under reproaches of my
conscience,” he swore to Adams, who reminded him that publishing
their letters would be “a breach of honour and of plighted faith.” After
Cunningham died, however, his son had no such qualms. Ardently
opposed to John Quincy Adams’s bid for the presidency, he published
the Adams-Cunningham correspondence in 1823, attacking the son by
dishonoring his father. Readers should take from the letters an impor-
tant lesson: “whether it be safe to engraft a Scion of this old Stock in
our tree of Liberty.” 112 In a manner unanticipated by the elder Cun-
ningham, Adams’s self-defense would be yoked to the cause of Feder-
alism.
The strength of young Cunningham’s publication was the privacy
of its evidence. Nothing could be more revealing than personal letters,
he explained in his pamphlet’s introduction: “It is well observed, that
the truest delineations and traits of human character, are found in pri-
vate intercourse and in familiar correspondence. Here, the mind dis-
charges its sentinels—the heart is liberated from the restraints of policy
and affectation—and the whole man unbends and displays the ingredi-
ents of his composition, and speaks the language of his real feelings
and sentiments.” 113 To Cunningham, Adams’s letters revealed his true
nature: his envy, resentment, disloyalty, indiscretion, and distemper—
Hamilton’s charges brought back to life.
Cunningham hoped that the power of private letters would con-
demn the Adamses, father and son, but like many a public attack on
a politician’s honor, his pamphlet cut a wider swath than intended.
Within months, Jefferson knew about it. “I had for some time ob-
served, in the public papers, dark hints and mysterious innuendoes of
a correspondence of yours with a friend, to whom you had opened
your bosom without reserve,” he wrote to Adams in October 1823,
and it was now “said to be actually published.” Based on extracts leaked
to the newspapers, Jefferson saw all too clearly that Adams had viru-
lently attacked him in many letters. But Jefferson would not allow this
“outrage on private confidence” to destroy their friendship, he wrote
in an eloquent letter professing support to their dying days. “ ‘How
generous! how noble! how magnanimous!’ ” went the cry around the
 156 the art of paper war

Adams table when the letter was read aloud, followed by “a universal
cry that the letter ought to be printed.” “Not without Mr. Jefferson’s
express leave,” Adams shot back, well aware of the problems of be-
trayed correspondence. A few weeks later, Jefferson allowed a John
Quincy Adams supporter to publish his letter in the Boston Patriot,
once again a center of controversy.114
Timothy Pickering was less genteel. As Adams suspected, he was
only too eager to defend his name. As early as June 1809 he had begun
to prepare a response to Adams’s Patriot essays, reporting his activities
to McHenry, who was less than thrilled by the idea. Would Adams’s
writings “become history?” McHenry asked. “Who pronounces the
name of this calumniator of the dead with veneration? Who celebrates
his acts? Who is emulous to tread in his footsteps? In a few years his
name and his fame, if not borne up by other pinions than his own,
will sink in that gulph destined to swallow up all memorials of merit
and demerit like his.” 115 To McHenry, Adams’s newspaper diatribe was
no part of the historical record. But where politics—and thus his-
tory—were so personal, it was hard to say what ultimately would gain
sanction as historical truth.
So Pickering thought, unpersuaded by McHenry’s pleas. Hamil-
ton’s name, the cause of Federalism, and thereby Pickering’s life’s work
and reputation required defending. For a few years he responded to
Adams’s essays in a series of notebooks, answering charge by charge,
letter by letter, much as Adams had responded to Hamilton’s pamphlet
in 1801. Like Adams, he then withheld his work until accusations in
the published Adams-Cunningham correspondence called him into the
public eye. “In all of my life I have never met with such a mass of
calumny,” he fumed upon reading the pamphlet. “The whole noble
family of Adams will regret this act of the ex-president, alike imprudent
and malevolent.” Pickering’s response, titled “A Review of the Corre-
spondence Between the Hon. John Adams . . . and the Late Wm.
Cunningham, Esq.,” was published the next year, becoming yet an-
other link in a paper chain of reputations.116
Far more than a response to Cunningham’s pamphlet, Pickering’s
“formal vindication” was a history of the 1790s. His expanded aims
were prompted by Jefferson’s letter of friendship to Adams, which had
 the art of paper war 157

been reprinted in the Boston Patriot. The letter seemed “calculated to

lead the readers into a misconception” about the integrity of the two
men’s characters, and thereby into a misunderstanding of historical
truth, Pickering charged.117 To Pickering, as to his contemporaries,
history was a tale of character and reputation, and only by showing
characters in their true light could historical truth be known. In this
context, defense pamphlets were more than political fodder; at-
tempting to straighten the historical record by attacking and defending
reputations, they were history itself.
Although a few Adams supporters published newspaper defenses,
there was relatively little response to Pickering’s publication. To many,
the sight of the seventy-eight-year-old Pickering attacking the eighty-
nine-year-old Adams was more pathetic than anything else. Martin
Van Buren noticed the pamphlet, bringing it to Jefferson’s attention
during a visit to Monticello and sending him a copy shortly thereafter.
According to Van Buren’s autobiography, Jefferson was stunned at the
intensity of Pickering’s hatred, claiming that he had never harbored
any ill feelings toward the arch Federalist.118 For Van Buren the pam-
phlet demonstrated Jefferson’s fairness of character—a conclusion that
would have made Pickering shudder.
Thus, far from an irrational outburst of spleen, Adams’s Boston
Patriot essays were part of a broader public appeal that was itself en-
meshed in an even larger battle of reputations fought with weapons
of print. Hamilton’s pamphlet, Adams’s string of responses (his draft
essay, his letters to Cunningham, his Boston Patriot essays), Cunning-
ham’s newspaper extracts from Adams’s letters, his son’s pamphlet, Jef-
ferson’s published letter, Pickering’s pamphlet, and Van Buren’s auto-
biography were all part of the same argument. Partisanship, personal
reputation, and the historical record were bound together in a volatile
brew that would simmer for decades. As late as 1846, descendants of
Oliver Wolcott (yet another embittered veteran of Adams’s cabinet)
were slashing at Adams’s Patriot essays. In Memoirs of the Administra-
tions of Washington and Adams—a biography of Wolcott framed as a
history of the 1790s—Wolcott’s grandson George Gibbs quoted exten-
sively from Adams’s essays as proof of his vanity and obstinacy, validat-
ing Hamilton’s claims with Adams’s own words. “Though of no other
 158 the art of paper war

historical importance,” Gibbs wrote, the “unguarded confidences” of

Adams’s essays offered inside information about personal opinions and
private conversations—the world captured in Jefferson’s “Anas” as the
real history of Washington’s administration.119
For self-declared Founders engaged in history-making events,
history was about reputation above all else. Dishonor in print thus did
more than inflict pain in the present; it damned a man’s reputation
for all time. Dread fear of this outcome fueled Adams’s defense cam-
paign for three years; this same fear inspired Jefferson’s three-volume
history and an outpouring of similar memoirs, histories, biographies,
and autobiographies besides. As the next chapter reveals, Hamilton’s
thoughts turned the same way the night before his duel with Burr. By
tending to the historical record, these national political veterans were
safeguarding their reputations as well. Like gossip and defense pam-
phlets, their addresses to posterity had to appear passive and detached
to be effective; only then might these personal pleas seem like objective
historical fact. Thus the failure of Adams’s Patriot essays and Hamil-
ton’s “Letter.” The pain, anger, and hatred running through their
pages destroyed any appearance of objectivity. Adams and Hamilton
had deployed conventional weapons in unconventional ways, letting
their resentment run rampant—with the authority of their names—
in the precise manner that the honor code was designed to prevent.
Tearing away the mask of restraint that framed political combat, they
revealed the raw emotion lurking beneath the surface of a politics of
honor and reputation.
 Dueling as Politics

On the evening of July 10, 1804, Alexander Hamilton was a man tor-
mented. At dawn he would duel Aaron Burr. Hamilton considered
himself “strongly opposed to the practice of Duelling,” yet the follow-
ing morning he would stand opposite Burr on the heights of Weehaw-
ken, New Jersey, pistol in hand, awaiting the command to fire.1
This day of reckoning had been long approaching, for Hamilton
had bitterly opposed Burr’s political career for fifteen years. Charis-
matic men of great talent and ambition, the two had been thrust into
competition with the opening of the national government and the sud-
den availability of new power, positions, and acclaim. Socially and pro-
fessionally they had remained friendly and cooperative throughout that
time, mingling in the same social circles, eating at the same dinner
tables, sometimes serving together on the same legal cases. Personally
they remained collegial as well.
But Hamilton and Burr were very different men. Burr was the
grandson of the great divine Jonathan Edwards, making him the equiv-

{ 1 59 }
 160 dueling as politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 22. Aaron Burr (1756–1836), by John

Vanderlyn, 1802. Painted two years before
the duel with Hamilton, this portrait hints
at Burr’s commanding carriage and
piercing dark eyes—his most remarked-
upon feature. Burr helped fund
Vanderlyn’s studies, ultimately sending
him to Paris to complete his training.
(Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery,
Bequest of Oliver Burr Jennings, B.A. 1917,
in memory of Miss Annie Burr Jennings)

alent of New England royalty. He viewed politics as a game and en-

joyed playing it. More of an opportunist than an ideologue, he was
seemingly dedicated to nothing other than the advancement of his po-
litical career. Many considered him oblivious even to the restraints of
honor and reputation, a man bemused rather than outraged by disap-
proval of his lifestyle and appetites (fig. 22). There seemed to be noth-
ing holding Burr back from doing precisely as he chose.
Hamilton was a different sort of politician with a very different
 dueling as politics 161

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 23. Alexander Hamilton (1755?–1804),

by Ezra Ames, ca. 1802. Painted shortly
after the death of Hamilton’s oldest son,
Philip, who was killed in a duel defending
his father’s name, this portrait shows the
tinge of sadness in Hamilton’s countenance
that friends marked thereafter. Hamilton’s
wife, Elizabeth, considered it an excellent
likeness. (Courtesy of Sotheby’s)

heritage. Born poor and illegitimate in the West Indies, he had raised
himself to power by his wits, talents, energies, and charm. He was a
born fighter, walking a high-wire of self-creation, and the founding of
the republic was his ticket to fame and glory (fig. 23). A threat to the
nation was a threat to his hard-won status and reputation, and in Ham-
ilton’s eyes the talented, power-hungry Burr—virtually bred to a posi-
tion of leadership—was the greatest threat of all. Add to this Hamil-
ton’s unshakable political views, his impulsiveness, extreme candor,
and brash confidence—even arrogance—and we can begin to under-
stand the fire and fury of the Burr-Hamilton rivalry, and the reason
why they cut such wide paths through the imaginations of their peers.2
 162 dueling as politics

By 1804 both men had been cast off the national stage and
were competing in the more limited circle of New York state politics.
Burr, however, seemed to have larger ambitions, courting Federalists
throughout New England to unite behind him and march toward se-
cession—or so Hamilton thought—and Burr’s first step on that path
appeared to be his gubernatorial ambitions in the 1804 election. Horri-
fied that Burr could become New York’s chief Federalist, corrupt the
Federalist party, sabotage Hamilton’s influence, and possibly destroy
the republic, Hamilton stepped up his opposition. Anxious to discredit
Burr, Hamilton attacked his private character, calling him a “profli-
gate” and a “voluptuary in the extreme,” a man whose flawed character
would drag his followers to ruin.3
Burr was keenly aware of Hamilton’s opposition and no longer
willing to overlook it, for the 1804 election was his last hope for politi-
cal power. From the reports of his friends and the pages of the Ameri-
can Citizen, he knew that Hamilton was whispering about him. He
assumed (wrongly) that Hamilton had written several of the venom-
ous pamphlets published against him in the past few years, and report-
edly swore to “call out the first man of any respectability concerned
in the infamous publications.” By January 1804, Citizen editor James
Cheetham was publicly daring Burr to challenge Hamilton to a duel.4
Burr was thus quick to respond when he discovered concrete evi-
dence of Hamilton’s antagonism in a letter published in the Republi-
can Albany Register. After noting Hamilton’s opposition to Burr, the
writer, Charles D. Cooper, assured his correspondent that he “could
detail . . . a still more despicable opinion which General Hamilton has
expressed of Mr. Burr.” Though Cooper only hinted at an offensive
personal insult, Burr seized on this remark as provocation for an affair
of honor and demanded an explanation from Hamilton.5 After roughly
ten days of negotiation, Burr issued Hamilton a challenge, and Hamil-
ton accepted.
The logic behind both men’s actions has largely eluded historians.
What prevented Hamilton from ending the affair with an apology or
an explanation? And why did Burr instigate a duel on such dubious
grounds? Many have attributed these self-destructive decisions to emo-
 dueling as politics 163

tional excess, suggesting that Hamilton was suicidal and Burr mali-
cious and murderous. Admittedly, Hamilton and Burr were haunted
by private demons. Though born at opposite ends of the social spec-
trum, each spent his adult life challenging the confines of his ances-
try—for Hamilton, his illegitimacy, and for Burr, the saintly mantle
of his famed grandfather. Self-created men of high ambition, they were
insecure and touchy, ever ready to prove their worth. Yet though per-
sonal insecurities may have made Hamilton and Burr likely duelists,
they do not explain how the men justified the duel to themselves.6 One
strategy among many for redeeming one’s name—though undoubt-
edly the most extreme weapon in the political arsenal—dueling was
part of a larger grammar of political combat.
Of the two decisions, Hamilton’s was the more conflicted. Unlike
Burr, Hamilton was not prepared to duel upon commencing negotia-
tions. He was the unsuspecting recipient of a challenge, morally and
theologically opposed to dueling yet profoundly protective of his
honor and “religiously” committed to opposing Burr’s political career.
Unsure how to proceed upon receiving Burr’s initial demand, he con-
sulted with “a very moderate and judicious friend,” Rufus King, to
discuss the propriety of Burr’s demand for an explanation, ultimately
deeming it too “general and undefined” to merit a response. Aware
that this decision could provoke Burr, Hamilton also told King that
he would accept a challenge if offered—but would not necessarily fire
at his challenger. King was stunned. A duelist was justified in preserv-
ing his life, he insisted; Hamilton would be shooting in self-defense.
Nathaniel Pendleton, Hamilton’s second, made the same argument
a few days later, finally eliciting a promise from Hamilton that “he
would not decide lightly, but take time to deliberate fully.” 7
On the evening of July 10, the night before the duel, Hamilton
made his choice. In the midst of a final planning session, he told
Pendleton that he had decided “not to fire at Col. Burr the first time,
but to receive his fire, and fire in the air.” Pendleton vehemently pro-
tested, but Hamilton would not be swayed. His decision, he explained,
was “the effect of a religious scruple, and does not admit of reasoning.”
Pendleton did not understand. Neither had King. Aware that even his
 164 dueling as politics

most intimate friends disapproved of his actions, about to risk his life
for his reputation, Hamilton felt driven to explain himself. Alone in
his study after Pendleton’s departure, he took up his pen.8
“On my expected interview with Col. Burr, I think it proper to
make some remarks explanatory of my conduct, motives, and views,”
began Hamilton (fig. 24).9 He then set down his apologia, a four-page
series of lawyerly assertions penned in an uncharacteristically con-
strained hand. The attorney Hamilton was defending his reputation
before the tribunal of posterity, explaining his decision to duel.
Hamilton first solicited his putative jury’s sympathy by present-
ing himself as a law-abiding husband and father. He was “certainly
desirous of avoiding this interview,” he explained, substantiating his
claim with an enumerated list of reasons: the duel violated his religious
and moral principles and defied the law, threatened the welfare of his
family, put his creditors at risk, and ultimately compelled him to “haz-
ard much, and . . . possibly gain nothing.” Given these considerations,
refusing Burr’s challenge seemed the logical choice.
Yet, he continued, the duel was “impossible . . . to avoid.” There
were “intrinsick difficulties in the thing,” because Hamilton had, in-
deed, made “extremely severe” attacks on Burr’s political and private
character. Because he had uttered these remarks “with sincerity . . .
and for purposes, which might appear to me commendable,” he could
not apologize for them. More complicating were the “artificial embar-
rassments” caused by Burr’s behavior throughout their negotiations.
Hamilton’s supposed offense was too “general and indefinite” to ex-
plain, “if it had really been proper . . . to submit to be so questionned.”
Burr’s manner was also insulting. In his first letter to Hamilton,
Burr had assumed “a tone unnecessarily peremptory and menacing”
and in his second, “positively offensive.” Such treatment almost com-
pelled Hamilton to accept Burr’s challenge, yet even in the face of such
an affront, he had “wished, as far as might be practicable, to leave a
door open to accommodation.” He had struggled so diligently to
avoid a confrontation that he was unsure whether he “did not go fur-
ther in the attempt to accommodate, than a pun[c]tilious delicacy will
justify.” If so, he hoped that his motives would deflect any charges of
cowardice.
 Fig. 24. Front page of Hamilton’s apologia, written between June 28 and July
10, 1804. Hamilton’s handwriting is unusually constrained in this final
statement, probably written the night before his duel with Burr. The revised
sentence suggests that Hamilton had some trouble finding the words to discuss
bloodshed. (© Collection of The New-York Historical Society)
 166 dueling as politics

Hamilton now approached the crux of his defense: his attempt

to accommodate the mandates of honor and politics with those of mo-
rality, religion, and the law.10 He had satisfied the code of honor by
accepting Burr’s challenge, violating civil law only under duress. He
had maintained his political integrity by refusing to apologize for sin-
cere political convictions. Now he would uphold his moral and reli-
gious principles by withholding his fire. Because of “my general prin-
ciples and temper in relation to similar affairs,” Hamilton explained,
“I have resolved, if our interview is conducted in the usual manner,
and it pleases God to give me the opportunity, to reserve and throw
away my first fire.” Hamilton’s seemingly illogical plan thus comprised
four reasoned decisions, each prompted by a separate code of conduct.
Hamilton had ruled out many options, but one remained. Why
not simply refuse to participate? Addressing himself to “those, who
with me abhorring the practice of Duelling may think that I ought on
no account to have added to the number of bad examples,” he ex-
plained his fundamental reason: “All the considerations which consti-
tute what men of the world denominate honor, impressed on me (as
I thought) a peculiar necessity not to decline the call. The ability to
be in future useful, whether in resisting mischief or effecting good, in
those crises of our public affairs, which seem likely to happen, would
probably be inseparable from a conformity with public prejudice in
this particular.”
Hamilton had accepted Burr’s challenge to preserve his “ability
to be in future useful” in political crises. In his mind, the duel was a
praiseworthy attempt to serve the common good: a public, political
act. Yet it was also an intensely personal attempt to preserve his public
career and private sense of self—to prove to the world, and to himself,
that he was a man of his word, a man of courage and principle, a leader.
And in less sympathetic eyes, the duel could appear to be a politically
motivated effort to prevent a rival from bolstering his reputation at
Hamilton’s expense.11 In his final hours before the duel, compelled to
transcribe the conflicted logic of a life-threatening decision, Hamilton
gave voice to the complex blend of cultural and political influences
that led politicians to duel.
 dueling as politics 167

“What Men of the World Denominate Honor”

Perhaps the most common misunderstanding about the American po-
litical duel concerns its purpose. For twentieth-century onlookers far
removed from the culture of honor, the duel was a ritual of violence
whose purpose was to maim or kill an adversary. But to early national
politicians, duels were demonstrations of manner, not marksmanship;
they were intricate games of dare and counterdare, ritualized displays
of bravery, military prowess, and—above all—willingness to sacrifice
one’s life for one’s honor. A man’s response to the threat of gunplay
bore far more meaning than the exchange of fire itself. Politicians con-
sidered themselves engaged in an affair of honor from the first “notice”
of an insult to the final acknowledgment of “satisfaction,” a process
that sometimes took weeks or even months. Regardless of whether
shots were fired, these ritualized negotiations constituted an integral
part of a duel.12
This more precise understanding of the duel reveals that there
were more honor disputes in the early republic than previously recog-
nized; for example, Hamilton was involved in ten such affairs before
his duel with Burr.13 As a partisan leader (and a particularly controver-
sial one at that), Hamilton doubtless attracted more than his share of
abuse. Yet his level of involvement in honor disputes was not unique.
In New York City, Hamilton’s adopted home, there were at least six-
teen affairs of honor between 1795 and 1807, most of them heretofore
unrecognized because they did not result in a challenge or the exchange
of fire. Most of these duels did not result from a sudden flare of temper;
politicians timed them strategically, sometimes provoked them de-
liberately. Often, the two seconds published conflicting newspaper
accounts of a duel, each man boasting of his principal’s bravery and
mocking his opponent’s cowardice. Fought to influence a broad pub-
lic, synchronized with the events of the political timetable, political
duels conveyed carefully scripted political messages.14
Politicians manipulated the affair of honor to serve their immedi-
ate political needs, but they also shared a profound respect for its per-
sonal dimension, its impact on their sense of self. The duel was a subtle
 168 dueling as politics

blend of the strategic and the sincere, the self-interested and the self-
less, the political and the personal, the public and the private. Political
duelists were not rapacious predators deliberately masking their evil
intentions under the guise of honor. They were men of public duty
and private ambition who identified so closely with their public roles
that they often could not distinguish between their identity as gentle-
men and their status as political leaders. Longtime political opponents
almost expected duels, for there was no way that constant opposition
to a man’s political career could leave his personal identity unaffected.
As Hamilton confessed on his deathbed, “I have found, for some time
past, that my life must be exposed to that man.” 15 By opposing Burr’s
political career, Hamilton had wounded him as a gentleman, making
himself vulnerable to a challenge. Nowhere do we witness this ambigu-
ity more affectingly than in Hamilton’s apologia, his testament to the
complexities of political leadership among men of honor.
Personal honor was a concern of politicians throughout the na-
tion. North and South, they recognized the need to remain alert to
tone, intent, and implications to preserve their status. Dependent on
the community at large for both personal honor and public career,
they had to be acutely sensitive to public opinion, the prevailing tone
of a community’s conversation. The character of politics in the early
republic—the prevailing distrust of political parties, the small-scale,
localized political realm—magnified this obsession with reputation.
Political combat readily degenerated into battles of “asperities and per-
sonalities.” 16 Many of these skirmishes were settled in ritualistic affairs
of honor.
Northerners were as well versed in this code as southerners; it
was in their utilization of violence that they differed most noticeably.
A northerner might cane a man or post him as a liar in a newspaper
or on a broadside rather than challenge him to a duel, but in densely
populated, print-saturated New England, a print attack on a man’s
honor inflicted a severe wound. It was dueling that proved problematic
for New Englanders. A duelist took revenge “in cool blood.” Willing
to kill or be killed, he calmly and deliberately violated the laws of God
and man.17 In a sense northerners and southerners spoke different dia-
 dueling as politics 169

lects of the language of honor, balancing the conflicting value systems

of honor, religion, and the law in regionally distinct ways.
Yet even New Englanders who disapproved of dueling often
found it difficult to turn their backs on an affair of honor. It was one
thing to condemn dueling generally and quite another to ignore a per-
sonal insult or challenge, driving many northerners to condemn duel-
ing in one breath and justify it in the next. Massachusetts Federalist
Christopher Gore was typical of many when he declared that he could
not duel without feeling “disgraced & debased,” even as he agreed
to accept a challenge. Harvard student John Farnham drew a similar
conclusion in 1810 after hearing about a friend’s duel. He was “heartily
sorry & grieved” at the news, for it would hurt the reputation of any
“young man who depends on the estimation of the publick for a liv-
ing.” Yet, he continued, “I must confess that considering . . . the great-
ness of the insult . . . that he is not guilty of a great moral sin. . . .
[T]hough perhaps the opinion of the most respectable part of the com-
munity in N. England is abhorrent to the practice of duelling—it is
in vain to expect or presume that . . . the decisions of a court will wipe
off the stain on a mans reputation—or that [a] man will ever obtain
any consequence & respect who suffers himself to be trodden under
foot.” 18 Hamilton would struggle with this same ambivalence during
his negotiations with Burr.
Northerners found insults to their honor even more difficult to
ignore on the elevated national stage, particularly when offered by a
southerner. Because of the ambiguous link between regional ties and
partisan loyalties, battles between Federalists and Republicans were
largely battles between northerners and southerners, placing new de-
mands on New Englanders accustomed to a less belligerent dialect of
honor culture. Protective of their comparative status as northerners
and Federalists and worried about southern domination of the Union,
New England congressmen were thus quick to note insults and often
urged personal vindication. They had good reason to feel belligerent,
for southern congressmen often “crowded” New Englanders—bullied
and taunted them—because they knew that northerners would resist
gunplay. So notorious was southern crowding that one newspaper edi-
 170 dueling as politics

tor satirically branded it a plot by southerners to “thin off the northern

members [of Congress] so as to secure to themselves a decided major-
ity.” 19 In essence, the nationalization of politics led to a backlash of
defensive regionalism, played out most dramatically in honor disputes
on the floor of Congress.
Charges against rivals, ranging from accusations of official mis-
conduct to character slurs, usually shared one underlying theme: politi-
cians accused one another of behaving like politicians. They charged
one another with the sins of self-interest and private ambition.20 They
cried out against corrupt dependencies grounded on the distribution
of favors. All around them they saw what they most feared, the selfish
motives and hidden intrigues of faction. Yet in struggling against these
enemies of the republic, these same politicians created factions of their
own. When a politician defended his honor, he was defending his abil-
ity to claim power, promoting himself and his “particular friends” in
public-minded contests with political opponents. In essence, he was
conducting partisan politics.
For politicians of the early republic, honor was thus much more
than a vague sense of self-worth; it represented the ability to prove
oneself a deserving political leader.21 Hamilton was trying to do as
much in his final statement. Burr was compelled by the same logic
when he challenged Hamilton. Politicians were simultaneously as-
serting their concern for the common good and their partisan biases,
their selflessness and their private ambitions. These conflicting urges
joined to produce an ambiguous form of politics, fueled by public-
minded personal disputes couched in the language of honor.
The strictures of honor controlled, channeled, and masked politi-
cal combat by providing a shared code of conduct that enforced gentle-
manly standards of behavior. Men who did not abide by these rules
were neither gentlemen nor leaders. As Burr warned Hamilton during
their negotiations, “Political opposition can never absolve Gentlemen
from the necessity of a rigid adherence to the laws of honor and the
rules of decorum.” A true gentleman avoided crossing lines but knew
how to behave if lines were crossed. As a congressional onlooker to a
1798 honor dispute commented, “In well-bred Society, when a man
receives an affront, does he knock down the person giving it? No.
 dueling as politics 171

He represses his feelings; and takes another time and place to obtain
justice.” 22
The laws of honor also indicated when insults could not be ig-
nored, branding a man a coward if he let a serious affront go unan-
swered. Hamilton experienced this during the 1795 Jay Treaty melée,
when James Nicholson dismissed him as a man of no importance be-
cause he had once shirked a duel. In 1803, Postmaster General Gideon
Granger of Connecticut went into hiding when confronted with simi-
lar charges, condemned by even his allies as “a base coward.” And in
1804, when the eccentric John Randolph of Roanoke threw a glass of
wine in the face of Willis Alston, Jr., broke the glass over his head
and threw the bottle at him, “Men of honor of both Federalists &
Democrats” had but “one opinion on this subject—& say that they
must fight—That Alston will be disgraced if he do not.” Hoping to
avoid such an outcome, President Jefferson was “anxious for a compro-
mise”; even the president himself abided by the strictures of the honor
code.23
For all these men, the “laws of honor” constituted a standard of
conduct by which a man could gauge himself and his rivals. They en-
abled him, his peers, and the public at large to “judge of the correctness
of the conduct of their representatives” and so distinguish those who
were worthy of leadership from those who were not.24 A means of
empowering oneself while deposing one’s foes, of asserting one’s merit
while remaining self-righteously defensive, the code of honor was a
powerful political tool. But it was a curiously indirect form of combat,
functionally adapted for a society that feared and condemned open
ambition and factional politics.

“If Our Interview Is Conducted in the Usual Manner”

In planning his course of action on the dueling ground, Hamilton
relied on the universal recognition of the language of honor. Like other
politicians, he had a keen understanding of the honor code, enabling
him to pick and choose strategies from a clearly defined spectrum of
options, in response to a corresponding spectrum of insults. Duels
represented one extreme in this grammar of combat. Most political
 172 dueling as politics

weapons were designed to refute or substantiate charges of official mis-

conduct. They pitted words against words. Affronts that hit at a politi-
cian’s “private character” demanded something more. They required
a demonstration of honor, bravery, and self-sacrifice that would vindi-
cate his character and justify his claim to leadership. In the same way
that a pamphlet discredited accusations with signed correspondence
and legal depositions, a duel enabled an aggrieved politician to refute
character slurs by acting in accordance with the most exacting stan-
dards of behavior. A true gentleman was always gracious and calm,
even in the face of imminent death.25 Attitude was the key to proving
oneself a man of honor.
Northerners and southerners, frequent duelists and those who
never dueled, all understood the strictures and rituals of the code of
honor. For example, everyone understood the implicit meaning of a
caning—a sound beating about the head and shoulders with a cane.
Because only equals were supposed to duel, canings displayed the vic-
tim’s inferior status. A caning was no symbolic smack; gentlemen often
purchased “stout hickory” walking sticks deliberately for this purpose.
Busily writing a letter in the House in 1798, George Thatcher lurched
in his seat at the heavy thwack of a cane making contact with a head.26
Not surprisingly, many canings inflicted permanent damage. William
Coleman, editor of the New-York Evening Post, ended his days para-
lyzed from the waist down because of a caning. As suggested by Cole-
man’s fate, newspaper editors were frequent caning victims, for politi-
cians considered them too low to merit a challenge.
A “nose-tweaking” was another slap at a man’s status that sent a
powerful message. Grabbing and twisting a man’s nose was a grave
insult that demanded a challenge. When Republican Brockholst Liv-
ingston insulted Federalist James Jones, Jones responded by first can-
ing Livingston and then trying to “wring his nose”—so serious an
affront that it prompted a discussion about precisely how much of
Livingston’s nose had been grabbed.27 The tussle resulted in a chal-
lenge, a duel, and Jones’s death. The implied insult of both canings
and nose-tweakings was the same; not only were they profoundly hu-
miliating public assaults, they were badges of inferiority as well.
Postings were yet another shared ritual of the honor code. When
 dueling as politics 173

someone proffered an insult but refused a challenge, the offended party

was entitled to “post” his attacker in a broadside or newspaper de-
nouncing him as a coward, a liar, a rascal, and a scoundrel. By slashing
at his offender’s reputation and discrediting his charges, the wounded
party cleared his name. When Virginia Representative John Randolph
refused a challenge from General James Wilkinson, for example—de-
claring that “he would not reduce himself to his level”—Wilkinson posted
Randolph “in the newspapers in very opprobrious language.” 28 Many
such postings appear in early nineteenth-century newspapers under the
heading “A Card.”
Verbal assaults were equally obvious. Politicians were well aware
of the key words and phrases that signaled the commencement of an
honor dispute, and attuned to the subtleties of meaning in the wording
and timing of a response. Coward, liar, rascal, scoundrel, and puppy all
demanded an immediate challenge, for they struck at the core elements
of manliness and gentility. Any man who uttered them in a dispute
was declaring his intention to engage in an affair of honor. And on-
lookers who witnessed such affronts watched for the appropriate re-
sponse. When Matthew Lyon and Roger Griswold exchanged harsh
words on the House floor, a host of onlookers scrutinized each man’s
face as the other delivered his insult, watching for the proper expres-
sion of repressed outrage; several were surprised and concerned when
Lyon appeared not to notice one barb. Aedanus Burke knew what he
intended when he threw “the lie” at Hamilton on the floor of the
House. As Maclay noted, “Men of the blade” said that this “Violent
personal Attack” must produce a duel. And Hamilton responded as
expected, saying that he would “at all times disregard any observations
applied to his public station . . . but that this was not to be passed
over.” 29
Such an attack could set off a wave of reaction that rippled
throughout the political community. Often, transmitters of such news
attached a clear judgment to their accounts, evaluating the participants’
behavior and measuring them against shared standards of honor.
James Madison never fought a duel, but when Lyon and Griswold
broke into an open brawl on the floor of the House, he nonetheless
had strong opinions about its etiquette.
 174 dueling as politics

The dispute was certainly noteworthy. In 1798, Matthew Lyon

of Vermont insulted Connecticut’s representatives in a private conver-
sation off to the side of the House floor. Overhearing the remark,
Roger Griswold of Connecticut responded by hinting at charges of
cowardice that had haunted Lyon from Revolutionary War days; when
Lyon didn’t react to the insult, Griswold walked up to him, set his
hand on Lyon’s arm, and repeated the remark. Lyon responded by
spitting in Griswold’s face. When a House committee voted not to
expel “Spitting Matt,” Griswold took action.
Purchasing a strong hickory walking stick, he strode up to Lyon
on the House floor and struck him full force more than twenty times,
denouncing him as a “scoundrel,” while Lyon tried in vain to extricate
himself from his desk. Once free, Lyon ran behind the Speaker’s chair
and grabbed a set of fireplace tongs to defend himself, Griswold beat-
ing him all the while (fig. 25). Though several men yelled to the Speaker
to call the House to order, he refused, allowing Griswold to clear his
name until onlookers intervened and pulled the two apart; the same
thing happened minutes later, when the two men again took arms,
some crying out, “Part them, part them,” others shouting, “Don’t.”
To Madison, Griswold had dishonored himself by opening the affair
to a congressional investigation; in his view, Griswold should have
immediately responded to Lyon’s affront with a beating or a challenge:
“If Griswold be a man of the sword, he shd. not have permitted the
step [of a congressional investigation] to be taken; if not he does not
deserve to be avenged by the House. No man ought to reproach an-
other with cowardice, who is not ready to give proof of his own cour-
age”—a byword of the honor code.30 Only a “man of the sword” could
engage in such name-calling, for an insult offered by someone unwill-
ing to fight was an insult without risk—a cowardly act. A confronta-
tional man had to be willing to take responsibility for his words and
thus had to be consistently ready to duel. Madison’s comment implies
what Lord Chesterfield asserted as an irrefutable truth: “There are but
two alternatives for a gentleman; extreme politeness, or the sword.” 31
Alexander Hamilton and James Monroe were undeniably men
of the sword. An eyewitness account of a dispute between them cap-
tures the precise moment when the two men—both clearly prepared
 dueling as politics 175

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 25. Congressional Pugilists, unidentified artist, 1798. This is one of several
cartoons satirizing the fracas between Roger Griswold and “Spitting Matt”
Lyon on the House floor. Griswold waves a cane on the right; Lyon waves
fireplace tongs on the left. An audience of congressmen whoops in the
background—and in truth, many discouraged interference so Griswold could
cane Lyon and clear his name. Smiling down from the chair is Jonathan
Dayton, Speaker of the House, who resisted calling the House to order;
Dayton initiated his own honor dispute on the Senate floor five years later.
(Courtesy of the Library of Congress)

to fight—shifted abruptly from angry quarreling to the rigid and dis-

tinctive language of the duel. When newspaper editor James Callender
charged Hamilton with misusing Treasury funds, Hamilton was sure
that Monroe had provided Callender with incriminating information.
On July 11, 1797, he paid Monroe a visit with his brother-in-law John
Barker Church in tow. When Monroe denied involvement, Hamilton
told him, “This as your representation is totally false,” suggesting that
Monroe was a liar. The insult brought both men to their feet. Monroe
replied, “You say I represented falsely, you are a Scoundrel,” topping
 176 dueling as politics

Hamilton’s indirect charge with an explicit dare to fight. Hamilton

responded as would any man of honor, declaring, “I will meet you
like a Gentleman.” Monroe’s reply was also predictable. Declaring that
he was ready to fight, he asked Hamilton to get his pistols. At this
point Church and David Gelston, Monroe’s friend, shoved between
the two men and separated them, pleading for moderation.32
Although Monroe and Hamilton skipped a few steps in the heat
of the moment, the rules for negotiating an affair of honor were rela-
tively clear. Once an insult had been proffered, the insulted party was
supposed to request an explanation from his offender, giving him the
chance to clear up any misunderstanding or misrepresentation. Some-
one who omitted this vital step in a rush of emotion was usually
scolded soundly. As Hamilton told a man who precipitously accused
him of not behaving like a gentleman, “To take it for granted that you
had received an injury from me, without first giving me an opportunity
of an explanation, and to couch your sense of it in terms so offensive
as some of those used in your letter, is an additional instance of pre-
cipitation and rudeness.” Angry at his correspondent’s presumption,
Hamilton concluded by indirectly indicating his willingness to duel:
“It will depend on yourself how far I shall be indifferent, or not, to
your future sentiments of my character,” he challenged.33
Hamilton himself received a scolding after his 1795 confrontation
with Nicholson. Outraged at being called a coward, Hamilton de-
manded to duel Nicholson, naming the place and time. Nicholson ac-
cepted the invitation, expressing his own desire to duel the next morn-
ing, but reprimanded Hamilton for the “peremptory tenor” of his
letter. Hamilton, in turn, used this as an opening to backpedal and
allow Nicholson room for an explanation.34 He had not requested one
earlier, he explained, because of what Nicholson said “on a certain very
delicate point.” Accused of being a coward, Hamilton had felt unable
to do anything other than extend a challenge.
Initial letters of inquiry were warnings that a line had been
crossed. Following a set form and phrased in ritualistic words of cool
formality, they were easily recognizable and unmistakably threatening.
A typical letter began by repeating an offending remark—a means of
discouraging unnecessary challenges by ensuring common agreement
 dueling as politics 177

on the meaning and form of an offense. The writer next demanded

that the recipient “avow or disavow” the insult, ensuring the propriety
of his challenge by allowing his recipient an opportunity to explain
himself. Letters usually ended with a demand for an immediate re-
sponse. Typically, the writer justified his demand by claiming the re-
spect owed a gentleman. Any mention of a man’s honor was a clear
sign that his honor had been offended. If the letter mentioned a
friend—as the bearer of the message or the recipient of a response—
a correspondent could be sure that this friend was a second, the princi-
pal’s sole representative throughout all negotiations and his assistant
on the field of honor.
These key phrases reveal references to honor disputes that are
invisible to modern eyes. To the uninitiated, Hamilton’s three-
sentence note to Monroe might seem like a simple courteous request
for a meeting: “Mr. Hamilton requests an interview with Mr. Monroe
at any hour tomorrow forenoon which may be convenient to him.
Particular reasons will induce him to bring with him a friend to be
present at what may pass. Mr. Monroe, if he pleases, may have an-
other.” 35 An understanding of the language of the duel reveals the let-
ter’s implicit threat. The note is a demand for a meeting of inquiry
about an affair of honor; Hamilton is bringing a second and has alerted
Monroe to bring one as well.
As implied by the code of honor’s precautionary rituals, few men
began an affair of honor with the explicit purpose of exchanging fire.
Most conflicts waned during negotiations and concluded when each
principal felt that his honor had been vindicated. Such was the role of
a principal’s second, who acted as a sort of legal representative, at-
tempting to defend his client’s honor without necessitating a duel.
When his son Philip was involved in a duel in 1801, Hamilton assumed
that the matter would end without gunplay; by that time, he himself
had been involved in eight affairs of honor without fighting a single
duel. Learning to his horror that negotiations had ended, he rushed
to the home of their family doctor, David Hosack, knowing that Philip
would choose Hosack as his attending physician. Philip had indeed
requested the doctor’s services, and the two had departed together
early that morning; hearing the news, Hamilton fainted dead away at
 178 dueling as politics

the Hosacks’ door. Awaking to discover that Philip had been fatally
wounded, he rushed to his son’s side and remained with him until
Philip died the next day, in great agony.36
A skillful duelist could demonstrate his readiness to fight without
touching a pistol. A fair duel was a game of chance that displayed the
willingness of both principals to die for their honor, not their skill at
inflicting pain or death. As one pamphleteer noted, the “polite” duelist
fought “without any design to injure his adversary.” Hamilton’s duel-
ing consultant Rufus King agreed. Duels motivated by “the thirst for
blood or the malignant purpose of destroying the life of another” were
“ferocious, barbarous and savage” and “repugnant to any code of
honor,” reducing “private combat to assassination.” 37
By provoking a duel, Burr was thus not necessarily proposing to
kill Hamilton; he could redeem his honor without felling his rival.
Indeed, fatalities in political duels were uncommon, for killing one’s
opponent was more of a liability than an advantage, leaving a duelist
open to charges of bloodthirstiness and personal ambition.38 By law,
a politician who slew his opponent was also guilty of murder, though
ironically these lawyers and lawgivers were seldom charged. Some-
times police officers simply refused to tangle with men of influence;
on those rare occasions when legal authorities made the law known,
politicians often persisted in their duel negotiations regardless. Re-
markably, when Burr faced murder charges after killing Hamilton,
eleven sympathetic Republican senators signed a petition to New Jer-
sey governor Joseph Bloomfield, reminding him that political duels
were not usually prosecuted. Pleading for Burr’s prosecution to be dis-
continued, they argued that “most civilized nations” did not consider
dueling fatalities “common murders” and reminded Bloomfield that
previous political duelists at Weehawken had not only been spared
judicial proceedings but had later received judicial appointments.39
Dueling fatalities were unfortunate facts of public life, acceptable
if the duel had been fair and the duelists strict adherents to the honor
code. What James Nicholson said of duelist Brockholst Livingston was
true of any politician unfortunate enough to kill his adversary: after
killing James Jones, Livingston seemed “conscious of having done
nothing but what he was compel[l]ed to do & at the same time sorry
 dueling as politics 179

for the Necessity.” Most duels that involved gunplay ended with minor
injuries, suggesting a desire to avoid anything more serious. Leg inju-
ries were frequent enough to cast doubt on the power and meaning
of the practice; hinting that affairs of honor entailed more pretense
than peril, a newspaper editor jeered that one combatant “was said to
have received a wound in that fashionable part, the leg.” 40
Because a man of the sword was presumably always ready to
fight, any principal who attempted to negotiate his way out of a duel
dishonored himself. Combatants had to rely on their seconds—their
“particular friends”—to settle an affair of honor. During Hamilton’s
1797 dispute with Monroe, Monroe’s second, David Gelston, made a
serious mistake when he turned to Hamilton and suggested a means
of settling matters. Gelston noted that Hamilton responded with only
“a word or two which I understood as not disapproving the mode I
proposed,” a grunt of approval that was followed by a long, awkward
silence. Realizing with a shock that he should not have attempted to
negotiate with a principal, Gelston turned to John Barker Church,
Hamilton’s second, and observed that “perhaps my proposition . . .
would have been made with more propriety to him than to Colo. H.”
He then repeated his suggestion to Church, start to finish, and the
process of negotiation resumed.41
Highly offended principals sometimes insisted on dueling. In
these cases, to draw negotiations to a quick but courteous close the
offended party usually demanded an apology that was too humiliating
for the offender to accept. Such was Hamilton’s charge against Burr.
As he stated in his apologia, “The disavowal required of me by Col
Burr . . . was out of my power, if it had really been proper for me to
submit to be so questionned.” New York Senator DeWitt Clinton also
felt compelled to reject a deliberately humiliating demand for a written
apology. Forced to duel against his will, he exclaimed on the dueling
ground, “I am compelled to shoot at one whom I do not wish to hurt,
but I will sign no paper—I will not dishonor myself.” 42
A duel became inevitable when a challenge was accepted. From
that point on, seconds and principals concentrated on orchestrating
their “interview”: a date had to be set, a location selected, and rules
devised. The duel between Hamilton and Burr followed the conven-
 180 dueling as politics

tional script. In a heretofore overlooked account of the trial of Burr’s

second, William P. Van Ness, for his involvement in the duel, partici-
pants described the proceedings in great detail, including practices in-
tended to evade laws against dueling.43 For example, the guns were
hidden in a “Portmanteau,” enabling the boatmen who rowed the par-
ticipants to the dueling ground to testify that they “saw no pistols.”
Many rituals prevented participants from witnessing the actual
moment of gunfire—the moment when both principals became guilty
of fighting a duel. Under oath, the two boatmen stated at Van Ness’s
trial that they had stood with their backs to the duelists, enabling them
to testify that they “did not see the firing.” Likewise, attending physi-
cian David Hosack could attest only that he saw the two seconds and
Hamilton disappear “into the wood” and “heard the report of 2 fire-
arms soon after.” Hearing his name called, he rushed onto the dueling
ground and “saw Genl. H . . . and supposed him wounded by a ball
through the body.” Having rowed across with Hamilton, the doctor
could also testify that he had never seen Burr on the field. When Ho-
sack climbed up the embankment to tend to Hamilton’s wounds, Van
Ness skillfully whisked Burr off the dueling ground before he could
be seen. Hosack testified that he “did not see Col. Burr” and did not
learn “that Col. Burr was the other party” until a conversation with
Burr’s second after the duel.
The rituals of dueling reveal its paradoxical nature. As displayed
in Van Ness’s trial, politicians who engaged in mortal combat to de-
fend their public reputations at the same time protected one another
through a shared oath of secrecy. Of course, concealing a duel served
everyone’s interest, for indictment of one participant could implicate
all. Yet these rituals did more than discourage legal prosecution. By
enforcing a uniform code of behavior, ensuring equitable competition,
and preventing social inferiors from fighting, the code of honor made
all participants equal. When a failing politician provoked a duel, he
salvaged his reputation by placing himself in an environment of mutual
respect, a brotherhood of honor and fair competition—the exact op-
posite of a competitive political realm that encouraged conflict and
rewarded aggressive self-promotion.
 dueling as politics 181

“Political Opposition, Which . . .

Has Proceeded From Pure and Upright Motives”
When Hamilton received Burr’s initial letter of inquiry, he sought the
advice of Rufus King. Upset by Hamilton’s intention to withhold his
fire, King did as Hamilton had done. He turned to a friend, Matthew
Clarkson, hoping to find a way to prevent the duel. Because Hamilton,
by this point, had accepted Burr’s challenge, Clarkson regretfully con-
cluded that he and King were powerless to intercede. During the next
two weeks, the distraught King mentioned the duel to two more
friends, Egbert Benson and John Jay. Burr, likewise, discussed the im-
minent duel with close friends, consulting with Matthew Davis and
John Swartwout.44
As it passed from friend to friend, news of the impending duel
revealed and reinforced a network of political friendships and enmities.
Hamilton, King, Clarkson, Benson, and Jay were Federalists. Burr,
Davis, and Swartwout were Burrite Republicans. These two chains of
friendship were part of a larger network of partisan alliances, made
manifest by the selective secrecy of the code of honor; in a sense, news
about an impending duel was the most socially bonding gossip of all.
At one time or another, Republicans James Monroe, DeWitt Clinton,
Aedanus Burke, and James Nicholson supported each other in an inter-
related series of honor disputes. Through Monroe’s involvement, even
Thomas Jefferson and James Madison were duel consultants on occa-
sion.45 Federalist duelists had a similar network of political support,
reinforced by a decade of duels. An individual duel had its own dy-
namic, but it was only one battle in an ongoing war of honor and
makes sense only when examined in the context of a larger pattern of
encounters.
Between 1795 and 1800, New York City Federalists fought Re-
publicans on the field of honor. The latter had no single leader who
served as a lightning rod; the Federalists had Hamilton, his party’s
“political thermometer,” who was involved in four affairs.46 With Jef-
ferson’s election as president, a new world of political opportunity
opened for Republicans, who turned against one another in their
 182 dueling as politics

scramble for prestige and power. From 1800 until 1804, Clintonian
Republicans competed against Burrite Republicans at the ballot box,
in print, and on the dueling ground. The few disputes between Feder-
alists and Republicans all involved Hamilton and were fought to pre-
serve whatever slim chance his political fortunes had for revival. After
his death and Burr’s consequent fall in 1804, duels once again pitted
Republicans against Federalists.
Hamilton, Burr, and DeWitt Clinton were leaders with wide-
spread political connections, high ambition, and great promise. All
three were political “chiefs”—men who could lead their followers to
power, position, and prestige. All were supported by groups of “inti-
mate friends.” In exchange for the patronage of their chief, friends
defended him in person, in print, and, when necessary, on the field of
honor. For a group of supporters, a chief was a political “rallying
point”—he was “the cause.” 47
Newspapers issued the call to arms. By 1802, each chief had a
newspaper and an editor under his command, pledged to defend his
name and “write down” his foes: William Coleman at the Federalist
New-York Evening Post, James Cheetham at the Clintonian American
Citizen, and Peter Irving at the Burrite Morning Chronicle. Newspapers
were imperative in a “war of words.” Burr learned this lesson when
attempting to refute a Clintonian pamphlet without the support of a
sympathetic newspaper. Frustrated that “there seems at present to be
no medium of communication,” he launched the Morning Chronicle
three months later.48
Newspapers also demonstrated the strength and loyalty of a lead-
er’s following. When the Chronicle seemed ready to “expire” in 1805,
Matthew Davis believed that “the instant the Chronicle ceased to exist,
the Burrites would become ‘uninfluential atoms,’ there would be no
rallying point; and they would certainly have been considered as aban-
doning their Chief; as incapable any longer of supporting a press, that
could be supposed friendly to him; and of course that their attachment
for their leader or their influence with the community had dimin-
ished.” 49 Combat between these political fighting units consisted of
attempts to dishonor an opposing chief, his intimate friends, or his
editor. Damage to any one of these three essential elements hurt chief
 dueling as politics 183

and follower alike. Discredited followers or a failed newspaper dishon-

ored a chief; and a dishonored leader could offer his followers neither
influence nor status, making him an unfit rallying point.
Politicians considered their own fighting unit a band of friends,
men of honor who promoted the common good. Their opponents
saw them as a vicious, self-seeking political faction that threatened the
republic. In the Chronicle, Burrites depicted Clintonians as greedy
knights serving a feudal lord who ordered his defenders to “lie, fawn,
flatter, promise, and betray.” The Citizen, in turn, portrayed the Bur-
rites as a “sect of new Lights,” separated from the Republican fold,
with a blind religious devotion to their leader and a formal “creed.”
In many ways, these satirical attacks were accurate. Clintonians and
Burrites were groups of loyal followers supporting ambitious leaders.
These followers were interested in reaping benefit from their support.
New York City politicians were engaged in a battle of self-deception.
They could not—or would not—recognize in themselves what they
condemned in their rivals, the self-serving motives of the factional poli-
tician.50
The political duelist envisioned himself as striking a blow at fac-
tional politics in the person of his adversary. In 1803, when Senator
Jonathan Dayton of New Jersey rose to his feet in the Senate and ac-
cused DeWitt Clinton of “impeaching in debate the motives of Mem-
bers,” he believed that he was reprimanding a reprehensible partisan
politician. When Clinton responded by declaring “that Mr. Dayton’s
assertion was unfounded and untrue,” he thought that he was defending
his reputation and, like Dayton, assumed that he was assailing a dishon-
orable politician. Yet Dayton’s attack was neither selfless nor indiscrimi-
nate. Clinton and Aaron Burr were locked in a bitter power struggle in
New York City, and Dayton was a Burrite. He insulted Clinton on the
day before Clinton left the Senate to become mayor of New York. Day-
ton’s attack was thus a strategically timed political strike against Clin-
ton’s political standing and personal reputation. Clinton had won an
important election, and the Burrites bolstered their ailing status and de-
nounced their foe by instigating an affair of honor.51
Taken together, New York City’s affairs of honor reveal distinct
patterns of conflict. Most such disputes occurred in the weeks follow-
 184 dueling as politics

ing an election or a political controversy. Usually a member of the

losing faction—the group dishonored by defeat—provoked a duel
with a member of the winning faction. Always, the political commu-
nity understood that when a supporter dueled, he represented both
his faction and his chief. After exchanging five shots with John
Swartwout in 1802, Clinton declared him a meager substitute for Burr,
stating with an almost palpable sneer, “I dont want to hurt him
[Swartwout], but I wish I had the principal here—I will meet him
when he pleases” (fig. 26).52 Most of New York City’s political duels
were not the result of an angry politician’s slip of the tongue. They
were intentionally provoked partisan battles, couched in the gentility
of the code of honor.
To accommodate partisan goals, politicians modified the tradi-
tional affair of honor, most strikingly in their use of newspapers as
publicity tools. When a duel was particularly controversial—when a
duelist died or a chief was involved—politicians capitalized on wide-
spread public interest with contending newspaper accounts, both sides
attempting to win public approval while dishonoring their foes. Re-
gardless of his behavior on the field, a duelist’s reputation depended
on the success or failure of these publicity campaigns. Political duels
were won by the faction that best controlled public opinion.
Such publicity campaigns exposed the political motives for duel-
ing. As a writer for the Post recognized, “When men take the liberty
of appealing to the public about their private quarrels, it can be done
with no other view than to influence public opinion in favor of them-
selves.” A writer for The Balance attributed the duel’s popularity to
such appeals: “Among the further incentives to dueling peculiar to this
country, I am constrained to mention with pointed disapprobation the
recent practice of publishing, in news-papers, the various particulars of
such bloody affrays. . . . There is not another country in christendom—
probably not in the world—where the seconds in a duel . . . have the
presumption, immediately after the contest, to publish with the signa-
ture of their names, a detailed relation of its commencement, progress
and catastrophe, together with encomiums on the gallant behavior of
their respective principals. Europeans must read such publications with
astonishment.” 53 These newspaper advertisements reveal the profound
 dueling as politics 185

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 26. A Genuine View of the Parties in an Affair of Honor After the Fifth Shot,
at Hobuken, 31st July, 1802, unidentified artist, 1802. This cartoon satirizes the
duel between Republican DeWitt Clinton and Burrite John Swartwout at
Hoboken, New Jersey. The two seconds had made peculiar arrangements,
directing the principals to spin and fire; in most duels, the principals simply
stood face to face. After exchanging fire five times—Swartwout repeatedly
asserting that he had not received “satisfaction”—Clinton declared the matter
settled, ended the duel, and was thereafter denounced as a coward by Burrites.
This cartoon clearly favors Swartwout. “O my bowels! my bowels! they melt,
they melt!” Clinton howls while defecating in the wig of his second, Richard
Riker, who states, “Dear Sir, I am the depository of your honor. . . .
Damn this liquid honor—my wig is full of it!” (© Collection of
The New-York Historical Society)

influence of a democratic politics. Proving their “gallant behavior” and

strength of character on the field of honor, political duelists were prov-
ing their worth as leaders before people who could depose them with
their votes. By parading their bravery in newspapers rather than pam-
phlets, they signaled their desire to reach a mass audience—not simply
to appeal to a small group of equals.
 186 dueling as politics

To deny self-serving intentions to themselves and to the wider

populace, politicians boasted of their nonpartisanship in these written
duel accounts. They avoided declaring themselves victors; to do so
would be to display self-interest and violate the people’s right to draw
their own conclusions. Instead, they began their reports by professing
devotion to the public interest: the people demanded a complete and
accurate account of all proceedings.54 They augmented these profes-
sions of duty with angry attacks on their reprehensible, politically
driven foes. Clinton’s duel with Swartwout provoked an onslaught of
these reproaches. In the Citizen, “An Old Soldier” wrote the following:

modern bravery. Write a bombastic account of a duel

. . . threaten your antagonists with death if they [presume]
to lisp any thing different from what your might[iness] has
written. modern virtue. When a citizen opposes your
schemes of aggrandizement . . . when you find your defects
too palpable to attempt vindic[ation], rid yourself of such
an opposer and such a cit[izen by] pushing forward an hum-
ble tool.

In the Post, “A Young Soldier” responded by describing “Modern Hu-

manity”:

If your friend differs from you in any political point, take an

opportunity in his absence to call him lyar, rascal, villain, &c
and should he hear of it and justly ask an acknowledgment
of your error . . . refuse it in any way but that which you
point out yourself, especially if you contemplate being a
candidate for a high office. Should your mode of apologiz-
ing not prove acceptable, meet him with a pair of good pis-
tols, at ten paces distance.

Clintonians claimed that the ambitious Burr had instigated and orches-
trated the entire affair. Burrite William S. Smith, Swartwout’s second,
replied that “the infamy of attempting to attach to the sacred uphold
of private honor, the mean spirit of party rancour, I flatter my self my
breast will always be a stranger to.” 55 His clever retort accused politi-
 dueling as politics 187

cians who hurled charges of “party rancour” of committing that very

crime.
Partisan politics in the early republic transformed the traditional
affair of honor into something distinctly American. Political duelists
were not isolated aristocrats competing for glory and preferment at
court. Instead, they constituted a novel hybrid: they were aristocratic
democrats, popular politicians who used the traditional etiquette of
honor to influence public opinion and win political power. Political
duels testified to the blend of deference and equality, courtliness and
sincerity that characterized politics in the early republic.

“I Shall Hazard Much, and Can Possibly Gain Nothing”

On June 18, 1804, roughly six weeks after he lost the gubernatorial
election, Burr wrote to Hamilton regarding a letter that had appeared
in the Republican Albany Register in the heat of the campaign several
months earlier; a friend had just put it in Burr’s hand. The writer,
Charles D. Cooper, was responding to a broadside that contradicted
one of Cooper’s private letters; ironically, the person doing the contra-
dicting in the broadside was none other than Hamilton’s father-in-
law, Philip Schuyler. Outraged at being posted as a liar and at the
public knowledge of a personal letter (“that was embezzled and bro-
ken open,” he complained), Cooper wrote to Schuyler insisting on
the truth of his claims. Yes, Hamilton had denounced Burr as “a dan-
gerous man . . . who ought not to be trusted with the reins of govern-
ment.” Cooper and many others had heard these words for themselves.
In fact, Hamilton had offered “a still more despicable opinion” of Burr,
but Cooper knew better than to commit it to paper.56
Cooper’s letter is a study in the period’s distinctive grammar of
political combat. Outraged that one of his private letters was the sub-
ject of a broadside—a violation that almost landed Hamilton in a duel
on one occasion—Cooper responded with a carefully worded letter of
defense that touched on the honor and reputations of all involved.
Yet though Cooper deliberately omitted Hamilton’s most sensational
accusations, even this mere reference to such gossip was a vulnerability
when committed to paper, let alone published in a newspaper. Indeed,
 188 dueling as politics

the entire controversy was centered completely on hearsay and political

gossip, the product of prevailing confusion about shifting political loy-
alties. No one knew whether Hamilton and some of his Federalist fol-
lowers would support Burr or Republican Morgan Lewis for gover-
nor. Debating the issue in broadsides, letters, and newspapers, they
sparked the most extreme honor ritual—a duel.
Vague as it was, Cooper’s letter was Burr’s first “authentic” evi-
dence of Hamilton’s attacks on his private character. Until this point,
Burr had heard only secondhand accounts of ambiguous insults—gos-
sip without proof.57 In 1804, however, he gained Federalist support,
which probably gave him access to Federalist gossip circles full of
Hamilton’s accusations. After years of such abuse, concrete evidence
of an insult made it “impossible that I could consistently with respect
again forbear,” Burr later explained—particularly given that the slur
had been broadcast in a newspaper. As William P. Van Ness, Burr’s
second, explained after the duel, Hamilton’s abuse was “patiently
borne, until resistance became a duty, and silence a crime.” 58
Burr was a man with a wounded reputation, a leader who had
suffered personal abuse and the public humiliation of a lost election.
A duel with Hamilton would redeem his honor and possibly dishonor
Hamilton. Twice before, Hamilton’s remarks about Burr had merited
a challenge, and both times Hamilton had anticipated Burr by “coming
forward voluntarily and making apologies and concessions.” If Hamil-
ton attempted a similar maneuver a third time, Burr could declare him
a coward who “woud not fight.” More important, if Burr did not re-
ceive some sign of respect from Hamilton—either an apology or the
satisfaction of a duel—he would lose the support of his followers. As
Van Ness explained, if Burr “tamely sat down in silence, and dropped
the affair; what must have been the feelings of his friends?—they must
have considered him as a man, not possessing sufficient firmness to
defend his own character, and consequently unworthy of their sup-
port.—While his enemies, with malicious triumph, would, to all the
other slanders propagated concerning him, have added the ignomini-
ous epithet of coward.” 59 To remain a political chief, Burr had to de-
fend his honor.
As with the other duels in New York City, the timing of Burr’s
 dueling as politics 189

challenge was more important than the offense that prompted it. Be-
cause Cooper’s letter contained no specific insult, Burr later received
criticism for challenging a man for an unspecified affront. Hamilton
himself objected that Burr’s inquiry was too vague for “a direct avowal
or disavowal”; as Hamilton would later explain, Burr was objecting
to comments dropped during a dinner at least six months back. But
Burr felt such a compelling need to prove himself a man of honor and
a political leader that he responded to Hamilton’s protests by broaden-
ing his demands: he demanded an apology for any “rumours deroga-
tory to Col: Burr’s honour . . . inferred from any thing he [Hamilton]
has said.” 60 In essence, he called on Hamilton to apologize for any
personal abuse that Burr had suffered from throughout their fifteen-
year political rivalry. Burr demanded this humiliating apology in order
to force Hamilton to fight.
Modern writers love to speculate about Hamilton’s “real” insult,
the most popular suggestion being that Hamilton accused Burr of
sleeping with his own daughter, Theodosia. Appealingly sensational
as that claim might be, it is grounded on twentieth-century assump-
tions that only an insult of such severity could drive a man to duel.
But if we understand duels as political weapons deliberately deployed
by countless politicians, such theories make no sense—particularly
given that this was not Burr’s first duel but rather the fourth time he
had engaged in an honor dispute and the second time he had taken
the field. Five years earlier, he had dueled with Hamilton’s brother-
in-law John Barker Church, and twice before by Burr’s count he had
almost dueled with Hamilton. There is no deep, dark, mysterious in-
sult at the heart of the Burr-Hamilton duel. Like any other politician,
Burr was manipulating the code of honor to redeem his reputation
after the humiliation of a lost election, seizing on this insult above
others because it was in writing, vague as it might be.
Hamilton did not want to duel. His reluctance is apparent in his
ambivalent and conflicted response to Burr’s initial letter of inquiry—
a response reflecting Hamilton’s struggle to accommodate clashing
values. To appease his moral and religious reservations about dueling,
he attempted to placate Burr with an elaborate discussion of the “in-
finite shades” of meaning of the word despicable—a grammar lesson
 190 dueling as politics

that Burr found evasive, manipulative, and offensive. To defend his

personal honor and political power, he countered Burr’s insultingly
vague inquiry by pronouncing it “inadmissible” and declaring himself
willing to “abide the consequences” should Burr persist in his pres-
ent course—a statement that Burr found insufferably arrogant. Ulti-
mately, it was outrage at Hamilton’s seeming lack of respect that drove
Burr to broaden his demands and thereby force Hamilton to accept
his challenge.61
With his acceptance, Hamilton gave the code of honor priority.
Burr’s second noted that “Gen. Hamilton, subsequent to his accep-
tance of the challenge, behaved in a proper and becoming manner.”
Confident that he had saved his reputation, Hamilton could now sat-
isfy his religious and moral “scruples” with a compromise. He decided
that he would observe all the expected dueling rituals on the field,
but to avoid shedding Burr’s blood, he would withhold his fire. As he
explained to his wife, “the Scruples of a Christian have determined me
to expose my own life . . . rather than subject my self to the guilt of
taking the life of another. . . . But you had rather I should die innocent
than live guilty.” Hamilton’s apologia, so often taken as evidence of
a death wish, was an attempt to explain this decision. Burr, too, wrote
a final statement the night before the duel, bidding farewell to his
daughter and son-in-law.62
On the morning of July 11, Hamilton and Burr fought their duel
(fig. 27). Critically wounded, Hamilton died the following afternoon.
The only duel between two political chiefs fought in New York City
between 1795 and 1807, the Burr-Hamilton “interview” would have
been assured public notice by this singularity alone. But when one
chief killed another, a duel became a subject of heated public contro-
versy. The Burr-Hamilton duel was common knowledge just hours
after it took place. Hamilton had been rowed back to New York and
carried to a friend’s house by 9:00 a.m.; by 10:00, “the rumour of the
General’s injury had created an alarm in the city.” 63
People stood on street corners discussing the affair. A bulletin
was posted at the Tontine Coffee House, informing the public that
“General Hamilton was shot by Colonel Burr this morning in a duel.
The General is said to be mortally wounded.” By the time Gouverneur
 dueling as politics 191

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 27. Dueling pistols used in the Burr-Hamilton duel. Hamilton’s brother-in-
law John Barker Church lent this fine brace of pistols to Hamilton for his duel
with Burr. During his own 1799 duel with Burr, Church shot a button off
Burr’s coat with these same pistols; they may also have been used by Hamilton’s
son Philip in his fatal 1801 duel. (Courtesy Chase Manhattan Bank Archives)

Morris gave Hamilton’s eulogy, on July 14, the city was in a “frenzy.”
Hoping to discourage the public from committing some “outrage”
against Burr, Morris avoided any mention of the cause of death. Later
that day, he marveled, “How easy would it have been to make them,
for a moment, absolutely mad!” 64
Aware of public interest and anxious to protect their principals’
reputations, Hamilton’s and Burr’s seconds began to draft an account
of the duel almost immediately after Hamilton’s death. By July 16, they
had sketched out a statement of events on the dueling ground, though
they did not “precisely agree” on which evidence to present or on the
vital question of who fired first: Hamilton’s second Pendleton claimed
that his principal had involuntarily discharged his pistol in the air upon
being shot, whereas Burr’s second Van Ness asserted that Hamilton
 192 dueling as politics

had taken aim and fired first.65 Eager to exploit the public uproar to
exalt Hamilton at Burr’s expense, Pendleton pressed for immediate
publication, but Van Ness demurred; with the coroner’s inquest yet
undecided and outrage at Burr unabated, he well recognized the ad-
vantage of delay. Though Pendleton attempted to address Van Ness’s
concerns, he ultimately published his statement without Van Ness’s fi-
nal approval; it appeared in the Evening Post on July 16. Van Ness coun-
tered with an account more favorable to Burr, published in the Morn-
ing Chronicle the next day.
Taking advantage of the controversy, Clintonians and Hamilto-
nians capitalized on public interest to achieve a political victory over
Burr, their common foe. The American Citizen and the Evening Post
joined in high praise of Hamilton and condemnation of Burr as a mur-
derer. Contentious Clintonian editor James Cheetham charged Burr
with violating the code of honor: he had practiced with a target before-
hand; he had worn a coat made of silk—a material that was “impene-
trable to a ball”; he had killed Hamilton in cold blood, knowing that
Hamilton would not shoot; he had laughed as he left the dueling
ground; he had thrown a party upon his return to New York;66 he
was, in fine, a dishonorable man. Burr was outraged that “thousands
of absurd falsehoods are circulated with industry.” But he understood
why: “All our intemperate and unprincipled Jacobins who have been
for Years reviling H. as a disgrace to the Country and a pest to Society
are now the most Vehement in his praise, and you will readily perceive
that their Motive is, not respect to him but, Malice to me.” 67
Although public outrage forced Burr to flee the state, his support-
ers continued to defend his reputation. Rather than justifying Burr’s
actions, they attacked Clintonians and Hamiltonians for their hypocrit-
ical and self-interested newspaper campaign against Burr. Writing as
“Vindix,” Van Ness lashed out at “officious intermedlers, who have
neither the feelings of gentlemen nor the hearts of men.” He was out-
raged at the “mountain of the most detestable fals[e]hood” propagated
by writers for the “scurrilous columns of the Evening Post” and the
“disgusting pages of the American Citizen.” Asserting that silence
would prove Burr’s friends “worthy of this monstrous and merciless
 dueling as politics 193

persecution,” he pleaded with the public to hear his defense: “I de-

mand it from their justice,” he declared.68
After a month of controversy, rumors proved too powerful for
a newspaper defense; the two seconds could not keep up with the con-
stantly shifting stream of charges and countercharges, and the un-
folding argument seemed to require a different forum, so the debate
moved into warring defense pamphlets. On August 11, the Morning
Chronicle noted that a pamphlet was “promised in further persecution
of Mr. Burr and his friends, of which hint, I am disposed to avail my-
self. If therefore this task [defending Burr] is not undertaken by some
gentleman of more leisure and superior talents, I will resume this sub-
ject in a pamphlet.” Shortly thereafter, Van Ness anonymously pub-
lished A Correct Statement of the Late Melancholy Affair of Honor, Be-
tween General Hamilton and Col. Burr, a pro-dueling defense of Burr’s
actions that scholars have entirely overlooked. Evening Post editor
Coleman defended Hamilton in A Collection of the Facts and Documents,
relative to the Death of Major-General Alexander Hamilton; unaware of
Van Ness’s publication, scholars have missed the political motives be-
hind this compendium of documents as well.69
Because the two seconds had agreed publicly upon most of the
duel’s details, differences between the two defenses were subtle—im-
plied by tone, word emphasis, or choice of evidence. For example,
Van Ness and Pendleton had mismanaged the official delivery of Burr’s
challenge, leaving Hamilton unsure whether he had accepted it; Ham-
ilton had attempted to offer Burr a final note of explanation, “if the
state of the affair rendered it proper.” Hamilton’s defender Coleman
stated that Van Ness had refused to receive the explanation because
he considered Burr’s challenge accepted, thereby blaming the duel on
Van Ness for spurning an apology. In his defense of Burr, Van Ness
claimed that he had offered to accept the note, but only if it contained
“a specific proposition for an accommodation,” thereby attributing
blame to Hamilton for not offering an explicit apology.70 As in other
controversial duels, supporters manipulated the truth in the name of
honor and reputation.
Hamiltonians had an easy task defending their chief. Presenting
 194 dueling as politics

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 28. Alexander Hamilton memorial handkerchief, linen, 1804. This

mourning handkerchief shows what Burr was up against after his duel with
Hamilton. Washington’s tomb stands in the background, suggesting that
Hamilton is the second great leader to fall—and perhaps suggesting that he
is second only to Washington. (Courtesy of the Museum of the City of
New York, Gift of Mrs. Frederick S. Fish, 33.318)

their leader as a martyred hero, they augmented their account of the

duel with laudatory eulogies and sermons from around the nation
(fig. 28). Burrites had a harder task; they had to justify Burr’s actions
and exonerate his motives for dueling. To accomplish this, Van Ness
supplemented his description of the duel with a lengthy essay entitled
“A Candid Examination of the Whole Affair in a Letter to a Friend.”
Contradictory and defensive, this rare written justification of dueling
reveals the duelist’s point of view in a period of great ambivalence
toward the practice.
Van Ness attempted to grapple with the essay’s fundamental con-
 dueling as politics 195

tradiction in his first few paragraphs. Proclaiming his opposition to

the “evil” of dueling, he stated that the practice had unfortunately re-
ceived “the sanction of the world,” particularly of “the higher class of
society.” Because Burr was conforming to public opinion, he should
not be blamed. Van Ness next signaled the limits of his investigation.
He would answer only four questions: Did Burr have a right to ques-
tion Hamilton about his comments, and did he do so correctly? Was
Hamilton obliged to avow or disavow Burr’s charge? Was Burr justi-
fied in bringing the dispute to the field of honor? By restricting himself
to these four questions about the formalities of the code of honor,
Van Ness clearly hoped to separate the duel from the duelist.71
Although Van Ness claimed that his essay would not defend the
practice, he could hardly avoid doing so. In presenting Burr as an hon-
orable man with a right to protect his reputation, Van Ness was val-
idating the affair of honor. His essay contains many of the conven-
tional arguments used to justify dueling. He claimed that the affair of
honor prevented slander, malice, and vice from running rampant. He
reminded readers that a man’s reputation was his most valued posses-
sion and that political opposition never warranted an attack on another
man’s character. He maintained that any man who felt dishonored had
“an unalienable right” to demand an explanation; the right to uphold
one’s honor was “a law of nature.” 72 In the midst of fierce political
strife, forced to justify the killing of a political rival, Van Ness could
still argue that the code of honor ensured an honorable political world.
In spite of his supporters’ efforts, Burr lost his battle for public
approval. A duelist who killed his opponent could erase his crime only
by proving himself a man of honor who had conformed with the ritu-
als of the code duello. But in seizing on a vague offense and exhibiting
uncompromising hostility in his correspondence, Burr left himself
open to charges of dishonorable conduct. When Federalists and Clin-
tonian Republicans branded him a murderer, he was left without effec-
tive defense.
Although he defeated his opponent on the field of honor, Burr
thus became a failed duelist, for he was unable to sway public opinion
in his favor. His fate demonstrates the power of public opinion. In
challenging Hamilton, he had acknowledged his vulnerability to popu-
 196 dueling as politics

lar sentiment. In accepting his challenge, Hamilton had made the same
admission. Hamilton fought, his second explained after the duel, be-
cause “his Sensibility to public opinion was extremely strong, espe-
cially in what related to his conduct in Public Office.” As Hamilton
himself said, not to defend one’s honor was to “commit an act of politi-
cal suicide.” 73 Compelled by the mandates of politics and honor, de-
pendent on an ill-defined public for political career and private sense
of self, Burr and Hamilton dueled because they were afraid not to.

“I Hope the Grounds of His Proceeding Have Been Such

as Ought to Satisfy His Own Conscience”
Gouverneur Morris and Matthew Clarkson understood why Hamilton
had dueled with Burr. Several days after Hamilton died, Morris re-
corded Clarkson’s explanation in his diary: “Clarkson . . . is extremely
wounded. He said to me . . . just after our friend had expired: ‘If we
were truly brave we should not accept a challenge; but we are all cow-
ards.’ The tears rolling down his face gave strong effect to the voice
and manner with which he pronounced this sentence. There is no
braver man living, and yet I doubt whether he would so far brave the
public opinion as to refuse a challenge.” 74 Fear, not courage, had
goaded Hamilton to duel. Morris assumed that Clarkson would have
done the same thing for the same reason. Dueling was cowardly; Ham-
ilton’s honorable sacrifice to the public good was also a surrender to
the power of public opinion. The shock of this realization brought
tears to Clarkson’s eyes. He had pierced the illusion of the duel.
An ambiguous blend of the selfless, the self-interested, the po-
litical, and the personal, the affair of honor was a peculiarly power-
ful yet elusive political tool. Its ambiguities often left politicians con-
flicted and guilt-ridden, unable to reconcile the competing demands
of honor, politics, and morality. Hamilton was a virtual embodiment
of this conflict. Recounting the confrontation of the duel, Burr later
noted that Hamilton had “looked as if oppressed with the horrors of
Conscious Guilt,” assuming that Hamilton was ashamed of his politi-
cal improprieties. But Hamilton’s facial expression was his final testi-
mony to the complexities of the affair of honor. Thinking of his status
 dueling as politics 197

and reputation—anxious to restrain a political rival—convinced that

he was acting in the public good—feeling the twinges of religious
faith, personal morality, and familial responsibility, Hamilton was a
duelist who refused to fire.75
For Hamilton, as for others, the affair of honor was a public ser-
vant’s ultimate self-sacrifice. Even on his deathbed, he attributed his
duel with Burr to public-minded motives. Yet Burr insisted that Ham-
ilton was the miscreant, an ambitious politician who had violated the
laws of honor.76 Like other duelists, he saw his behavior as obligatory
and community-minded. The charges and countercharges of unworthy
motives were not unusual, but the duel’s ultimate outcome was. By
themselves, the combined efforts of Clintonians, Hamiltonians, and
otherwise hostile Federalists and Republicans might have proven
strong enough to effect Burr’s political demise. But ultimately, it was
Hamilton’s apologia that ensured Burr’s downfall. Hamilton closed
his life with an intimate, heartfelt statement that professed his willing-
ness to die for the public good; he depicted himself as an exemplary
man of honor, compelled to fight, unwilling to kill, gaining nothing,
sacrificing all. There was no more effective way to prove oneself a mar-
tyr and one’s foe, by necessity, a fiend.
Burr perceived the ugly political reality underlying Hamilton’s
statement. He assumed that Hamilton’s attempt to portray himself as
a selfless public servant was politically driven—a final, brazen attempt
to quash a longstanding rival. To his friend Charles Biddle, Burr
fumed, “The last hours of Genl. H. (I might include the day pre[ced-
ing] the interview) appear to have been devoted to Malevolence and
hypocricy. . . . The friends of Genl. H. and even his enemies who are
still more my enemies, are but too faithful executors of his Malice.”
Burr relied on “all Men of honor” to recognize the truth, to “see with
disgust the persecutions which are practised against me.” 77
Killing Hamilton drove Burr into physical exile, but condemning
him thrust Burr into intellectual oblivion, for few men shared his opin-
ion, or at least said so in public. In the end Burr’s fate forced him to
perceive the truth—to discern the self-interest and political pragma-
tism underlying the laws of honor. Assuming an attitude of “defiant
affectation,” he taunted public men by pricking at their convictions
 198 dueling as politics

about political honor. With “amazing nonchalance,” his first biogra-

pher reported, Burr sometimes spoke of “my friend Hamilton—whom
I shot,” a blunt reminder of the duel’s viciousness and the violent na-
ture of American politics.78
In the long term, Hamilton’s statement failed to accomplish what
he intended. It did not prove his public-minded motives to posterity.
It did not gain him eternal forgiveness for engaging in what he himself
deemed an indefensible practice. Yet ultimately, his apologia succeeded
in ways that he could not have foreseen. Superficially, it left to later
generations the image of Burr the unprincipled politician, an image
that retains its potency even today. On a deeper, less conscious level,
it reveals much more, offering firsthand testimony to the significance
of dueling among early national politicians. Convinced that Burr was
a threat to the republic, personally invested in his public role to an
extraordinary degree, Hamilton perceived the duel as both a public
service and a personal sacrifice. It was also a self-serving attempt to
preserve his political career and his private sense of self; ambitious,
competitive, and suffering from the endemic insecurity of the self-
made man, Hamilton could not risk dishonor. Yet in proving himself
a man of honor, he violated his moral principles and afflicted his fam-
ily, two things close to his heart. By not resolving these contradictions,
by committing to paper a tangled mix of hopes and fears, Hamilton
gave voice to the complexities of political leadership among men of
honor. His apologia offers an insider’s view of a ritualized, honor-
bound, personal level of political interaction that persisted until the
anonymity of formal national political parties altered the tone of poli-
tics forever.
 An Honor Dispute of Grand Proportions
the presidential election of 1800

Matthew Davis read Aaron Burr’s letter of March 15, 1830, with a sense
of foreboding. Here, again, was the cursed presidential election of
1800, a hotly contested campaign that had resulted in a tie between
Republicans Burr and Thomas Jefferson, a deadlock in the House
where the tie had to be broken, an outburst of intrigue and suspicion,
Jefferson’s election, and Burr’s eventual downfall. The crisis had been
sparked by the constitutional voting process, which did not differenti-
ate between presidential and vice presidential candidates. Each elector
cast two votes, and the man who received the most votes became presi-
dent, the runner up vice president, regardless of their political affilia-
tions; any candidate could win either office. This constitutional issue—
later resolved by the Twelfth Amendment (1804)—joined with the
period’s distinctively personal politics of reputation to produce a con-
troversy that would haunt participants for decades thereafter.
Burr’s letter reported that a stranger named Richard Bayard was

{ 1 99 }
 200 the presidential election of 1800

seeking his assistance in clearing the name of his father, James Bayard,
one of the election’s more controversial figures. For six days of excruci-
ating indecision in February 1801, the House had voted again and
again, unable to break the tie after thirty-five ballots, Federalists leaning
toward Burr, Republicans standing behind Jefferson. In the final mo-
ment of crisis, Bayard was the Federalist who decided the election by
negotiating a deal with Jefferson—or so Bayard believed. Not surpris-
ingly, Jefferson vehemently denied this, venting some of his spleen in
a memorandum later included in the “Anas.” It was this memorandum,
published the year before in the first edition of Jefferson’s works, that
Richard Bayard sought to refute. Unable to answer Bayard’s queries,
Burr asked Davis—his former political lieutenant—to handle the matter.
Davis complied, but reluctantly. The history of the election was
“enveloped in thick darkness,” he cautioned Burr. “Whether the period
has yet arrived when an effort should be made to dispel that darkness
is problematical.” It was not that he lacked the evidence to refute all
lingering suspicions; on the contrary, Davis assured his friend, “the
means . . . exist of proving to the satisfaction of the most skeptical,
what are the facts in the case.” Rather, it was the impact of such a
statement that concerned him. Even at a distance of thirty years, Davis
felt compelled to wait for “a proper crisis” to undertake such an “un-
pleasant . . . duty,” at which time, he vowed, he would recount the
truth “fairly, impartially, and fearlessly.” 1
Thirty years after the fact, Davis, Burr, and Bayard were still emo-
tionally tangled in the events of 1800, Davis afraid even to broach the
topic, Burr eager to settle it, and Bayard unable to let it rest. A decade
after the contest, John Adams had likewise fought the battles of 1800
with his Boston Patriot essays. Indeed, in the years following that fateful
election, no fewer than ten people felt compelled to defend their ac-
tions publicly. Even as late as 1907, Bayard’s descendants were still
pressing the issue.2 Though it is tempting to blame such peevishness
on the disappointment of a lost election, at least one complainant,
Maryland Republican Samuel Smith, had been on the winning side of
the contest and had been offered the position of secretary of the navy
upon Jefferson’s election. Even Jefferson himself was still agitated
about the election years later.3
 the presidential election of 1800 201

Modern studies of this pivotal contest offer little insight into such
long-lived anxieties, generally viewing the election as a signpost of po-
litical development. Pointing to the Federalist and Republican caucuses
to name candidates, the organization required to manage massive na-
tional publicity campaigns, the party discipline that led to the tie be-
tween Jefferson and Burr (every Republican elector voted for both
men), the first transfer of power from one party to the other, and the
downfall of Federalism and its aristocratic, Old World order, most
scholars depict the election of 1800 as the first “modern” presidential
election featuring distinct national political parties. And there is no de-
nying that this presidential election differed from the three that came
before, particularly on a local level, where partisan mobilization and
popular politicking had reached new heights. Even participants recog-
nized the contest’s significance, dubbing it the “revolution of 1800,” in
their minds an uprising as monumental in its consequences as the first.4
Clearly, however, there was an additional personal dimension to
this election that resonated for decades thereafter, an ambiguity or
complication that raised questions serious enough to demand a public
refutation as much as a hundred years later. Wrapped up with ques-
tions of honor and reputation, the election of 1800 is a perfect case
study of the period’s distinctive political dynamic. It reveals the gram-
mar of political combat in action.
The participants themselves never agreed on the precise events
of 1800; indeed, it was their continuing attempts to understand them
that transferred blame from one man to another for decades thereafter.
But there was one underlying assumption that few contested: the cor-
ruption of Aaron Burr. Most assumed that Burr had schemed to win
the presidency over Jefferson, his running mate; it was identifying his
agents of influence that provoked continued controversy. Neither Burr
nor his political intimates ever successfully dispelled the charge, ceasing
their efforts only after he had departed on his self-imposed European
exile in 1808; even Burr’s duel with Hamilton was partly fueled by the
shadow of the 1800 election. Nor had the accusation vanished when
he returned in 1812. By that time, however, the fifty-six-year-old had
accepted his role as the enfant terrible of American politics, skillfully
shielding himself from the embarrassment of a personal snub by habit-
 202 the presidential election of 1800

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 29. Aaron Burr (1756–1836), by James

Van Dyck, 1834. Burr’s wry, sarcastic wit is
readily apparent in this portrait, taken two
years before his death. (© Collection of
The New-York Historical Society)

ually averting his eyes when out in the street, responding to direct
insults with a display of whimsical disregard that itself attracted com-
ment (fig. 29).
Yet for Burr, as for many others, the election of 1800 remained
an open wound—in his mind, the cause of his precipitous fall from
power. Thus, upon learning of the “Anas” from Bayard, he obtained
a copy for himself, eager to see what Jefferson had to say about this
pivotal contest. What he found was profoundly upsetting. Even as late
as 1806, Jefferson was denying his own guilt in the affair, raging against
Burr’s low tactics. Burr was “disgusted” that Jefferson had recorded
their private conversations and repeated mere scandal as the truth;
coming from Jefferson, such hearsay would be believed—this he knew.
Even more infuriating, however, was that Jefferson was berating Burr
 the presidential election of 1800 203

for the very sins he himself had committed; in Burr’s eyes, it was Jeffer-
son who had bargained his way to victory.
To exonerate Burr one would have to incriminate Jefferson. It
was the implications of such a charge that led Davis to beg Burr for
continued silence. To question the terms of Jefferson’s victory in 1801
was to invite the wrath of his many admirers; the former president’s
death four years earlier had only heightened concerns for his honor and
reputation. There were wider repercussions as well. The animosities
unleashed by the election had festered over time, becoming inter-
twined with the political folklore of the nation’s founding. By 1830,
the idea that democracy had triumphed with Jefferson’s victory was
central to America’s self-perception as a New World haven for equality,
justice, and the rights of the common man.5 To modify the conven-
tional narrative of the 1800 election was to tamper with national my-
thology. It was this historical investment that gave Davis pause.
Of course, it was this same historical investment that compelled
Burr to respond to Jefferson’s accusations, for Burr’s reputation in the
eyes of posterity was at stake. Thus, rather than greeting this attack
with his customary composure, Burr became “much excited” by what
he read in the “Anas” and shortly thereafter decided upon a counter-
attack: he would write his own history. Given the sad state of his repu-
tation, he could not undertake such a task himself; the very charges
that he was refuting would discredit anything issuing from his pen,
no matter how persuasive his evidence. He thus approached Davis
(fig. 30). Reading the “Anas” carefully, he marked the most offensive
passages and gave the volume to Davis “with a request that I would
peruse the parts designated by him,” Davis later explained. “From this
time forward,” he continued, Burr “evinced an anxiety that I would
prepare his Memoirs, offering me the use of all his private papers, and
expressing a willingness to explain any doubtful points, and to dictate
such parts of his early history as I might require.” 6
Preparation of Burr’s memoirs began in 1830, one of many re-
sponses to Jefferson’s “Anas.” 7 The work did not proceed without a
hitch; at least once over the course of the next six years, Davis pulled
out of the project, unwilling to undertake the attack on George Wash-
ington’s “military movements” that Burr desired. Work recommenced
 204 the presidential election of 1800

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 30. Matthew Livingston Davis

(1773–1850), unidentified artist,
ca. 1840. Burr’s political lieutenant
and the author of his memoirs,
Davis was sixty-seven when this
portrait was painted, four years after
Burr’s death. (© Collection of The
New-York Historical Society)

only when Burr promised to take full responsibility for the narrative
text of his memoirs. “With this understanding,” Davis later explained,
“I frequently visited him, and made notes under his dictation.” During
the summer of 1835, Davis also examined Burr’s correspondence and
public papers, with Burr’s authorization to “take from among them
whatever I supposed would aid me in preparing the contemplated
book.” The resulting two volumes, published in 1836–37, represent
Burr’s account of the events of his life, as edited and adapted by his
friend Davis. They constitute the only attempt by one of the period’s
most cryptic political actors to explain the unfolding of his life and his
reading of the events and personalities of the founding period.8
 the presidential election of 1800 205

This alone would make Burr’s Memoirs significant, for he was

notoriously tight-lipped about his motives and intentions, even among
his most intimate friends. He kept his correspondence concise and to
the point, devoid of any direct references to political actors or events,
and habitually wrote in cipher, a practice that dated back to his youth.
As Davis put it, Burr was “desirous at all times of casting . . . a veil
of mystery” over his correspondence, social life, and political move-
ments.9 But a close reading of the Memoirs offers more than biographi-
cal insight. Because the text is as polemical as it is personal, it reveals
much about Burr’s sense of himself as a public man—his entitlement
to leadership, his priorities and principles (or lack thereof ), and the
key to his political victories. By defending himself against the many
accusations that grew from his public career, he likewise provides in-
valuable information about the bounds of political propriety among
early national politicians. Burr represented an extreme, and his con-
temporaries perceived him as such. Noting when he crossed a line ex-
poses the rules and restraints of political interaction.
Valued and exploited for his political innovations and intrigues,
Burr was distrusted and ultimately discarded because of these same
talents and abilities. Ambitious self-promotion, intrigue, and secrecy
seemed directly opposed to the public-mindedness and accountability
at the heart of republican governance, yet they won political battles.
This fundamental conflict between personal imperatives (“shoulds”
and “should-nots”) and political realities (“musts”) was wrapped up
in the figure of Aaron Burr. Condemning Burr’s methods even as they
yoked them to their cause, politicians fueled the process of political
change. The clashing worldviews that led to these compromises cre-
ated an atmosphere of hostility and mutual distrust, spawned misun-
derstandings and accusations, and ultimately led to Burr’s destruction.

The Enigma of Aaron Burr

Aaron Burr was one of the most controversial men of his time, as re-
nowned for wickedness in his later years as Washington was for probity
or Jefferson for patriotic fervor. As Davis well recognized, defending
the reputation of such a man would require more than mere disclaim-
 206 the presidential election of 1800

ers and denials. To convince readers that Burr was not the immoral
fiend of legend, Davis would have to reveal the self-interested malice
of Burr’s foes. Only by incriminating these false friends—the Jeffer-
sonians—could he dismiss their charges as malignant lies. In essence,
Burr’s Memoirs defends Burr’s reputation by transferring blame, trac-
ing his rise and fall at the hands of Jefferson and his spiteful, dissem-
bling “Virginia junto.” 10
This strategy for political self-defense was not uncommon in the
early republic. Rather than simply disproving incriminating charges,
politicians often went a step further, reproaching their assailants for
the baseness of their political methods. Such recriminations made
sense, given the prevailing anxieties about the workings of national
politics. Something seemed to be awry in the American political sys-
tem, and someone had to shoulder the blame. Partisan conflict on a
local level was disturbing, but translated onto a national scale and in-
flicted on a fragile and untested union, it became something more: it
seemed to be rending the nation along partisan lines, threatening dis-
union and civil war.
Convinced of their own good intentions, national politicians ex-
plained this political crisis in two ways: either their opponents were
not playing by the rules or the system itself was fatally flawed—or
both. Burr’s memoirs reveal a basic underlying assumption about his
political world that he shared with his peers: his trials and tribulations
were not simply the inevitable price of political competition but rather
proof that something had gone fundamentally wrong.
Even the seemingly immoral Burr perceived a morality of poli-
tics. In his eyes, Jefferson and his Virginia friends were corrupt, self-
interested, and hypocritically virtuous in their politicking; they were
men without honor who lied and deceived. Burr’s Memoirs contains
numerous examples of what Davis termed “Mr. Jefferson’s idea of hon-
our and morality, as practiced by him and by his order.” Burr himself,
on the other hand, considered his own honor unsullied, for his politics
were precisely what they seemed. Never malicious in the manner of
the “junto,” he was an ambitious and clever politician who always be-
haved like a gentleman. It was Hamilton’s violation of such gentle-
manly standards that prompted Burr’s challenge in 1804; as Burr wrote
 the presidential election of 1800 207

to Hamilton during their duel proceedings, “Political opposition can

never absolve Gentlemen from the necessity of a rigid adherence to
the laws of honor and the rules of decorum.” 11 Of course, Jefferson
and his allies saw something quite different. They considered them-
selves men of honor who were dedicated to the public good. Burr was
the immoral one, his self-interest so all-consuming that he did not even
deign to couch his political sins in the guise of public service. Sacrific-
ing all to his personal ambitions, he was disloyal, dishonest, and dis-
honorable—the very sins that Burr attributed to Jefferson.
Posterity has sided with Jefferson, depicting him as a disinter-
ested servant of the people surrounded by villains like Hamilton and
Burr (fig. 31). Yet there was some truth to Burr’s perspective. Jefferson
was indeed willing to compromise his personal integrity (or that of
his friends) in the service of what he considered public-minded goals.
He disclosed such impulses in 1799, in response to Federalist attempts
to build up the nation’s armed forces in preparation for war with
France; this was the same controversy that had cost Adams his Federal-
ist following and the presidency. To Jefferson, war with France (and
a possible alliance with England) was bad enough, but a standing army
was an even greater threat. Standing armies were tools of monarchy,
funded by high taxes and justified only by constant and unnecessary
warfare. Desperate to reveal the Federalists as the monarchists he
thought they were, Jefferson urged James Madison to publish his notes
from the Federal Convention, despite Madison’s promise, as a mem-
ber, to keep them private—a promise sworn for just this reason, to
prevent the conversion of a controversial debate into political fodder.
Publishing them would implicate Madison’s character, Jefferson ac-
knowledged, but because it was done in the service of the public (i.e.,
the Republicans), he considered it the “moral” choice. “The arguments
against it will be personal; those in favor of it moral,” he explained,
taking a final swipe at Madison’s conscience by noting that “something
is required from you as a set-off for the sin of your retirement.” 12
Clearly, like most of his peers, Jefferson had his own sense of political
proprieties. An understanding of such personal standards helps explain
the enigma of Aaron Burr.
There were any number of factors that shaped a man’s personal
 208 the presidential election of 1800

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 31. Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826), by

Gilbert Stuart, 1805. Toward the end of
Jefferson’s second term and continuing
after his death, prints of this likeness
enjoyed great popularity; in the public
mind in an age before photography,
this was Jefferson. (Courtesy of the
National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian
Institution, and Monticello, Thomas
Jefferson Memorial Foundation; Gift
of the Regents of the Smithsonian
Institution, the Thomas Jefferson
Memorial Foundation, and the Enid
and Crosby Kemper Foundation)

brand of politics: his rank, reputation, regional loyalties, principles,

aspirations, and temperament, his friendships and enmities, his sense
of public opinion, and the political demands of the moment. As dem-
onstrated by the chorus of anxiety in correspondence, political deci-
sions were shaped by an ever shifting array of influences, and politi-
cians did not make such choices in partisan lockstep. Predictable as
 the presidential election of 1800 209

their decisions might appear to us today, they were products of the

moment, entirely unpredictable in their outcome and implications.
And what seemed virtuously public-minded and essential to one man
could seem entirely corrupt to the next. This lack of well-defined stan-
dards in an unstable political environment convinced many politicians
that the nation was in the throes of a moral crisis. The nature of their
compromises—the underlying logic behind each politician’s decisions
and actions—explains how members of an aristocratic ruling elite
gradually moved toward party politicking.
Studies of the period often reduce this ambiguous process of po-
litical self-definition to a conflict between two sets of rules and stan-
dards. On a cultural level, historians see a clash between deference and
democracy; on a political level, they translate this cultural battle into
a struggle between backward-looking, aristocratic Federalists and
forward-looking, democratic Republicans. Within this larger narrative,
the election of 1800 figures as a final victory for democracy when the
leveling spirit of the Republican party gave birth to a new style of
politics.
But this is a Whiggish historical narrative that obscures the pro-
cess of change and distorts our understanding of the dynamics of early
national politics. Politicians did not cling blindly to the past in the face
of a tide of political change, nor did they simply abandon their long-
held standards to grasp at political gain.13 Rather, they were engaged
in a subtle, multifaceted tug of war between ideals and realities, past
and present, deference and democracy, Old World and New that must
be understood before we can begin to grasp the pace and pattern of
political change.
No politician reveals this more strikingly than Aaron Burr, an
elite politician who dirtied his hands in the routine business of politics
to an extraordinary degree. Unlike most others of his social standing,
he was a campaign manager with an eye for detail and an exuberant
love of the political game. Few of his colleagues would have converted
their homes into a campaign headquarters, as he did in 1800, complete
with round-the-clock coffee and mattresses on the floor for catnaps,
nor would many acknowledge that campaigning afforded them “a
great deal of fun and honor & profit.” 14 How, then, was he accepted
 210 the presidential election of 1800

as a member of the political elite? And where was the inspiration for
his unusual brand of politics? It certainly was not born of democratic
fervor. His Memoirs reveals little interest in political principles; unlike
the autobiographies and histories of virtually all his peers, it propounds
no political philosophy and contains only vague references to his politi-
cal leanings.
Indeed, Burr seems to have had little interest in the republican
dimension of the American experiment in government. This is not to
say that he shirked his duties while in public office; on the contrary,
many consider his years presiding over the Senate as vice president his
finest hours; his farewell speech was such an eloquent expression of
his good wishes for the republic that it reduced his audience to tears.
As a political combatant, however, he had little interest in the princi-
ples of republicanism that so restrained Maclay, making an occasional
bow in their direction more as a gesture of politeness than a statement
of principle. When contemporaries observed that he “had no theory,”
they meant that he had no commitment to republicanism, no intellec-
tual line in the sand to restrain him from politicking according to Old
World standards of corruption, ambition, and personal gain.15 Their
distrust in his character and discomfort with his politicking reveals the
relative importance of such restraints of principle. Without them, a
man was free to respond to the political demands of the moment un-
hampered by political proprieties; he could commit political sins with
little compunction, provided they were not blatantly apparent to his
more scrupulous peers. In comparison with such men, Burr seemed
ambitious, self-interested, deceitful, and dishonest. Hence his reputa-
tion in the eyes of his peers.
Yet Burr was not devoid of principles, and it is here that modern
assumptions about politics have preserved his enigma to the present
day. For Burr governed his actions according to the mandates of
honor, and this is why he was accepted by men who distrusted his high
ambitions and questionable political methods. In his manner, attitude,
upbringing, and way of life, Burr was one of them. He was indisput-
ably a gentleman, questionable as his habits might be.
Of course, Burr himself never doubted that he was a man of
honor and reputation, and he assumed that others would respect him
 the presidential election of 1800 211

for his strict adherence to the code of honor. As he noted to Hamilton

during their duel proceedings, regardless of his many personal and
political sins, he had never slandered an opponent’s name, and indeed,
one searches his correspondence in vain for the habitual mud-slinging
and character assassination that peppers the letters of his peers. As a
man of honor, he also assumed that his word was his pledge. It was
a slap at this fundamental aspect of his sense of self that led Burr down
the path of ruin in the election of 1800. Without an understanding of
the culture of honor and its political impact, his actions remain illogical
(or puzzling at best), preventing a full understanding of the contest
that he considered the most crucial in his political career.
It is Burr’s sense of himself as a man of honor that holds the
key to his politics, for his democratic opportunism was born of his
aristocratic pretensions. As he suggested to Hamilton on one occasion,
he considered himself superior to the petty rules governing lesser
men.16 The grandson of Jonathan Edwards, the son and namesake of
the president of the College of New Jersey (now Princeton), he was
a scion of New England gentility and perceived himself as such; in-
deed, Burr’s seeming claim to leadership, the product of his heritage,
made his ambitions all the more threatening.17 With Lord Chesterfield
as his guide, he perfected the pose of the courtier: he was “fascinating”
in manner, graceful in person, affable in conversation, gallant among
women, and intent on winning honors and reputation, with the enti-
tled air of one to the manor born. Friends and enemies alike considered
him one of the most courtly public men of his generation. Following
Chesterfield’s cue, Burr also assumed the license of an aristocrat, pre-
suming the world indulgent toward men of high station and trusting
that knowledge of his character and background would refute at-
tempted slanders.18 Secure in his rank and eager for his just due, he
felt free to adapt to the political demands of the moment, heeding the
democratic pull of the public. Ironically, it was aristocratic tradition
that fueled Burr’s democratic politics—a seeming paradox that offers
insight into the politics of many of his contemporaries.
Free to adapt to the demands of the moment, Burr practiced a
seemingly modern politics of campaign management, aggressive self-
promotion, and democratic appeals. His corps of devoted followers
 212 the presidential election of 1800

also seems modern in character. Joined to Burr by his personal magne-

tism and their ambitions for public office, devoid of any unifying prin-
ciple other than self-advancement, they were a faction in the truest
sense of the word: a personal following without any commitment to
a higher cause. Young men (“mere boys,” charged his opponents) im-
pressed with Burr’s worldliness and heroic war record, Burr’s “loyal
band” took risks that could be explained away by the excesses of youth.
Free from the restraints of republicanism, their efforts seem like the
victory-minded electioneering of the present day.
Yet at its core, Burr’s politicking was as traditional as it was mod-
ern, for notwithstanding his democratic methods, he maintained an
aristocratic detachment from the masses. It was his supporters, not
he himself, who politicked among the multitude; when he made an
exception to this rule in 1800, it was seen as evidence of his willing-
ness to take extreme measures. Though his politicking was far more
aggressive and self-promoting than a republican might allow, he elec-
tioneered like a gentleman, mingling among a limited circle of social
equals who were charmed into supporting him. In a politics of friend-
ship, this personal brand of politicking was extremely effective.
His followers also admired Burr for his aristocratic virtues rather
than his democratic skills. As Davis explains, Burr’s influence was
largely a product of his image. The “generally young men” who con-
gregated around him were inspired by his reputation as “a patriot hero
of the revolution.” It was among these “gallant” young men that Burr
was “all-powerful,” Davis continues, “for he possessed, in a pre-
eminent degree, the art of fascinating the youthful.” 19 It was his self-
perceived identity as a valorous man of honor that earned him support,
not his campaigning methods.
This understanding of Burr’s politics reminds us of the difficulties
of making sweeping generalizations about political practices in a soci-
ety governed by fine distinctions of rank and reputation. A man’s status
depended on a number of factors: his heritage, his property, his record
of public service, his profession, his friends and kin, his education,
his manner of living, his talents, his temperament and manners, his
appearance, his importance to a community, and the cultural assump-
tions that were distinctive to his region. Standards of political behavior
 the presidential election of 1800 213

were attuned with these subtleties of rank, restraining the elite from
politicking in the same manner as those on the other end of the social
spectrum. Between these two extremes, however, was a vast gray area
of ambiguous and contested standards. Burr’s particular talent was to
position himself smack in the center of this nebulous code of political
propriety, balancing precisely his rank and his politicking—at least for
a time.
Ironically, given his historical reputation, to understand Burr one
must understand the subtleties of honor; only then does he become
more than a villainous archetype. More than anything else, this was
the motive behind his Memoirs: to prove himself a man of honorable
intentions who was often unwise but never corrupt. It was a message
that Burr’s opponents could never accept, for their political careers and
reputations rested in part on their opposition to him. In the battle of
reputations at the heart of the period’s many histories, defenses, and
memoirs, Burr carried a serious handicap. Murderer of Alexander
Hamilton, corrupt deal-maker in the election of 1800, and would-be
emperor of the American West in the eyes of his peers, Burr had earned
a reputation that even the most authentic evidence could not over-
come.

The Lessons of 1796

Although Burr’s Memoirs purport to explain his public life, by our stan-
dards they contain surprisingly little politics. Progressing through
what Burr considered the four major controversies of his life—his rela-
tionship with George Washington, the election of 1800, his duel with
Hamilton, and his 1807 treason trial—the work details Burr’s relation-
ships with Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton, the three men who
had the greatest impact on his life. Looking back on his political career
at the ripe old age of seventy-four, Burr saw a series of personal rela-
tionships rather than political acts. In this way, his Memoirs shares
much with other personal histories of the founding generation. Bio-
graphical accounts that focus on friendships and enmities, loyalty and
treachery, they reveal the personal nature of the early national political
world.
 214 the presidential election of 1800

A politics of friendships and enmities was fluid, unpredictable,

and difficult to manage. Under the two umbrellas of principle known
as Federalism and Republicanism lay a mass of shifting loyalties, no
one figure ever entirely predictable in his actions or allegiances. At
various points in their political careers, even men of seemingly ironclad
principles like Jefferson and Hamilton were rumored to have aban-
doned their supporters to join with former foes.
For participants in the election of 1800, such fears defined the
contest. Adams was worried about the loyalty of former Federalists in
the wake of his negotiations with France and Hamilton’s opposition;
there was no telling how Federalists might vote. Burr was wary of
the Virginia “friends” who were supposedly supporting him for vice
president, deeming them “not to be trusted.” (Years later, advising
Andrew Jackson about running for president, he cautioned the general
to beware the “insidious promises of boons & favors” offered by “the
Virga. Junto.”) 20 The powerful Republican George Clinton of New
York was on the verge of betraying Jefferson by withholding his sup-
port because he believed that Jefferson had abandoned him four years
earlier by declaring friendship for Federalist John Adams. And north-
erners and southerners entirely distrusted one another, fearful that al-
lies from the opposite region would support regional favorites rather
than partisan allies. Would northern Republicans vote for Republicans
Jefferson and Burr or for northerners Burr and Adams—a Federalist?
Would southern Republicans support southerners Charles Cotesworth
Pinckney—a Federalist—and Jefferson?
To understand this political mindset, we must first come to terms
with lessons learned four years earlier. For as they approached the 1800
campaign, politicians had behind them only one other contested presi-
dential election, the competition between Adams and Jefferson in 1796.
As the first presidential election after George Washington’s retire-
ment—the nation’s “first competition,” as one politician phrased it—
the election of 1796 had raised a host of fears about the workings of
national politics and the consequences of a political battle fought on
so national a scale.21
More than anything else, however, that election had taught poli-
ticians about the frailty of national partisan bonds in the face of con-
 the presidential election of 1800 215

flicting loyalties. Public men had selected a presidential candidate and

campaigned for him nationally for the first time; as individuals, they
had had to sift through a range of options and influences to assign
their political loyalties. Ambivalent about party combat and unfamiliar
with the personal implications and practical logistics of national poli-
tics, they had not necessarily placed partisan demands above all else:
regional loyalties, local politics, career aspirations, friendships and en-
mities, personal honor, even apathy all held sway. Across the country,
friends had betrayed friends and politicians had abandoned their politi-
cal allies. Southerners and northerners had turned their backs on one
another, while the politically timid had struggled to conform with the
majority.22
Such decisions were by no means predictable. A public man
might be trustworthy on most occasions, only to leap to the opposition
when a conflicting loyalty took precedence. The Electoral College only
magnified this unpredictability. Devised as a means of regulating and
guiding an unwieldy national process, the institution, by its terms, dis-
couraged national political organization. In the name of federalism and
state autonomy, states could appoint electors in any way they chose,
and electors were free to vote as they wished, regardless of the will
of the people, a virtual guarantee of an ever-shifting, localized, and
profoundly personal presidential contest.23 As Connecticut Federalist
Chauncey Goodrich wrote, only “a good Providence” would produce
a single leader from among the nation’s “numerous & unconnected
assemblies.” 24
This is not to say that national partisan loyalties played no role in
the 1796 election; indeed, participants were alarmed by their increased
importance. As Maryland Federalist William Vans Murray observed,
“In this county, I think I never knew an election so much of principles.”
Politicians habitually described the political landscape in black-and-
white terms—a contest between “us” and “them”—though the labels
they chose for the contending teams varied greatly. Republicans railed
against monarchists, aristocrats, the “Eastern men,” the “British party,”
and “Hamilton & his party.” Federalists, in turn, battled anarchists,
“disorganizers,” Jacobins, the “Virginian party,” the “French party,”
and “Jefferson’s party.” 25 But such epithets should not be taken to
 216 the presidential election of 1800

mean that political battles consisted of predictable teams fighting un-

der banners of pure principle. Rather, they reveal the many loyalties
that divided man from man—bonds of regionalism, friendship, and
principle that did not necessarily coincide. The increased importance
of partisan loyalties was simply one factor among many that guided
political choices. Whether they were selecting candidates, election-
eering, or voting in the Electoral College, politicians were sifting
through a spectrum of options and loyalties, balancing them according
to the individual logic of their lives.
The election’s first major decision—the selection of candidates—
involved a difficult and prolonged process. For one thing, there were
basic questions about the nature of the presidency that had never be-
fore been considered because of the power of George Washington’s
symbolic presence (fig. 32). What sort of man ought to fill the executive
office, and how was he to be selected? What were the mechanics of
such a national contest? Should national politicians designate presiden-
tial candidates at closed-door meetings in the capital, or should each
state be free to select its own? Vital as such questions might be, dis-
cussion was kept to a minimum until a mere two months before the
election, when Washington formally announced his retirement. Poor
channels of communication and ambivalence about party politicking
and private meetings only increased the difficulty of reaching joint de-
cisions and made it almost impossible to enforce them. Add the many
local, regional, and personal factors that influenced political decisions,
and the difficulties of selecting partisan candidates become clear.
The Federalists never reached more than a nebulous decision; by
June “it seemed understood” that John Adams and Thomas Pinckney
of South Carolina were the candidates of choice. Pinckney’s relative
obscurity, supposedly one of his strengths as a candidate, was likewise
his greatest weakness. Although his reputation had been relatively un-
touched by recent political wrangling, as a result, few knew who he
was. As late as November 2—even as electors were being chosen in
his home state of Maryland—Federalist William Vans Murray did not
know “who is thought of for a Vice President.” When informed that
Pinckney was the man, Vans Murray enthusiastically endorsed a na-
tional letter-writing campaign in his support. There was only one
 the presidential election of 1800 217

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 32. “Look on This Picture, and on This,” broadside, 1807. Washington’s
presence loomed over the presidency long after he retired. This Federalist
broadside compares Washington and Jefferson, and finds Jefferson wanting.
(© Collection of The New-York Historical Society)

problem: he did not know Pinckney’s first name. Before any letters
could be written, Pinckney’s “christian name . . . would be necessary—
though I could find it, yet I forget it.” As late as September, some
Federalists believed that John Jay or Patrick Henry were potential pres-
idential candidates.26
Republicans had similar problems, never conclusively determin-
ing a vice presidential candidate. Contenders included New Yorkers
Robert R. Livingston and Aaron Burr, John Langdon of New Hamp-
shire, and South Carolinian Pierce Butler. To Federalist observer Wil-
liam Loughton Smith, Livingston appeared to “stand highest.” Lang-
don lacked influence. Butler was a strong contender, but he was a
“Southern man and as Jefferson is to be President, it won’t do.” Of-
 218 the presidential election of 1800

fended at his rejection, Butler departed the meeting in a huff. This left
Livingston and Burr, a man whom many considered “unsettled in his
politics” and therefore likely to “go over to the other side.” Though
ultimately the favored candidate, Burr never received solid support
from the Republicans, whose ambivalence cooled to wary distrust dur-
ing the course of the election. By November, Smith could report only
that the Republican candidate for the vice presidency was “any other
man, except Adams and Pinckney.” 27
Though ostensibly running for vice president, Burr and Pinckney
were presidential candidates as well, at least in the eyes of a select few.
Pinckney was supported by a mix of personal friends, fellow southern-
ers (both Federalist and Republican), and northern Federalists who
distrusted or disliked Adams. Burr’s support base was even more var-
ied. Committed to neither Federalists nor Republicans, he sought of-
fice at any cost and was happy to accommodate anyone willing to sup-
port him. Through a combination of personal charm and persuasion,
he forged personal bonds with men of all political stripes, ultimately
receiving support for both the presidency and the vice presidency from
both Federalists and Republicans. A handful of New Yorkers even con-
sidered an Adams-Burr ticket. Such strange conglomerations of north-
erners, southerners, Federalists, and Republicans reveal the very per-
sonal nature of political decisions and the consequent difficulties in
achieving partisan unity. No combination of candidates would have
produced a straight Federalist or Republican ticket; any two would
have linked together Federalist and Republican support.
The small degree of unity produced by informal caucuses quickly
broke down in the face of private ambitions, personal friendships, and
political realities on a local level—a seemingly insurmountable obstacle
to electioneering, the second phase of the campaign. A group decision
by congressmen at the nation’s capital had little significance unless it
could be communicated to supporters around the nation. Yet such
coordination was almost impossible for a number of reasons. Poor
roads, unreliable mail delivery, and limited channels of communication
made it difficult to learn about political proceedings outside of one’s
own state reliably and regularly. When Congress was in session, local
politicians kept themselves informed by corresponding with congress-
 the presidential election of 1800 219

men. Philadelphia was a national clearinghouse of political information

where people from around the country met and exchanged local news
gleaned from personal letters. When Congress was out of session, how-
ever, it was difficult even for political insiders to get a national perspec-
tive.28 In 1796, Congress did not meet between June 1 and Decem-
ber 5, a six-month gap that left many scrambling for information.
Conducted largely through letter campaigns (even newspapers
relied on personal letters for credible evidence), national electioneering
depended on bonds of friendship, fragile networks that were vulnera-
ble to apathy, misunderstandings, and the complicated logistics of
long-distance communication. Thus, the greater the distance from the
nation’s capital, the less accessible was national political information.
As Fisher Ames explained, “The government alone possesses informa-
tion, and . . . the stage-horses alone are the pipes for its transmission
to the printers, who are the issuing commissaries to the people.” With-
out “the light of the newspapers, . . . we sit in darkness.” William Vans
Murray of Maryland was likewise uninformed about politics “East-
[war]d or Southw[ar]d” because “no one hears of such things except
at Philad. &, as I have no correspondent there who ought to trust to
a letter by post, I am in the dark.” 29
For “country people” far removed from an urban center, the pres-
idential election itself was easily forgotten. In Pennsylvania more peo-
ple voted for governor than for president in 1796. In the few states
that chose electors by popular vote, it was difficult simply to rouse
rural farmers to vote, for they faced a long, often arduous trip to the
nearest polling place. The little news that managed to reach the coun-
tryside was often mere rumor, distorted by the chain of conversations
at the heart of political gossip. For example, a “Country man” visiting
Boston expressed regret that John Adams could not be president. “They
tell me that Mr Adams tho a Clever man will not do for president,”
he told a shopkeeper. Adams was qualified, the man admitted, but he
was mute, and a president probably needed the power of speech.30
Logistical problems were complicated by personal, partisan, and
regional considerations. This clash of loyalties is most apparent in at-
tempts by national politicians to influence presidential electors. The
real battle for the presidency was fought not in the nation’s capital but
 220 the presidential election of 1800

in the states. Despite the best efforts of politicians to influence and

coordinate electoral votes on a national level, it was local men fighting
local battles—coached and prodded by their state’s national represen-
tatives—who determined the election.
National politicians knew that victory depended on their influ-
ence over these 136 presidential electors, though states that chose elec-
tors by popular vote required added efforts and strategic creativity. In
Pennsylvania, for example, John Beckley organized the election’s most
ambitious campaign, distributing handbills and ballots with the names
of the Republican electors already written in; he ultimately distributed
30,000 ballots handwritten by family members of Republican politi-
cians in a state where only 24,420 people voted.31 However, Pennsylva-
nia was hardly the norm. In most states, the choice of electors could
be decided by a few influential men. Indeed, New Jersey Federalist
Jonathan Dayton believed that the entire election could be decided by
a handful of national politicians. Eager to promote Burr for president,
Dayton sent a message to Massachusetts Federalist Theodore Sedg-
wick asking for his cooperation in swaying electors; in an attempt to
pressure Sedgwick into compliance, he instructed the messenger to
wait for a response. “I assure you,” he wrote to Sedgwick, “that I think
it possible for you & me with a little aid from a few others to effect
this.” Sedgwick refused, gently reprimanding Dayton for promoting
Burr’s election through “misrepresentation” and reminding him that
Burr was unlikely to receive Republican support in either the North
or South. “The party with which he has generally acted, although they
covet the aid of his character & talents, have not the smallest confi-
dence in his hearty union to their cause,” Sedgwick explained. Indeed,
Sedgwick was sure that Burr’s political views were not only “distinct
but opposite” to Republican principles; “They know, in short, he is
not one of them.” 32
Dayton’s efforts proved useless, as did those of many politicians
who tried to organize a national campaign, even with the limited pool
of electors. Personal influence could not always triumph over local
loyalties. In the end, political organization relied on each politician’s
sense of personal and regional honor at least as much as on his commit-
ment to a cause or candidate. Sedgwick disapproved of Dayton’s elec-
 the presidential election of 1800 221

tion trickery in part because promoting Burr above Adams would dis-
honor New England and shatter the fragile trust joining North and
South.
Honor likewise compelled South Carolina’s Federalist electors to
stick by Adams. They had promised him their support and thus to
vote otherwise would be dishonorable—“and if no confidence can be
placed in their honor, it is impossible even to act extensively, in con-
cert.” 33 If one could not trust the word of these electors now, how
could one trust them in future? Destroy the bonds of honor between
men, and you destroyed the Federalist party as a whole.
In the case of South Carolina, regional loyalty ultimately pre-
vailed over partisan discipline, for all its electors voted for Jefferson and
Pinckney. Such unpredictability characterized the entire presidential
campaign. No alliance was too firm to be broken. Even electors of
known political inclinations were targeted for conversion; like candi-
dates for executive office, electors won their position more on the basis
of character and political inclinations than partisan commitment. Al-
though some potential electors publicly declared their choice of candi-
date, others did not, leaving them open to last-minute attempts at per-
suasion. Many were men of local prominence whose membership in
the Electoral College marked a first step toward a national career.34
For men with such ambitions, the attentions of a national politician
and his allies could be seductive. With influential men clamoring for
their vote, local constituencies voicing preferences, bonds of friendship
tugging at their loyalties, and national prominence just beyond their
reach, electors had to weigh carefully the consequences of their votes.
Throughout the autumn of 1796, national politicians attempted
to secure electoral votes through a combination of promises, threats,
and appeals to principle. Weapons of combat included social calls as
well as pamphlets, newspaper essays, and personal letters, often hand
delivered by local politicians with national connections; each repre-
sented a national-local link. Republican Tench Coxe was particularly
methodical in his campaign to sway electors. Designating correspon-
dents in New Hampshire, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Dela-
ware, Virginia, and Maryland, he channeled electioneering pamphlets
and letters to electors, his political agents often personally delivering
 222 the presidential election of 1800

them to their front doors—though not always on time. Frustrated at

receiving Coxe’s pamphlets three days after his state’s electors had been
chosen, Connecticut Republican Samuel Andrew Law swore to Coxe
that had they arrived earlier, he “would have distributed the copies,
even if I had rode from this place to Hartford,” where the electors
were due to meet. Moore Furman of New Jersey assured Coxe that
his pamphlets were “in the hands of every one . . . except the Bergen
[County] elector[,] who is in such an out of the way corner that I have
yet had no opporty to [visit] him.” 35
More than any other candidate, Burr waged political warfare us-
ing personal interviews. The exception to almost every rule, he cam-
paigned in New England—ostensibly for Jefferson—for several weeks,
meeting with powerful state politicians who might influence the selec-
tion of electors. In Boston, Abigail Adams observed that Burr had been
“constantly closeted” with Republicans Charles Jarvis, Benjamin Aus-
tin, and William Eustis. In Ulster County, New York, he met with
powerful Federalist Ebenezer Foote, who later described Burr as “a
mighty winning fellow.” On occasion, Burr electioneered through
agents, as when his friend Peter Van Gaasbeek spent “the greatest part
of [the] Night” in an “interview” with New York elector Johannes
Miller. Burr likewise urged his friend Eustis to talk with Massachusetts
elector Elbridge Gerry.36
Direct manipulation of electors was tricky, for too overt an at-
tempt to affect their votes would appear to be thwarting the popular
will, a charge that could destroy a candidate’s reputation. Even Burr,
typically unconcerned with appearances, felt compelled to watch his
words in a letter to Gerry, offering him advice “if not deemed im-
proper.” News of such letters spread quickly. Thus, Adams learned of
Hamilton’s electioneering letter to Massachusetts Federalist Stephen
Higginson within two weeks of its initial posting. Higginson, in turn,
knew that New York Republican Melancton Smith had written letters
to electors in both Massachusetts and New Hampshire.37
This tension between personal and political loyalties pervaded
every electoral contest. In New York, George Clinton hoped that “the
Influence of personal Attachment” would induce a few Federalist elec-
tors to vote Republican. In South Carolina, William Loughton Smith
 the presidential election of 1800 223

noted that Republican Edward Rutledge was “tampering” with his

cousin Benjamin Smith, though he had hopes that Rutledge would
fail. In New Jersey, Moore Furman noted that one elector “might be
detached” from his Federalist friends but would probably vote with
them because “he must go with the multitude.” William Vans Murray
thought that Maryland’s one stray vote for Jefferson resulted from the
elector’s unpaid debts to British merchants. Stephen Higginson, Ham-
ilton’s main source of influence in Massachusetts, noted that three elec-
tors each refused to give one of his votes to Pinckney because of “in-
terested & personal motives” and the influence of “Adams’s particular
friends.” 38
A brief glance at the votes of the Electoral College reveals the
effects of these shifting loyalties. In the final tally, only 8 out of 16
states voted a straight Adams-Pinckney or Jefferson-Burr ticket; 52 out
of a total of 136 electors did not abide by the national caucus decision.39
The distribution of votes likewise reveals the unstructured nature of
the 1796 election. A total of 13 candidates received electoral votes, some
of them regional favorites, others of national repute. Many of these
late additions received votes as a form of protest against another candi-
date. For example, Virginia electors who distrusted Burr voted against
him by casting one of their votes for Jefferson and the other for Sam
Adams. Republican John Beckley tried to unite southern Republicans
against Burr—pitting regional ties against partisan loyalties—and
achieved some degree of success, but, notably, those who voted against
Burr did not even attempt to agree on an alternative. Southern opposi-
tion to Burr was one thing, uniting behind a single candidate was an-
other. Such regional differences would play a pivotal role in the elec-
tion of 1800.
Both the campaign and the results in the Electoral College show
that a politics without sharply defined permanent parties was indeed
like a war without uniforms; it was difficult to distinguish friends from
foes and often impossible to predict the strange combinations of cir-
cumstances that could alter a man’s political loyalties or lead to an
alliance between former enemies. Desperate to differentiate true Re-
publicans from Federalists in disguise, Tench Coxe pleaded with
printer Philip Freneau for a list of Federalists who had written deceiv-
 224 the presidential election of 1800

ing articles in the National Gazette. Aware that such a disclosure would
discourage contributors from trusting him in future, Freneau refused.
So uncertain were Patrick Henry’s political inclinations that he was
simultaneously supported by Federalists as a potential presidential can-
didate and by Republicans as a potential elector.40 And perhaps most
astonishing of all, for a brief period in the campaign, some Republicans
believed that Hamilton was advancing Jefferson for president. As John
Browne Cutting told Massachusetts Federalist George Cabot, Hamil-
ton had told him that “Mr. Jefferson must be supported, as the only
way of appeasing France” and saving the Union. John Beckley thought
that such news deserved publication in Pennsylvania newspapers.41
In such an unstable political world, it is no wonder that Burr’s
lack of political commitments hurt his electioneering efforts as much
as it helped them. Though skilled at garnering votes and victories, Burr
was ultimately untrustworthy, a friend to everyone and thus a friend
to no one. Where political bonds were premised on the mutual confi-
dence of friendship, and the conduct of one friend could influence the
reputations of all, few politicians would willingly risk an explicit politi-
cal alliance with Aaron Burr. Even when Virginia Republicans offered
him support in 1800, they remained detached enough to throw him
over when he became a political liability. This was how Burr perceived
the Virginians’ behavior during both contests: as a betrayal of friend-
ship.
It was the possibility for dramatic political conversions—the re-
sult of the politics of the moment—that accounts for the extreme anxi-
ety produced by newly elected Vice President Jefferson’s seemingly
simple offer of friendship to President-elect Adams. Republicans and
Federalists alike took alarm at the possibility, for there was no telling
how such an alliance might change the political landscape. To some
Republicans Jefferson’s gesture seemed a betrayal of the worst sort.
After months of active campaigning against Adams, they could hardly
expect to be in his favor during his presidency; by extending a hand
of friendship to Adams, Jefferson appeared to be abandoning his Re-
publican friends.42
Many Federalists were equally unhappy with Jefferson’s gesture
of friendship, and most came to the same conclusion: the vice president
 the presidential election of 1800 225

was taking advantage of Adams’s antipathy toward Hamilton to sway

Adams to the Republican cause. As Theodore Sedgwick explained, “A
new scene of intrigue is exhibiting on the political theatre—the at-
tempt is to gain the new President by flattery. . . . Hence the indust[r]i-
ous attempts to induce him to believe that Hamilton & his party, as
they express themselves, did not wish but insidiously opposed his elec-
tion.” 43 Jefferson’s comments suggest that the Federalists were right.
“There is reason to believe that he [Adams] is detached from Hamilton
and there is a possibility he may swerve from his politics,” Jefferson
wrote in January 1797. “If so, we must counteract with defensive ad-
dresses.” Virginia Republican Joseph Jones, friendly with both Madi-
son and Jefferson, likewise hoped that Adams “may be induced” to
throw off his monarchical prejudices.” 44
The remarkable fluidity of partisan alliances helps explain these
puzzling hints of collaboration between Adams and Jefferson after the
election. Historians usually dismiss the possibility of an alliance be-
tween the two men, conceding, perhaps, that personal friendship took
precedence over political differences for the briefest of moments. Jef-
ferson’s December 1796 letter of friendship to Adams, withheld at
Madison’s suggestion, is seen as a glimmer of emotional sincerity that
was quickly stamped out by political practicalities, a remembrance of
the admiration and respect Jefferson had felt for Adams when the two
men had struggled for independence twenty years past. And if we pre-
sume the inevitability of political parties and locate their origin in the
1796 election, such a union does, indeed, seem implausible. But if we
examine it in the context of the period’s ever-shifting political alliances,
understanding it as an attempt at cooperation rather than partnership,
the alliance is not beyond belief. Indeed, Adams’s political loyalties
were unpredictable enough to encourage both the French and British
ministers to consider his election good news.45
Nor was Jefferson’s overture of friendship abandoned with the
withdrawal of his letter. Madison wanted to moderate the tone and
implications of Jefferson’s statement, not cancel it altogether. Most of
all, he wanted to avoid giving Adams “written possession” of Jeffer-
son’s feelings in a signed personal letter that could demonstrate the vice
president’s lack of integrity in future. So the two men leaked Jefferson’s
 226 the presidential election of 1800

sentiments to Adams through known channels of political gossip. In

addition, Jefferson wrote a suggestive letter to New Hampshire Re-
publican John Langdon, counting on the fact that Langdon would
show it to Adams. The letter contained “exactly the things which will
be grateful to Mr. A. & no more,” Jefferson swore to Madison. Adams
replied in kind, expressing his friendship through mutual friends.46 The
elaborate planning necessary for this seemingly simple declaration of
friendship reveals the political significance of such bonds, as well as
the importance of deploying the appropriate weapon.
Adams and Jefferson believed of each other what many politi-
cians believed about many political chiefs: the most honest republican
could become a rabid partisan under the influence of his friends. As
Maryland Federalist Charles Carroll said of Jefferson, “If left to himself
he may act wisely: but, as he will be elected by a faction, it is appre-
hended he will consider himself rather as the head of that faction, than
the first magistrate of the American People.” Indebted to his friends
for his office, Jefferson would give their demands precedence over the
public good. Joseph Jones said the same thing about Pinckney: he
hoped that Pinckney would “stamp his administration with the Char-
acter of Republican,” but feared that “this Gent. will be disposed to
take council from those men who have had too much influence hith-
erto in our councils and will practice every art and stratagem to con-
tinue it.” Jefferson used the same logic in his strategy toward Adams,
hopeful that “detached from Hamilton . . . he may swerve from his
politics”; when his efforts at cooperation failed, Jefferson blamed it on
the corrupting influence of Adams’s cabinet members.47 For all these
men, it was the corruption of faction, the intrigue and persuasion of
power-hungry friends, that led politicians astray.
Rather than moments of extreme party discipline—the building
blocks of a party system—presidential elections thus were unsettling
periods of political conversion that tested loyalties, forged new alli-
ances, and destroyed old ones. Each election reshaped the political
landscape, revealing a new cast of characters fighting under each ban-
ner. The brief hiatus of partisan strife during the first few months after
Adams’s election was the product of just such a political reshuffling.
Uncertain of new political alliances and enmities, curious to see how
 the presidential election of 1800 227

Jefferson, Adams, and their political friends would align themselves,

the political community waited and watched; even radical Republican
newspaper editor Benjamin Franklin Bache declared an official cease-
fire in his Philadelphia Aurora.48
As bodies of principles, Republicanism and Federalism held rea-
sonably constant, but individual commitments remained unreliable
and unpredictable. Elections forced politicians to declare their loyal-
ties; in a murky world of shifting alliances and undeclared intentions,
they were bursts of light that revealed in a flash the lay of the political
landscape.49 In 1800, national politicians revisited this disturbingly un-
predictable landscape, determined to prevent a recurrence of the prob-
lems of four years past. Looking back at the election of 1800 in his
later years, Burr would regret that he had not heeded more closely the
lessons of 1796.

The Election of 1800

For Burr the election of 1796 had been a painful experience—so humil-
iating, in fact, that he excluded it from his memoirs. Encouraged by
his Virginia friends only to be betrayed at the height of the contest,
Burr remembered this emotional lesson when Republicans invited him
to run for vice president again in 1800. When John Nicholson asked
him whether he cared to run, the normally self-possessed Burr “ap-
peared agitated[,] declared he would have nothing to do with the busi-
ness[,] that the Southern States had not treated him well on a similar
occasion before, that he thought their promise could not be relied on.”
He repeated his sentiments to John Taylor of Caroline in a more char-
acteristically sardonic strain. “After what happened at the last election
(et tu Brute!) I was really averse to have my Name in question,” he
explained. But he had finally agreed, though he warned Taylor that he
“should not choose to be trifled with.” 50 Written to a Virginian who
was intimate with Jefferson, this caution was almost certainly intended
for eyes beyond Taylor’s.
Burr and his peers emerged from the 1796 election predisposed
to distrust political friends, for above all else the contest had revealed
the tenuousness of national partisan ties. Taken beyond the capital and
 228 the presidential election of 1800

extended across state lines, political loyalties were weaker than ex-
pected and regional biases stronger, breeding an atmosphere of distrust
between North and South that worsened over the next four years. The
sectional nature of national alliances cloaked this regional distrust in
the guise of partisanship but did not erase it. There were complications
of federalism as well. The often lackluster response of local politicians
to the urgings of national leaders revealed an alarming gap between the
two levels of politics. By definition, national politicians had a broader
political perspective than their friends at home. Clustered together in
the nation’s capital and forced to develop working relationships with
men from other regions, they likewise could better envision national
cooperative efforts. But communicating this outlook to their col-
leagues back home proved harder than expected. By demanding parti-
san loyalty on a national scale, the election of 1796 thus exposed the
many rifts and disjunctures that divided the nation.51
The contest also revealed the inadequacies of many political
methods and strategies. The adjournment of Congress virtually dis-
solved the national base of the Federalist and Republican persuasions;
without an informational clearinghouse at the capital, it was difficult
to gain a national perspective and almost impossible to adapt to the
shifting conditions of a national campaign. Those few politicians
whose long-distance correspondence sustained lifelines of nationalism
were stymied by the uncertainty and slowness of the mails. News-
papers formed a partial bridge, but they were increasingly beyond the
control of the ruling elite. Ultimately, this first presidential contest was
fought in a series of regional battles between locally defined Federalists
and Republicans, with little effective guidance from national politi-
cians, who had not yet determined how to exert their influence.
In a sense the election of 1796 had followed a republican script:
the various state contests had selected the “best” men for office—Fed-
eralist John Adams as president and Republican Thomas Jefferson as
vice president—who happened to have opposing politics, thereby dis-
couraging partisan rule. Was this not the embodiment of James Mad-
ison’s “extended republic” as delineated in The Federalist No. 10, in
which local party battles worked against the formation of national par-
ties? The problem with this scenario was the equivocal status and role
 the presidential election of 1800 229

of national politicians. In attempting to coordinate local politicking

on a national scale—however public-minded their efforts might be—
they were promoting what they most feared: national political parties.
This fundamental conflict between the demands and proprieties of na-
tional politics fostered the crisis mentality that so characterized the
period’s politics.
National politicians were caught in a vicious circle. Driven by
fears of civil war, disunion, and the collapse of their cause and careers,
they felt compelled to risk all in the name of the public good, leading
them to violate many of their most deeply held ideals and standards.
The cause of liberty certainly had justified extreme measures before;
with both sides convinced that they were defending the promise of
the Revolution, it was no great leap to conclude that their present
combat demanded more of the same. As Hamilton wrote during the
1800 election, “In times like these in which we live, it will not do to
be overscrupulous. It is easy to sacrifice the substantial interests of soci-
ety by a strict adherence to ordinary rules.” Connecticut Republican
Gideon Granger felt the personal impact of this mentality during a
congressional debate in 1800. As he explained to Jefferson, a Federalist
representative had been “insolent enough to dictate to me that tho’ he
esteemed me as a Man, yet we must all be crushed and that my life
was of little Importance when compared to the peace of the State.” 52
Extraordinary times demanded extraordinary actions. Such sup-
posed moral lapses, in turn, fostered anxiety about the fate of the re-
public. Because their actions were so extreme and seemingly improper,
politicians spent an inordinate amount of time analyzing and rational-
izing them, thereby documenting the process of political change. A
crisis mentality greased the wheels of political innovation, premised
on each man’s assumption that his was the righteous cause. If the
Union fell, it would be the fault of his foes, desperate men who had
forsaken the public good to win power, fortune, and influence.
The election of 1800 certainly qualified as a crisis. As Matthew
Davis wrote to Albert Gallatin in the spring of 1800, this election
would “clearly evince, whether a Republican form of Government
is worth contending for” and decide “in some measure, our future
destiny.” Many Federalists were likewise uneasy as the contest ap-
 230 the presidential election of 1800

proached, convinced that this would be the last election. Even Presi-
dent Adams assumed that some of his colleagues sought the destruc-
tion of the republic and a new constitution. As early as May, months
before a vote was cast, there had been anxious talk of civil war.53
The fuel for these fears was the seemingly implacable opposition of
Federalists and Republicans, largely a battle between northerners and
southerners. With partisan animosity soaring and no end in sight,
many assumed that they were engaged in a fight to the death that
would destroy the Union.
Motivated by the impending crisis and guided by the lessons of
1796, politicians prepared for this pivotal contest early and energeti-
cally.54 Jefferson took a far more active role in this campaign, pro-
tecting his reputation all the while. His most vigorous campaigning
was in the capital, where it could be inconspicuously incorporated into
his daily routine. There, the blurred bounds between socializing and
politicking helped obscure his efforts. At his mountaintop home in
Virginia, however, where his movements were far more conspicuous,
this same ambiguity gave his every word and action political signifi-
cance, as it had in 1796, when a visit from Burr drew charges of intrigue
for months thereafter. So in 1800, Jefferson’s most vigorous efforts
abruptly ceased when he left Philadelphia. Although he was eager to
establish a national Republican newspaper in the capital, for exam-
ple—canvassing the idea among friends and supporters until the day
of his departure—he refused to involve himself in such efforts at Mon-
ticello, even when he was asked. As he explained to Tench Coxe, “My
situation exposes me to so much calumny that I am obliged to be
cautious of appearing in any matter however justifiable . . . if it be of
a nature to admit readily of miscon[duct].” Even a visit to Madison
at Montpelier became impossible once Jefferson was ensconced at
Monticello, for it too was apt to invite charges of conspiracy and self-
interest. Such a visit “wod. certainly compromit you both,” agreed
James Monroe, “as it wod. immediately appear throughout the conti-
nent.” 55 To protect his reputation—and of course, his cause—Jeffer-
son had to appear passive.
Appearances mattered more than actions, for in Jefferson’s mind,
his politicking was not only acceptable but essential: Republican failure
 the presidential election of 1800 231

would mean the end of republican governance. Thus, on the occasions

when his actions were less visible and thus less likely to invite attack,
he became more willing to take risks and bend rules. For example, in
the spring of 1800 he considered arranging a “spontaneous” demon-
stration of support for himself on his way home from the national
capital. As he explained to Monroe, he hated ceremony and preferred
to avoid occasions “which might drag me into the newspapers,” yet
Federalists “had made [powerful?] use” of such demonstrations, and
there was “a great deal of federalism and Marshalism” in Richmond.
Was a reliance on “the slow but sure progress of good sense & attach-
ment to republicanism . . . best for the public as well as [myself ]?”
Torn between political proprieties and the demands of the moment,
Jefferson opted for the latter. Monroe’s response must have brought
a twinge of pain. After inquiring “in a way wh[ich] compromitted no
one”—collecting public opinion on the subject—Monroe discouraged
a public demonstration, for “it was feared . . . that the zeal of some
of our friends . . . had abated by yr. absence”—an interesting comment
on the supposed wave of sentiment that swept Jefferson into office.56
This same compromise between political proprieties and the de-
mands of the moment influenced Burr’s extraordinary electioneering
efforts in 1800. Given Burr’s perverse pleasure in violating prevailing
standards and norms, it is difficult to ascribe his actions to a process
of tortured compromise, but he did dirty his hands in street cam-
paigning to a remarkable degree. As Davis explains, because “it was
universally conceded” that New York would decide the election, and
that New York City would guide the rest of the state, Burr decided
to “address the people” in person, an unprecedented act that both
shocked and impressed Davis.57 Significantly, Burr was responding to
a similar decision by Hamilton, who had previously announced his
intentions to campaign in the same manner.
During the three-day voting period, the two men argued “the
debatable questions” before large assemblages at polling places, each
man politely stepping aside when it was the other’s turn to speak. Be-
tween their debates, they rushed from ward to ward, encouraging vot-
ers for twelve to fifteen hours at a stretch, their friends hard put to
keep up with them. These bold democratic gestures are unremarkable
 232 the presidential election of 1800

by modern standards, but the partisan press recognized their novelty.

How could a “would be Vice President . . . stoop so low as to visit
every corner in search of voters?” asked the Federalist Daily Advertiser.
The Republican Commercial Advertiser likewise commented on the “as-
tonished” electorate that greeted Hamilton’s efforts: “Every day he is
seen in the street hurrying this way, and darting that; here he buttons
a heavy hearted fed, and preaches up courage, there he meets a group,
and he simpers in unanimity, again to the heavy headed and hearted,
he talks of perseverance, and (God bless the mark) of virtue!” Though
as energetic as Burr, Hamilton electioneered with a decidedly Federal-
ist flair. On at least one occasion, he supposedly offended the crowd at
a polling place by appearing on horseback, prompting one disgruntled
observer to literally force Hamilton off his high horse; at other polling
places, he was supposedly greeted by cries of “scoundrel” and “vil-
lain.” 58
Hamilton’s polling-place debacles are reminders of the discom-
forts of democratic politicking among the political elite. It was one
thing to preach the political gospel to a crowd, as Hamilton tried to
do during the 1795 Jay Treaty rally; it was quite another to mingle
with the multitude. Increasingly during the 1790s, men accustomed
to leadership had to reevaluate and revise their political methods, and
some managed it better than others. This was Burr’s genius—the ac-
complishment that won him the vice presidency. Through his corps
of mobilized young lieutenants, Burr directed a popular political cam-
paign from on high, and the result was a stunning Republican victory
in one of the election’s most crucial contests. He purportedly compiled
a roster with the name of every New York City voter and portioned
it out to his young followers, who literally electioneered door-to-door.
He dispatched German-speaking Republicans to the predominantly
German seventh ward to “explain” the election in the voters’ native
tongue. This electoral magic made Burr an invaluable ally in a political
war. Few of his station could or would do the same—and for that same
reason, Burr was distrusted. Ambivalence about Burr was ambivalence
about the changing nature of politics.
This struggle between political proprieties and the demands of
the moment is particularly apparent in the many attempts to tamper
 the presidential election of 1800 233

with the Electoral College. Electors in 1796 had been unpredictable,

frustrating attempts at national coordination. So in 1800, rather than
wooing electors, national politicians focused their efforts on the selec-
tion process, hoping to install properly loyal men. Given the sense of
crisis, such measures seemed imperative, yet they were blatant viola-
tions of the republican morality of free elections, producing an out-
pouring of anxious self-justification. Pleading for immediate electoral
reform in Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, and Tennessee, South
Carolina Republican Charles Pinckney insisted, “I tell you I know
nothing else will do and this is no time for qualms.” Maryland Federal-
ist Charles Carroll likewise encouraged such reform, though he disap-
proved of “laws & changes of a moment.” The entire Massachusetts
congressional delegation urged similar reform for their state. Assum-
ing that their home audience had no national perspective on the con-
test, the delegates explained the urgency of their request in a circular
letter, including an apology for their actions: “Excuse us for suggesting
these ideas; our anxiety for the event of the election must be our
apology.” 59
Other politicians waited until their states had elected new legisla-
tures; if their party had a clear majority, they lobbied to convene it
immediately for the selection of electors, before their opponents could
organize resistance. Hamilton urged the reverse. Alarmed that the in-
coming New York legislature was largely Republican and would select
Republican electors, he wrote to Governor John Jay pleading for dras-
tic measures: the old legislature needed to be called immediately and
the mode of choosing electors changed to popular voting by district.
Hamilton was “aware that there are weighty objections to the mea-
sure,” but the “scruples of delicacy and propriety . . . ought to yield
to the extraordinary nature of the crisis. They ought not to hinder the
taking of a legal and constitutional step, to prevent an Atheist in Religion
and a Fanatic in politics from getting possession of the helm of the
State.” Jay did not know the Republicans, Hamilton insisted: they
were intent on either overthrowing the government “by stripping it
of its due energies” or effecting a revolution. Given the threat to the
republic, the “public safety,” and the “great cause of social order,” it
was their “solemn obligation to employ” any means in their power
 234 the presidential election of 1800

to defeat these wrongdoers. There could be no hope for a popular

government “if one party will call to its aid all the resources which
Vice can give and if the other, however pressing the emergency, con-
fines itself within all the ordinary forms of delicacy and decorum.” His
closing—“Respectfully & Affec[tionatel]y”—reveals him appealing to
Jay as both governor and friend. Jay was not persuaded, writing on
the bottom of the letter, “Proposing a measure for party purposes
wh[ich] I think it wd. not become me to adopt.” 60
Although historians often lambaste Hamilton for this suggestion,
he was only one among many willing to compromise their principles.
The difference in Hamilton’s case was that he urged his reform after
the Republicans had won a majority in the state legislature—the very
maneuver that politicians in other states were resisting when they lob-
bied for the legislature to meet immediately and select electors. Like
Jefferson, these politicians justified their actions by declaring them
high-minded during a time of crisis; rather than abandoning their re-
publican morals, they were clinging to them as justification for their
political sins.
Other innovations were less blatantly improper. For example, re-
membering the fragmented campaigning of 1796, politicians tried to
forge reliable national networks of communication. Federalists focused
their efforts on establishing a regular correspondence among the na-
tion’s leading men. As Hamilton explained in a letter to Carroll, the
“true & independent friends of government must understand each
other.” South Carolina’s Robert Goodloe Harper, far removed from
the stronghold of Federalism, also recognized the need for “certain &
regular information from our friends every where.” Jefferson likewise
attempted to cultivate a correspondence with men around the nation.61
As suggested by their choice of words, these politicians envisioned
themselves as uniting a group of “friends,” not organizing a national
party.
Republicans went a step further through their use of newspapers.
As Jefferson put it, in their electioneering efforts, “the engine is the
press.” Tools of mobilization as well as communication, newspapers
were an invaluable means of nationalization. Reading the same news,
joined by their shared “membership” as subscribers, Republicans
 the presidential election of 1800 235

forged links across the nation. Indeed, in the absence of an effective

national political organization, newspapers were one of the few accept-
able means of promoting national unity. Although the national elite
were not in control of this powerful engine, they made use of it. Thus
Jefferson’s efforts on behalf of the Washington National Intelligencer
and the Universal Gazette, both intended to be national newspapers.
The nationalizing influence of newspapers would be one of the most
fundamental lessons that the Federalists took away from their defeat
in 1800. As Fisher Ames wrote, “The Jacobins owe their triumph to
the unceasing use of this engine. . . . We must use, but honestly, and
without lying, an engine that wit and good sense would make powerful
and safe.” He hoped that the New England Palladium would serve this
purpose.62

Honor: The Bond of Party

Correspondence and newspapers solved some of the problems, but
they could not address a fundamental challenge: how to deal with the
unstable loyalties of the national political elite. In fact, among the na-
tional elite, mutual distrust was perhaps the most significant legacy of
the 1796 election. Even the candidates were not exempt. Given his
suspect loyalties, Burr was naturally eyed with care in 1800. But after
the scare of Jefferson’s overtures to Adams, many of their “particular
friends” were also loath to trust these two men a second time. Asked to
support Jefferson in 1800, for example, New York Republican George
Clinton declared him an untrustworthy man who had used his friends
to gain office and then abandoned them by declaring friendship to
Adams. In Burr’s memoirs, Matthew Davis—present during attempts
to sway Clinton—offers a substantially cleaned-up version of what
Clinton really said, which Davis recorded in a memorandum. “At the
last interview, after we had urged him very hard, he became violently
Enraged,” Davis recorded in his notes. Turning to Burr, Clinton “ex-
claimed, in most infuriated tones, ‘If you, Sir, was the Candidate for
President, I would serve with pleasure; but to promote the election
of Mr. Jefferson, I will not. . . . Sir, at the last contest we supported
him, in opposition to Mr. Adams. We were unsuccessful, but he was
 236 the presidential election of 1800

elected Vice President. What did he do? His first act in the Senate was,
to make a damned time serving trimming speech, in which he declared,
that it was a great pleasure to him, to have an opportunity of serving
his Country under such a tried patriot as John Adams, which was saying
to his friends—I am in; Kiss my --- — and go to H-ll.’ ” 63 Here was
the emotional impact of political betrayal.
Clearly, Jefferson’s praise of Adams had a lingering impact. Madi-
son had been right to discourage Jefferson from putting his feelings
in writing; even in spoken form, they were problematic. As Maryland
Republican Gabriel Duvall explained to Madison, after asserting for
months that Adams was a monarchist, he and his friends were “now
placed in an awkward situation by the opinion of Mr. Jefferson him-
self,” whose friendliness with Adams suggested his full confidence in
Adams’s republicanism. Where political alliances were envisioned as
friendships, a friendly gesture could signal a political alliance. Under
such circumstances, even Jefferson’s inaugural declaration that “We are
all federalists, we are all republicans” had troublesome implications.
Jefferson’s conciliatory attitude toward the Federalists had “disgusted,
beyond expression, the leaders of his own party; because it gave the lie
to all those slanderous misrepresentations by which his elevation had
been secured,” claimed Federalist Theodore Sedgwick. To Sedgwick,
Jefferson’s “violent removals” of Federalists from lucrative offices were
attempts to repair the damage. “The wit of man could probably devise
no measure more fitted to render party animosities incurable,” he de-
clared. “This is ‘healing the wounds of party divisions’ with a witness.” 64
Distrust of John Adams, intensified by his French peace mission
toward the end of his presidency, was even more marked. A surpris-
ingly large number of Federalists and Republicans believed that Adams
was forging “a coalition” with “Mr. Jefferson’s friends,” or worse, at-
tempting to form his own faction. “We are betrayed if there is any
understanding” between Adams and Jefferson, fretted Delaware’s
James Bayard, “and to believe that, is to credit but a small portion of
what is said.” Could Adams’s French peace mission and the firing of
his cabinet be deliberate bids for Republican support? And why were
Republicans in the capital so eager to talk with Adams? Why had Jeffer-
son remained in Philadelphia longer than usual? How did Republican
 the presidential election of 1800 237

newspapers obtain advance notice of Adams’s actions? To Federalists

the answer seemed obvious. Even some Republicans harbored such
suspicions, Burr reporting as late as September 1800 that Adams would
serve as Jefferson’s vice president if elected. Charging that Adams had
proven himself “unworthy of trust,” many Federalists were prepared
to abandon him in 1800.65
With personal and regional distrust endemic, it is no wonder that
one onlooker believed that “the party spirit amongst us is geographi-
cal & personal.” 66 Clearly, to ensure an electoral victory in 1800, na-
tional party bonds would have to be strengthened. Politicians re-
sponded to this dilemma by holding national caucuses in May, just
before the adjournment of Congress. Most accounts of the election
cite these gatherings as proof of increased partisan fervor, yet the truth
is just the opposite: the caucuses of 1800 were attempts to bolster na-
tional alliances that were dangerously divided along regional lines.
The first hint at the purpose of these meetings can be found in the
words that politicians used to describe them. Though they sometimes
referred to them as caucuses, they also used such terms as “the agree-
ment,” “the promise,” “the compromise,” and “the pledge,” to which
they would be “faithful” and “true.” 67 Obviously, these caucuses in-
volved negotiation and compromise between men of differing views,
rather than the simple confirmation of a presidential ticket. The result
of the compromises—electoral tickets featuring a northerner and a
southerner—were not foregone conclusions, regardless of how obvi-
ous this strategy might appear. A cross-regional ticket was risky, for
it required a high degree of national party loyalty and mutual trust
between North and South. Many politicians later regretted their faith
in such a scheme. John Adams’s son Thomas attributed his father’s
loss to the treachery of southern supporters of Charles Cotesworth
Pinckney. “It ought never to have been the plan of the federal party
to support a Gentleman from the South, merely for the sake of secur-
ing the interest of [any] Southern State in favor of the federal ticket.
There was evidence enough on the former trial, what result might be
calculated upon in making another.” Adams now had no “confidence
in the Southern people.” Although southern Republicans remained
true to their promise, supporting both candidates equally, they regret-
 238 the presidential election of 1800

ted their actions once the tie between Jefferson and Burr was an-
nounced. To Maryland Republican John Francis Mercer, the lesson
was obvious. As he wrote to Madison, “It all amounts to this, that we
are too honest.” 68 They should have thought first of themselves.
The national caucuses of May 1800 were attempts to create na-
tional party unity, not expressions of it. Indeed, as suggested by such
words as pledge and promise, national party loyalty was so weak that it
had to be supplemented by personal vows. To attain partisan unity,
politicians had to commit themselves personally, pledging their word
of honor and their reputations; the only way to unite North and South
was to appeal to politicians as gentlemen rather than as partisan allies.
Honor was the ultimate bond of party when all else failed, the only
way to supersede the many conflicting regional and personal claims
that tore at a man’s commitments of principle. Unfortunately, as the
unfolding of the electoral tie would reveal, personal honor proved to
be an ambiguous, subjective thing that could compel like-minded men
to take very different courses of action.
Throughout the campaign, politicians clung to their bonds of
honor as the only hope for national partisan unity. When Hamilton
began to urge Federalists to abandon Adams in favor of Pinckney, he
was reminded repeatedly that they could not do so without going back
on their word. “We are pledged” to give Adams “the full chance of the
united vote concerted at Philadelphia,” urged George Cabot. Cabot again
reminded Hamilton of their vow when the latter was contemplating
his pamphlet attack on Adams. “Good faith wou’d & ought to be ob-
served as the only means of success,” he insisted, for if Adams was
dropped, his friends would drop Pinckney in return.69
All over the nation, Federalists knew that if they reneged on their
half of the agreement—if they dropped the candidate from outside
their region—that man’s supporters would do the same in return, and
the Federalist cause would collapse. Everything depended on the per-
sonal honor of individual politicians. Thus, throughout the election,
they pledged their faith to men from other regions, hoping for similar
reassurance in return. South Carolina’s John Rutledge, Jr., described
one such exchange to Hamilton. Shortly after arriving in Rhode Is-
land, he received a “pressing invitation” for an “immediate” discussion
 the presidential election of 1800 239

of the election. When he explained that he could not journey into

town, “the old Gentleman” who had requested the meeting traveled
out to Rutledge for “an hours conversation.” The man asked Rutledge
“to declare [for] the information of his friends . . . whether I really
thought Mr A[dams] would have the votes of So Carolina. I told him
I had on my return there fulfilled the promise I made at the Caucus
held at Philada., & used every exertion within my power to induce the
federalists to suport Mr A equally with Genl P. . . . He seemed pleased
with this information—said we might rely upon P’s getting all the
votes in this State.” 70 This “old Gentleman” was desperate for personal
reassurance of South Carolina’s fidelity. Only then could he claim con-
fidence in the national cause. Such personal pledges of honor were
virtually the only thing binding North and South.
Northern and southern Federalists exchanged vows of loyalty in
their correspondence as well, nervously reminding one another of their
sworn duty to abide by the Philadelphia agreement. Their worries cen-
tered around Massachusetts and South Carolina, the home states of
the two candidates, for it was these states that were likely to succumb
to regional prejudice and abandon one candidate in favor of the native
son. “I fear you and your friends in Boston are ruining every thing,”
wrote South Carolinian Robert Goodloe Harper to Harrison Gray
Otis of Massachusetts. “The federalists . . . in South Carolina, are mak-
ing the fairest & the most zealous exertions in favour of Mr. Adams.
. . . But can it be expected that they will continue the same efforts” if
they know that Massachusetts has abandoned Pinckney? Virgin-
ian Bushrod Washington—George Washington’s nephew—likewise
wrote a frantic letter to Oliver Wolcott in Connecticut, assuring him
that South Carolina would support both Adams and Pinckney, for
“they consider themselves imperiously urged to pursue this conduct
by the soundest principles of good faith & of good policy.” Even
Pinckney was behaving “like a man of honor” by supporting Adams,
Washington insisted. Should “distrust take place between the friends
of the two federal candidates,” he warned, “all must end in the election
of Mr. J[efferson]—which God forbid.” 71
So important were such personal reassurances that Wolcott be-
gan a letter campaign, quoting Washington’s letter to friends through-
 240 the presidential election of 1800

out the North. Pinckney himself wrote a similar letter to James

McHenry in Maryland, assuring him that South Carolina would aban-
don Adams only if New England did so first—an interesting insight
into Pinckney’s ambitions. All these men recognized what James Ba-
yard put into words: the Federalist party’s “efforts can not be united,
but thro’ mutual confidence,” and the best way to ensure such regional
trust was through pledges of personal honor.72
Republicans, too, clung to their caucus pledge as their only hope
of surmounting regional differences. Like the Federalists, their con-
cerns focused on the home states of the candidates, New York and
Virginia, where regional biases would be strongest. Thus, throughout
the election, a slew of anxious correspondence passed between New
Yorkers and Virginians, each seeking reassurance that the other’s honor
was pledged. Burr’s friend David Gelston—well aware of Virginia’s
disloyalty four years earlier—was particularly nervous about that
state’s intentions, writing several anxious letters to Madison during
the course of the election. “Can we, may we rely on the integrity of the
southern States?” he wrote in October. “We depend on the integrity
of Virginia & the southern States as we shall be faithfull & honest in
New York.” Six weeks later, agitated by reports that Virginia was going
to drop a few votes for Burr to ensure Jefferson’s victory, he wrote
again, reminding Madison that honor was at stake. “I am not willing to
believe it possible that such measures can be contemplated,” he wrote,
suggesting just the opposite. “We know that the honour of the Gentle-
men of Virgina. and N. Y. was pledged at the adjournment of Con-
gress,” and to violate such an agreement would be “a sacrilege.” A
letter from Madison to Jefferson reveals that Gelston’s fears were well
founded. Gelston “expresses much anxiety & betrays some jealousy
with respect to the integrity of the Southern States,” Madison wrote.
“I hope the event will skreen all the parties, particularly Virginia[,]
from any imputation on this subject; tho’ I am not without fears, that
the requisite concert may not sufficiently pervade the several States.”
Such fears eventually compelled Jefferson himself, as he later explained,
to take “some measures” to ensure Burr Virginia’s unanimous vote.73
This mistrust between North and South tainted the reputation of
Massachusetts Republican Timothy Green, one of the election’s many
 the presidential election of 1800 241

victims. A friend of Burr’s who traveled to South Carolina in the mid-

dle of the campaign, he was accused of attempting to secure that state
for Burr. According to Clintonian newspaper editor James Cheetham,
Burr had sent Green to South Carolina on his behalf because he himself
was “scarcely known in that state.” Serving as Burr’s “eulogist” and
“intercessor,” Green supposedly reported to Burr through letters to
their mutual friend John Swartwout. Green insisted that his trip had
been personal in nature, his letters mere reassurance for political
friends, and his political activities limited to pleas for “union and good
faith” among South Carolina Republicans. But given the prevailing
distrust between North and South, a northern Republican urging
“good faith” to South Carolinians would seem to have one purpose
in mind—the support of Aaron Burr.74 Likewise, even if they were
not explicitly political in purpose, letters of reassurance about South
Carolina could not help but have a political impact among distrustful
northerners; as Burr himself wrote, Green’s letters were “much relied
on” in New York. The personal nature of political bonds made it virtu-
ally impossible to differentiate socializing from politicking.
In 1800 honor united national politicians more than partisan loy-
alty. Politicians could agree upon political priorities and principles lo-
cally far more readily than they could across regions. And indeed, local
political parties were more organized in 1800 than they had ever been
before, creating statewide committees of correspondence and net-
works of influence. On a national level, such organization proved more
problematic, for it seemed to threaten the very Union itself. In the
face of such conflicts, national politicians turned to what they knew
best, guiding their actions according to the mandates of honor. It was
their reliance on aristocratic customs of the past that enabled politi-
cians to adapt to the demands of a democratic politics. In Burr’s case,
the importance of honor would compel him to make the worst mistake
of his political career.

The Complications of Honor: The Electoral Tie

The most controversial aspect of the election of 1800 was the tie in
the Electoral College in February 1801. As devised in the Constitution,
 242 the presidential election of 1800

presidential elections were determined by a straight vote count. Each

elector cast two votes, and the candidate with the most votes became
president; the runner up became vice president. When two candidates
were tied, the election was thrown into the House, where each state
had one vote, to be decided by a majority of the delegation.
In 1800, even this backup procedure proved problematic. Repub-
lican congressmen stood steadfast behind Jefferson—the man they had
intended to elect president—while Federalists supported Burr as a via-
ble alternative to a man they detested. The result was a six-day, thirty-
six-ballot deadlock. It was the onus of Burr’s actions during that time
that plagued him to the end of his days and inspired him to compile
his memoirs to argue his case thereafter. To Davis the events of 1801
“fixed the destiny of Colonel Burr. . . . Subsequent events were only
consequences resulting from antecedent acts.” 75 For Burr, as for many
others, this three-week period would constitute the defining moment
of his political career.
Among politicians bound to one another through friendship and
honor, the tie was destined to be a crisis, for it forced them to declare
their loyalties in a definitive way. In a sense, the tie was a stress test of
loyalties, priorities, principles, and ambitions; as in the election itself, a
demand for partisan unity revealed the precise opposite. The result was
a complex and tortuous process that resulted in mutual recriminations
for decades thereafter.
The tie between Jefferson and Burr has long been attributed to
intense party discipline: so loyal were Republican electors to their party
ticket that they unexpectedly caused a tie by all voting for their two
candidates. Yet there is another way of interpreting such unanimous
support, as suggested by Connecticut Federalist Uriah Tracy. Writing
from the capital, Tracy reported that Republicans were in a rage “for
having acted with good faith . . . each declaring, if they had not had
full confidence in the treachery of the others, they would have been
treacherous themselves; and not acted . . . as they promised . . . to
act—at Philada. last winter.” 76 In other words, no Republican had
dared drop a vote because each assumed that others would prove dis-
loyal. To drop a vote would be to invite retributive vote-dropping
elsewhere, thereby destroying whatever national party unity existed
 the presidential election of 1800 243

and probably throwing the election to the Federalists. This was hardly
a great stride in national party commitment. Indeed, regional distrust
and personal differences only increased during the course of the elec-
tion, as did partisan enmity, eventually flaring into anxious talk of civil
war.
Concern about disunion and armed conflict had in fact emerged
as early as May, but it was not until the electoral tie that politicians
began to seriously contemplate such threats. Pennsylvania Republican
Hugh Henry Brackenridge envisioned an army led by Hamilton seiz-
ing control of the government.77 Federalists were equally nervous. The
Republicans would destroy the government rather than surrender Jef-
ferson’s victory, charged Senator James Gunn of Georgia.78 Of course,
the Republicans gave Federalists good reason for such concern. Ac-
cording to New York Republican Edward Livingston, the Virginia
legislature had “pledged themselves to resist the authority” of any at-
tempt to usurp the government, “decisively and effectively.” As Jeffer-
son later explained, this “decisive” action was a call to arms. Though
it is difficult for us to take such a threat seriously, Jefferson considered
it convincing enough to win him the election. “The certainty that a
legislative usurpation would be resisted by arms” convinced the Feder-
alists to surrender, he explained to Madison and Monroe.79
The inspiration for such desperate action was the prevailing fear
that the Federalists would usurp the government, appointing a presi-
dent pro tem until they devised another plan; Federalist correspon-
dence shows that this option received serious consideration for quite
some time.80 Yet Republicans held on to the slim hope that the Federal-
ists would ultimately follow the public will and elect Jefferson. James
Monroe felt sure that after an initial outburst of spleen, Federalists
would assume “more correct views” and install Jefferson as president.
The alternative was unthinkable: surely they would not usurp the elec-
tion, for such a move “wod. require a degree of . . . wickedness in that
party wh. I do not think it possessed of.” Madison agreed: “Certainly”
the Federalists would put things right.81
Many Federalists used this same logic when contemplating the
possibility of having Jefferson or Burr as president: surely these men
were not as bad as Federalists had been led to believe. Faced with a
 244 the presidential election of 1800

national emergency, politicians revealed that beneath all their partisan

name-calling and threats, they thought that their opponents would act
for the public good; by threatening the Union, the crisis of 1801 forced
both sides to acknowledge their mutual commitment to it. In the
same way that calls for national unity revealed dangerous divisions,
the threat of disunion revealed bonds of nationalism, tenuous as they
might be.82
This jumble of suspicions and expectations—partisan, regional,
personal, ideological—was at the heart of the subsequent controversy
over the tie between Jefferson and Burr. Forced to take a stand with
their votes, congressmen found themselves torn between conflicting
aspects of their public identity. Voting along partisan lines might do
a disservice to one’s region; voting along regional lines could endanger
the Union; and either of these paths could damage one’s public career.
There was no single correct course of action, but a poor choice could
bring dishonor, defeat, and disunion. In the end, most men remained
true to partisan demands. Republicans voted for Jefferson, and Feder-
alists withheld enough votes to allow him to win. But resolution came
only after six days of conflict, questions, persuasion, and suspicion.
Considering the distrust between northern and southern Republi-
cans, it should be no surprise that during the balloting, at least one
New Yorker tried to entice New York and New Jersey Republicans to
abandon Jefferson in favor of Burr. As Maryland Republican Samuel
Smith told Burr, “a Mr. Ogden” had recently “Addressed the York
Members on your Acct. directly & boldly,” suggesting “how much
New York would be benefited by having you for the President,” and
made similar suggestions to a New Jersey representative. Already pre-
disposed to distrust New Yorkers, many southern Republicans assumed
that David Ogden had been sent by Burr to sway the election in his
favor. The same was suggested of northern Republicans Edward Liv-
ingston and Abraham Bishop. A New Yorker who was friendly with
Burr, Livingston was assumed to be assisting Ogden as Burr’s “confi-
dential agent” in wooing Vermont and Tennessee delegates; Bishop
was accused of traveling to Pennsylvania with similar intentions.83
Regardless of the truth of such claims, New York and New Jersey
Republicans clearly feared the lure of a regional victory, for shortly
 the presidential election of 1800 245

after Ogden’s departure, they called a caucus “to pledge themselves to

each other.” In the face of such temptation, their loyalty to the national
cause required the reinforcement of a personal pledge of honor. Once
again, honor was the ultimate bond of party. This type of ceremonial
vow, entirely overlooked by modern accounts, meant enough to in-
spire at least one Virginia representative with hope.84
A group of Federalists made a similar pledge but for very different
reasons. As Representative George Baer explained, six men held the
election in their hands: Baer himself, William Craik, John Chew
Thomas, and John Dennis of Maryland; James Bayard of Delaware;
and Lewis Richard Morris of Vermont. Representatives of small states
with small delegations, they could conceivably carry their own state
and decide the election. Aware that they would be held responsible
for the outcome of the contest, unsure about Burr’s viability, their
votes courted on all sides, they made “a solemn and mutual pledge”
to act together; conscious that their seemingly disloyal actions could
destroy their reputations and careers, they committed themselves to a
difficult course of action. They would “defer to the opinions” of their
“political friends” and support Burr as long as possible, but as soon
as it was “fairly ascertained” that he could not be elected, they would
allow Jefferson to win; far better to have an unfit president than to be
personally responsible for disunion and civil war.85
Bayard had an additional reason for such a strategy: the best in-
terests of his home state relied on the continuing existence of the
Union. As he explained to John Adams after the election, “Represent-
ing the smallest State in the Union, without resources which could
furnish the means of self protection, I was compelled by the obligation
of a sacred duty so to act as not to hazard the constitution upon which
the political existence of the State depends.” 86 Compelled to decide
between loyalty to Federalism and to his home state, Bayard aban-
doned Federalism.
The lone representative from Delaware, Bayard felt particularly
responsible for the election’s outcome, for he had an entire state’s vote
in his power. The difficulty of his decision, joined with the controversy
that surrounded it in later years, led him to document his reasoning
in great detail, offering invaluable insight into the internal logic of
 246 the presidential election of 1800

one of the period’s many personal compromises. A letter to Hamil-

ton written shortly after the tie was announced suggests that Bayard
viewed national politics through two lenses. First and foremost, he
considered himself a Federalist who would require “the most un-
doubting conviction” before he separated himself from his friends. He
also thought of himself as a northerner whose intense dislike of Vir-
ginia seemed to make Burr the preferable choice.87 Under normal cir-
cumstances, these two perspectives were in accord, for the Federalists
were largely a northern party with a particular hatred of Virginia, the
heart of their Republican opposition.
Bayard’s problems arose when he perceived a conflict between
national partisan considerations and concern for the welfare of his
state. New England Federalists seemed willing to sacrifice the Union
rather than install Jefferson as president, a desperate act born of re-
gional hatred that compelled Bayard to redefine his priorities. Con-
fronted with a regional faction that threatened the interests of his state,
he first joined with Federalists from the middle states to protest these
desperate measures. When the interests of Delaware seemed to stand
alone, Bayard went one step further. As he explained when describing
the violent Federalist reaction to his decision to support Jefferson, “I
told them that if necessary I had determined to become the victim of
the measure. They might attempt to direct the vengeance of the Party
against me but the danger of being a sacrifice could not shake my reso-
lution.” 88 In the final moment of crisis, Bayard abandoned national
Federalism.
Bayard was experiencing firsthand the complications of federal
governance. For Bayard, as for most others, the choice was obvious
though difficult: if national policy endangered one’s home state or
region, local considerations must prevail. New England Federalists
used the same logic when they debated abandoning the Union rather
than inflicting Jefferson on New England; so did Jefferson and his
fellow Virginians when they vowed to take arms rather than deprive
Virginia of the presidency. The bonds that formed national political
parties were untested, unstable, undefined, and largely personal. In
the pressure-cooker atmosphere of the capital in February 1801, they
readily gave way to local and personal concerns.
 the presidential election of 1800 247

A crisis justified desperate measures, freeing politicians to act as

they saw fit; significantly, given the choice, most of them were willing
to abandon national allies. Bayard and his five colleagues vowed to
split with the Federalists at the final crisis. According to Bayard, repre-
sentatives from New York, New Jersey, Vermont, and Tennessee made
the same promise: they would “vote a decent length of time for Mr.
Jefferson, and as soon as they could excuse themselves by the imperious
situation of affairs, would give their votes for Mr. Burr, the man they
really preferred.” 89 As we shall see, at the height of the crisis, even
Jefferson made a compromise. National bonds were dissolving into
geographical and personal alliances.
In the midst of this partisan shuffling and reshuffling, what of
the seemingly bipartisan Burr? From a modern perspective, his actions
seem inconsistent, irrational, or frustratingly enigmatic. Yet under-
stood in the context of personal honor, they are not only understand-
able but logical. Like other national politicians of the period, Burr
governed his public life according to certain fundamental assumptions
about his character and reputation. He considered himself a gentle-
man, a man of honor, and a deserving member of the ruling elite; he
likewise assumed that others recognized him as such. As a gentleman,
there were any number of sins that Burr could commit without de-
stroying his reputation, and over the course of his life he committed
many of them: extravagance, licentiousness, debauchery, womanizing.
As Davis noted in Burr’s Memoirs, Burr was “regardless of the conse-
quences in the gratification of his desires.” 90
There was one sin, however, that even Burr felt compelled to
avoid. He did not break his word—the core of his gentlemanly status.
A gentleman was a man whose strength of character ensured that his
word was his pledge; it was not the civil law, but the higher, self-
imposed law of honor that governed his actions and made him a trust-
worthy and reliable man among equals.91 As stated in the code duello,
the worst insult for a man of honor was to be charged with lying or
breaking one’s word; “the lie direct” justified an immediate challenge.
It was this assumption, among others, that guided Burr’s actions
during the electoral tie. When he had accepted his candidacy for the
vice presidency, Burr had agreed to join Jefferson and his friends in a
 248 the presidential election of 1800

joint campaign, each man trusting the other to defend their shared
cause. In essence, Burr gave his word that he would support Jefferson
for president. He repeated this promise when the possibility of a tie
made southern Republicans uneasy about Burr’s intentions, issuing a
pledge that he would “utterly disclaim all competition” with Jeffer-
son—yet another use of personal honor as a political bond. To this
reassuring pledge, however, he added a warning: any “friends” who
suspected that he might “submit to be instrumental in Counteracting
the Wishes & expectations of the U.S. . . . would dishonor my Views
and insult my feelings.” 92
As a man of honor, Burr expected his word to be trusted.
Throughout the campaign’s many twists and turns, he never went back
on this promise, doing nothing to actively draw the presidency away
from Jefferson. On a more passive level, however, his actions were more
questionable; he never promised to decline the office if it were offered.
Indeed, considering his assumptions about his merit and talents, he
thought it ridiculous to assume that he would. As he explained to his
friend William Eustis, his public denial of “competition” with Jefferson
was “a pledge of good faith only”—it was “absurd & unpardonable”
for anyone to assume that he would resign if chosen in Jefferson’s place,
and most Republicans would agree. Thus, although he did not cam-
paign against Jefferson, he did not hide his willingness to replace him.
In his mind, the contest was entirely in the hands of the Federalists;
he could do nothing, but they could “make their election and . . . co-
erce” the Republicans to “abandon J[efferson]” if they so chose.93
Regional distrust quickly complicated this standoff. Southern
Republicans, already leery of Burr, worried about the loopholes in his
pledge, aware that he had not forsworn all interest in the presidency.
Fearful that he might come to an understanding with the Federalists,
they began to murmur about his intentions. When Samuel Smith asked
for confirmation of his loyalty, Burr’s protestations about his honor
rose to a still higher pitch. “I think I could hardly forgive any democrat
who could for a Moment doubt about the line of Conduct I shall pur-
sue.” Five days later, after receiving more pressing demands for reas-
surance, Burr exploded. He had received “a great Number of letters
on the subject of the election,” he complained, and perceived “a degree
 the presidential election of 1800 249

of Jealousy and distrust and irritation by no Means pleasing or flat-

tering.” Most of the questions in these letters had been answered in
previous letters to Smith, but “one Gentleman (of our friends) has
asked me whether if I were chosen president, I would engage to re-
sign.” To Burr, this was too much; to the injury of questioning his
word, Republicans added the insult of suggesting that he did not merit
the presidency. If the House determined to offer him the job, why
should he refuse it? He was certainly as capable as anyone else to fill
the position. Such a question “was unnecessary, unreasonable and
impertinent,” Burr fumed, “and I have therefore made no reply”—
though the answer, he informed Smith, was that he would not resign.94
Matters were not helped when Virginian pride rose to the sur-
face. As the Federalists were delighted to report, they had heard of a
letter from Madison which spoke of “America being degraded by the
attempt to Elect Burr President.” Thus, when Burr and Smith met in
Philadelphia five days later by prearrangement, the offended Burr in-
sisted even more firmly that he would accept the presidency if it were
offered. As Smith later recalled, Burr said “that at all events the House
could and ought to make a choice, meaning if they could not get Mr
Jefferson they could take” Burr.95 Ironically, it was the mandates of
honor that led Burr to destroy his reputation.
This account of Burr’s actions reveals that his self-defense in his
Memoirs is essentially correct. Contrary to the expectations of friends
and foes, he did not explicitly scheme to usurp the presidency. He did,
however, make one fundamental mistake: he did nothing to hide his
interest in the office. The proper stance for a candidate for high of-
fice—particularly the presidency—was complete and utter silence, the
sort of republican display of obeisance to the public will that came so
naturally to Jefferson. Fifteen years after the election, Burr passed this
lesson on to another potential presidential candidate. Hopeful that An-
drew Jackson would run for president and displace the “Virginia
junto,” he had one key piece of advice: Jackson “ought first to be ad-
monished to be passive.” 96 As Burr learned too late, a single such mis-
take could mean eternal damnation as an ambitious, self-interested
man.
Eager for the presidency but unable to break his word by negoti-
 250 the presidential election of 1800

ating for it, Burr was in an impossible situation. Federalists who knew
his character and ambitions were baffled; in their minds, there was
nothing to hold him back—surely he could feel no commitment to
Virginians, who had never shown any commitment to him. A sudden
case of conscience seemed equally unlikely, for Burr was a man who
habitually violated political conventions. So unimaginable was Burr’s
lack of interest that Federalists simply dismissed his pledge as “a cover
to blind his own Party.” In their minds, the main problem was one
of logistics: How could they negotiate with Burr when such an act
would condemn both Burr and the Federalists as self-interested and
oblivious to the public will? When Federalists later attempted to nego-
tiate with Jefferson, they faced the same problem. The prevailing dis-
trust of such private bargaining was an immense obstacle complicating
all efforts to resolve the tie.
The crucial moment of decision came after the Federalists had
relinquished their hopes for Burr, finally taking his silence as lack of
interest. Rather than simply surrender the battle, however, some Fed-
eralists—most notably, James Bayard—tried to strike a deal with Jef-
ferson, to get his assurance concerning a few basic Federalist demands.
Specifically, they wanted to be sure that he would support the navy,
maintain public credit, and retain some Federalists in public office.
Most accounts of this key moment in the election crisis give short shrift
to this negotiation. Historians recognize that Bayard decided the elec-
tion but are unclear about the precise chain of events that led to his
decision, some suggesting that he misunderstood Jefferson’s response
and threw the election under the false assumption that they had come
to an agreement.97 The truth, however, is far more complex—and it
is Jefferson, not Bayard, who took the most decisive course of action.
As Bayard himself later explained it, after weeks of balloting, he
made a last attempt to “obtain terms of capitulation” from one of the
candidates. Unable to speak directly with them without appearing to
scheme, he intimated his intentions to Edward Livingston, Burr’s
friend and supposed agent, and John Nicholas, Jefferson’s “particular
friend.” Livingston denied having any influence with Burr, leading Ba-
yard to give up on the New Yorker. Nicholas, however, was willing
to discuss Federalist terms and, having heard them, declared them rea-
 the presidential election of 1800 251

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 33. James Bayard (1767–1815), by

Charles Balthazar Julian Fevret de Saint-
Memin, 1801. This portrait was painted the
same year that Bayard played a key
role in settling the electoral tie between
Jefferson and Burr. His children,
grandchildren, and great-grandchildren
were defending his name from the taint
of this election as late as 1907. (Courtesy
of The Baltimore Museum of Art,
Bequest of Helen Bayard)

sonable. Assuring Bayard that he was friendly with Jefferson and the
men who would be “about him” as president, Nicholas stated that he
could “solemnly declare it as his opinion” that Jefferson would abide
by Bayard’s demands. Bayard, however, refused to change his vote
without Jefferson’s direct confirmation, which Nicholas refused to
seek.98 Before he conceded the election, Bayard wanted Jefferson’s per-
sonal pledge; once again, honor was the ultimate bond of political
trust (fig. 33).
 252 the presidential election of 1800

Unable to coax more out of Nicholas, Bayard repeated his terms

to Samuel Smith, who was likewise intimate with Jefferson. At the
instigation of two other Federalists, Smith had already spoken to Jef-
ferson twice about these same terms, and he repeated Jefferson’s com-
ments to Bayard. Though this conversation has been left out of vir-
tually all modern analyses of the 1800 contest, the manner in which
Jefferson communicated his thoughts to Smith was what ultimately
determined the election. As Smith later recounted it, when he ap-
proached Jefferson with the Federalist terms, the Virginian first de-
clared that “any opinion that he should give at this time might be
attributed to improper motives”—in other words, he did not want to
seem guilty of negotiating his way into the presidency. Then, with a
crucial twist of logic, he added that “he had no hesitation” in discussing
his sentiments privately with Smith. Engaged in mere conversation,
Jefferson then responded to each Federalist proposition in turn, back-
ing up his statements with references to his writings and political ca-
reer.99 In essence, Jefferson took advantage of the blurred bounds be-
tween politicking and socializing to make an official statement by
unofficial means.
The ambiguity that enabled Jefferson to negotiate in this man-
ner spawned controversy when Bayard and Smith interpreted Jeffer-
son’s words in different ways. Bayard heard an official commitment
to an agreement and therefore convinced his Federalist small-state
pledgemates to withhold their votes and allow Jefferson to win
(fig. 34). Smith insisted that he had simply relayed Jefferson’s informal
thoughts without any intention of making a deal. Of course, both men
were right, as was Jefferson—in a formal sense—when he angrily de-
clared that he had not bargained with Bayard (though he went too far
when he asserted that the Federalist had invented the charge without
“any other object than to calumniate me”).100 At fault were the ambigu-
ities of a politics of friendship that blurred the public, the private, the
political, and the personal. Depending on one’s worldview, Jefferson’s
comments could be interpreted as anything one wanted them to be.
Thus, Burr’s Memoirs is essentially correct. From Burr’s point of
view, Jefferson did intrigue for the presidency, and Davis cited direct
 the presidential election of 1800 253

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 34. Election banner, 1801. This rare piece of political paraphernalia from the
presidential election of 1800 celebrates Jefferson’s victory. Surrounding Jefferson
are the words “t. jefferson President of the United States of
america******john adams is no more.” (Courtesy of the Museum
of American History, Smithsonian Institution)

testimony from Bayard and Smith to prove it. Indeed, angered by read-
ing Jefferson’s protestations in the “Anas,” John Quincy Adams said
that he had heard this same testimony from Bayard himself.101 Yet Jef-
ferson likewise could truthfully deny such a claim, asserting that he
had done nothing more than talk informally with a friend. The reverse
was true as well. Jefferson could correctly accuse Burr of attempting
to win the presidency—and Burr could just as truthfully deny that
he had any such intentions. A politics of friendship was a politics of
deniability. Where the most political actions seemed personal in na-
ture, it was easy to deny political ambitions, even to oneself.
 254 the presidential election of 1800

The Legacy of 1801

The taint of the electoral tie remained with Burr to the end of his
days. Even when he revealed the “truth” in his memoirs, his peers and
posterity remained unconvinced. In part, this stemmed from Burr’s
unfortunate failings of character. Heedlessly ambitious and cheerfully
sly, he made it virtually impossible to believe that he had not schemed
for the presidency. His resultant dishonor affected the reputations of
almost everyone he associated with during the course of the election.
Smith, Ogden, Livingston, Green, Bishop, and Bayard all suffered
guilt by association in later years, compelled to defend their names in
newspapers and private letters; even Burr’s family was contaminated
by his dishonor, as demonstrated by a newspaper attack on Burr’s uncle
Pierpont Edwards. Indeed, because national politics was organized
around networks of friends, the shadow of the controversy reached
beyond the small circle of Burr intimates who were directly involved
in the contest to cloud the reputations of many of their friends as well.
To a lesser degree, the same held true of Jefferson; long after the elec-
tion, some of his supporters were saddled with charges of intrigue and
self-interest. The power of such a charge is apparent in the long-lived
impact of the controversy. Indeed, it is remarkable how often those
involved were raked over the coals for actions long past—and because
of the network of friendships that defined this political event, an attack
against one man was an attack against all.
Of course, Burr was always at the center of the controversy. After
circulating for months as a whisper campaign, rumors about his sup-
posed intrigue for the presidency were committed to print in early
1802, at the outset of a two-year pamphlet war between Clintonians
and Burrites in New York City. Confronted with concrete evidence of
the tattered state of his reputation, Burr tried to repair the damage in
every way possible. He made a public statement about the circulating
“charges and insinuations” in a letter to New Jersey governor Joseph
Bloomfield that was published in newspapers around the nation. He
solicited a written denial of any wrongdoing from Edward Livingston,
and convinced Hamilton to take back some of his accusations in a brief
statement in the Evening Post.102 To bolster his reputation by associa-
 the presidential election of 1800 255

tion, he joined the Society of the Cincinnati, an organization of Revo-

lutionary War officers, asserting his membership among the political
elite.
In addition to Burr’s personal campaign, his friends defended his
name in pamphlets and newspapers, attempting to discredit circulat-
ing rumors by attacking Burr’s attackers. As could be expected, such
charges and countercharges of honor and dishonor produced a rash
of honor disputes—including a near encounter between Hamilton and
Burr. (Recall that during his 1804 duel negotiations with Hamilton,
Burr claimed that he had almost challenged Hamilton twice before
but that Hamilton had “anticipated me by coming forward Volun-
tarily and making apologies and concessions.”) Hamilton’s vaguely
worded Evening Post denial, stating that “he had no personal knowledge
of any negotiation between Colonel Burr and any person whatever”
respecting the presidency, was probably Hamilton’s concession to
avoid armed conflict.103
Burr took his boldest action in February 1802, by chance on the
one-year anniversary of his loss to Jefferson. Invited by Bayard to at-
tend a Federalist celebration of George Washington’s birthday, he
seized the opportunity to throw the gauntlet before the Virginians
who had betrayed him; as with many such social events, the 1802 fete
was unquestionably political as well. Taking advantage of the stunned
silence that greeted his arrival, he offered a toast—“An union of all
honest men”—a somewhat cryptic statement that becomes clear in light
of the 1801 controversy. His comment was a deliberate slap at Jefferson
and his friends, who, by Burr’s account, had raised themselves to
power through dishonest means, as well as a welcome call to others
who shared his distrust of the Virginians. Burr was taking advantage
of the North-South divide in national politics to position himself as
the potential leader of a northern party.
The reverberations of Burr’s 1802 defense campaign were un-
avoidably far-reaching. He himself involved Livingston, Hamilton,
Jefferson and his friends, and several of his own intimate friends, who
in turn pulled others into the controversy. Timothy Green, Abraham
Bishop, and John Swartwout all felt compelled to defend themselves
in the newspapers, as did Samuel Smith, who eventually filed a libel
 256 the presidential election of 1800

suit against an attacker. Bayard likewise revisited the events of 1801 in

1802, attacking Jefferson on the floor of the Senate for intriguing his
way into office; indeed, Bayard invited Burr to the Federalist celebra-
tion of Washington’s birthday as a deliberate attack against Jefferson
and “the proud and aspiring Lords of the Ancient Dominion.” A few
weeks later, an anonymous writer defended Jefferson by attacking Ba-
yard’s speech in a pamphlet.104
Such charges and countercharges did not stop here. Rather, they
ebbed and flowed with the current of political events, reemerging
when sectional divisions arose or when one of the participants was
under attack. For the ever ambitious and competitive Burr, they were
never entirely out of view. His efforts to clear his name took on a new
urgency in January 1804, as he looked toward New York’s guberna-
torial campaign—his last stab at public office. So desperate was he to
remove the stain of 1801 that he actually turned to Jefferson. Burr’s
enemies were using Jefferson’s name “to destroy him,” Burr explained
in a personal meeting (carefully documented in one of Jefferson’s
memoranda). “Something was necessary” from Jefferson “to prevent
and deprive them of that weapon, some mark of favor . . . which would
declare to the world that he retired” with the president’s confidence.
Not surprisingly, Jefferson refused.105
Two weeks later, Burr tried a different approach, filing a libel suit
against James Cheetham, the man who had first published the rumors
about his intrigue. His efforts spawned yet another burst of contro-
versy, for in the course of preparing for trial, Cheetham’s counsel ob-
tained depositions from several key players in the 1801 controversy,
including James Bayard and Samuel Smith. Burr even committed a
crime in the service of his reputation, attempting to doctor Smith’s
written testimony; as with any matter of honor, what mattered to Burr
was his reputation in the eyes of others, not the means by which he
defended it. Outraged by Burr’s libel suit, Jefferson vented his spleen
in a memorandum that ultimately attracted the attention of Bayard’s
son, whose counterattack, in turn, led Burr to compile his Memoirs.106
Despite Burr’s efforts, the stain on his reputation proved indeli-
ble. His most extreme attempt to clear his name took place on July
11, 1804, when he met Hamilton on the field of honor, spurred by his
 the presidential election of 1800 257

desire to refute the claim that he was capable of “despicable” actions;

indeed, an awareness of Burr’s ongoing struggle to redeem his reputa-
tion explains the anger and desperation that led him to issue that fateful
challenge. Over the course of the next two decades, other participants
in the 1800 contest suffered a similar fate, defending themselves repeat-
edly against charges of disloyalty, dishonesty, and self-interest. But it
was not until 1830 that the controversy of 1801 received a serious public
airing, the stakes suddenly raised by the publication of Jefferson’s his-
tory, which seemed to declare as fact what many regarded as the
warped personal vision of Thomas Jefferson.
The impetus for this hearing was a sectional dispute in the Senate
over the development of public lands. In the course of defending the
South, South Carolinian Robert Hayne cited Jefferson’s “Anas” as his-
torical evidence. Two days later, sparked by Hayne’s claim that the
“Anas” was a record of fact, John Clayton of Delaware stated that he
wanted to disprove a charge in that same volume that dishonored the
memory of James Bayard, an “illustrious statesman” from his home
state whose dishonor tainted Delaware as well. He then read aloud
Jefferson’s memorandum of February 12, 1801, in which Edward Liv-
ingston told Jefferson that Bayard had tried to bribe Samuel Smith
to vote for Burr. Dramatically turning to the aged Livingston and
Smith—both senators—Clayton demanded that they disprove the ac-
cusation. Smith replied that Bayard had been too honorable to make
such a proposition, Livingston claimed to have no memory of the
transaction, and Clayton declared his purpose served. But the attack
on Jefferson’s veracity was too much for Thomas Hart Benton of Mis-
souri, who jumped to his feet to defend the Virginian’s name, as did
Hayne at the Senate’s next meeting. Clayton concluded the matter by
explaining that he meant no disrespect to Jefferson but that “at every
hazard—let the consequences fall where they may,” he would “repel
every imputation, like that contained in the memoir, upon the memory
of Mr. Bayard . . . whose honor in that transaction cannot be touched
without a reflection on the State herself.” 107 Richard Bayard and his
brother James later continued this argument in a defense pamphlet
entitled “Documents Relating to the Presidential Election of the Year
1801,” which John Quincy Adams encouraged editor Hezekiah Niles
 258 the presidential election of 1800

to publish. And as in days gone by, the aged James Madison came to
Jefferson’s rescue in the National Gazette, loyally defending Jefferson’s
reputation.108
Benton’s response to Clayton’s defense shows that one man’s rep-
utation could not be defended without affecting another’s. By asserting
Bayard’s innocence, Clayton had suggested that Jefferson was a liar.
In life, Bayard and Jefferson had been bitter opponents; now, in death,
their reputations were perpetually linked, their two worldviews dia-
metrically opposed. The same held true of other political opponents,
such as Hamilton and Jefferson. So intertwined were their reputations
by 1830 that one Hamilton sympathizer invited Hamilton’s son James
to witness the senatorial attack on the “Anas” as a vindication of his
father’s name; James Hamilton was seated in the gallery on that day
and later recounted the event in his own memoirs for precisely this
purpose.109
For these men, as for others, there was little room for compro-
mise in their political viewpoints; indeed, national political combat
was premised on such intolerance. Republican political fervor was jus-
tified by the threat of Federalism, and vice versa. Among men who
distrusted and disapproved of national party combat, only dire threats
to the republic could justify their own partisan politicking. It was their
absolute conviction in the righteousness of their cause—a cause prem-
ised on the corruption of their foes—that enabled national politicians
to justify their partisan activities to themselves and, ultimately, to pos-
terity. Such logic enabled Jefferson to explain away his most question-
able political maneuvers, even to himself. Hamilton, too, justified his
most questionable political acts as public-minded attempts to stem a
national crisis; after the Federalist defeat in 1801, he became particularly
strident in his attempts to convince Federalists to temporarily violate
political proprieties for the public good. Indeed, many national poli-
ticians saw their most reprehensible politicking as extreme measures
aimed at serving the public in a time of crisis. A crisis mentality fueled
the process of political change; ironically, republican adherence to the
general good contributed to the development of democratic partisan
politicking.
A man’s public-minded political sins were justified by the crimes
 the presidential election of 1800 259

of his opponent. It is these bonds of reputation between enemies as

well as friends that explain Burr’s treatment at the hands of his peers.
For Jefferson, Hamilton, and their supporters, Burr’s every political
victory was a slap at their worldview—a suggestion that their political
sins were unwarranted. This was the driving force behind Jefferson’s
seemingly pathological hatred of Burr. After the 1800 election, Burr’s
very existence attested to Jefferson’s worst political behavior—his
faithlessness, his self-interest, his regional bias. In a sense, Jefferson
was haunted by his own reflection as cast back at him through the
distorted looking glass of Burr. Thus the intensity of Jefferson’s desire
to crush Burr at his 1807 treason trial: to destroy Burr would be a
personal act of self-defense. Jefferson’s rancorous hatred of Burr was,
at heart, inspired by his intense concern for his honor and reputation
in the eyes of his peers and, even more pressingly, in the eyes of history.
The same holds true for Hamilton’s hatred of Burr and, indeed, for
many other seemingly pathological political rivalries of the period.
The difference, with Burr, was his lack of public-minded motives,
for without any personal “theory” of republicanism, his actions could
be attributed to nothing other than self-interest. In the conclusion of
his account of the 1800 election, Davis claims that Burr’s greatest mis-
take was in “permitting his reputation to be assailed, without contra-
diction, in cases where it was perfectly defensible”—a claim that is only
half true. Burr should have attended more to his political reputation
in the eyes of his peers, professing (if not feeling) an interest in the
public good, rather than relying on his status to excuse his politics. In
neglecting to do so, he destroyed his personal reputation as well as his
public career. His precipitous fall from power reveals the continued
importance of republican principle and personal honor in early na-
tional politics.
The long-lived nature of the 1801 controversy suggests the funda-
mental ways we have misunderstood early national politics, including
one of its most defining features: the intensely personal nature of polit-
ical combat. Party bonds were personal above all else; they were volun-
tary ties of trust and commitment—friendships, by every sense of the
word. Political combat forged, tested, and destroyed these bonds of
friendship, eliciting a level of fear, suspicion, and rancor that often
 260 the presidential election of 1800

seems exaggerated or delusionally “paranoid.” Yet to men who were

personally involved in a high-level political experiment of their own
making, with public careers, private lives, and personal reputations all
at the mercy of the tides of politics and the opinions of the masses, it
would have been irrational not to display such feelings.
In 1800, growing awareness of the fragility of national partisan
bonds drove politicians to cling to these loyalties all the more tightly.
When political friendships proved too weak to sustain a national party,
politicians reduced partisan ties to their bare minimum, defining them
as commitments of personal honor, if nothing else; in the face of flag-
ging partisan loyalty, at least they could rely on the instinct for self-
preservation that would compel any man of honor to remain true to
his word. It was this instinct to protect one’s reputation that The Feder-
alist cited as the ultimate assurance that high officeholders would be-
have. To a certain extent, the assumption proved valid. The mandates
of personal honor determined Burr’s equivocal middle course, re-
strained Jefferson from openly negotiating with the Federalists, com-
pelled Bayard to fulfill his “sacred duty” to the state of Delaware, and
cemented the many caucuses that emerged during the election. Unfor-
tunately, as national politicians discovered amid the tensions of the
election, the path of honor was exceedingly subjective; what was hon-
orable to one man was opportunism or personal betrayal to another.
The result was a maelstrom of conflicting accusations, none of them
patently true or false.
At the heart of this whirlpool of dissension was the charge of
disloyalty. In a political world structured by personal friendships, dis-
loyalty to one’s party was a betrayal of one’s friends that proved a man
faithless, self-interested, and dishonorable. Every pledge of honor
sworn during the election testifies to this link between personal honor
and political loyalty. It is this interconnectedness that is most foreign
to modern sensibilities. To national politicians, politics was about
friendship, not party; it involved honor as much as ideology; it relied
on bonds of personal loyalty, not partisanship; and it was fueled by a
concern for the public good, not by party spirit. In looking for the
onset of the competitive self-interest or “liberalism” of the modern
world, we have obscured the process of political change.
 the presidential election of 1800 261

This realization reveals the ground-level reality of the period’s

cultural shift from deference to democracy. Politicians did not aban-
don their aristocratic pretensions and republican ideals on their way
to a more glorious democratic future; they did not stifle their sense
of political morality in the face of electoral realities. Rather, they
adapted their assumptions and expectations to the situation at hand,
struggling to accommodate their ideals and their actions. This link be-
tween honor and politics, the personal and the political, gave early
national political combat its passion and its sting, for it bound together
a politician’s personal character with his political principles and ac-
tions; in essence, it instilled into politics a moral and personal dimen-
sion that is often overlooked. This personal process of accommoda-
tion among a variety of populations constitutes the reality of political
change.
It also reveals the link between early national politics and the
“party systems” of later years. When alliances of friends had become
established enough to be almost institutional—when men could rally
under the banner of a party name rather than the reputation of a politi-
cal chief—politics became a war between opposing armies rather than
a personal contest of reputations. For the very reasons that The Federal-
ist No. 70 suggested that group politicking was dangerous—it hid each
man’s personal failings behind a blur of joined reputations—it was also
eminently useful. In essence, there was only one way out of this endless
battle of reputations: the anonymity of party warfare. The shift toward
a national politics of party was a gradual process that took place one
decision at a time, making it virtually impossible to declare a single
defining moment of birth. Reconstructing the logic of these decisions
reveals the evolution of American politics.
 Epilogue
Constructing American History

To self-conscious, reputation-minded national politicians, only one

thing could be more volatile than the partisan battles of the 1790s:
documenting them in the historical record. By declaring winners and
losers, heroes and villains, a history of the founding could shape na-
tional character to an extraordinary degree. Equally alarming, it could
destroy reputations with the stroke of a pen. Yet the founding era was
slipping from view. Washington’s death in 1799 and Jefferson’s “revo-
lution” of 1800 were unquestionable heralds of historical change, par-
ticularly to those who had been overthrown.
William Plumer of New Hampshire was one such Federalist. Tall,
spare, simple in dress and manner, and largely self-educated, he was
a lawyer with extensive experience in local politics—much like Wil-
liam Maclay—who had never been farther from home than Boston
(fig. 35).1 Elected to the Senate in 1802, he arrived in Washington im-
pressed—and depressed—by the spirit of change. A powerless victim
of a political revolution, Plumer knew that he was witnessing a far-
reaching transition. Sensing that the ground was shifting beneath his
feet, his thoughts turned to the historical record. As he explained it,
“With the changes & revolution of time & of parties,” invaluable
“facts & opinions . . . are rapidly hasting to oblivion.” 2 The Federalist
worldview was dying, perhaps never to rise again.
This gloomy prognosis struck him with unexpected force shortly
after his arrival in the capital, the result of a chance encounter. Glancing
into the congressional lumber room, Plumer saw a horrific sight: an
enormous cache of discarded congressional documents, tossed about
in stunning disarray. Consisting largely of spare copies of reports and

{ 2 62 }
 epilogue 263

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 35. William Plumer (1759–1850), by

Charles Balthazar Julian Fevret de Saint-
Memin, 1804. Painted roughly two
months after Plumer arrived in
Washington, D.C., this drawing shows
something of his moderation, congeniality,
and good temper. He considered it “a
correct likeness.” (Courtesy of the New
Hampshire Historical Society)

papers left in desks by departing congressmen, the pages “lay on the

floor without any order—covered & mixed with dirt, plaster, and rub-
bish.” Water leaked onto them during rainstorms; workmen trod them
underfoot.3 Upon examination Plumer discovered that some of them
dated as far back as the First Continental Congress. The Federalist era
was disintegrating before his eyes.
Distressed that something “so valuable, should be suffered thus
wantonly to be destroyed,” Plumer determined to collect “a compleat
sett” for himself. Over the course of the next four years, he spent hours
at a time sifting through documents, eventually filling several trunks.
 264 epilogue

He also solicited correspondence from colleagues and copied notes

from the Senate’s Executive Journal; when Senate secretary Otis—the
same Otis who had bedeviled Maclay—became nervous about Plum-
er’s note taking, the determined senator memorized excerpts instead,
transcribing what he remembered at night. By the end of his term of
office, he had accumulated the journals of every Congress from 1774
to his own, as well as enough documents to fill between four and five
hundred bound volumes—one of the largest collections of govern-
ment papers held by a private citizen, even after he donated a large
box to the Massachusetts Historical Society, and a trunkful to a friend.
“I greatly rejoice that I have fulfilled the task I imposed upon my-
self—& that I have rescued so many useful papers from inevitable
ruin,” he wrote at the close of his efforts.4 In his mind, he had salvaged
the nation’s history from an ignominious death in the cold, damp
depths of a storeroom.
In one form or another, Plumer would continue his historical
quest for five decades. It gave meaning to his useless national tenure,
carried him through later controversies, and structured his retirement
and old age. The conviction that he was assisting in the construction
of American history gave his life purpose; his historical writings would
be his contribution to the world. Over the course of fifty years, Plum-
er’s personal investment in American history never faltered, though
his methods changed. First an archivist, then a diarist, a historian, a
biographer, and an autobiographer, he reached for historical truth in
a variety of media, eventually discovering it in his own life and career.
To Plumer, in the end, reputation and character mattered above all
else.
Attempting to capture the essence of America’s difficult found-
ing, Plumer revealed far more than he intended. His efforts document
the onset of a period of intense historical consciousness, as the aging
founding generation wrestled with their accomplishments and legacy.
Plumer was keenly aware of the significance of this moment, investing
inordinate amounts of time and energy into his own historical endeav-
ors and responding to those of his contemporaries as they were pub-
lished, one by one. In essence, he documented a historical debate as
the period’s most renowned politicians and their progeny grappled
 epilogue 265

with the meaning of their life’s work. No two of these histories exactly
agree. Yet they contain an emotional truth that would be impossible
for later generations to recapture. Partisan, personal, and aggressively
self-promoting, they are the 1790s writ large, as politicians and their
descendants overstated their cases in a desperate attempt to shape the
historical record—and their own reputations—one last time.5

Politics as History
Plumer did not begin his historical enterprise to bolster his reputation.
In fact, fueled by a preservationist concern for documentary evidence,
he was all but invisible in his earliest efforts. But the varied outrages
of Jefferson’s administration soon spurred him to invest more of him-
self in his work. In fact, it was the 1803 Louisiana Purchase that set
Plumer’s pen in motion. Although Congress was not due to meet until
November, Jefferson had convened it early to discuss the treaty that
would cede the territory, hoping for quick Senate approval. It was
Jefferson’s apparent haste that alarmed Plumer; the president seemed
determined to railroad the treaty through the Senate with barely a
pause for consideration, despite the many loopholes, ambiguities, and
dangerous precedents that Plumer saw throughout. Unable to stop the
Republican tide and enraged by Jefferson’s dictatorial attitude, Plumer
watched in horror as the Senate advised ratification within three days
of receiving the treaty—he and the five other New England Federalists
casting the only negative votes. It was Plumer’s helpless displeasure in
the face of this outrage that compelled him to start keeping records.
There were any number of reasons for such efforts. In part,
Plumer was documenting legislative mistakes that were bound to have
serious repercussions. When disaster struck, the Republicans would be
only too eager to transfer blame, but Plumer’s notes would preserve
their words and actions for the record. He paid equal mind to presi-
dential messages and addresses, for there was no telling how Jefferson
might twist their ambiguities into whatever would “best suit his
crooked policy.” Plumer’s notes were also an outlet for ideas and emo-
tions that he could not voice on the Senate floor, for reasons both
practical and personal. A minority member with little hope of success,
 266 epilogue

he found it difficult and often unwise to air his unpopular views.

Equally problematic, he was too intimidated to speak on the national
stage, a failing that “surprized & mortified” this veteran of New
Hampshire politics, who had “long been in the habit of speaking freely
in public.” 6
Thus from October 17, 1803, through the end of his six-year term,
Plumer diligently documented congressional proceedings, taking cur-
sory notes during the day and fleshing them out in a journal at night.
The resulting three volumes fill 643 pages in published form.7 An eye-
witness account of a New England Federalist’s experiences during Jef-
ferson’s administration, Plumer’s notes offer invaluable insight into a
range of subjects. As a historical record, they contain a detailed account
of Senate proceedings in the Seventh through Ninth Congresses, a
valuable addition to the two other congressional chronicles of this pe-
riod, the Annals of Congress and the diary of John Quincy Adams. They
also suggest the flavor of political life in early Washington—the barely
suppressed chaos of congressional debate and the choreographed
charm of Jefferson’s dinner parties, the crowded boardinghouses and
the mania for horse races (the Senate clock was set thirty minutes ahead
to give senators time to get to the racetrack after adjournment). Con-
sidering the wealth of information within their pages, they have re-
ceived remarkably little scholarly attention.8
A somewhat obscure local politician—now senator—whose inse-
curities and fears inspired him to keep a journal, Plumer bears a striking
resemblance to another dismayed senator of fourteen years past: Wil-
liam Maclay. The two men adopted the same method, filling several
volumes with observations extracted from cursory notes. Both docu-
mented the tone and content of congressional debate and the details
of everyday life. Members of a beleagured minority, both felt dwarfed
on the national stage, powerless to stem what they perceived as a tide
of destruction. Maclay saw monarchists constructing walls and Plumer
saw democrats tearing them down, but both men poured their con-
cerns onto paper each night.
Yet there is one fundamental difference between the two journals.
Maclay wrote for an audience of state legislators. His purposes were
immediate: by revealing the truth of his term of office, he would thus
 epilogue 267

demonstrate his public-mindedness, expose his aristocratic foes, re-

deem his reputation, and win reelection. Plumer did the precise oppo-
site. His notes were private, at least for the present. He was looking
to the future; as he suggested on the title page of his first volume,
he was recording “memoranda”—records intended for later use. In
essence, Plumer’s intentions reflect the impact of a decade of national
governance. Caught up in the founding moment, Maclay wrote for
the present; watching that moment slip from view, Plumer wrote for
the ages. His memoranda thus lack the emotional rawness of Maclay’s
diary, for Plumer was building a historical archive of events and per-
sonalities, not chronicling his efforts in the hope of reelection. An
1804 entry reveals the direction of Plumer’s thoughts: it is misdated
Wednesday, November 28, 1784.9
Plumer’s obsession with history represents an enormous mental
shift. In his mind, something momentous had already been accom-
plished; to Maclay, everything had yet to be done. President Jefferson’s
political delusions might destroy their experiment in government, but
regardless of its fate a generation of men had made a breathtaking leap
of logic, staking their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor on a new and
unproven mode of governance that had endured a decade of crises.
Proud of their achievements and eager to preserve them for posterity,
they were exceedingly paper-minded: notes must be taken, documents
preserved, correspondence collected and organized. This impulse to
inform and educate posterity made the founding generation instinctive
archivists; it fueled Madison’s detailed notes of the Federal Conven-
tion, drove Jefferson to tinker with his correspondence until his dying
days, and compelled Hamilton, Burr, Adams, and countless others to
put pen to paper to set the record straight. Their historical significance
was never far from their minds, a current of anxiety that invested
politics-as-usual with the weight of history. Plumer’s archival efforts
thus were not unusual, though he undertook them with a rare energy
and focus.
Initially restricting his notes to interesting or significant debates,
Plumer changed his strategy toward the start of his second session as
part of an overall shift in his political method. Aware that he had no
“rational prospect of doing good” and unwilling to humiliate himself
 268 epilogue

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 36. Thomas Jefferson’s invitation to dinner, undated. (Sol Feinstone

Collection, David Library of the American Revolution, on deposit
at the American Philosophical Society)

on the national stage, he decided that it was “imprudent” to enter into

debates. Better to become an expert listener. His decision increased
the length, intimacy, and subject matter of his memoranda; as the only
record of his conversational gleanings, they became more anecdotal.
Now he described the exotic costumes of foreign ministers and Indian
chiefs, critiqued his colleagues’ oratory, mused about their motives,
and commented on affairs of honor and Jefferson’s pretentiously mod-
est presidential etiquette. He found the wording of Jefferson’s dinner
invitations particularly grating: “It is Th:Jefferson not the President that
invites—& yet were he not the President I presume I should not be
invited” (fig. 36). In his third and final session, such entries multi-
plied, including more transcribed conversations and political gossip,
the product of his fully refined political style. As he explained it, “I
speak none . . . & yet my influence on many subjects is not confined
to my own vote. I am industrious in all private circles.” 10 Proficient at
 epilogue 269

politicking in one-to-one conversations, Plumer filled his notes with

his conversational spoils.
Although historians have identified only three volumes of these
memoranda, there is in fact a fourth that has been overlooked. Titled
“Repository,” it is a collection of observations about the personal char-
acter of Plumer’s peers—character meaning both their reputations and
their true nature. As Plumer explained it, “My design in writing these
sheets is meerly to put down some facts—& give some outlines of the
character of some of the Rulers of the day.” Composed of anecdotes
gleaned from private conversations (largely with beleaguered Federal-
ists), it is a catalogue of political gossip—a Federalist version of Jeffer-
son’s “Anas.” 11 Like Jefferson, Plumer collected anecdotes as insights
into character, meticulously documenting their sources. Unlike Jeffer-
son, he was more interested in revealing personal qualities than in
exposing political sins, another product of his historian’s sensibility.
Each anecdote in the “Repository” offers a flash of insight about
a politician’s innermost character; although Plumer recorded most of
them without interpretation, their implications would be apparent to
anyone attuned to the Federalist point of view. Connecticut Senator
James Hillhouse told Plumer that at a presidential dinner he heard
Jefferson confess that in his youth, news of an Indian war had sent him
scurrying “into the woods,” where he “dug a hole to hide myself ”—
evidence of Jefferson’s cowardice (fig. 37). Observing Burr’s virtual iso-
lation from Jefferson and his cronies, Plumer asked Burr “how he left
his friends” and Burr replied, “They have left me”—an indictment of
the Republicans as false friends. Jefferson’s affair of honor with John
Walker received lengthy commentary, as did other honor disputes that
revealed Republicans behaving badly, suggesting that Jefferson and his
friends were not men of honor. Spanning the year covered in Plumer’s
first and least anecdotal memorandum book, the “Repository” is a
companion volume, focusing on character rather than events for the
same archival purpose: “to preserve facts that are fast fleeting down
the current of time to oblivion to which we are bound.” 12 To Plumer
the character of the nation’s founders was a crucial part of the historical
record, an assumption that would have its full impact in years to come.
 270 epilogue

[To view this image, refer to

the print version of this title.]

Fig. 37. Page from Plumer’s “Repository,” March 1, 1804. In this Federalist
version of Jefferson’s “Anas,” Plumer recorded gossip and observations about
his foes. Here, Connecticut Senator James Hillhouse relates a dinner
conversation with Jefferson, who recalled that as a boy he had once fled
into the woods in fear of Indians “& dug a hole to hide myself.” Hillhouse
wished that he had replied “that early impressions often continued through
life”—or in other words, once a coward, always a coward.
(Courtesy of the New Hampshire Historical Society)

Modern chroniclers assume that Plumer’s significance ends with

his note taking, but in fact, his historical mission extended much fur-
ther. Throughout most of his Senate tenure, he had been amassing
the pieces of a puzzle to be sorted by a future historian. His intentions
are apparent in the words that he used to describe his writings; memo-
 epilogue 271

randum, register, and repository all refer to a rough record of observa-

tions intended for future use.13 His thoughts changed, however, with
the approach of his final term of office. Considering his prospects as
he traveled home at the break before his last session, Plumer realized
that he himself might be that future historian. Over the course of the
next few weeks, he gave the idea serious consideration, characteristi-
cally recording his thoughts in a lengthy memorandum.
His ambition was to attempt something new and necessary: a
history of the government of the United States. Although there were
histories of the Revolution and of individual states, there was no study
of national governance, its structure, dynamic, evolution, and leaders.
Such a work would doubtless guide future statesmen. If it were well
written, it might also improve the poor reputation of American litera-
ture on the world stage. Not to mention the personal gains that would
accompany such an effort. “If well executed it would be an imperish-
able monument that would perpetuate my name more effectually than
anything I could do,” Plumer reasoned. “It would exist when columns
of marble are dissolved & crumbled to dust.” 14
Plumer could earn lasting fame. But he might also “tarnish &
destroy much of the little fame” he had earned—one of many argu-
ments against the project. He was too old and weak to undertake such
an enormous task; he did not have enough documentary evidence
(even with his unparalleled archive); he would need “indefatigable in-
dustry” and patience; he would have to read and evaluate a library of
books; his wife was ill; his children required his attention; the book’s
sales would never recuperate the project’s great expense; he was no
scholar, read no second language, knew little about geography and
science, and wrote slowly. Despite all these considerations, however,
the prospect of being “useful to others and honorable to myself ” won
out. By the end of his lengthy memorandum, he was wondering
whether to divide the book into chapters or letters, and his project
had expanded to encompass “a general history of the United States,
to commence from the first discovery of America by the Europeans,”
including the “biography of eminent Americans.” 15
In many ways, Plumer was ideally qualified for the task. Although
he arrived in Washington an embittered, true-blue Federalist, he had
 272 epilogue

become more moderate by the end of his term. As he reflected upon

learning of his failed reelection, “I am too much of a federalist to have
republican votes, & too much of a Republican deeply to interest feder-
alists in my favor.” Temperate in his politics and friendly with con-
gressmen of all stripes, he intended to be an impartial historian, fa-
voring neither Republicans nor Federalists. He sought truth; the word
rings like a watchword throughout his writings. “An historian, like a
witness, is bound to relate the truth, the whole truth, & nothing but
the truth,” was the epigraph on the first page of notes for his history.16
This was to be no partisan diatribe. Plumer assured others of as much
when he solicited their assistance. He was not going to attack or defend
but rather reveal and explain.
To veterans of the contentious, strife-ridden 1790s, however, his-
torical truth could be problematic. The national government’s first de-
cade had been a period of extremes, in emotion, actions, and accusa-
tions. Although public figures had often acted as they saw best for the
public good, their behavior could seem less admirable in hindsight,
examined in the cool light of day. Exposed by an unfriendly observer
out of context, the sins of the 1790s could cut a reputation to ribbons.
For America’s self-declared Founders, political history was thus in-
tensely, dangerously personal. Not only would it shape national char-
acter and governance, but it would determine their status as Founding
Fathers.
The construction of a national history was crucial to their lives
and legacies, an obsession of their old age. There were unpleasant
truths to reveal and records to set straight, accomplishments to docu-
ment and credit to claim. By transcribing their achievements for future
generations, politicians were demanding their place in the annals of
history, proving themselves Founders, like Plutarch’s heroes of old.
The personal stakes were high, worthy of intense efforts and energies,
and a conflicting account demanded passionate resistance. The result
was an ongoing biographical feud of clashing reputations and conflict-
ing points of view. The person who took a stand in this war was play-
ing with fire.
Plumer learned this for himself when he confronted President
Jefferson with his own writing plans. Determined to take advantage
 epilogue 273

of his last months in office, Plumer decided to discuss his history with
the men who would people it, in the hope of getting access to their
papers. Aiming high at the outset, he spoke with Jefferson first. To
alleviate any fears of a Federalist bias, Plumer began by stating his goal
of impartiality: it was his “intention to state facts & delineate characters
fairly & impartialy” so that “the reader should not be able to ascertain,
from the work, to what sect or party” he belonged. These comforting
words produced a strange reaction. “I observed the countenance of
the President repeatedly changed. At some moments there was the
appearance of uneasiness and embarrassment—at others he seemed
pleased—He alternately looked at me, & then fixed his eyes on the
floor. I could perceive his mind was agitated with different emo-
tions.” 17 Attributing this odd display to displeasure (barely) repressed,
Plumer departed, hungry for an explanation.
He received one a few days later from John Quincy Adams.
Plumer had great admiration for Adams, who shared his aversion to
“rigid” partisans of any persuasion. So after requesting (and receiving)
access to Adams’s papers, Plumer questioned him about Jefferson’s
puzzling display. “The President cannot be a lover of history,” Adams
responded. “There are prominent traits in his character, & important
actions in his life, that he would not wish should be delineated, &
transmitted to posterity.” Madison would be equally displeased, Ad-
ams predicted. “He will suffer in history.” 18 Plumer had observed Jef-
ferson’s visceral reaction to his political past, Adams suggested; the
thought of his reputation suffering before the eyes of posterity had
produced a visible shudder.
Jefferson was not alone in his feelings. To America’s self-
conscious founders, historical dishonor was the ultimate threat, con-
demning its victims to an eternity of abuse. A lifetime of work, sacri-
fice, and vigilant protection of one’s reputation could be undone with
the stroke of a pen. Such a staggering blow could not help but invite
retribution, making history writing a risky business. So National Intel-
ligencer editor Samuel H. Smith cautioned Plumer upon learning of
his plans. Smith advised against “publishing that part of it which is the
most important, our own times.” Better to “write it & leave directions to
have it a posthumous work,” for if Plumer published the book while
 274 epilogue

living, he “must necessarily give mortal offense—& must retire from

the world.” Such a “cotemporary history could not be published with
truth and safety,” agreed John Quincy Adams, his use of the word
safety hinting at the threat of gunplay. No matter how impartial Plumer
intended his history to be, the only escape from the barbs of partisan-
ship was the detachment of death, as Jefferson well knew when he
planted his history among his papers to be discovered after his de-
mise.19
If Plumer had written about his own times, he might have con-
fronted such weighty decisions, but he never made it that far. Although
he worked diligently for nine years, after 260 pages he had barely
reached the seventeenth century. Given his ever-expanding literary am-
bitions (he ultimately began his history with the invention of hiero-
glyphics), he did not have sufficient materials or time to produce a
work to his own satisfaction.20 The more historical context he sought,
the wider he felt compelled to cast his intellectual net, and the further
his text drifted from its purpose. Historical truth seemed beyond his
reach. Putting his project aside when he became governor of New
Hampshire in 1816, he never resumed it. But his desire to leave his
mark on the historical record had not abated.

History as Politics
Chronicling historical events had proven difficult, time-consuming,
and ultimately unsatisfying. At the outset of Plumer’s efforts, he had
expressed interest in two things: the creation and evolution of the na-
tional government and the biographies of its first officeholders. Never
extending beyond John Smith and the establishment of Virginia,
Plumer’s history included neither. So in the 1820s, Plumer changed
strategies, transferring his energies to a second project that he had be-
gun in 1808: a series of biographical portraits of every eminent Ameri-
can from the time of Columbus.21 Forced by his unwieldy history to
distill American history to its essence, Plumer focused on character
above all else.
His first efforts in this vein had been inspired by the spate of
George Washington biographies that appeared shortly after the first
 epilogue 275

president’s death; like Jefferson, Plumer considered Marshall’s much-

acclaimed Life of Washington particularly problematic. “There is in the
whole of this ponderous work scarce an anecdote or observation that
relates to the private life of Washington,” Plumer complained after
finishing it. The work resembled “more the reasoning used in treatises
on particular subjects, than the plain, direct, dignified style of history,
or the simple, familiar narrative of biography.” To Plumer, Marshall’s
partisan objectives obscured the point of biographical writing: encap-
sulating a person’s public and private character in order to inspire, me-
morialize, and instruct. “The sun is not less glorious for its spots,” he
declared; Washington’s flaws were part of his character and deserved
to be noted. Intent on portraying “the whole truth,” Plumer undertook
a “volume of portraits,” with Washington as his first entry.22 Dissat-
isfied, outraged, or encouraged at Marshall’s Federalist bias, other
would-be historians also took up their pens.
The founding generation was rushing headlong into a historical
discussion; given the personal and violently partisan events it de-
scribed, it rapidly became more of an argument than a conversation.
There was no single narrative, no absolute truth. So Marshall could
depict Republicans of the 1790s as small-minded provincials and Jeffer-
son could insist that they were liberal defenders of the Revolutionary
flame. Adams could present himself as an independent-minded hero,
and Hamilton could declare Adams a loose cannon guided by his lust
for high office. Burr could accuse Jefferson of scheming for the presi-
dency and Jefferson could accuse Burr of the same sin. Self-consciously
constructing an American history to shape future generations, public-
minded national politicians could not help but present it from a per-
sonal point of view.
One man’s history was another man’s partisan diatribe, an accusa-
tion that reverberated throughout the first half of the nineteenth cen-
tury, a period of prolific history writing. The founding generation was
dying, taking invaluable and irreplaceable insights with them. Docu-
mentary evidence was being mislaid or destroyed. At the outset of the
nineteenth century, the politically minded came to a common realiza-
tion: a history of the nation’s founding had yet to be written, and the
clock was ticking. The repercussions of this conclusion were immediate
 276 epilogue

and far-reaching. Historical societies were established; records were

collected, catalogued, and deposited with them. Surviving partici-
pants, looking ahead to their imminent demise, began organizing their
papers for publication after death. Jefferson was particularly diligent
on this front, carefully structuring his reputation in the eyes of poster-
ity; but he was not alone. Adams, Madison, and a host of others did
the same. Burr and Hamilton were marked exceptions to this rule—
Hamilton because of his sudden death and Burr because of a chronic
distrust of things written. It is not surprising that the reputations of
these two men have suffered accordingly, particularly that of Burr, the
least paper-minded of his peers.
As suggested by Plumer’s reading notes, Washington’s death
triggered the opening salvo in this historical onslaught: Marshall’s
Life of Washington, replete with documentary evidence culled from
Washington’s papers. To those who disagreed with Marshall’s mark-
edly Federalist perspective, the work posed a sizable threat, for how
could one argue with personal letters written by the Father of His
Country? Of course, letters could be doctored or quoted out of
context; Jefferson accused Marshall of as much. Plumer charged Jef-
ferson with the same crime when he read his Memoirs in 1830: “It
is apparent [that Jefferson’s] letters were prepared by himself for
the press; & I have reason to beleive that some of these letters are
different from what he wrote to his correspondents.” Such trickery
might “raise his character in the estimation of some who read them;
but they have not that effect on me.” Henry Lee, Jr., made the same
accusation in a defense of his father entitled Observations on the Writings
of Thomas Jefferson. Monticello was a “great mint of press copies” where
letters could be “readily coined” for any purpose, Lee claimed.23
As suggested by both Plumer and Lee, the only way to refute docu-
mentary evidence was by proving the writer—or his biographer—a
liar.
The biographical war of the early nineteenth century was thus
inescapably bound up with issues of honor. Not only would the losers
be banished from the pages of history, but they would be proven dis-
honorable in the process. Intertwined with the reputations of their
subjects and writers, these histories pitted personal characters against
 epilogue 277

one another in a contest for credibility before the public eye. As Timo-
thy Pickering put it, the value of his historical testimony would “de-
pend on the estimate formed of my character by my contemporaries.”
James Madison’s face revealed the pain of such invalidation when he
heard of an upcoming biography of Alexander Hamilton. Informed
that the work would deny “the authenticity of his (Mr. M’s) report of
Colo. H’s speech in the Federal Convention” and assert that Madison
had “abandoned” Hamilton in the 1790s, Madison flashed a look of
“painful surprise” followed by a long silence. It speaks well of Madi-
son’s character that he refused to consider these charges anything other
than honest mistakes.24
As both Republicans and Federalists realized, the party that won
this literary debate would claim the soul of the republic; by shaping
popular conceptions of the nation’s founding, they would have a long-
reaching influence on later events. History was personal, immediate,
and politically significant; in fact, history was politics. Thus the impas-
sioned and volatile biographical feud that continued for decades. The
argument’s thread is intricate and difficult to follow, but its outlines
are revealing. Marshall’s “five-volumed libel” prompted Jefferson’s
strategically arranged history; Thomas Jefferson Randolph, the editor
of Jefferson’s Memoir, dismantled this history and concentrated its
most scandalous contents—Jefferson’s gossip-filled memoranda—into
one volume, a historical bombshell even more thunderous than Mar-
shall’s. “The fourth volume of Jefferson’s Memoirs, lately published,
has produced considerable excitement here,” New Hampshire Repre-
sentative Samuel Bell wrote to Plumer on January 30, 1830. “It contains
a great deal of little tattle, and some slanders against the public men
of that day, still upon the stage.” 25 Only two days earlier, Bell had been
privy to a real-life demonstration of the power of Jefferson’s “tattle,”
when Delaware Senator John Clayton had brought Edward Livingston
and Samuel Smith to their feet to avow or deny Jefferson’s charges
about the 1800 election.
Attacking the private characters of many of his contemporaries,
Jefferson’s Memoir inspired a slew of responses, prominent among
them Burr’s Memoirs; indeed, Burr set his memoirs in motion by mark-
ing the offensive passages in Jefferson’s “Anas.” Both Henry Lee’s de-
 278 epilogue

fense of his father and Theodore Dwight’s The Character of Thomas

Jefferson as Exhibited in His Own Writings (1839) adopted a similar strat-
egy, as suggested by their titles. Other writers (largely New England-
ers) countered Jefferson’s memoirs with conflicting memoirs of their
own, such as George Gibbs’s Memoirs of the Administrations of Wash-
ington and John Adams Edited From the Papers of Oliver Wolcott, Secretary
of the Treasury (1846); John T. S. Sullivan’s The Public Men of the Revo-
lution . . . in a Series of Letters by the Late Hon. Wm. Sullivan (1847);
and Samuel Goodrich’s Recollections of a Lifetime (1856). Quotations
from Jefferson’s papers run throughout these works in an attempt to
turn his words on himself. Sullivan’s Public Men of the Revolution, writ-
ten in 1834 shortly after the publication of Jefferson’s Memoirs but not
published until 1847 by his son, sets forth the logic behind this strategy:
“Familiar letters” allowed the sort of “personal descriptions and partic-
ular illustrations, which the ‘Memoirs and Writings of Thomas Jeffer-
son’ make indispensable.” 26 Personal musings enabled these writers to
counter Jefferson’s character attacks with character attacks of their
own.
Some “Anas” attackers adopted a different strategy, masking their
personal diatribes as objective history. Alden Bradford’s History of the
Federal Government (1840) is one such example, though none surpasses
John Church Hamilton’s massive seven-volume History of the Republic
of the United States (1857–64), an attempt to trace “the origin and early
policy of this great republic” in the life and writings of John
Church’s father, Alexander Hamilton. Vindicating Hamilton in the
text and refuting the “Anas” in the footnotes, the History of the Republic
was, in truth, an aggressive, brash, no-holds-barred defense of the man
who virtually embodied Federalism, an eerily accurate echo of the de-
fensive arrogance of Alexander Hamilton himself. The work’s conclud-
ing sentence reveals its real subject of study: “At two in the afternoon,
my father died.” Hamilton’s older son James published his own mem-
oirs for similar reasons, intending “to do justice to his Father against
the aspersions of Mr. Jefferson, and more recently of Martin Van
Buren, in his Inquiry into the origin of Political parties of the United
States.” 27
The fist-clenched defensiveness of Hamilton’s sons reveals the
 epilogue 279

power of these dueling histories. Sons shared in the disgrace of their

fathers; hence the many filiopietistic memoirs written by sons eager
to protect their family honor. James and the younger Alexander Ham-
ilton even competed with each other to defend their father’s name.28
Biased, personal, partisan, and focused on honor and reputation, these
histories perpetuated the political feuds of decades past, embroiling
the second generation in the process. Their father a virtual lightning
rod for attacks on the defunct and seemingly corrupt Federalists—
Federalist talk of secession in 1804 and 1814 tarring them as traitors as
well—several second-generation Hamiltons almost fought duels in his
defense. Hamilton’s oldest son, Philip, had been mortally wounded in
an 1801 duel provoked by an attack on his father. In 1809, James issued
a challenge in defense of his father which was rejected, resulting “as
was usual at that time, in his [attacker] being posted in the newspapers
as a coward.” Eager to prove his father’s role in writing George Wash-
ington’s farewell address, James’s younger brother John Church almost
provoked a duel with his father’s dueling adviser of years past, Rufus
King.29 And one unknown joker tried to provoke James into a duel
with Aaron Burr. According to Hamilton, his father’s old friend Rob-
ert Troup appeared in his office and wordlessly handed over a note
that read, “Aaron Burr—Sir: Please to meet me with the weapon you
choose, on the 15th May, where you murdered my father, at 10 o’clock,
with your second. James A. Hamilton.” Excited and upset, Hamilton
declared the note a forgery but added that if Burr had accepted the
challenge, Hamilton would adopt it as his own. Troup insisted that
he was not present as Burr’s second but simply wanted to confirm that
the note was forged, and the matter ended.30 In attempting to redeem
their father’s reputation, Hamilton’s sons were reliving his life.
Not all works centered around Hamilton and Jefferson, though
most either praised or condemned the two as partisan stand-ins for
Federalism or Republicanism. Not surprisingly, Burr’s Memoirs were
as controversial as his life, some reviewers complaining that editor
Matthew Davis didn’t censure him for his sins, others complaining
that the work didn’t reveal the inner Burr.31 John Adams likewise at-
tracted his share of controversy. The publication of E. M. Cunning-
ham’s “Correspondence Between the Hon. John Adams, Late Presi-
 280 epilogue

dent of the United States, and the Late Wm. Cunningham, Esq.”
(1823) enraged arch Federalist Timothy Pickering enough to write his
lengthy vituperative response with the deceptively restrained title “Re-
view of the Correspondence Between the Hon. John Adams . . . and
the Late Wm. Cunningham, Esq.” (1824).
Pickering considered his work both a historical memoir and a
“formal vindication” of not only himself but also Hamilton. Adams
was a liar, Pickering declared, though he avoided that charged word,
accusing Adams of making “unfounded assertions” that one “might
designate by a harsher term.” For Pickering, it was his duty as a histo-
rian to reveal Adams’s true nature to the world. “What is history?” he
mused. “A mere detail of events may engage curiosity; but it is the
characters of the actors which especially interest the reader; and the
exhibition of their actions, whether these be good or bad, which fur-
nishes useful lessons of instruction.” History was a moral tale with
heroes and villains. Protecting the truth was thus not only noble but
necessary, for without such efforts, libelous immorality would prevail.
The wrong men would be “blotted from history” or eternally tainted
with corruption, their friends and families tarred by the same brush
of dishonor.32
An active correspondence among survivors of the 1790s and their
progeny accompanied this historical impulse, for sometimes only par-
ticipants—or the familial guardians of their reputations—could be
trusted as possessing the truth. At various points in his historical mis-
sion, Plumer sought testimony and evidence from James Bayard and
John Quincy Adams, among others. William Maclay’s nephew George
Washington Harris likewise went straight to the source when con-
templating the publication of his uncle’s diary, corresponding with
descendants of Tench Coxe and Alexander Hamilton, as well as with
Joseph Gales, Jr., and William Seaton, the editors of the debates of
the early federal congresses.33 Hamilton’s sons solicited biographical
fodder from a wide range of sources; refuting charges against their
father even as they sought assistance, they left a trail of offended corre-
spondents in their wake.
Plumer was so insulted by one such “long abusive, & virulent”
letter from Alexander Hamilton, Jr., that he almost ignored it, answer-
 epilogue 281

ing it only out of respect for the writer’s father. Hamilton’s letter re-
lated to information that Plumer had revealed in support of his friend
John Quincy Adams. When Adams—defending himself against 1828
campaign charges—outraged New England Federalists by discussing
their secessionism, Plumer jumped to his aid with evidence culled from
his memory and memoranda. The first eyewitness testimony of the
Federalists’ 1804 flirtation with secession, Plumer’s account drew an
onslaught of abuse. He returned to his treason “like a dog to his vomit
or the sow to her wallowing in the mire,” charged the New Hampshire
Patriot.34 It was Plumer’s claim that Alexander Hamilton was involved
in this secessionist plot that invited his son’s ire; by demanding “satis-
faction,” the young Hamilton made it clear that this was a matter of
family honor.35
Ultimately, this clash of histories pulled the Federalist-Republi-
can conflict of the 1790s and its personal implications well into the
nineteenth century. As Oliver Wolcott’s memoirist George Gibbs put
it, “To the historian there is no statute of limitations against political
crimes.” In 1836, Burr was still fuming about his relationship with
Washington sixty years earlier and refuting charges about the 1800
election. In 1809, John Adams still felt the sting of Hamilton’s uni-
versally condemned 1800 “Letter”—and Hamilton’s animosity had
stemmed from Adams’s behavior for years before that. The campaign
to redeem James Bayard from the shadow of 1800 was particularly
long-lived, still active as late as 1907. Timothy Pickering fretted about
his place in the historical record even on his deathbed, gasping that
he had hoped to live longer, for there were yet some “truths, important
in an historical point of view,” that should be known. Plumer also
turned to history in his final moments, insisting that his writings were
impartial “in every case.” 36 Burr, too, grasped at the historical record
in his dying hours, anxious that through his memoirs, “at last, his
countrymen should know him as he was.” 37
Jefferson went to his grave struggling to cast his relationship with
Hamilton in the right light, trying to depict himself as a liberal, right-
minded leader rather than the petty and vindictive politician he often
appeared to be. It was concern for his reputation that inspired him to
put Hamilton’s bust in the main entrance way to Monticello; there
 282 epilogue

could be no nobler act than to acknowledge the greatness of one’s

enemies—and only the greatest of men could defeat such a foe. Posi-
tioned in Jefferson’s American museum alongside Indian artifacts and
moose antlers, Hamilton’s bust is a political hunting trophy, evidence
of the path not taken and the superiority of those who chose the right
course.
These histories were personal, emotional, accusatory, defensive,
partisan, and often petty. They make outrageous claims and deny de-
monstrable truths. They depict the 1790s as a Manichaean battle be-
tween right and wrong, true and false, us and them. Beneath their
congratulatory self-promotion flows a vein of desperation, the fate of
the republic and personal reputations at risk. In essence, these histo-
ries perpetuate the mood of the 1790s; in this sense, they are indeed
the most accurate historical truth that can be found. They offer a blind,
chaotic emotional truth in a manner that no objective history could
match.
For a generation who conceived of themselves as “Founders,”
the history of the republic was a history of their reputations, a conclu-
sion that Plumer reached with the ultimate product of his historical
mission: his autobiography. More than four hundred handwritten
pages long, it consists of his memoranda in narrative form, transcribed
almost word for word, with the addition of some insights and stylistic
revisions. When describing Jefferson’s odd reaction to Plumer’s in-
tended history, for example, Plumer gave his literary persona some
added insight. Jefferson “might have considered it a mere political
project to aid the views of party,” the autobiographical Plumer rea-
soned, “or he might feel an aversion to a full exposition of his own
character & conduct.” 38 At the time, Jefferson’s actions had baffled
Plumer, but with twenty years of hindsight, they became more under-
standable. Jefferson, like Plumer, was focused on the historical record.
From his archival forays into the congressional lumber room to his
memoranda, his aborted history, his biographical essays, and finally,
his autobiography, Plumer had made his way toward a fundamental
truth: the history of the founding was about personal reputations, in-
cluding his own.
In the passage of two centuries, the winners and losers of this
 epilogue 283

battle for fame have been ever changing, individual reputations rising
and falling with the political tides of the times.39 Different ages have
turned to different Founders for historical ballast according to their
values and needs. Those twin symbols of clashing ideologies Jefferson
and Hamilton have gone in and out of favor repeatedly, one man rising
in popularity as the other falls. In the 1830s, Jefferson was the darling
of Jacksonian Democrats; during the Civil War, Hamilton the nation-
alist rose to the fore; he was also enormously popular during the
business- and industry-oriented 1890s, a period which seemed to be
the fulfillment of Hamilton’s vision. America’s growing imperialism
at the turn of the twentieth century turned the spotlight back to Jef-
ferson, overseer of the Louisiana Purchase; Jefferson the god of de-
mocracy reigned throughout the Cold War; but recently, caught
up in heated questions of race because of his relationship with Sally
Hemings, he has fallen enough to make room for Hamilton, whose
star is now rising with a burst of new histories.40
Strangest of all is the current resurrection of Aaron Burr.41
Praised by several writers for being clear-eyed and practical in an era
of political posturing, Burr is perfectly suited to an age of jaded distrust
in campaign promises and self-righteous principles. Long the enfant
terrible of the founding period, Burr may finally be coming into his
own.
Clearly, history is in the business of making or breaking reputa-
tions, and few fall so low that they cannot rise again. In this America’s
Founders share much with politicians and personalities up to the pres-
ent day. The difference, for the founding generation, was their under-
standing of their audience and the significance of their performance.
Like any gentlemen of the period, early national politicians lived for
their reputations; their sense of self, their sense of accomplishment,
the essence of their manhood depended on it. For these men to play
the high-risk game of politics before a national audience was a high
risk indeed. For men of honor, political losses or public humiliations
were no temporary setbacks; they struck at a man’s core and threatened
to rob him of his self-respect as a man and his identity as a leader, a
threat profound enough to drive him to the field of honor.
The resulting style of politics—self-conscious, anxious, and inter-
 284 epilogue

twined with the rites and rituals of the honor code—fell to the wayside
with the acceptance of political parties. Not that political gossip and
the power of public opinion were excised from political combat. As
any political pundit can attest, mudslinging and publicity campaigns
are still the stuff of politics, our ever-expanding media network only
broadening their audience and impact.42 It is not the essence of politics
that changed but rather the experience of being a politician. The politi-
cal elite in the early republic wielded their reputations as their most
formidable weapons; they were individual men of honor, in league
with like-minded men, perhaps, but individually responsible for their
words and actions, nonetheless.
Institutionalized parties forever altered this political dynamic,
creating groups of loyal combatants whose organization and number
were more important than the identity of any one man. A politician
could fight anonymously under a party banner, freed from personal
responsibility for party directives. There was safety in numbers—a pri-
mary argument against a joint national executive. As Hamilton argued
in The Federalist No. 70, with more than one man as the national execu-
tive, blame for “pernicious measures” could be “shifted from one to
another with so much dexterity, and under such plausible appearances,
that the public opinion is left in suspense about the real author.” Un-
comfortable with the implications of entrenched national parties, poli-
ticians of the 1790s and early nineteenth century enjoyed no such cam-
ouflage.
Public figures whose careers collapsed with the reputation of their
political chief were among the first to perceive the security and ano-
nymity of party membership. As Matthew Davis wrote to William P.
Van Ness after their public careers had been sabotaged by Burr’s down-
fall, “On the subject . . . of attachment to men, both of us, I think,
have learned sufficient to know the folly of connecting our political
destiny with that of any Individual; and more especially when the
views and conduct of that Individual is not in unison with the wishes
and expectations of the party.” 43 For Davis, as for other national politi-
cians, party politics made sense. Only by understanding the honor-
bound combat of the 1790s can we fully understand the appeal of party
politicking in the nineteenth century.
 epilogue 285

But national politicians did not march into party formation with
their eyes open. As the election of 1800 reveals, they backed their way
into it one decision at a time, making exception after exception to polit-
ical proprieties amid a continuing series of crises. To save the republic,
they were willing to stretch the rules to the breaking point, but they
did not abandon them entirely. Rather than discarding past habits,
ideals, and assumptions on their way to a glorious democratic future,
the political elite made a series of personal compromises, adapting their
politics to the crises at hand, struggling to adapt to the evolving de-
mands of an increasingly powerful populace. This crisis mentality is
a vital component of the process of political change. There were no
assurances, no guarantees of success, and a constant fear that the entire
structure would come crashing to ruin. Imposing patterns on the pe-
riod in hindsight, we often forget that this was a world of chance and
circumstance, where voting patterns and probabilities that seem obvi-
ous to us were obscured in a cloud of uncertainties and fears.
Viewed in their proper context, these crisis-bound decisions of
the moment do not reflect a sudden embrace of a “modern” party poli-
tics. Rather, they reveal a leadership learning how to practice a national
politics. When the changing political landscape seemed to demand
more organization, politicians formed personal alliances—sometimes
called parties—on the assumption that they did so voluntarily, in mu-
tual trust and friendship, and driven by concern for the public good.
Contrary to our expectations about American politics, faith in the cul-
ture of honor and the mandates of republicanism helped elite politi-
cians adapt to democratic politicking without violating their sense of
political propriety. In their minds, there was a vast difference between
a “party” of right-minded friends striving for the general good and a
structured and institutionalized partisan “squadron” devoted to selfish
interests. Indeed, it was the difference between these two conceptions
of party—the ambiguously personal nature of the former versus the
regulated impersonality of the latter—that defined and structured their
political world.
Honor is at the core of this process of political transition. The
language of honor set the terms of debate; the rituals of honor chan-
neled dangerous passions; the logic of honor shaped political strategy;
 286 epilogue

and the significance of honor gave weapons their power and sting. The
full story of early national politics cannot be told without the culture
of honor, a shared body of assumptions and rituals that framed the
bustle and confusion of the national political world. It is a key that
unlocks countless mysteries of the period, rationalizing the seemingly
irrational, justifying the seemingly petty and perverse, and recasting
our understanding of America’s founding.
The political significance of honor also alters some basic defini-
tions at the heart of the historian’s craft, redefining such concepts as
“politics” and political evidence, which encompass far more than elec-
tions, legislation, debate, and compromise. Politics was personal; poli-
tics was everywhere, shifting among different populations, different
cultures, different places, and different times. It is an idea with implica-
tions that historians of different eras and populations are currently ex-
ploring—one that holds the potential to reveal similarities as well as
differences between cultures.
A collection of beliefs and rituals with long-lived roots in civili-
zations past, the culture of honor also reminds us that the American
republic did not spring to life from the brow of Washington, fully
formed. There were cultural and political rites, traditions, and assump-
tions that Britain’s North American colonists inherited and adapted
on a distant stage. The tone of America’s politics of reputation hear-
kens back to Britain as well, which had a long and illustrious history
of political bludgeoning through satire and character attack.44
Of course, there were American differences as well, and nowhere
are these differences more obvious than in the publicity campaigns that
followed political duels. National politicians were not grappling for
prizes and privileges in a royal court. They were learning the art of
popular politics, with mixed results. This shifting interaction between
leader and citizen—the ways that different groups in this discussion
received messages and voiced their own—reveals the ground-level real-
ity of political change. Ironically, an understanding of an aristocratic
culture of honor holds new insights into the evolution of our demo-
cratic two-party system.
Looking back on this process, the founding generation imposed
a structure that exists only in hindsight. Theirs was an outlook born
 epilogue 287

of reflection on past battles; from a distance of several decades what

once seemed like a chaotic scramble for the soul of the republic came
to feel like an organized war between two defined armies. Formerly
unpredictable loyalties were now long known. Outcomes were clear.
Enough time had passed for patterns to emerge. And the republic’s
continued survival suggested that perhaps team combat was not so
destructive after all. As they waged historical warfare in their histories,
biographies, and memoirs, the founding generation codified this men-
tality page by page; even as they defended their reputations, they were
committing to paper their political learning process.
To understand the political importance of honor culture is thus
to uncover the emotional reality of being a national politician during
America’s founding years. The knee-jerk sense of panic, the rampant
suspicions, the high passions and shrill accusations were not irrational;
they were a natural product of a politics of reputation that blended
personal identity, public office, and political experimentation in a vola-
tile mix. Neither were prevailing assumptions about the immorality of
party politics naive; politicians were learning how to conduct national
politics one decision at a time. There was an emotional logic to their
actions and reactions that is apparent only in the context of their time.
Of course, logical decisions can be bad decisions, as the men who
people these pages discovered. One can make rational choices for all
the wrong reasons, or reason one’s way into the wrong path. Honor-
bound politicians were not always honorable—and this is precisely the
point. Too often, the Founders are praised to the skies as saintly deities
of governance or condemned as self-interested elitists who cared for
money and power above all else. In reality, they were something of
both. They sincerely strove to create a great nation grounded on popu-
lar will and the rights of man. They were also obsessively concerned
with their interests, careers, reputations, and pocketbooks, practicing
down-and-dirty politics in their efforts to get ahead. This is a distinc-
tion that makes a difference. If the founding generation were a band
of angels, American politics has been in a state of free-fall ever since;
if they were little more than greedy power-mongers, there is little hope
that America can rise to much more. However, as real people who
struggled with a difficult task, sometimes inspired to high purpose,
 288 epilogue

other times feeding their meanest appetites, they extend to posterity

the gift of hope. If these fallible, flawed people could accomplish great
things, perhaps future generations can do so as well. It is the logic that
inspired their greatest hopes for the future, the ultimate message they
hoped to impart.
So, in ways that the founding generation realized all too well,
history does matter. As suggested by the passion they devoted to their
histories, memoirs, and biographies, the future is shaped by its under-
standing of the past. Though later generations have long overlooked
or misunderstood these heartfelt final addresses to posterity, they were
efforts well taken. For regardless of whether we praise or condemn
their biased views of the past, they remind us that history—like poli-
tics—is subjective, contested, and fueled by personal agendas. They
remind us that history is a story that we tell about ourselves.
 A Note on Method

This book approaches politics in an unusual way. It does not examine

political events or personalities in isolation or reduce them to the level
of historical anecdote. Nor does it tackle so broad a theme as to lose
sight of a participant’s perspective. Aiming at a midpoint between
broad cultural history and detailed analysis of the political narrative,
it uses the vantage point of an ethno-historian, identifying and inter-
preting patterns of thought and behavior among a select group of elite
public figures. In doing so, it reveals the overriding influence of honor
on national politics, as well as the profound shaping influence of cul-
tural imperatives on the political process. Every population shares a
code of conduct, a mutual understanding of constraints, fears, expecta-
tions, and demands. It is impossible to fully understand political inter-
action without considering the impact of these cultural imperatives on
decisions and actions, political and otherwise.
To detect and decode these shared understandings, this study
uses seemingly unconventional forms of evidence. First and foremost,
it relies on human emotion. Feelings represent individual attempts to
grapple with the realities of a given moment. Regardless of whether
these feelings are realistic or understandable to later onlookers, they
represent an instinctive, human response to immediate demands and
expectations. Sincere or feigned, they required shared standards and
cultural assumptions to be understood. Close study of emotions is thus
an invaluable pathway to core beliefs lurking beneath the surface of
everyday event, beliefs so familiar and accepted that they were rarely
committed to paper. Although historians typically dismiss such evi-
dence as personal, idiosyncratic, and trivial—useful for little more than

{ 2 89 }
 290 a n o te o n m e tho d

spicing up biographies and historical narratives—feelings are vital pas-

sageways to an intuitive level of thought.1
This is not to say that individual emotions studied in isolation
are historically representative. It is emotional patterns that reveal larger
cultural truths. If masses of people in a given place and time were
amused, disgusted, or frightened in similar ways on similar occasions,
this suggests larger, shared assumptions that require exploration. Out-
rage and shock are particularly useful indicators, revealing shared stan-
dards through their violation, but even subtle emotions offer vital in-
sights.
The study of dueling is a perfect example of this theory in prac-
tice. Taken in isolation, individual duels seem to be little more than
irrational outbursts fueled by psychotic rage or rampant insecurities;
issuing or accepting an invitation to kill or be killed seems to defy all
logic. Hence the tendency of many writers to attribute duels to mental
illness or emotional instability. The Burr-Hamilton duel, in particular,
invites such conclusions in abundance; how else can we explain such
seemingly illogical behavior by two leading American statesmen? But
thousands of Americans—and tens of thousands of people the world
over—felt compelled to engage in this deadly ritual. Unless we are
prepared to conclude that all these people were mentally unstable, we
must concede that there was a larger logic underlying the duel, a belief
so strong that it compelled men to hazard their lives. Acknowledging
and synthesizing the feelings that drove men to issue and accept chal-
lenges exposes this internal logic, revealing the fears and desires that
made this seemingly illogical practice seem logical to its practitioners.
Writers who impose modern feelings on historical characters trap
themselves permanently in the present, grounding their conclusions
on little more than subjective character judgments that ill apply to peo-
ple of other places and times. Recognizing the emotional integrity of
historical actors gets us beyond such ahistorical claims, explaining ap-
parently erratic or incomprehensible acts, rather than condemning
them as irrational, inappropriate, or primitive. When the scholarly con-
sensus dismisses an event or action as inexplicable, crazy, or idiosyn-
cratic, it is a red-flag indicator that there is a deeper logic waiting to
 a n o te o n m et ho d 291

be understood. Even decidedly stupid decisions were the product of

a process of reasoning that deserves study.
The close analysis of emotional patterns is not the same thing as
psychohistory. In fact, in many ways, psychohistory is the exact op-
posite of this historical method. Psychohistorical studies plumb the
depths of a historical figure’s soul in search of the personal hobgoblins
that shaped his or her thoughts and actions. Placed within the proper
historical context, such conclusions can offer valuable insight into both
character and event. But too often, writers psychoanalyze their subjects
in a historical vacuum, forgetting other behavior-shaping factors that
are distinctive to a given place and time; without this vital contextual
backdrop, practices or beliefs common to whole populations become
symptomatic of a single flawed psyche. Only after ruling out the influ-
ence of shared assumptions and immediate demands can scholars use
individual psychology as a motivating force with any accuracy.
Moments of choice are as evocative a form of historical evidence
as personal emotions; indeed, the two are interlinked. When historical
figures debated a course of action with any degree of seriousness, they
were setting priorities, sifting through the demands and constraints of
a particular situation, considering their options, and arriving at a deci-
sion they considered logical; when they sought the counsel of friends,
they committed this process to paper. The “shoulds” and “should-
nots” that governed these decisions are vital evidence in the quest to
decode past behavior. They are written representations of a shared
mentality as its practitioners understood it. Without at least a basic
understanding of such distinctive behavioral bounds, it is impossible
to fully understand individual action or agency. History represents a
long series of choices by a wide range of individuals, bound in by con-
stantly shifting cultural imperatives. Close study of these choices takes
us beyond broad generalizations about a unified cultural consensus or
defined “-ism,” bringing us one step closer to the perspective of our
historical subjects.
The ethno-historical study of patterns of thought and behavior
requires a broad sampling of written and situational evidence. This
study is grounded on thousands of letters, diaries, pamphlets, newspa-
 292 a not e on m ethod

per essays, and other assorted writings by roughly three hundred na-
tional political figures, their families, and friends—a wide sampling,
given that Congress, the president, and his cabinet were roughly one
to two hundred in number during any given point of the period. In
examining these documents, I sought several types of evidence. Ini-
tially, I looked for judgmental statements about friends and enemies,
hoping to find open declarations of shared attitudes, but a month of
fruitless research led to a key realization: politicians knew better than
to commit such judgments to paper. They were too dangerously per-
sonal, too likely to wind up as political fodder in enemy hands. For
the accuser, it was better to hint at accusations and reserve the details
for future conversations; for the victim, it was better to rage against
them obliquely than to commit them to paper and widen their reach.
Rather than outright judgments and declarations, I discovered what
I came to call “the ouch factor”: the wake of pain and outrage provoked
by the passage of political gossip. Follow the path of outrage, and
you reconstruct national networks of political friends and enemies. In
essence, you expose the foundations of the national political process
in the republic’s early years.
Most useful of all were violations of this shared standard of cau-
tion, sporadic as they might be, for the resulting outrage often com-
pelled onlookers to discuss rules and standards that normally went
unmentioned. Jefferson’s “Anas” is a prime example of this phenome-
non. The shock that followed its publication offered the precise sort
of judgmental declarations that I initially sought. Jefferson’s “Anas”
violated shared imperatives of political behavior that its victims were
more than eager to discuss. Even Jefferson’s friends were hard-put to
defend his actions. Here was a violation that exposed a host of assump-
tions about political combat.
Beneath all these methodological suggestions is one underlying
imperative. It is almost too simple to state, but so essential that it re-
quires mention. To as great a degree as possible, assume nothing and
willingly surrender even the most basic lingering assumptions at the
demand of evidence. Searching for predetermined patterns of behavior
obscures the seemingly impossible and the unknown, trapping the his-
torian in the limited perspective of his or her own time. Searching for
 a not e on m ethod 293

my definition of political gossip produced nothing; observing patterns

of evidence revealed a world. Clinging to the touchstone of political
parties would have been equally fatal, but when I abandoned my as-
sumptions about the existence or absence of parties, I uncovered politi-
cal logic and practices that were entirely unexpected. Even the types
of evidence I used were affected by this mindset, for given the personal
nature of political interaction in the early republic, seemingly personal
confessions and private exchanges were often the most political of all.
This leads me to one final caution about historical evidence.
Given the political nature of personal writings in the period under
study in this book, documentary collections limited to “political corre-
spondence and public papers” do readers a grave disservice, shearing
off an entire body of crucial political evidence. Comprehensive docu-
mentary editions like the Franklin, Washington, Madison, Hamilton,
and Jefferson Papers are thus essential entries into a full understanding
of our nation’s founding, offering readers a full immersion in the lan-
guage and logic of another time.
 Notes

When quotations are given, the first word of the quotation is silently capitalized or set in
lowercase according to the syntax of the sentence. All other punctuation and spelling are as
in the original unless bracketed. Angle brackets used in some documentary editions to supply
omitted letters have been dropped.

Introduction
1. Unless otherwise noted, quotations are from The Argus, or Greenleaf ’s New Daily Advertiser,
July 20, 1795. For excerpts of Hamilton’s resolution, see John C. Miller, Alexander Hamilton:
Portrait in Paradox (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1959), 424. The Argus does not mention
the rock-throwing incident, so it may be apocryphal; but see George Cabot to Rufus King,
July 27, 1795, regarding an attempt to “knock out Hamilton’s brains.” Charles R. King, ed.,
The Life and Correspondence of Rufus King, 6 vols. (New York: Putnam’s, 1895), 2:20. See also
Harold C. Syrett, ed., The Papers of Alexander Hamilton [hereafter Hamilton Papers], 27 vols.
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1961–87), 18:484, note 33; Broadus Mitchell, Alexan-
der Hamilton, 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1957–62), 2:683, note 42. Mitchell claimed that
he had discovered no contemporary account of the rock-throwing incident, but he did not
mention Cabot’s comment to King.
2. For Hamilton’s account of the Nicholson clash, see [Drafts of Apology Required from James
Nicholson], [July 25–26, 1795], Hamilton Papers, 18:501–3. See also Edward Livingston to
Margaret B. Livingston, July 20, 1795, Robert R. Livingston Papers, New-York Historical
Society.
3. On “gentle identity,” see Steven Shapin, A Social History of Truth: Civility and Science in
Seventeenth-Century England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), chaps. 1–3.
4. A handful of studies address the culture of honor outside of the South: Evarts B. Greene,
“The Code of Honor in Colonial and Revolutionary Times, with Special Reference to New
England,” Publications of the Colonial Society of Massachusetts 26 (1927): 367–88; Bertram Wyatt-
Brown, Southern Honor: Ethics and Behavior in the Old South (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1982), xv–xvi, 19–20; Joanne B. Freeman, “Aristocratic Murder and Democratic Fury:
Honor and Violence in Early National New England,” paper delivered at the annual meeting
of the American Historical Association, New York City, January 1997; and David Hackett
Fischer, Albion’s Seed: British Folkways in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989),
188, 582, 814. My next book will explore the national ramifications of honor culture.
5. Classic studies of the period’s political violence include Marshall Smelser, “The Federalist
Period as an Age of Passion,” American Quarterly 10 (1958): 391–419; and John Howe, “Re-
publican Thought and the Political Violence of the 1790s,” American Quarterly 19 (1967):
147–65.
6. This is not to say that the Sedition Act had nothing to do with Federalist ideology or partisan-
ship; rather, honor culture shaped the ways that Federalists (and Republicans) grappled with
ideologies and politics. Leading studies of the Sedition Act include Leonard W. Levy, Emer-
gence of a Free Press (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985); and James Morton Smith,
Freedom’s Fetters: The Alien and Sedition Laws and American Civil Liberties (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cor-

{ 2 95 }
 296 notes to pages xviii – xxi

nell University Press, 1956). See also Norman L. Rosenberg, Protecting the Best Men: An Inter-
pretive History of the Law of Libel (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986),
chaps. 4 and 5. See also Leonard W. Levy, Jefferson and Civil Liberties: The Darker Side (Chi-
cago: Ivan R. Dee, 1989), chap. 2.
7. For a strikingly similar example of “a working solution in one area of the culture (gentlemanly
society)” being “transported into another . . . to act as a local resolution of a pervasive prob-
lem,” see the discussion of honor culture and eighteenth-century scientific debate in Shapin,
Social History of Truth, quote at 42; also Jonathan Powis, Aristocracy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1984),
3. James Sterling Young sees no mechanism for resolving and limiting conflict on the national
stage, but clearly, honor culture filled this gap. Young, The Washington Community: 1800–
1828 (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1966), 152.
8. Whether they embrace the idea of a party system or discuss the absence of such a system,
most studies of early national politics center around the touchstone of party, acknowledging
the unstable nature of political ties, but still dividing national politics into two cohered
“proto-parties,” to use James Roger Sharp’s epithet. Sharp, American Politics in the Early Re-
public: The New Nation in Crisis (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993); see also Stanley
Elkins and Eric McKitrick, The Age of Federalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993);
and Ronald P. Formisano, “Federalists and Republicans: Parties, Yes—System, No,” in Paul
Kleppner, et al., The Evolution of American Electoral Systems (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood
Press, 1981). The foremost proponents of the first party system are William Nisbet Chambers,
Political Parties in a New Nation: The American Experience, 1776–1809 (New York: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1963); and Joseph Charles, The Origins of the American Party System (New York:
Harper and Row, 1961).
9. On credit, see Jay M. Smith, “No More Language Games: Words, Beliefs, and the Political
Culture of Early Modern France,” American Historical Review (December 1997): 1413–40;
on fame, see Douglass Adair’s seminal article, “Fame and the Founding Fathers,” in Trevor
Colbourn, ed., Fame and the Founding Fathers: Essays by Douglass Adair (New York: Norton,
1974), 3–26. Also Peter McNamara, ed., The Noblest Minds: Fame, Honor, and the American
Founding (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1999); Gerald Stourzh, Alexander Hamil-
ton and the Idea of Republican Government (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1970), 95–
106; and Mark E. Kann, A Republic of Men: The American Founders, Gendered Language, and
Patriarchal Politics (New York: New York University Press, 1998), 119–24. Major studies of
honor include Frank Henderson Stewart, Honor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1994), pt. 1; Julian Pitt-Rivers, “Honour and Social Status,” in Honour and Shame: The Values
of Mediterranean Society, ed. J. G. Peristiany (London: Nicholson, 1966); Wyatt-Brown,
Southern Honor; Kenneth S. Greenberg, Honor and Slavery (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1996); Pieter Spierenburg, ed., Men and Violence: Gender, Honor, and Rituals in Modern
Europe and America (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1998), esp. the introduction;
Steven M. Stowe, Intimacy and Power in the Old South: Ritual in the Lives of the Planters
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), chap. 1; and Shapin, Social History of
Truth, chaps. 1–3.
10. Rufus King, undated essay, Correspondence of Rufus King, 5:96, note; Alexander Pope, The
Rape of the Lock (1712), canto III, l. 16.
11. Examples include Sarah C. Chambers, From Subjects to Citizens: Honor, Gender, and Politics
in Arequipa, Peru, 1780–1854 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999);
Nancy Shields Kollman, By Honor Bound: State and Society in Early Modern Russia (Ithaca,
N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1999); J. E. Lendon, Empire of Honor: The Art of Government
in the Roman World (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997); Christopher J. Olsen, Political Culture and
Secession in Mississippi: Masculinity, Honor, and the Antiparty Tradition, 1830–1860 (New York:
 notes to pages xxii – 1 297

Oxford University Press, 2000); and William M. Reddy, The Invisible Code: Honor and Senti-
ment in Postrevolutionary France, 1814–1848 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).
12. Hamilton, [Draft of Apology Required from James Nicholson], [July 25–26, 1795], Hamilton
Papers, 18:501–3.
13. James Monroe to James Madison, June 8, 1798, The Papers of James Madison [hereafter Madison
Papers], ed. Robert Rutland and J. C. A. Stagg, 17 vols. (Charlottesville: University Press of
Virginia, 1962– ), 17:145–47. See also Madison to Monroe, June 9, 1798, ibid., 17:148–50. In
the end, Monroe took none of these options, although he considered running for Congress
as a way of dealing with Adams.
14. For example, see Simon P. Newman, Parades and the Politics of the Street: Festive Culture in the
Early American Republic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997); Len Travers,
Celebrating the Fourth: Independence Day and the Rites of Nationalism in the Early Republic
(Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1997); David Waldstreicher, In the Midst of
Perpetual Fetes: The Making of American Nationalism, 1776–1820 (Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 1997). This book focuses on elite national officeholders, but they were
not the only performers on the national stage; see Jeffrey L. Pasley, “The Tyranny of Printers”:
Newspaper Politics in the Early American Republic (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia,
2001).
15. Norbert Elias notes that the empowerment of a society’s lower strata often spurs its elites
to emphasize their differences and privileges. According to this logic, the rise in political
honor disputes in the 1790s might represent the reaction of the nation’s political elite to the
growing empowerment of the body politic. Elias, The Civilizing Process, trans. Edmund
Jephcott (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 507–8. Elias’s ideas about the study of elite politics are
worth repeating: scholarship often concerns itself “only with the constraint to which
less powerful groups are exposed. But in this way we gain only a one-sided picture.” Because
every society has a kind of “circulation of constraints, exerted by groups on groups, individu-
als on individuals, the constraints to which lower strata are exposed cannot be understood
without also investigating those affecting the upper strata.” Elias, Court Society, 266 (see also
212, 271).
16. Seminal studies of the link between politics and culture include Elias, Court Society; Lynn
Hunt, Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1984); Jean H. Baker, Affairs of Party: The Political Culture of Northern Democrats in
the Mid-Nineteenth Century (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983); Michael E. McGerr, The
Decline of Popular Politics: The American North, 1865–1928 (New York: Oxford University Press,
1986). Young moved in this direction in his study of the geography of power in early Washing-
ton, D.C. Young, Washington Community.

Prologue
1. Abraham Baldwin to Joel Barlow, March 1, 1789, Misc. Collections, Sterling Library, Yale
University; Fisher Ames to George Richards Minot, May 27, 1789, in Works of Fisher Ames,
as Published by Seth Ames, ed. W. B. Allen, 2 vols. (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1983), 1:633.
For typical reactions see August 29, 1789, The Diary of William Maclay and Other Notes on
Senate Debates, ed. Kenneth R. Bowling and Helen E. Veit (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Uni-
versity Press, 1988) [hereafter Maclay’s Diary], 141; Pierce Butler to James Iredell, August 11,
1789, in Ulrich B. Phillips, “South Carolina Federalists, II,” American Historical Review 4 (July
1909), 731; Fisher Ames to George Richards Minot, May 27, 1789, Works of Fisher Ames, 1:
633; Paine Wingate to Jeremy Belknap, May 12, 1789, Jeremy Belknap Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society.
 298 notes to pages 2 – 8

2. For a beautifully rendered assemblage of their portraits, see the catalogue to the 1989 National
Portrait Gallery exhibition: Margaret C. S. Christman, The First Federal Congress, 1789–1791
(Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989).
3. January 31, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 372; Ames to George Richards Minot, May 27, 1789, Works
of Fisher Ames, 1:633. For similar thoughts in early Washington, D.C., see Young, Washington
Community, esp. chaps. 2, 3, 5. By 1800 these feelings had evolved, though Young does not
note this change, applying, for example, Maclay’s 1789 commentary to 1800 Washington. See
also the Epilogue, below.
4. Ames to George Richards Minot, March 25, 1789, Works of Fisher Ames, 1:560–61; Christman,
First Federal Congress, 105. On the first federal elections, see R. B. Bernstein, “A New Matrix
for National Politics: The First Federal Elections, 1788–1790,” in Inventing Congress: Origins
and Establishment of the First Federal Congress, ed. Kenneth R. Bowling, Donald R. Kennon
(Athens: Ohio University Press, 1999): 109–37. On the “old Congress” generally and congres-
sional malaise specifically, see Jack N. Rakove, The Beginnings of National Politics: An Interpre-
tive History of the Continental Congress (New York: Knopf, 1979), esp. 198–200, 354–59. Also
Edmund Cody Burnett, The Continental Congress: A Definitive History of the Continental Con-
gress from Its Inception in 1774 to March, 1789 (New York: Norton, 1964).
5. Ames to George Richards Minot, March 25, 1789, Works of Fisher Ames, 1:560–61; Washington
to Henry Knox, April 10, 1789, in The Papers of George Washington: Presidential Series [hereafter
Washington Papers], ed. Dorothy Twohig (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia,
1987– ), 2:46; August 29, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 141. See also Butler to Iredell, August 11, 1789,
“South Carolina Federalists, II,” 731.
6. The contrast of this ambitious hunger with the ambivalence of members of the Continental
Congress is striking. See Rakove, Beginnings of National Politics, 216–39.
7. April 2, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 234.
8. Adams to Benjamin Rush, June 9, 1789, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Soci-
ety; Madison [Congressional debate of July 16, 1789], Madison Papers, 12:293. See also Febru-
ary 24, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 388–89; Hamilton to Edward Carrington, May 26, 1792, Hamil-
ton Papers, 11:433; see also Oliver Wolcott, Jr., to Jeremiah Wadsworth, August 15, 1789,
Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington and John Adams, ed. George Gibbs, 2 vols. (New
York, 1846), 1:19.
9. Fredrika J. Teute and David S. Shields, “The Republican Court and the Historiography of
a Woman’s Domain in the Public Sphere,” paper delivered at the Annual Meeting of the
Society for Historians of the Early American Republic, July 16, 1994, Boston, Massachusetts;
Rufus Wilmot Griswold, The Republican Court, or American Society in the Days of Washington
(1867; New York: Haskell House, 1971).
10. Rush to Adams, July 2, 1788, Letters of Benjamin Rush [hereafter Rush Papers], ed. L. H.
Butterfield, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1951), 1:468–70. Jay Fliegelman
notes that “emulation permitted the expression of ambition in the context of a larger reverence
for the models of the past.” Fliegelman, Declaring Independence: Jefferson, Natural Language,
and the Culture of Performance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 180.
11. Fisher Ames to Theodore Sedgwick, October 6, 1789, Sedgwick Papers, Massachusetts His-
torical Society; Abigail Adams to Mary Cranch Smith, January 8, 1791, Letters of Mrs. Adams,
ed. Charles Francis Adams (Boston: Little, Brown, 1840), 2:212; Henry Lee to James Madi-
son, April 3, 1790. Madison Papers, 13:136–7; Clymer to Henry Hill, March 7, 1790, Signers’
Collection, New-York Society Library. For a catalogue of regional diversity, see David Hack-
ett Fischer, Albion’s Seed: Four British Folkways in America (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1989). See also Young, Washington Community, 91–92.
12. Rush to James Madison, July 17, 1790, Madison Papers, 13:279–80; Rush to John Adams,
February 21 and June 4, 1789, Rush Papers, 1:501–3, 513–15; Rush to James Madison, September
 notes to pages 9 – 16 299

15, 1789, Madison Papers, 12:403. See also Louis-Guillaume Otto to Armand Marc, comte de
Montmorin Saint-Herem, July 12, 1790, in Margaret M. O’Dwyer, “A French Diplomat’s
View of Congress, 1790,” William and Mary Quarterly (July 1964), 441. For a New Yorker’s
view of the contrast between New York and Philadelphia manners, see New York Weekly
Museum, October 30, 1790.
13. Smith to Edward Rutledge, December 6, 1793, “The Letters of William Loughton Smith to
Edward Rutledge, June 8, 1789–April 28, 1794,” South Carolina Historical Magazine 70 (Janu-
ary 1969), 50.
14. January 7, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 179; Madison to Jefferson, June 30, 1789, Madison Papers,
12:268; Washington to Graham, January 9, 1790, Washington Papers, 4:551–54. See also Benja-
min Rush to John Howard, October 14, 1789, Rush Papers, 527–28; Madison to James Madi-
son, Sr., July 5, 1789, Madison Papers, 12:278.

1
The Theater of National Politics
1. Maclay’s other public offices included a justiceship in Northumberland County (1772–86),
deputy surveyor for Berks County (1764–90); and prothonotary, register, recorder, and clerk
of the Northumberland County courts (1772–77). He also played a large role in the laying
out of Northumberland County and the towns of Sunbury and Harrisburg. For an account
of Maclay’s life, see Maclay’s Diary, 431–41; and Heber G. Gearhart, “The Life of William
Maclay,” Proceedings of the Northumberland County Historical Society 2 (May 1930): 46–73. For
more obscure biographies, see Maclay’s Diary, 432, note 1.
2. The quote is attributed to a “Mr. Harris of Harrisburg,” probably a relation, since Maclay
married into the family when he wed Mary Harris in 1769. Gearhart, “Life of William
Maclay,” 73. In addition to Maclay and fellow Pennsylvania senator Robert Morris, the As-
sembly considered Benjamin Franklin, William Irvine, John Armstrong, Jr., and George
Clymer. For the maneuverings and counter-maneuverings that resulted in the choice of
Maclay and Morris, see Harry Marlin Tinkcom, The Republicans and Federalists in Pennsylva-
nia, 1790–1801 (Harrisburg: Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission, 1950), 25.
3. April 29, 1789, and December 31, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 10, 351; May 17 and June 21, 1790,
ibid., 270, 299. The weekly Pennsylvania dinners began in February 1790. See February 22,
May 3, 17, and 24, June 7 and 21, 1790, ibid., 207, 259, 270, 274–75, 285, 299. On congressional
“mess days,” see Young, Washington Community, 98–102. Maclay’s capitalization and punctu-
ation are extremely erratic; with the exception of the first word in a quote where, as noted
above, we have silently set a cap or lowercase to fit the sentence strucure, all Maclay’s idiosyn-
crasies have been retained.
4. December 22, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 345; April 29, 1789, ibid., 10.
5. April 27 and 30, 1789, ibid., 7–8, 11–12; Maclay to Benjamin Rush, April 23, 1789, Rush Papers,
Library of Congress.
6. May 8, 1789, and February 26, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 29, 395.
7. April 29 and June 4, 1789, ibid., 10, 66.
8. April 25, 1789, ibid., 5. For the drawing of Maclay’s ballot, see May 15, 1789, ibid., 40. The
measure was intended to prevent the entire Senate from departing at the same time; stag-
gering the term lengths provided some continuity.
9. June 4, 1789, ibid., 66.
10. Maclay made no entries for June 7 and August 23, 1789, September 9–12, 1789 (when he was
sick), December 11–12, 1790 (when the Senate was adjourned), and February 19–22, 1791
(when he was too busy—and unsure of the ultimate good of his diary).
 300 n o t e s t o p a g e s 1 8 – 25

11. Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 46. See also Forrest McDonald, The Presidency of
George Washington (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1974), 29–31.
12. Maclay’s Diary, xvi.
13. Abigail Adams in ibid., xiii.
14. John Adams, diary entry, in Andrew Trees, “ ‘A Character to Establish’: Personality and Na-
tional Identity in the New American Nation” (Ph.D. diss., University of Virginia, 1999), 151.
For the “first four decades of national government between one third and two thirds of the
congressional community left every two years not to return.” On average, 41.5 percent of the
total membership left office every two years. Young, Washington Community, 89–90.
15. April 28, May 6, and June 11, 1789, January 20, 1791, April 3, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 9, 25, 74,
365, 235. On the link between nationalism and sectionalism, see Peter S. Onuf, “Federalism,
Republicanism, and the Origins of American Sectionalism,” in All Over the Map: Rethinking
American Regions (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), 11–37; John Murrin,
“A Roof Without Walls,” in Beyond Confederation: Dimensions of the Constitution and American
National Identity, ed. Richard R. Beeman, Stephen Botein, and Edward C. Carter II (Chapel
Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987); and Young, Washington Community, 97–
100.
16. April 26, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 6–7. See also April 4, 1790, ibid., 235–36. Fisher Ames also
considered Fitzsimons “artful,” describing him as “one of those people whose face, manner,
and sentiments concur to produce caution, if not apprehension and disgust.” Ames to George
Richards Minot, May 18, 1789, Works of Fisher Ames, 2:627–28.
17. March 27, April 4, and May 9, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 229, 236, 263. For a similar comment
regarding Clymer and Wynkoop, see also March 31, 1790, ibid., 232; September 28, 1789,
ibid., 169; see also June 5, 1790, ibid., 284.
18. Gerry to unknown correspondent, March 22, 1789, Elbridge Gerry Papers, Library of Con-
gress; Ames to George Richards Minot, May 29, 1789, Works of Fisher Ames, 1:638–39; Thomas
Hartley to Jasper Yeates, June 19, 1789, in Christman, First Federal Congress, 271.
19. January 17 and February 22, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 184, 207.
20. July 15 and August 16, 1789, ibid., 113, 121; March 8 and 10, 1790, ibid., 214, 216; Maclay to
Benjamin Rush, March 27, 1790, Rush Papers, Library of Congress.
21. January 7, 1790, ibid., 179. On the location of the national capital, see Kenneth R. Bowling,
The Creation of Washington, D.C.: The Idea and Location of the American Capital (Fairfax, Va.:
George Mason University Press, 1991), and Creating the Federal City: Potomac Fever (Washing-
ton, D.C.: Octagon Research Series, 1988).
22. John Armstrong, Jr., to William McPherson, November 26, 1788, McPherson Papers, His-
torical Society of Pennsylvania. Maclay’s elevation to office was also affected by Pennsylvania’s
ongoing constitutional crisis and the need for an “Agricultural Senator” to balance out the
urban, commerce-oriented Robert Morris. Tench Coxe to James Madison, October 22, 1788,
Madison Papers, 11:312–13; Tinkcom, Republicans and Federalists in Pennsylvania, 25; Bernstein,
“New Matrix for National Politics,” 132.
23. May 5, June 9, and August 26, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 24, 72, 135; May 7, 1789, ibid., 25. Cribbed
notes were also common in the British Parliament, where members had a similar desire to earn
reputation and acclaim. On the theatricality of eighteenth-century oratory, see Fliegelman,
Declaring Independence.
24. July 16, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 115. On Adams’s disrespect, see also June 21, 1790, ibid., 299.
25. For a similar account of Congress in the early years of Washington City, see Young, Washing-
ton Community, 94, 96–97.
26. Fisher Ames to Thomas Dwight, July 25, 1790, Works of Fisher Ames, 1:835. Ames was referring
here to James Jackson of Georgia, who gave a speech not quite “loud enough for you
[Dwight] to hear” in New York. Jackson was notoriously loud; in March 1792, South Carolina
 notes to pages 26 – 3 2 301

Representative William Loughton Smith noted, “We have got a new orator in the House,
[John Francis] Mercer—who is louder than Jackson.” Smith to Edward Rutledge, March
24, 1792, in “Letters of William Loughton Smith,” 241.
27. March 3, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 399–400.
28. March 2, 1790, ibid., 211; March 22, 1790, ibid., 226; John Page to St. George Tucker, Febru-
ary 25, 1790, in Christman, First Federal Congress, 305. See also Page to Tucker, February 26
and March 18, 1790, ibid.
29. February 26, 1791, and February 12, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 394, 201; June 28 and June 4, 1789,
ibid., 91, 67; Robert Morris to Mary Morris, July 2, 1790, Huntington Library, First Federal
Congress Project, George Washington University (hereafter FFC). Morris notes that he had
been offended the day before by a New Yorker, a probable reference to Rufus King’s accusa-
tions of illicit bargaining over the location of the capital. King was silenced at least once during
his diatribe; even Maclay noted that King railed “Blackguard like.” July 1, 1790, Maclay’s Diary,
309.
30. June 12, 1789, and January 8, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 75, 180; April 24, 1789, ibid., 4.
31. February 22 and May 13, 1790, ibid., 207, 267. See also February 19, 1790, ibid., 205.
32. February 21, 1790, ibid., 206. John Page to St. George Tucker, February 25, 1790, Tucker-
Coleman Collection, Earl Gregg Swem Library, William and Mary College, FFC; Maclay’s
Diary, 211, note 1. Virginian Arthur Lee likewise considered Madison too proud. Arthur Lee
to Thomas Lee Shippen, April 25, 1790, Lee Family Papers, Virginia Historical Society. Page
quoted Thomas Tudor Tucker’s poem in his letter, which contains a number of other riddles,
rhymes, and lampoons that were passed around the House floor.
33. May 13, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 266–67. Maclay wanted papers concerning government pay-
ments to Revolutionary War general Baron von Steuben; the Senate was debating a resolve
to grant him a pension and pay for his services during the war. See ibid., 260, note 8.
34. July 16, 1789, ibid., 114.
35. March 31 and March 10, 1790, ibid., 231, 216.
36. William Loughton Smith to Edward Rutledge, April 2, 1790, “Letters of William Loughton
Smith,” 111–14. On the Burke-Hamilton dispute and its impact, see John C. Meleney, The
Public Life of Aedanus Burke: Revolutionary Republican in Post-Revolutionary South Carolina
(Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1989), 192–207; Alexander Hamilton to
Aedanus Burke, April 1 and 7, 1790, Burke to Hamilton, April 1 and 7, 1790, [From Elbridge
Gerry, Rufus King, George Mathews, Lambert Cadwalader, James Jackson, and John
Henry], April 6, 1790, Hamilton Papers 6:333–37, 353–55, 357–58; William Smith to Otho Hol-
land Williams, April 8, 1790, Otho Holland Williams to Dr. Philip Thomas, April 8, 1790,
and William Smith to Otho Holland Williams, April 18, 1790, Calendar of the General Otho
Holland Williams Papers in the Maryland Historical Society (Baltimore: Maryland Historical
Records Survey Project, 1940), Documents 573, 574, 577. For the response in Virginia, see
Gustavus B. Wallace to James Madison, April 20, 1790, and Adam Stephen to James Madison,
April 25, 1790, Madison Papers, 13:152, 176–77.
37. Burke to Anthony Walton White, January 3, 1791, in Meleney, Public Life of Burke, 206.
38. May 1, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 17; Maclay to Rush, May 18, 1789, William Maclay Diary, Library
of Congress. (Maclay recorded a handful of letters in his first diary volume; the published
edition of his diary does not contain them.) Maclay again tried to placate Adams the next
day by engaging him (unsuccessfully) in a friendly chat. Unfortunately, Adams was no better
at small talk than Maclay. May 2, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 19–20. For Maclay’s request for Rush’s
assistance, see ibid., 17, note 1.
39. December 30, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 350. See also January 1, 1790, ibid., 177.
40. June 14 and July 20, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 293, 327. Maclay referred to Morris’s vote to place
the national capital along the Potomac. February 25, 1791, ibid., 390.
 302 notes to pages 33 – 39

41. July 19 and April 1, 1790, ibid., 325. On another occasion, Maclay detected “rather a Coolness
of the Citizens towards me.” December 31, 1790, ibid., 351. Wynkoop had returned by April
22.
42. Henry Wynkoop to Reading Beatty, August 6, 1790, in Christman, First Federal Congress,
189; Robert Morris to Mary Morris, July 2, 1790, Huntington Library, FFC. See also Robert
Morris to Mary Morris, June 2, 1790, ibid., FFC. For examples of the cartoons, see Christman,
First Federal Congress, 190–95.
43. William Eustis to David Cobb, December 4, 6, and 18, 1794, David Cobb Papers, Massachu-
setts Historical Society.
44. February 7, 1790, and editorial note, Maclay’s Diary, 199, 406. For copies of those pieces that
can be documented as Maclay’s work, see ibid., 406–26.
45. June 8 and 18, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 287, 297. The piece appeared in the Philadelphia Federal
Gazette on June 16, 1790. Maclay’s Diary, 419–20. Maclay occasionally “contrived” to get his
essays into New York City newspapers as well. April 28, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 255, 418–19.
See also Maclay’s “sham petition” from Rhode Island, published in the New York Federal
Gazette on April 3, 1789, suggesting that the state would join the Union if the national capital
were placed in Pennsylvania. Maclay to Tench Coxe, March 30, 1789, Tench Coxe Papers;
Jacob E. Cooke, Tench Coxe and the Early Republic, 141. The petition is not included in the
assemblage of newspaper articles in Maclay’s Diary, 406–26.
46. April 28 and May 1, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 255, 257; June 10, 1790, ibid., 288. For the newspaper
piece, see ibid., 418.
47. March 14, 1790, ibid., 218. For other attempts to prove public opinion with correspondence,
see June 21, 1789, June 14, 1790, ibid., 84–85, 293. For a list of all extant letters written by
Maclay during his term of office, see ibid., 428–31.
48. July 17 and July 8, 1789, ibid., 116, 103–4; May 27 and July 3, 1789, ibid., 56, 100. The letters
were from Pennsylvania’s Chief Justice Thomas McKean, Supreme Court Associate Justice
James Wilson, City Council member Miers Fisher, Assembly Speaker Richard Peters, émi-
nence grise Tench Coxe, “and Sundry others.”
49. September 24, 1789, and January 5, 1791, ibid., 162–63, 356–57. On public opinion, see also
Wood, Radicalism of the American Revolution, 363–64.
50. December 8 and 29, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 340, 349; Thatcher to Robert Southgate, July 1,
1789, Scarborough MSS, Maine Historical Society, FFC; August 25, 1789, Maclay’s Diary,
133–34.
51. December 14, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 342. On one occasion, Maclay attended the levee in a
new suit, worn explicitly for that occasion. December 28, 1790, ibid., 349. During assemblies,
George II moved around a circle of visitors, honoring some with a word or two; Pennsylvania
socialites Anne and William Bingham saw the same ceremony in the French court. Beattie,
English Court in the Reign of George I, 14; Alberts, Golden Voyage: The Life and Times of William
Bingham, 154–55. On the etiquette of Washington’s levees, see Scudder, Men and Manners
in America One Hundred Years Ago, 244–46; Decatur, Private Affairs of George Washington,
73–74; and Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 49–50.
52. Oliver Wolcott, Jr., to Oliver Wolcott, Sr., March 28, 1791, in Memoirs of the Administrations
of Washington and John Adams, ed. George Gibbs, 2 vols. (New York: William Van Norden,
1846), 1:64; June 5, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 70. See also Elias, Court Society, 88.
53. David Hume, Essays Moral, Political, and Literary, ed. Eugene F. Miller (Indianapolis: Liberty
Classics, 1985), Essay XXI, 203–4. For example, Elkins and McKitrick question the impor-
tance of this agitation over etiquette. Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 46. McDonald
stresses the comedy of the debate. McDonald, Presidency of George Washington, 28–31.
54. Walter Jones to James Madison, September 15, 1789, Madison Papers, 12:403.
55. Eléanor-François-Elie, comte de Moustier, to Thomas Jefferson, June 24, 1789, in The Papers
 notes to pages 39 – 45 303

of Thomas Jefferson [hereafter Jefferson Papers], ed. Julian Boyd, Charles T. Cullen, and John
Catanzariti, 27 vols. to date (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1950–), 15:210–12. My
translation. For a strikingly similar self-conscious construction of a republican political cul-
ture, see Hunt, Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution.
56. On republican ambivalence over traditional props of authority, see Richard Bushman, The
Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Random House, 1992), 181–203.
57. August 25 and 28, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 133–34, 138.
58. The New-York Journal, April 8, 1790; ibid., May 18, 1790.
59. April 25, May 11 and 14, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 6, 33, 37. See also Reverend James Madison to
James Madison, August 15, 1789, Madison Papers, 12:337–39. For an example of Adams’s views,
see Adams to Benjamin Rush, June 9, 1789, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical
Society. Also James H. Hutson, “John Adams’ Title Campaign,” New England Quarterly 41
(March 1968): 30–39; John Ferling, John Adams: A Life (New York: Henry Holt, 1996), 302–
4; and Peter Shaw, The Character of John Adams (New York: Norton, 1977), 230–33.
60. James Madison to William Short, April 6, 1790, Madison Papers, 13:140. See also March 29,
1790, Maclay’s Diary, 230. The Senate charge to the House was made months before Madi-
son’s comment, but it was part of the same debate over titles of address. May 14, 1789, Maclay’s
Diary, 38. Politicians also fretted about the monarchical implications of such words as splendor
and the phrase “His Most gracious Speech.” May 1 and 7, 1789, ibid., 16, 26. See also Benjamin
Rush to John Adams, July 21, 1789, Rush Papers, 1:522–25.
61. April 28, 1789, March 9, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 8–9, 215–16.
62. Public figures in revolutionary France had a similar sensitivity to the politics of fashion. Hunt,
Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution, 74–86. On clothing and social authority,
see Bushman, Refinement of America, chap. 3. For useful overviews of the literature on republi-
canism, see Robert E. Shalhope, “Towards a Republican Synthesis: The Emergence of an
Understanding of Republicanism in American Historiography,” William and Mary Quarterly
29 (January 1972): 49–80, and “Republicanism and Early American Historiography,” William
and Mary Quarterly 39 (April 1982): 334–56. Also note the newspaper squib declaring that
after the celebration of Washington’s birthday one onlooker felt “his Republicanism a little
wounded.” Boston Gazette, February 15, 1790.
63. May 4, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 21.
64. Washington to Catharine Macaulay Graham, January 9, 1790, Washington Papers, 4:551–54;
Decatur, Private Affairs of Washington, 8–9. See also Washington to John Adams, May 10,
1789, and Washington to John Jay, May 11, 1789, Washington Papers, 2:245–50, 270. Washing-
ton’s suit (as well as the vice president’s and those of the entire Connecticut delegation) was
made of wool manufactured in Hartford, Connecticut. Christman, First Federal Congress, 112.
On the symbolism of homespun, see also Jeremiah Wadsworth to Tobias Lear, February 15,
1789, in Decatur, Private Affairs of Washington, 10.
65. Douglass Southall Freeman, George Washington: A Biography, 7 vols. (New York: Scribner’s,
1948–57), 6:180; William Sullivan, The Public Men of the Revolution, ed. John T. S. Sullivan
(Philadelphia: Carey and Hart, 1847), 119–20; Scudder, Men and Manners, 244–46; Decatur,
Private Affairs of Washington, 67–68. On President versus General Washington, see New-York
Daily Gazette, May 28, 1789; Decatur, Private Affairs of Washington, 43–44.
66. Decatur, Private Affairs of Washington, 67–68.
67. William Loughton Smith, [April 30, 1790], Journal of William Loughton Smith, 1790–1791, ed.
Albert Matthews (Cambridge: The University Press, 1917), 67.
68. Benjamin Rush, March 17, 1790, “Commonplace Book,” The Autobiography of Benjamin Rush:
His ‘Travels Through Life’ Together with his Commonplace Book for 1789–1813, ed. George W.
Corner (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1948), 181.
69. May 24, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 275; Lord Dorchester to Lord Grenville, September 25, 1790,
 304 notes to pages 45 – 4 9

Canadian Archives Report of 1890, 146, FFC. See also February 18, 1791, Maclay’s Diary,
386; [William Loughton Smith], “The Politicks and Views of a Certain Party, Displayed”
(Philadelphia, 1792). Sir Augustus Foster made a similar observation about Jefferson’s egali-
tarian etiquette and costume as president. Mary Carolina Crawford, Romantic Days in the
Early Republic (Boston: Little, Brown, 1912), 175. Lockridge labels Jefferson’s brand of democ-
ratized gentility “radical chic.” Kenneth A. Lockridge, “Colonial Self-Fashioning: Paradoxes
and Pathologies in the Construction of Genteel Identity in Eighteenth-Century America,”
in Through a Glass Darkly: Reflections of Personal Identity in Early America, ed. Ronald Hoff-
man, Mechel Sobel, and Frederika J. Teute (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,
1997), 330–32.
70. Many noted Washington’s “happy mixture of authority and modesty.” Otto to Montmorin,
January 12, 1790, in O’Dwyer, “French Diplomat’s View of Congress,” 413; Abigail Adams
to Mary Cranch, July 12, 1789, and January 5, 1790, New Letters of Abigail Adams, 14–17, 35;
Thomas Twining, May 13, 1796, in Henry Wansey and His American Journal, 1794, ed. David
John Jeremy (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1970).
71. Freeman, George Washington, 6:295; Otto to Montmorin, June 13, 1790, in O’Dwyer, “French
Diplomat’s View of Congress,” 434; also Kenneth and Anna M. Roberts, Moreau de St. Méry’s
American Journey: 1793–1798 (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1947), 350; July 15, 1789, Maclay’s
Diary, 113 (Oliver Ellsworth of Connecticut was speaking). For a more detailed description
of Washington’s carriage, see Decatur, Private Affairs of Washington, 42, 138, 177. On carriages,
see T. H. Breen, “Horses and Gentlemen: The Cultural Significance of Gambling among the
Gentry of Virginia,” William and Mary Quarterly 34 (1977): 239–57; and Michael J. Rozbicki,
The Complete Colonial Gentleman: Cultural Legitimacy in Plantation America (Charlottesville:
University Press of Virginia, 1998), 162–64.
72. Tristram Dalton to Benjamin Goodhue, February 17, 1789, Benjamin Goodhue Papers, New-
York Society Library; May 7, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 262.
73. The New-York Journal, March 4, 1790. Of course, considering that Hamilton’s way of pro-
cessing problems was to talk to himself while walking, it is possible that he was occasionally
“lost in thought profound.” For contemporary descriptions of Hamilton’s public manner,
see Sullivan, Public Men of the Revolution, 260–61; Jacques Pierre Brissot de Warville, New
Travels in the United States of America, 1788 (1797; Cambridge: Belknap, 1964), 147.
74. John Adams to unknown correspondent, March 3, 1792, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society; David Stuart to George Washington, July 14, 1789, Washington Papers,
3:198–204; Washington to David Stuart, July 26, 1789, Washington Papers, 3:321–27.
75. May 3–5 and 18, 1791, The Diaries of George Washington, 1748–1799, ed. John C. Fitzpatrick
(1925; New York: Kraus Reprint, 1971), 172–73, 179; Sedgwick to Pamela Sedgwick, January 1,
1791, Theodore Sedgwick Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; January 13, 1791, Maclay’s
Diary, 361.
76. Walter Jones to James Madison, July 25, 1789, Madison Papers, 12:308; Lund Washington to
George Washington, ca. April 28, 1790, Mount Vernon Library.
77. Adams to John Trumbull, April 25 and April 2, 1790, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society.
78. February 26, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 395. On the “rules” of politics and the prevailing discomfort
with personal alliances and political intrigues, see Young, Washington Community, chap. 3.
79. July 2 and 15, June 18, and May 20, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 310, 320–21, 297, 272.
80. June 14 and 23, 1790, ibid., 293, 302; William Loughton Smith to Edward Rutledge, June
14, 1790, “Letters of William Loughton Smith,” 116; “Residence, 2d session” [memorandum],
ca. June 30, 1790, Rufus King Papers, New-York Historical Society; Portland Gazette, Septem-
ber 26, 1808, in Fischer, Revolution of American Conservatism, 161. See also Richard Peters to
Timothy Pickering, February 26, 1806, in Fischer, Revolution of American Conservatism, 161.
 notes to pages 51 – 5 4 305

Hamilton’s conversation complies with his 1790 dinner deal with Madison. See Bowling,
Creation of Washington, D.C., 187. For an alternate view of the 1790 “dinner deal,” see Jacob
E. Cooke, “Compromise of 1790,” William and Mary Quarterly 27 (1970): 523–45. See also
Bowling (with a rebuttal by Cooke), “Dinner at Jefferson’s: A Note on Jacob E. Cooke’s
‘The Compromise of 1790,’ ” William and Mary Quarterly 28 (October 1971): 629–48; and
Norman K. Risjord, “The Compromise of 1790: New Evidence on the Dinner Table Bar-
gain,’’ William and Mary Quarterly 33 (April 1976): 309–14.
81. July 10, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 317; March 26, 1790, ibid., 229.
82. June 14, 1790, ibid., 292. Morris must have discussed his conversation with the entire Pennsyl-
vania delegation; within three days, Peter Muhlenberg reported to Benjamin Rush that “It
is now established beyond a doubt that the Secretary of the Treasury guides the movements of
the Eastern Phalanx.” Peter Muhlenberg to Benjamin Rush, June 17, 1790, Gratz Collection,
Historical Society of Pennsylvania, FFC.
83. Comte de Moustier to George Washington, May 1 and 19, 1789, Washington to Moustier,
May 25, 1789, Washington Papers, 2:183–86, 329–31, 389–91.
84. Pierre Auguste Adet to unknown correspondent, 1795, in Charles H. Sherrill, French Memories
of Eighteenth Century America (New York: Scribner’s, 1915), 254. See also Young, Washington
Community, 47, though Young overlooks the larger ideological significance of this politicized
social realm, attributing it to the close quarters in Washington.
85. January 2 and February 9, 1790, September 6, 1789, January 26, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 178,
200, 147, 369. Pickering to William Bingham, December 17, 1795, in Alberts, Golden Voyage,
298–99; John Adams to John Trumbull, April 2, 1790, Adams Family Papers. See also Coxe
to Jefferson, n.d. [between December 1801 and May 1802], in Cooke, Tench Coxe and the
Early Republic, 249, note 30.
86. The weekly Pennsylvania dinners began in February 1790. See February 22, May 3, 17, and
24, June 7 and 21, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 207, 259, 270, 274–75, 285, 299. On the weekly levees
of political wives, see Shields and Teute, “Republican Court and the Historiography of a
Woman’s Domain.”
87. August 27, 1789, and March 4, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 136–37, 212–13. Maclay dined with the
president on August 27, 1789, January 14, March 4, May 6, July 8, 1790, and January 20,
1790, ibid., 136–37, 182, 212–13, 261, 315, 364–65. Washington played with his silverware on
more than one occasion. Jay told an anecdote about “the Duchess of Devonshire leaving no
Stone unturned, to carry Fox’s election”—a story based on the rumor that she gave kisses in
exchange for votes (though Jay’s pun on the word stone suggests something more than kisses).
August 27, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 137, note 37; Donald R. McAdams, “Electioneering Tech-
niques in Populous Constituencies, 1784–96,” Studies in Burke and His Time 14 (Fall 1972):
23–53, see 33–34.
88. Abigail Adams to Mary Cranch, September 1, 1789, New Letters of Abigail Adams: 1788–1801,
ed. Stewart Mitchell (1947; Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1973), 24–26. Adams’s attacker
was Edward Church, who was already upset with Adams for failing to get him a public office.
Church’s poem appeared in the Massachusetts Centinel on August 22, 1789; for an excerpt, see
ibid.
89. Alexander White to Mrs. Wood, March 8, 1789, Morristown National Historical Park; Theo-
dore Sedgwick to Pamela Sedgwick, July 10, 1789, Theodore Sedgwick Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society; May 1, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 17–18; Abigail Adams to Mary Cranch, July
12 and August 9, 1789, and December 12, 1790, New Letters of Abigail Adams, 14–17, 19–20,
66. See also John Page to St. George Tucker, March 26, 1789, Tucker-Coleman Papers, Earl
Gregg Swann Library, College of William and Mary, FFC; July 18, 1789, Robert Lewis diary,
Mount Vernon Library. On the rituals of visiting, see C. Dallett Hemphill, Bowing to Necessi-
ties: A History of Manners in America, 1620–1860 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999),
 306 notes to pages 54 – 59

151–54. Hemphill discusses the codification of these rituals in etiquette books of the 1820s,
but clearly they were in practice much earlier.
90. The Bréhan scandal took place in the last days of the Confederation government. Madison
to Jefferson, December 8, 1788, Madame de Bréhan and Comte de Moustier to Jefferson,
December 29, 1788, Jefferson Papers, 14:300–304, 399–401. See also John Jay to Jefferson,
November 25, 1788; David Humphreys to Jefferson, November 29, 1788, Jefferson to John Jay,
February 4, 1789, Jefferson to Angelica Schuyler Church, February 15, 1789, John Trumbull to
Jefferson, March 10, 1789, Jefferson Papers, 14:291, 339–42, 520–23, 553–54, 634–35. On Mous-
tier’s dinner gaffe, see Roberts and Roberts, Moreau de St. Méry’s American Journey, 275. Also
Griswold, Republican Court, 92–93.
91. April 28, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 8.
92. April 28 and 30, and August 24, 1789, ibid., 8, 13, 132.
93. January 20, 1791, ibid., 364–66.
94. Jefferson, [Memorandum of Conversation between Senator Philemon Dickinson and George
Hammond], March 26, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 23:344–45. See also Louis Guillaume Otto to
Montmorin, December 13 1790, ibid., 18:539 headnote.
95. June 11, 1789, and June 20, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 74, 298. On the role of elite women in the
national political arena, see Catherine Allgor, Parlour Politics: In Which the Ladies of Wash-
ington Help Build a City and a Government (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia,
2000); Susan Branson, “Politics and Gender: The Political Consciousness of Philadelphia
Women in the 1790s” (Ph.D. diss., Northern Illinois University, 1992); and Shields and
Teute, “Republican Court and the Historiography of a Woman’s Domain.” See also Paula
Baker, “The Domestication of Politics: Women and American Political Society, 1780–1920,”
American Historical Review 89 (1984): 628–32; Linda Kerber, Women of the Republic: Intellect
and Ideology in Revolutionary America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980);
and Rosemarie Zagarri, “Gender and the First Party System,” in Federalists Reconsidered, ed.
Doron Ben-Atar and Barbara B. Oberg (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1998),
118–34.
96. Jefferson to James Madison, February 14, 1783, in James Morton Smith, ed., The Republic of
Letters: The Correspondence Between Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, 1776–1826 (New York:
Norton, 1995), 1:223. Madison agreed that “for all unconfidential services he is a convenient instru-
ment.” Madison to Jefferson, February 18, 1783, ibid., 1:226–27. Franks later accompanied
Jefferson to France as his secretary.
97. Adams to Mary Cranch, April 3, 1790, New Letters of Abigail Adams, 44; Lear to George
Augustine Washington, May 3, 1789, Washington Papers, 2:248–49, note. (Martha had not
yet joined her husband in New York.) The office-seeker was Joseph Cranch. Adams eventually
spoke with Secretary of War Henry Knox concerning the matter.
98. December 29, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 349; December 31, 1790, and March 3, 1791, ibid., 352,
401.
99. December 31, 1790, and February 23, 1791, ibid., 351–52, 387. See also February 26, 1791, ibid.,
392.
100. Samuel Barr to George Washington Harris, July 18, 1882, FFC; George Washington Harris,
ed., Sketches of Debate in the First Senate of the United States, in 1789–90–91, by William Maclay,
A Senator from Pennsylvania (Harrisburg: Lane and Hart, Printer, 1880). On the efforts of
George Washington Harris to get the diary published, see ibid., xvi–xviii. See also the Epi-
logue, below. My thanks to Ken Bowling and Charlene Bickford for providing access to their
files concerning Harris.
101. The 1890 edition, edited by Edgar S. Maclay (a distant relation), is relatively accurate, by
nineteenth-century editorial standards. Edgar S. Maclay, The Journal of William Maclay,
United States Senator from Pennsylvania, 1789–1791 (New York: Appleton, 1890). The chief of
 n o t e s t o p a g e s 6 2 – 65 307

the Library of Congress Manuscript Division thought that the diary was worth only $500
“in view of the great number of other offers of material which would be equally important”—
unless the Librarian of Congress was willing to pay for it out of his own “special fund,” in
which case a price as high as $1,500 would be reasonable. Memorandum from St. George L.
Sioussat to Chief Assistant Librarian, February 5, 1941, FFC. A third edition, nearly identical
to the second, was published in 1927 by Charles Beard, who added a contextual introduction.
The Journal of William Maclay, United States Senator from Pennsylvania, 1789–1791 (New York:
A & C Boni, 1927). The 1988 edition published under the auspices of the Documentary His-
tory of the First Federal Congress is the first completely accurate version of Maclay’s diary.

2
Slander, Poison, Whispers, and Fame
1. The first advertisement for Marshall’s biography appeared in the Georgetown Washington
Federalist on March 27, 1802. The book was published in five volumes between 1804 and
1807. Hamilton Papers, 25:604, note 1. On Marshall’s authorship of Washington’s Life, see
Robert K. Faulkner, “John Marshall and the ‘False Glare’ of Fame,” in McNamara, Noblest
Minds, 163–84.
2. Jefferson to Elbridge Gerry, March 29, 1801, The Writings of Thomas Jefferson, ed. Paul L.
Ford, 12 vols. (New York: Scribner’s, 1905), 9:241.
3. Jefferson to Joel Barlow, October 8, 1809, ibid., 11:121–22; John Marshall, The Life of George
Washington, 5 vols. (Philadelphia: C. P. Wayne, 1807), 5:33; Thomas Jefferson, undated notes,
The Complete Anas of Thomas Jefferson, ed. Franklin B. Sawvel (New York: Round Table Press,
1903), 43. For all of Jefferson’s corrections, see pp. 41–43.
4. I compared a recently discovered table of contents for the “Anas” with Jefferson’s published
papers; the table of contents included almost every piece of official correspondence included
in the published Jefferson Papers. See also Merrill Peterson, The Jefferson Image in the American
Mind (New York: Oxford University Press, 1960), 33. Jefferson recorded conversations
throughout his public career, but only the memoranda from Washington’s administration
were included in his documentary “history.”
5. Jefferson to John Adams, August 10 [11], 1815, The Adams-Jefferson Letters: The Complete Corre-
spondence Between Thomas Jefferson and Abigail and John Adams, ed. Lester J. Cappon, 2 vols.
(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1959), 2:452.
6. Thomas Jefferson Randolph, ed., Memoir, Correspondence, and Miscellanies, from the Papers of
Thomas Jefferson, 4 vols. (Charlottesville, Va.: F. Carr, 1829), 4:443; Peterson, Jefferson Image
in the American Mind, 33; and Malone, Jefferson and the Rights of Man, 497. For the most
authoritative discussion of the “Anas,” see Jefferson Papers, 22:33–38. I occasionally refer to
Jefferson’s compilation as the “Anas” for convenience; as noted above, he himself never used
this title. This study relies on Jefferson’s published memoranda in the Jefferson Papers, his
draft table of contents, and Franklin Sawvel’s flawed 1903 published edition of the “Anas”
which excludes some of Jefferson’s revisions, and includes memoranda from long after Jef-
ferson’s service as secretary of state, as well as altered spelling and punctuation and misin-
terpreted abbreviations. On the discovery of the table of contents, see Eugene Sheridan,
“Thomas Jefferson and the Giles Resolutions,” William and Mary Quarterly 49 (1992): 607,
note. Long assumed to be an epistolary record, the list appears to be a draft table of contents
for Jefferson’s “history,” compiled over the course of several years. A comparison of Jefferson’s
table of contents with the Jefferson Papers reveals that Jefferson excluded only a few documents
from his three volumes, leading to the likely conclusion that the volumes were at most margin-
ally different from his draft table of contents.
 308 notes to pages 66 – 69

7. Though the word gossip best describes this political practice, I do not use the word pejora-
tively; those who gossiped would not have seen their behavior as disreputable.
8. William Seton to Alexander Hamilton, April 9, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 11:258; Henry Lee to
James Madison, January 8, 1792, Madison Papers, 14:183; George Washington to Hamilton,
August 26, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 12:276 (also Washington to Thomas Jefferson, August 23,
1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:315–19); Fisher Ames to John Lowell, December 6, 1792, Works of
Fisher Ames, 2:956–57. For an evocative sociological study of gossip, see Goodman and Ben-
Ze’ev, Good Gossip. See also Spacks, Gossip; Bonomi, Lord Cornbury Scandal; and Wiebe, Open-
ing of American Society, 44. For related studies of the art of conversation, see Elias, Civilizing
Process, 88–93; Burke, Art of Conversation; and Shields, Civil Tongues and Polite Tongues in
British America.
9. On the practical purposes of gossip, see Nicholas Emler, “Gossip, Reputation, and Social
Adaptation,” in Goodman and Ben-Ze’ev, Good Gossip, 134.
10. On the “moral grammar of lies” and genteel status, see Shapin, Social History of Truth,
esp. chap. 3. On the “lie direct” see generally, John Lyde Wilson, The Code of Honor, or Rules
for the Government of Principals and Seconds in Duelling (Charleston, S.C., 1838). On slander,
libel, and reputation in the early republic, see Rosenberg, Protecting the Best Men, chaps.
1–5.
11. William Loughton Smith, “An Address From William Smith, of South-Carolina, to his Con-
stituents” (Philadelphia, 1794), 27; Alexander Hamilton to William Short, February 5, 1793,
Hamilton Papers, 14:7. Hamilton was concerned about the international reaction to Republi-
can Representative William Branch Giles’s hostile congressional resolutions questioning
Hamilton’s conduct as secretary of the treasury.
12. William Willcocks to Alexander Hamilton, September 5, 1793, Hamilton Papers, 15:324; Alex-
ander Hamilton to John Jay, December 18, 1792, ibid., 13:338.
13. Aaron Burr to unknown correspondent, December 30, 1804, Allyn Kellogg Ford Papers,
Minnesota Historical Society; Robert R. Livingston to George Washington, May 2, 1789,
Washington Papers, 2:192–96. Henry Lee made a similar suggestion. Lee to Washington, July
1, 1789, Washington Papers, 3:98–100.
14. Beckley to Tench Coxe, October 30, 1800, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 220. Jefferson to
Madison, November 22, 1799, Madison Papers, 17:277–78.
15. Alexander Hamilton to unknown correspondent, December 17, 1791, Hamilton Papers, 10:
389–90. Heading off to meet with James Reynolds, a disgruntled former treasury employee
who was blackmailing him, Hamilton informed an unknown correspondent of his destination
and his fears about the outcome. For more on the “Reynolds affair,” see Broadus Mitchell,
Alexander Hamilton, 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1962), 399–422; John C. Miller, Alexan-
der Hamilton: Portrait in Paradox (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1959), 458–65; and Jacob
K. Cogan, “The Reynolds Affair and the Politics of Character,” Journal of the Early Republic
16, no. 3 (Fall 1996): 389–417. On Hamilton’s obvious concern for his fame, see also John
Fenno to Joseph Ward, October 10, 1789, Joseph Ward Papers, Chicago Historical Society,
FFC; Stourzh, Hamilton and the Idea of Republican Government, 95–106; Peter McNamara,
“Alexander Hamilton, the Love of Fame, and Modern Democratic Statesmanship,” in McNa-
mara, Noblest Minds, 141–62. On “fame” as gossip, see for example, Fisher Ames to Thomas
Dwight, November 12, 1792: “The men of the south are well trained for Clinton, says fame.”
Works of Fisher Ames, 2:950–51.
16. William Plumer to Jeremiah Smith, December 10, 1791, William Plumer Papers, Library of
Congress.
17. A survey of forty-four collections of the papers of national politicians for the years 1792–1793
produced little political gossip but many references to the process of gossiping; politicians
often responded to circulating rumors without repeating them (a phenomenon that I dub
 notes to pages 70 – 76 309

“the ouch factor”). Eighteenth-century Americans were particularly attuned to nuances of

manner, which often said far more than the words themselves. See Fliegelman, Declaring
Independence; also Ziff, Writing in the New Nation, 55–56. This emphasis on external appear-
ance invited fears of deception, a fertile watering ground for a culture of gossip. For an
excellent discussion of this “paranoid” mentality, see Gordon Wood, “Conspiracy and the
Paranoid Style,” William and Mary Quarterly 29 (July 1982): 401–41.
18. Robert Troup to Alexander Hamilton, March 19, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 11:158; Henry Lee
to Alexander Hamilton, May 6, 1793, ibid., 14:416.
19. September 24, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 164. The Latin appears on the only known page of
Maclay’s rough notes, taken on the Senate floor (see fig. 3, above). Jefferson, memorandum,
December 17, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:751. Sawvel’s Anas includes a badly scrambled version
of this memorandum. Anas, 100. Muhlenberg, Monroe, and Venable visited Hamilton on
December 15. Hamilton Papers, 113:15–16, note 1.
20. Gustavus B. Wallace to James Madison, April 20, 1790, Adams Stephen to James Madison,
April 25, 1790, Madison Papers, 13:152, 176. Madison’s letter has not been found. See also
Brown, Knowledge Is Power, 266, 278; Bonomi, Lord Cornbury Scandal, 150–58.
21. Jefferson, introduction, February 4, 1818, Anas, 24.
22. Ibid., Anas, 36; Jefferson, memorandum, August 13, 1791, Jefferson Papers, 22:39.
23. Jefferson, memorandum, July 18, 1793, Anas, 146–47. See also June 12, 1793, ibid., 129. The
Treasury “clerk” Irvine was actually a federal commissioner at the Department of the Comp-
troller in the Treasury Department who was in charge of settling state claims against the
national government. Beckley befriended him in the course of doing business for Madison,
so it is interesting that Jefferson sent Lear—not Beckley, his customary agent—to investigate
Irvine’s guilt. Berkeley and Berkeley, John Beckley, 67; “List of the Several Persons Employed
in the Office of the Comptroller of the Treasury of the United States on the 31st. of December
1792, and of the Salaries Per Annum Allowed to Each,” January 4, 1793, Hamilton Papers,
13:464.
24. Jefferson, memorandum, April 7, 1793, Jefferson Papers, 25:517; Alexander Hamilton to George
Washington, September 9, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 12:348; Thomas Jefferson to George Wash-
ington, September 9, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:352.
25. Jefferson, memorandum, November 11, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:607. (Sawvel’s Anas incor-
rectly dates this memorandum November 21, 1792; Anas, 96–97.) Jefferson, memorandum,
February 16, 1793, Jefferson Papers, 25:208.
26. [Georgetown, Washington, D.C.], Washington Federalist, December 19, 1800, in Donald
Stewart, The Opposition Press of the Federalist Period (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1969), 638. See, for example, William Livingston to George Washington, April 27,
1778: “I have sent Collins a number of letters as if by different hands. . . . This mode of
rendering a measure unpopular, I have frequently experienced in my political days to be of
surprising efficacy, as the common people collect from it that everybody is against it.” In
Philip Davidson, Propaganda and the American Revolution (Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press, 1941), 12. Also Fisher Ames to Timothy Pickering, January 1, 1807, Pickering
Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
27. Thomas Jefferson to Angelica Church, October 1798, in Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republi-
cans, 31. Angelica Church was Alexander Hamilton’s sister-in-law. Cunningham (and most
other writers who cite this letter) have consistently misdated it 1792.
28. Jefferson had warned Washington about “monarchical federalists” in a May 23, 1792, letter;
see Jefferson Papers, 23:535–41. He informed Madison of the conversation in a June 10, 1792
letter; see ibid., 24:50.
29. Jefferson, memorandum, October 1, 1792, ibid., 24:435. Washington responded by 1) noting
that some self-interest was to be expected in any government; 2) praising Hamilton’s funding
 310 notes to pages 76 – 80

system; and 3) stating that “experience was the only criterion of right.” Thomas Jefferson,
memorandum, October 1, 1792, ibid., 24:435.
30. Thomas Jefferson, introduction, February 4, 1818, Anas, 40.
31. Jefferson, memorandum, March 23, 1793, Jefferson Papers, 25:432–33; Benjamin Rush, August
27, 1792, “Commonplace Book,” in Autobiography of Benjamin Rush, 227; Rush to Burr, Sep-
tember 24, 1792, Political Correspondence and Public Papers of Aaron Burr [hereafter Papers of
Aaron Burr], ed. Mary-Jo Kline, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 1:317.
32. Abigail Adams to John Adams, January 25, 1801, and [A Conversation at table between Mrs
A and Mr J], [January 1801], Adams Family Papers. For an example of Jefferson’s views
about women and politics, see Jefferson to Anne Willing Bingham, May 11, 1788, in Jefferson:
Writings, ed. Merrill Peterson (New York: Library of America, 1984), 922–23. See also Lewis,
“ ‘Blessings of Domestic Society’ ”; and Allgor, Parlour Politics.
33. See James Sullivan to Elbridge Gerry, August 30, 1789, Sullivan Papers, Massachusetts Histor-
ical Society, FFC; Gerry to unknown correspondent, March 22, 1789, Elbridge Gerry Papers,
Library of Congress; and Arthur Lee to Thomas Lee Shippen, April 25, 1790, Lee Family
Papers, Virginia Historical Society. On unpredictable friendships, see James Madison to
Thomas Jefferson, August 27, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:75; and Alexander Hamilton to Edward
Carrington, May 26, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 11:433. On the many meanings of friendship, see
Wood, Radicalism, 224, 178; Taylor, “ ‘Art of Hook and Snivey,’ ” 1382; Taylor, William Coo-
per’s Town, 234–35; J. Mills Thornton III, Politics and Power in a Slave Society: Alabama, 1800–
1860 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1978), 140–41. For a sociological discus-
sion of gossip as a reinforcement for friendship, see Goodman and Ben-Ze’ev, Good Gossip,
passim, esp. 3.
34. Troup’s letter quotes the Roman senator Marcus Porcius Cato, who ended every speech with
the words “Delenda est Carthago”(Carthage must be destroyed). Carthage was one of Rome’s
greatest political and commercial rivals. Troup implies that for Jefferson and his friends, Ham-
ilton is their Carthage. Robert Troup to Alexander Hamilton, June 15, 1791, Hamilton Papers,
8:478. See also Wiebe, Opening of American Society, 44.
35. William Heth, diary, August 31, 1792, William Heth Papers, Library of Congress; Beckley to
Madison, September 2 and October 17, 1792, Madison Papers, 14:354–58; Hamilton to Edward
Carrington, May 26, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 11:444–45.
36. This understanding complements John Howe’s discussion of the Founders’ “volatile and
crisis-ridden ideology.” Men who knew the frailties of republics and found themselves in an
unstable, personal political realm could not help but connect these two factors, fueling the
crisis mentality of the 1790s. Howe, “Republican Thought and the Political Violence,” 165.
37. Jefferson, introduction, February 4, 1818, Anas, 24.
38. On the “isolation of the governors from the governed,” see Young, Washington Community,
32.
39. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, June 9, 1797, Sedgwick I Correspondence, Massa-
chusetts Historical Society. See also Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, January 15,
1796, ibid.; and Arlette Farge, Subversive Words: Public Opinion in Eighteenth-Century France
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995), 66–77. Farge discusses the sup-
pression of public opinion in France, making for an interesting comparison with republican
America.
40. Jefferson and Washington conversed on July 10 and October 1, 1792, and February 7, 1793.
Jefferson Papers, 24:210–11, 433–35, 25:153–55. Washington initially planned to have levees on
both Tuesday and Friday afternoons, but the Friday event evolved into Martha Washington’s
weekly evening reception. May 4, 1789, Maclay’s Diary, 21; Thomas Jefferson, memorandum,
October 1, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:434. In addition to Lear’s gleanings, Washington wanted
feedback from the South and seemed (to Jefferson) to be soliciting it from him.
 n o t e s t o p a g e s 8 0 – 85 311

41. Jefferson, Memoranda, November 19, 1792, and April 7, 1793, Jefferson Papers, 24:638, 25:517;
memorandum, June 7, 1793, Anas, 125–27.
42. Jefferson, memorandum, June 12, 1793, Anas, 128–29; John Beckley to unknown correspon-
dent, June 22, 1793, Hamilton Papers, 14:467, editorial note. Hamilton pointed out in a later
pamphlet that Fraunces felt comfortable enough with his new “friends” to ask Jefferson for
a loan and a “certificate of character” to be used in seeking employment. See Thomas Jefferson
to Andrew Fraunces, June 27, 1797, and Jefferson to Fraunces, June 28, 1797, in Alexander
Hamilton, “Observations on Certain Documents Contained in No. V & VI of ‘The History
of the United States for the Year 1796’ ” (Philadelphia, 1797). Reprinted in Hamilton Papers,
21:238–85, letters on 284–85.
43. John Beckley to unknown correspondent, June 22, 1793, Hamilton Papers, 14:467, editorial
note.
44. John Beckley to unknown correspondent, July 1, 1793, ibid., 14:468–69, editorial note. Wil-
liam Willcocks to Alexander Hamilton, August 25 and September 5, 1793, ibid., 15:277, 324.
See also Robert Affleck to Hamilton, September 7, 1793, ibid., 15:326, and Robert Troup to
Hamilton, December 25, 1793, ibid., 15:587–89. Fraunces also voiced his charges to Washing-
ton, urged action in the House of Representatives, and eventually published a pamphlet con-
taining his accusations. For the House resolution, see Alexander Hamilton, “Observations
on Certain Documents . . . ,” 21:242. For Fraunces’s correspondence with Washington, see
Andrew Fraunces, “An Appeal to the Legislature of the United States, and to the Citizens
Individually, of the Several States” (Philadelphia, 1793).
45. The [New York] Diary: or Loudon’s Register, and the New York Daily Gazette, October 11, 1793,
Hamilton Papers, 15:354–55. Fraunces wrote, “If I am a dispicable calumniator, I have been
unfortunately, for a long time past a pupil of Mr. Hamilton’s—and that it remains to be
proved whether I do honor to my tutor or not.” The [New York] Diary, October 12, 1793,
Hamilton Papers, 15:355.
46. Jefferson, memorandum, March 23, 1793, Jefferson Papers, 25:432–33. For the published version
of the list, see John Beckley and James Monroe, “An Examination of the Late Proceedings
in Congress, Respecting the Official Conduct of the Secretary of the Treasury” (Philadelphia,
1793).
47. Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, June 4, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:26. Madison sent the
list on June 12, 1792; see ibid., 24:69–71, note.
48. Jefferson, memorandum, July 10, 1792, ibid., 24:211.
49. After 1795 Tench Coxe worked close by Beckley’s side. See Michael Durey, Transatlantic Radi-
cals and the Early American Republic (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1997), 234; and
Jacob Cooke, Tench Coxe and the Early Republic (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 1978). On Beckley, see esp. Jeffrey L. Pasley, “ ‘A Journeyman, Either in Law or Poli-
tics’: John Beckley and the Social Origins of Political Campaigning,” Journal of the Early
Republic 16 (Winter 1996): 531–69, and “ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ” chaps. 1 and 3. Also
Philip M. Marsh, “John Beckley: Mystery Man of the Early Jeffersonians,” Pennsylvania Mag-
azine of History and Biography 72 (1948): 54–69; Raymond V. Martin, Jr., “Eminent Virgin-
ian—A Study of John Beckley,” West Virginia History 11 (1949–50): 44–61; Noble E. Cun-
ningham, Jr., “John Beckley: An Early American Party Manager,” William and Mary
Quarterly, 3rd ser., 13 (1956): 40–52; Gloria Jahoda, “John Beckley: Jefferson’s Campaign
Manager,” Bulletin of the New York Public Library 64 (May 1960): 247–60; Cunningham,
Jeffersonian Republicans, passim; and Berkeley and Smith Berkeley, John Beckley. For a selection
of Beckley’s correspondence, see Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson.
50. James Monroe to James Madison, October 9, 1792, Madison Papers, 14:377–81; Monroe and
Madison to Melancton Smith and Marinus Willet, October 19, 1792, ibid., 14:387. For an
example of Madison filtering a pamphlet, see Thomas Jefferson to Madison, September 1,
 312 n o t e s t o p a g e s 8 6 – 91

1793, ibid., 14:88–91; Jefferson to Madison, September 8, 1793, ibid., 14:104; and Madison
to Monroe, September 15, 1793, ibid., 14:111.
51. On Jefferson’s political method, see Caldwell, Administrative Theories of Hamilton and Jeffer-
son; Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans in Power; Dumas Malone, Thomas Jefferson as a
Political Leader (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1963); White, The Jeffersonians,
29–88; and Young, Washington Community, 128–31, 163–78.
52. Plumer, December 3, 1804, William Plumer’s Memorandum of Proceedings in the United States
Senate, 1803–1807, ed. Everett Somerville Brown (New York: Macmillan, 1923), 211–12; Young,
Washington Community, 169.
53. Margaret Bayard Smith quotes Jefferson declaring at one dinner “You see we are alone . . .
and our walls have no ears.” Young, Washington Community, 169.
54. 1 U.S. Statutes at Large, 65–67, signed September 2, 1789. On the act itself, see Mitchell,
Alexander Hamilton, 2:14–21; Charlene Bangs Bickford and Helen E. Veit, eds., Legislative
Histories, volume 6 of the Documentary History of the First Federal Congress, 1789–1791 (Balti-
more: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), 1975–91; and White, Federalists, 67–76.
55. Jefferson, [Memorandum on References by Congress to Heads of Departments], [March 10,
1792], Jefferson Papers, 24:246–48. On the attack on references to heads of departments, see
White, Federalists, 68–74.
56. Beckley to Tench Coxe, January 24, 1800, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 164–65 (see also
Cooke, Tench Coxe, 372, note 3); Jefferson to Washington, May 23, September 9, 1792, and
February 7, 1793, and [Notes of a Conversation with George Washington], October 1, 1792,
Jefferson Papers, 23:537, 24:353 and 435, 25:155; Jefferson to Thomas Mann Randolph, Jr., No-
vember 2, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:556–57. Given the prevailing fears of military despotism
attached to the idea of a standing army, Jefferson’s military metaphor had particular power.
See Gordon Wood, The Creation of the American Republic, 1776–1787 (Chapel Hill: University
of North Carolina Press, 1969), 32–34; Lawrence Delbert Cress, Citizens in Arms: The Army
and Militia in American Society to the War of 1812 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 1982).
57. On Hamilton’s political method, see Joanne B. Freeman, “ ‘The Art and Address of Ministe-
rial Management’: Alexander Hamilton and Congress,” in Neither Separate Nor Equal: Con-
gress and the Executive Branch in the 1790s, ed. Kenneth R. Bowling and Donald R. Kennon
(Athens: Ohio University Press, 2000); Caldwell, Administrative Theories of Hamilton and
Jefferson; White, Federalists; and Mitchell, Alexander Hamilton, 2:24–31.
58. Jefferson, introduction, Anas, 33–34. For Jefferson’s original account, see Jefferson, [Memo-
randum], 1792, Jefferson Papers, 17:205–7.
59. Hamilton was accusing Jefferson of attacking him indirectly through National Gazette editor
Philip Freneau, a printer employed as a translator by Jefferson in the State Department.
[Hamilton], “Catullus III,” [Philadelphia] Gazette of the United States, September 29, 1792,
12:504.
60. Hamilton to Robert Morris, November 9, 1790, Hamilton Papers, 7:146.
61. Charles Carroll to Alexander Hamilton, October 22, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 12:608; Fisher
Ames, [Untitled], [1794?], Works of Fisher Ames, 2:977; Fisher Ames to George Richards
Minot, February 16, 1792, Works of Fisher Ames, 2:913. See also John Zvesper, Political Philoso-
phy and Rhetoric: A Study of the Origins of American Party Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1977), 30.
62. Alexander Hamilton to James A. Bayard, April 16–21, 1802, Hamilton Papers, 25:606; James
McHenry to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., July 22, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:112–15. Hamilton’s realiza-
tion led him to urge the use of newspapers and “Christian Constitutional Societies” to rouse
the people against the Republican regime. See Fischer, Revolution of American Conservatism.
 notes to pages 91 – 97 313

63. On the Genet Affair, see Harry Ammon, The Genet Mission (New York: Norton, 1973); Elkins
and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 330–73; and Dumas Malone, Jefferson and the Ordeal of
Liberty, vol. 3 of Jefferson and His Time (Boston: Little, Brown, 1962), chap 6. On Democratic-
Republican Societies, see Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 451–61; Eugene P. Link,
Democratic-Republican Societies, 1790–1800 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1942);
Philip S. Foner, The Democratic-Republican Societies, 1790–1800: A Documentary Sourcebook of
Constitutions, Declarations, Addresses, Resolutions, and Toasts (Westport: Greenwood, 1976);
Waldstreicher, In the Midst of Perpetual Fetes, 131–33; and Matthew Schoenbachler, “Republi-
canism in the Age of Democratic Revolution: The Democratic-Republican Societies of the
1790s,” Journal of the Early Republic 18 (Summer 1998): 237–61. On revolutionary echoes, see
Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 848, note 14; Waldstreicher, In the Midst of Perpetual
Fetes, 132–33; and Richard Buel, Jr., Securing the Revolution: Ideology in American Politics, 1789–
1815 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1972), 97–101.
64. King to Hamilton, August 3, 1793, Hamilton Papers, 15:173.
65. Aaron Burr to John Nicholson, July 16, 1793, Aaron Burr Papers, Library of Congress; Wil-
liam Smith to Otho Williams, July 19, 1793, cited in Calendar of the General Otho Holland
Williams Papers in the Maryland Historical Society (Baltimore: Maryland Historical Records
Survey Project, Baltimore, 1940), 293; Concord, N.H., Mirrour, December 16, 1793, in Link,
Democratic-Republican Societies, 192. Otho Williams, Baltimore’s collector of customs, was in
frequent communication with his supervisor, Alexander Hamilton.
66. Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, August 11, 1793, Madison Papers, 14:57; Hamilton, “No
Jacobin No. I,” Dunlap’s [Philadelphia] American Daily Advertiser, July 31, 1793, Hamilton
Papers, 15:145.
67. Unsigned copy, Rufus King Papers, New-York Historical Society. An identical copy is in
the Edmond C. Genet Papers, Library of Congress. The statement was published in the New
York Diary on August 12, 1793, and reprinted in newspapers around the country. See Ammon,
Genet Mission, 135; and Hamilton Papers, 15:233–39, editorial note.
68. Robert R. Livingston to Edward Livingston, August 19, 1793, Robert R. Livingston Papers,
New-York Historical Society.
69. Unsigned letter to John Jay and Rufus King, in Rufus King Papers, New-York Historical
Society.
70. See Thomas Jefferson, [Notes on Edmond Genet’s threat to appeal from President to people
of U.S.], ca. August 20, 1793, Thomas Jefferson Papers, Library of Congress. Rather than
notes, this document appears to be a draft of a public statement on the Genet affair that
Jefferson never published. In the draft, Jefferson explains that “silence on my part might
beget surmises which would not be just.” In the document’s last paragraph Jefferson tries to
justify editing his official report for publication; the many crossed-out words and rewritten
sentences reveal Jefferson struggling with the idea of editing “history.” See also Ammon,
Genet Mission, 151
71. Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, September 1, 1793, Madison Papers, 14:89; Jefferson,
memorandum, July 10, 1793, Anas, 138–39; Receipt from Genet to Freneau, September 20,
1793, Edmond Genet Papers, New-York Historical Society. Jefferson’s charge that Genet had
appealed not to Congress but to the people circulated as gossip as well; Hamilton combated
it in “No Jacobin No. VIII.” Hamilton Papers, 15:281–84.
72. James Monroe to Thomas Jefferson, December 4, 1793, in The Writings of James Monroe
[hereafter Monroe Papers], ed. Stanislaus Murray Hamilton, 7 vols. (New York: Putnam’s,
1898–1910), 1:279. In a letter to Hamilton, John Jay foresaw Jefferson’s silence: “It is generally
understood that you and Mr Jefferson are not perfectly pleased with each other, but surely
he has more magnanimity than to be influenced by that consideration to suppress Truth, or
 314 notes to pages 98 – 1 02

what is the same Thing refusing his Testimony to it. Men may be hostile to each other in
politics and yet be incapable of such conduct.” Jay to Hamilton, November 26, 1793, Hamilton
Papers, 15:412–13.
73. Cornelia Clinton to Edmond Genet, January 5, 1794, Edmond Genet Papers, New-York His-
torical Society; Ammon, Genet Mission, 152–53; Fisher Ames to Thomas Dwight, August 1793,
Works of Fisher Ames, 2:964; Robert Troup to James Duane, August 14, 1793, Robert Troup
Papers, New-York Historical Society. Genet eventually demanded that Jay and King face
prosecution for libel, but the matter was never acted on.
74. Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, August 3, 1793, Madison Papers, 14:50; and Madison to
Jefferson, September 2, 1793, ibid., 14:92–93 (in which Madison refers to their solution as
an “antidote”); James Monroe to John Brackenridge, August 23, 1793, Monroe Papers, 1:272–
73; and Madison to Archibald Stuart, September 1, 1793, Madison Papers, 14:87–88. For the
outline of Madison’s plan, see Madison to Jefferson, September 2, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:
92–95.
75. James Madison to Thomas Jefferson, September 2, 1793, Madison Papers, 14:92–93; Henry
Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, January 27, 1798, Sedgwick I Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society; Smith to Hamilton, April 24, 1793, Hamilton Papers, 14:338–41. After Ed-
mund Randolph, on a “collecting mission” for Washington, reported that Virginia supported
Hamilton’s fiscal measures, Madison concluded that Randolph spoke with “tainted
sources”—not the true “body of the people.” Madison to Jefferson, July 30, 1793, Madison
Papers, 14:49. See also Morgan, Inventing the People, 223–30, on inventing fake petitions con-
taining “public opinion.”
76. Rufus King to John Laurance, December 14, 1793, Hamilton Papers, 15:587, note 3.
77. John Taylor of Caroline to James Madison, June 20, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:35. “Defense
pamphlet” and “formal defense” were contemporary terms, as was “vindication.” See, for
example, Oliver Wolcott, Jr., to Alexander Hamilton, September 3, 1800, Hamilton Papers,
25:107; Hamilton to James Monroe, July 22, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 21:180–81. The French
equivalent was the “mémoire judiciaire,” a genre identified by historian Dena Good-
man. Goodman, “The Hume-Rousseau Affair: From Private Querelle to Public Procés,”
Eighteenth-Century Studies 25 (1991–92): 171–201.
78. Jefferson to Washington, September 9, 1792, Peterson, Jefferson: Writings, 1000–1001. Exam-
ples of defense pamphlets include Alexander Hamilton, “Letter From Alexander Hamilton
Concerning the Public Conduct and Character of John Adams, Esq.” (1800); James Monroe,
“A View of the Conduct of the Executive in the Foreign Affairs of the United States Con-
nected with the Mission to the French Republic During the Years 1794, 5 & 6” (1798); Ed-
mund Randolph, “A Vindication of Mr. Randolph’s Resignation” (1795); James McHenry,
“A letter to the honorable, the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States
with the acompanying documents read in that Honorable House on the 28th of Dec, 1802”
(Baltimore, 1803).
79. Peterson, Jefferson Image in the American Mind, 33.
80. Jefferson, introduction, February 4, 1818, Anas, 23–24.
81. Jefferson, memorandum, March 2, 1793, Jefferson Papers, 25:311. Excluded from the “Anas”
are Thomas Jefferson to George Washington, May 23, 1792, September 9, 1792, October 17,
1792. For a comprehensive examination of Jefferson’s involvement in the Giles Resolutions,
see Sheridan, “Jefferson and the Giles Resolutions.”
82. Jefferson, introduction, February 4, 1818, Anas, 37.
83. Jefferson, memorandum, June 7, 1793, Anas, 125–27. The editors of the Jefferson Papers have
studied the ink used in many of the “Anas” memoranda. They have noted scribbled additions,
often in a different ink or by a different hand, leading them to believe that Jefferson added
them at a later date. It is noteworthy that most of these corrections concern Hamilton. My
 notes to pages 103 – 107 315

thanks to John Catanzariti for this information. The table of contents includes memoranda
that do not appear in published versions of the Anas or in Jefferson’s surviving papers; missing
memoranda include “Notes. Hamilton,” October 6, 1792; “d[itt]o,” October 7, 1792; “history
of A. Hamilton,” February 2, 1793.
84. Jefferson, introduction, Anas, 33; Jefferson, memorandum, [1792?], Jefferson Papers, 17:
205–7.
85. Benjamin Rush counseled Adams to leave behind an address to posterity for the same reason;
he would appear to have no other purpose than a mere desire to communicate thoughts.
Rush to Adams, August 20, 1811, Spur of Fame, 189–90.
86. On Jefferson’s creative adaptation of history, see Marcus Cunliffe, “Thomas Jefferson and
the Dangers of the Past,” Wilson Quarterly (Winter 1982): 96–107. He also wanted to “correct”
David Hume’s history of England by editing the text and excising the “heresies.” Douglas
L. Wilson, “Jefferson and the Republic of Letters,” in Jeffersonian Legacies, 50–76, quote at
60–61; Wilson, “Jefferson Versus Hume,” William and Mary Quarterly (1989): 49–70.
87. Theodore Dwight, The Character of Thomas Jefferson, as Exhibited in His Own Writings (Bos-
ton: Weeks, Jordan, 1839), 217–18, 225. Dwight insightfully notes that repetition of Jefferson’s
claims—dissemination of Jefferson’s gossip—made his accusations seem true to “a large por-
tion of the people, and at the same time established his own claim to the character of the
great champion of republicanism.” See also “Jefferson’s Half Craze,” in Cornelis De Witt,
Jefferson and the American Democracy (London: Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts, and
Green, 1862), 408–11; Peterson, Jefferson Image in the American Mind, 33–35; and the Epilogue,
below.

3
The Art of Paper War
1. James McHenry to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., November 9, 1800, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Adminis-
trations of Washington and Adams, 2:445; McHenry to John Adams, May 31, 1800, enclosed
in McHenry to Alexander Hamilton, June 2, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 24:557. The foremost
studies of Adams’s character and political career are Peter Shaw, Character of John Adams;
John Ferling, John Adams: A Life; Ellis, Passionate Sage; Page Smith, John Adams. On Adams’s
political thought, see Zoltan Haraszti, John Adams and the Prophets of Progress (New York:
University Library, 1964); Thompson, Adams and the Spirit of Liberty; and John Howe, The
Changing Political Thought of John Adams (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966).
2. Adams to Rush, January 25, 1806, in Schutz and Adair, Spur of Fame, 48; Adams to Jefferson,
July 12, 1813, Adams-Jefferson Letters, 354.
3. Hamilton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., August 3, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:54–55. For Adams’s
gossip, see Timothy Phelps to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., July 15, 1800, Wolcott to Chauncey Good-
rich, July 20, 1800, George Cabot to Wolcott, July 20, 1800, Benjamin Goodhue to Wolcott,
July 30, 1800, Fisher Ames to Wolcott, August 3, 1800, Wolcott to Ames, August 10, 1800,
Goodrich to Wolcott, August 26, 1800, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington
and Adams, 2:380, 382, 383, 395, 400–402, 411–12. Adams later denied making any such
charge; see Cabot to Wolcott, September 1800, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations of
Washington and Adams, 2:423; Adams to William Tudor, November 1, 1800, Tudor-Adams
Correspondence, Massachusetts Historical Society. The rapid spread of Adams’s charges—
from Adams to Noah Webster to Timothy Phelps to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., to Chauncey Good-
rich—is a wonderful example of the passage of gossip. Adams’s denial passed through similar
channels: Adams to Theophilus Parsons to George Cabot to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., in Gibbs,
Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington and Adams, 2:423.
 316 notes to pages 107 – 113

4. Hamilton, “Letter,” Hamilton Papers, 25:190–91. Hamilton was defending his reputation
against more than Adams’s abuse. He was offended by an article in the Aurora on July 12,
accusing him of using public funds for private profit. Hamilton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., Hamil-
ton Papers, 25:54–56. Hamilton also wrote (but did not circulate) a letter defending himself
against a second Republican newspaper attack suggesting that his low birth made him unfit
for the presidency. Hamilton to William Jackson, August 26, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:88–
91.
5. C. Bradley Thompson, “John Adams and the Quest for Fame,” in McNamara, Noblest Minds,
73–96; Thompson, Adams and the Spirit of Liberty; Shaw, Character of Adams. William Plumer
noted in his journal that Adams “never could forgive Hamilton’s writing a book agt. him.”
Plumer, 1804, “Repository—Volume 5,” 58, William Plumer Papers, New Hampshire Histor-
ical Society.
6. Mercy Otis Warren to John Adams, July 28, 1807, in Ellis, Passionate Sage, 72; Adams to John
Trumbull, March 9, 1790, Adams Family Papers; Diary and Autobiography, III:434–35, 62.
On his placement of public papers with the Historical Society and in the newspapers, see
John Adams to William Tudor, December 25, 1800, and William Tudor to John Adams,
January 9, 1801, Tudor-Adams Correspondence, Massachusetts Historical Society. On his
historical defense in general, see Ferling, John Adams, 421–23, 428–29; Shaw, Character of
Adams, 273–99; Ellis, Passionate Sage, 57–83. Adams began his autobiography in 1802, put it
down in 1805, and resumed it in 1806, but he never finished it. Ferling, John Adams, 421–
23.
7. Erastus Lyman and Daniel Wright to John Adams, March 3, 1809, in Boston Patriot, April
22, 1809.
8. Adams to William Cunningham, February 22 and March 20, 1809, “Correspondence Between
the Hon. John Adams, Late President of the United States, and the Late Wm. Cunningham
Esq, Beginning in 1803, and Ending in 1812” (hereafter “Adams-Cunningham Correspon-
dence”) (Boston, 1823), 93–94, 101–2. For similar sentiments about his negotiations with
France, see Adams to James Lloyd, January 1815 and March 31, 1815, Adams Family Papers,
Massachusetts Historical Society.
9. Adams to Erastus Lyman and Daniel Wright, Boston Patriot, March 24, 1809; Lyman and
Wright printed Adams’s letter in a broadside in their hometown of Northampton; the letter
was reprinted shortly thereafter in Worcester.
10. Cunningham to Adams, March 31, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 108. Cun-
ningham’s grandmother was Adams’s aunt. Adams to Cunningham, November 25, 1808, ibid.,
54.
11. John Adams to William Cunningham, April 24 and June 7, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Cor-
respondence,” 113–14, 122–24. Also John Adams to Benjamin Rush, August 7, 1809, in Schutz
and Adair, Spur of Fame, 149–50.
12. See Ellis, Passionate Sage, 79; Smith, John Adams, 2:1044; Mitchell, Hamilton: The National
Adventure, 474; Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 736; and Thompson, Adams and
the Spirit of Liberty, chap. 2. Peter Shaw sees the link with reputation, fame, and the historical
record. Shaw, Character of John Adams, 296.
13. Oliver Wolcott, Jr., to Timothy Pickering, December 28, 1800, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Ad-
ministrations of Washington and Adams, 1:461; Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry,
481; Benjamin Stoddert to James McHenry, April 14, 1810, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence
of McHenry, 557. Pickering was fired; McHenry resigned. Stoddert ultimately wrote a letter
of correction to Adams, who returned a “short but polite answer.” Pickering to McHenry,
February 11, 1811, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 567. Of the abundant scholar-
ship on print culture, works with particular relevance include Richard D. Brown, Knowledge
Is Power; Richard R. John, Spreading the News; and Michael Warner, Letters of the Republic.
 n o t e s t o p a g e s 1 1 3 – 11 7 317

Robert Wiebe, in Opening of American Society, also offers insights into political print culture
scattered throughout. On the ground-level use of political print weapons in the 1790s, see
the meticulously researched The Jeffersonian Republicans: The Formation of Party Organization,
1789–1801, by Noble Cunningham.
14. For example, William Van Ness’s brother John scolded him for defending Aaron Burr under
his own name, thereby exposing himself “to all that abuse & malignant treatment to which
those who come forward with their real names are exposed from anonymous scribblers.”
John Van Ness to William P. Van Ness, June 9, 1802, William P. Van Ness personal miscella-
neous, New-York Historical Society.
15. John Taylor of Caroline to James Madison, June 20, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:34–37. See also
Taylor to Madison, May 11, 1793, ibid., 13–14. Taylor was discussing “An Enquiry into the
Principles and Tendency of Certain Public Measures” (Philadelphia, 1794).
16. On letter writing, see Andrew Burstein, The Inner Jefferson: Portrait of a Grieving Optimist
(Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1995), 116–31; Keith Stewart, “Towards Defin-
ing an Aesthetic for the Familiar Letter in Eighteenth-Century England,” Prose Studies (Sep-
tember 1982): 179–92; and Decker, Epistolary Practices, esp. chaps. 1–2. On the difficulties and
expense of letter writing, see John, Spreading the News, 42–44, 156–61.
17. Tobias Lear to David Humphreys, April 12, 1791, Rosenbach Foundation, FFC; John Rut-
ledge, Jr., to William Short, March 30, 1791, William Short Papers, Library of Congress;
David Humphreys to George Washington, October 31, 1790, in Frank Landon Humphreys,
ed., Life and Times of David Humphreys, 2 vols. (New York: Putnam’s, 1917), 2:52; and Gris-
wold, Republican Court, 378. Andriani did not help his case when he declared English women
to be superior to American women, and “a french washerwoman . . . infinitely more graceful”
than an Englishwoman. Rutledge to William Short, March 30, 1791, William Short Papers,
Library of Congress. My thanks to Kenneth R. Bowling of the First Federal Congress project
at George Washington University for alerting me to these letters.
18. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, January 14, 1798, and December 25, 1796, Sedg-
wick I, Massachusetts Historical Society. Van Schaack had heard that Republicans were taking
“unwarrantable sums of money out of the Pennsylvania Bank.” See also John Taylor of Caro-
line to James Madison, May 11, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:14; Aaron Burr to William Eustis,
December 5, 1800, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:464–66. See also Decker, Epistolary Practices, 40.
19. Alexander Hamilton to David Ross, September 26, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 12:490–92. On
the Walker affair, see Dumas Malone, Jefferson the President, First Term, 1801–1805 (Boston:
Little, Brown, 1970), 216–23; Malone, Jefferson the Virginian (Boston: Little, Brown, 1948),
153–55, 447–51; and Charles Royster, Light-Horse Harry Lee and the Legacy of the American
Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 208–9. Contemporaries consid-
ered it an affair of honor; some charged that Walker even sent Jefferson a challenge. William
Plumer, March 14 and November 12, 1804, “Repository—Volume 5,” 48, 60, William Plumer
Papers, New Hampshire Historical Society.
20. Jefferson to Madison, March 31, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:3. For Jefferson’s letter—its conclud-
ing paragraph full of barely repressed hostility—see Jefferson to Hamilton, March 27, 1793,
Hamilton Papers, 14:255–57. Jefferson sent a draft to Madison in his letter of March 31, 1793.
21. Adams to Joseph Delaplaine, August 31, 1818, in Cunningham, Circular Letters, xxiii. These
modest quantities become more significant when compared with the number of voters in a
typical district. Although numbers varied greatly, it was not uncommon to have 1,200–4,000
voters per district. Cunningham, Circular Letters of Congressmen to Their Constituents, xix–xxi.
On circular letters in general, see pp. xv–xlv.
22. John Taylor of Caroline to James Madison, May 11, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:14.
23. Jefferson to James Callender, October 6, 1799, Thomas Jefferson Papers; Hamilton to Oliver
Wolcott, Jr., and Hamilton to James McHenry, July 1 and August 27, 1800, Hamilton Papers,
 318 notes to pages 117 – 123

25:4, 97; Washington to Hamilton, August 10, 1796, Hamilton Papers, 20:292–93. Washing-
ton later explained that the address “was designed in a more especiall manner for the Yeo-
manry of this Country.” Washington to Hamilton, August 25, 1796, Hamilton Papers, 20:
308. On pamphlets, see also Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 198, 225; Bernard Bailyn,
The Ideological Origins of the American Revolution (Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1992), chap. 1;
and Robert A. Ferguson, The American Enlightenment, 1750–1820 (Cambridge: Harvard Uni-
versity Press, 1997), chap. 4.
24. Thomas Henshaw to Theodore Sedgwick, February 16, 1796, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts His-
torical Society. Clearly, there were exceptions to this rule, like Thomas Paine’s “Common
Sense.” Pamphlets aimed at unusually broad audiences were often reduced in price for this
purpose. For example, Thomas Selfridge reduced the price of his defense pamphlet to reach
the “industrious and less opulent classes of society.” Thomas O. Selfridge, A Correct Statement
of the Whole Preliminary Controversy between Tho. O. Selfridge and Benj. Austin; Also a Brief
Account of the Catastrophe in State Street, Boston, on the 4th August, 1806, With Some Remarks
(Charlestown, 1807), 29, 35. On Beckley’s pamphleteering, see John Beckley to James Monroe,
April 10, 1793, May 25, 1795, August 26, 1800, and John Beckley to Tench Coxe, September
29, 1800, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 69, 86–89, 191–93.
25. Robert Gamble to John Preston, February 9, March 2, 3, 23, April 7, 9, 1796, Preston Family
Papers, Virginia Historical Society.
26. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, February 1, 1797, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts
Historical Society; Jefferson to James Madison, September 1, 1793, Madison to John Taylor
of Caroline, September 20, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:90–91, 121; Taylor to Madison, September
25, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:123. See also Taylor to Madison, June 20, 1793, Madison Papers,
15:34–37.
27. [William Van Ness], “Vindix No. III,” New York Morning Chronicle, August 11, 1804; Adams
to Benjamin Rush, August 7, 1809, in Schutz and Adair, Spur of Fame, 150. New-York Post
editor William Coleman’s A Collection of the Facts and Documents, relative to the Death of Major-
General Alexander Hamilton was the Hamiltonian counterpart pamphlet, though it has not
been recognized as such. Nor had anyone recognized Van Ness’s pamphlet; I found it only
because the “rules” of paper war suggested that a pamphlet would be Van Ness’s next move.
28. Charles Carroll to James McHenry, November 4, 1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence
of McHenry, 476.
29. Hamilton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., August 3, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:54; Cabot to Hamilton,
November 29, 1800, ibid., 249; Robert Troup to Rufus King, June 3, 1798, Correspondence
of Rufus King, 2:330. See also Robert Troup to Rufus King, December 31, 1800, Robert Troup
Papers, New-York Historical Society.
30. Thomas Jefferson to Edmund Pendleton, January 29, 1799, in Cunningham, Jeffersonian Re-
publicans, 130; Beckley to William Irvine, September 22 and October 4, 1796, in Gawalt,
Justifying Jefferson, 123–25; Jefferson to Edmund Pendleton, January 29, 1799, in Cunningham,
Jeffersonian Republicans, 130. For other examples of broadsides, see Peter Van Schaack to Theo-
dore Sedgwick, October 29, 1800, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical Society; and Ed-
mund Pendleton, “An Address of the Honorable Edmund Pendleton of Virginia to the Amer-
ican Citizens” (Boston, 1799).
31. The broadside was republished in 1804. Early American Imprints no. 6314.
32. Boston Patriot, September 9, 1809.
33. John Francis Mercer to Alexander Hamilton, October 16[–28], 1792, Hamilton Papers, 12:572–
76; Hamilton to Mercer, December 6, 1792, ibid., 13:289–91. For more on the controversy, see
Hamilton to Mercer, September 26, November 3, and December 1792, Ross to Hamilton,
October 5–10 and November 23, 1792, Mercer to Hamilton, December 1792 and January 31,
1793, and editorial note, ibid., 12:481–90, 525–27, 13:13–14, 218–28, 289–91, 390–93, 513–18.
 notes to pages 124 – 127 319

34. Warner, Letters of the Republic, 68; Waldstreicher, In the Midst of Perpetual Fetes, 10–11 and
passim; and John, Spreading the News, 30–42; M. l’Abbé Robin, 1782, and Jacques Pierre
Brissot de Warville, 1791, in Sherrill, French Memories, 248. For more French commentaries
on the impact of newspapers in America, see the comments of Pierre Samuel Dupon de
Nemours, Comte Guillaume de Deux-Ponts, J. E. Bonnet, Brillat Savarin, and Moreau de
St. Méry, in Sherrill, French Memories, 248–52. On Federalist complaints about Republican
use of newspapers, see John Rutledge to Theodore Sedgwick, September 24, 1801, Sedgwick
I, Massachusetts Historical Society; Fisher Ames to Theodore Dwight, March 19, 1801, Works
of Fisher Ames, 1:293; Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 167–74; Fischer, Revolution of
American Conservatism, chap. 7; Durey, Transatlantic Radicals, 256–57.
35. These are rough estimates. Richard John estimates that by 1800, roughly 1.9 million newspa-
pers per year were transmitted by mail. John, Spreading the News, 4, 38. John’s figures—
and the population estimate—do not include Native Americans and slaves. See also Stewart,
Opposition Press, 17, 654, note 85.
36. Pickering to Hamilton, March 30, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 20:558–59.
37. Thomas Adams to Abigail Adams, October 2? and 3, 1800, and Abigail Adams to Thomas
Adams, October 5, 1800, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
38. Thomas Jefferson to Walter Jones, January 22, 1814, in Levy, Jefferson and Civil Liberties, 67;
January 17, 1791, Maclay’s Diary, 362. For contemporary recognition of the institutional role
of the public papers, see Madison Papers, 14:57, editorial note. On the political role of news-
papers in the public sphere, see Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the
Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press,
1992).
39. Alexander Hamilton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., September 26, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:12–23.
See also Hamilton to Wolcott, August 3, 1800, Hamilton to James McHenry, August 27,
1800, ibid., 25:54–56, 97–98.
40. Robert Troup to Rufus King, November 9, 1800, Correspondence of Rufus King, 3:330–31. On
the leaking of Hamilton’s pamphlet, see Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:456–57; Hamilton Papers, 25:
173–77; Matthew L. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr 2 vols. (New York: Harper and Brothers,
1837), 2:65; and John Church Hamilton, History of the Republic of the United States of America,
as Traced in the Writings of Alexander Hamilton and his Contemporaries, 7 vols. (New York:
Appleton, 1860), 7:407–8. Some historians insist that Hamilton wanted his pamphlet to be
excerpted in the newspapers. He did make plans in case newspaper editors began publishing
his pamphlet in bits and pieces, but his sense of decorum, the prestige of both Hamilton
and Adams, the precise instructions that Hamilton issued for his pamphlet’s circulation, the
highly personal nature of his charges, the heat of his prose, and the fact that he published
his work in a pamphlet suggest that he wrote for a select, elite audience.
41. William Vans Murray to John Quincy Adams, December 30, 1800, Rufus King to John
Quincy Adams, December 28, 1800, and William Tudor to John Adams, November 5, 1800,
Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society. For a similar statement, see Samuel
Smith to John S. Smith, July 14, 1811, Samuel Smith Papers, Alderman Library, University
of Virginia.
42. Adams to Cunningham, April 24, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 116; Cun-
ningham to Adams, August 9, 1809, ibid., 154. See also Adams to Cunningham, June 7, 1809,
ibid., 123.
43. William S. Shaw to Abigail Adams, February 25, 1801, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society; Alexander Hamilton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., September 26, 1800, Hamilton
Papers, 25:122; Adams to William Cunningham, November 25, 1808, “Adams-Cunningham
Correspondence,” 55.
44. John Beckley to James Madison, September 10, 1792, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 43–45;
 320 notes to pages 128 – 132

Adams to Jefferson, August 24, 1815, Adams-Jefferson Letters, 455; John Beckley to Tench Coxe,
November 24, 1800, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 226; Aaron Burr to William Eustis, Decem-
ber 5, 1800, Letters of Aaron Burr to William Eustis, Massachusetts Historical Society.
45. Thomas Adams to Abigail Adams, October 2? 1800, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society; William Vans Murray to John Quincy Adams, January 7, 1801, ibid. See
also Rufus King to John Quincy Adams, [January 7, 1801], ibid.
46. Boston Patriot, September 9, 1809; Shapin, Social History of Truth, chaps. 2 and 3.
47. Gabriel Duvall to James Madison, October 17, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:424–25. Madison
sent a copy of the handbill to Jefferson a few weeks later. Madison to Jefferson, November
11, 1800, ibid., 17:437.
48. Ward and Gould to DeWitt Clinton, December 12, 1803, December 7, 1804, and May 5, 1805,
DeWitt Clinton Papers, Columbia University; Brockholst Livingston to Thomas Tillotson,
December 18, 1803, Thomas Tillotson Papers, New York Public Library. See also Pasley,
“ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ” 464, 478; and Pasley, “Tyranny of Printers.”
49. Jefferson to Madison, July 7, 1793, Madison Papers, 15:43. Jeffrey Pasley notes that lower-level
politicians felt constrained to fight their battles in print because their personal influence was
negligible. Pasley, “ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ” 98.
50. James Monroe to James Madison, August 1, 1796, Madison Papers, 16:383–90. See also Mon-
roe to Madison, December 7, 1798, and Madison to Edmund Randolph, September 13, 1792,
ibid., 17:182–83; Benjamin Rush to Abigail Adams, October 13, 1800, Adams Family Papers,
Massachusetts Historical Society; Richard Bland Lee to unknown correspondent, December
13, 1794, in Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 74; Thomas Jefferson to Edmund Ran-
dolph, September 17, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 24:387.
51. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:98–99.
52. Adams to Cunningham, April 24 and June 7, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,”
114–15, 123.
53. Boston Patriot, June 24, 1809.
54. Adams to Cunningham, April 24, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 114. Philip
Freneau edited the National Gazette; Peter Markoe was a poet and dramatist; Edward Church
attacked Adams in a newspaper satire after Adams didn’t bow to him at a levee; see p. 53,
above. Andrew Brown edited the Philadelphia Federal Gazette; Thomas Paine was a renowned
pamphleteer; James T. Callender edited the Richmond Examiner; William Cobbett edited
Porcupine’s Gazette; and John Ward Fenno edited the Gazette of the United States. John Adams
to Skelton Jones, March 11, 1809, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
For a similar response to an 1808 journalistic assault, see Adams to Cunningham, September
27, 1808, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 25.
55. William Vans Murray to John Quincy Adams, December 30, 1800, and January 3, 1801, Adams
Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Jefferson to Madison, July 7, 1793, Madison
Papers, 15:43. See also John Beckley to James Monroe, September 23, 1795, in Gawalt, Justifying
Jefferson, 99–100.
56. Adams to Jefferson, April 19, 1817, Adams-Jefferson Letters, 508; Timothy Pickering to Rebecca
Pickering, June 19, 1809, Timothy Pickering Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
57. Joseph Ward to Theodore Sedgwick, March 8, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical
Society; Adams to Mercy Otis Warren, August 19, 1807, Adams Family Papers. See also Gen-
eral H. Dearborn to James Bowdoin, April 10, 1802, Winthrop Papers (in Bowdoin and
Temple Papers), Massachusetts Historical Society; Jefferson to Madison, July 7, 1793, Madison
Papers, 15:43. Jefferson was responding to charges of being “clossetted” with incendiary Re-
publican newspaper editor Benjamin Franklin Bache. Thomas Jefferson to Samuel Smith,
August 22, 1798, Thomas Jefferson Papers. His letter defense against an attack on his Notes
 notes to pages 133 – 139 321

on the State of Virginia took the same form. John Page to Jefferson, June 21, 1798, Thomas
Jefferson Papers. See also Jefferson to John Adams, Jefferson to Messrs. Ritchie and Gooch,
Jefferson to James Monroe, and Jefferson to Uriah McGregory, May 13 and June 1, 1822,
January 12 and August 13, 1800, ibid.
58. Ames to Thomas Dwight, February 24, 1795, Works of Fisher Ames, 2:1105–6; Orville Carpenter
to Philenia Carpenter, April 21, 1814, Allyn Kellogg Ford Papers, Minnesota Historical Soci-
ety. For a similar strategy, see also Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, May 14, 1797,
Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical Society.
59. James McHenry to Timothy Pickering, February 23, 1811, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence
of McHenry, 568–69; Cunningham to Adams, June 30, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Corre-
spondence,” 138. See also “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” August 9 and 18, Novem-
ber 22, 1809, 151–54, 160–62, 190–92.
60. John Adams to Uriah Forrest, June 20, 1797, Adams, Works, 6:546–47; Adams to Cunning-
ham, January 16, 1810, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 216–17. See also James Bridge
to John Quincy Adams, May 24, 1802, Adams Family Papers. Steven Stowe notes that many
stylistic rules for letter writing were intended to discourage honor disputes. Stowe, Intimacy
and Power in the Old South, 24–30.
61. See, for example, Rufus King to John Quincy Adams, December 28, 1800, William Vans
Murray to John Quincy Adams, December 30, 1800, and John Adams to Thomas Pinckney,
October 29, 1800, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society. Adams was re-
sponding to the publication of a letter attacking Pinckney.
62. Cunningham to Adams, January 15, 1810, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 214–16.
See also Cunningham to Adams, December 29, 1809, ibid., 200; and Spacks, Gossip, 74.
63. Abigail Adams to Thomas Adams (repeating advice she intended for John), October 10, 1800,
Adams Family Papers.
64. Kenneth S. Greenberg, “The Nose, the Lie, and the Duel,” in Greenberg, Honor and Slavery,
14.
65. John Adams to Abigail Adams, January 3, 1797, Adams Family Papers. “They carefully conceal
them from me,” he complained.
66. John Adams to John Binns, November 26, 1812, Morristown National Historical Park; Cun-
ningham to Adams, August 18, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 159. The pam-
phlet was William Cobbett’s, “A Letter to a Friend in England” (Philadelphia, 1800; 1812
reprint).
67. Charles Peale Polk to James Madison, June 20, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:394–96; Adams to
Cunningham, October 15, 1808, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 40 (see also Boston
Patriot, June 24, 1809); Cunningham to Adams, January 14, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Cor-
respondence,” 78; Adams to Jefferson, June 25, 1813, Adams-Jefferson Letters, 333.
68. William Eustis to David Cobb, December 1, 1794, David Cobb Papers, Massachusetts Histor-
ical Society. See also Eustis to Cobb, December 4, 1794, ibid.; Jonathan Mason, Jr., to Har-
rison Gray Otis, March 30, 1798, Harrison Gray Otis Papers, Massachusetts Historical Soci-
ety; Thomas B. Wait to George Thatcher, July 2, 1809, Thomas B. Wait Letters to George
Thatcher, Massachusetts Historical Society.
69. Adams to Jefferson, November 10, 1823, Adams-Jefferson Letters, 602.
70. Franklin to Robert R. Livingston, July 22, 1783, Hamilton Papers, 25:3, note 5 (Hamilton
attempted to paraphrase Franklin’s comment in a July 1, 1800, letter to Charles Carroll of
Carrollton, ibid., 25:2); John Adams to Benjamin Rush, July 23, 1806, in Schutz and Adair,
Spur of Fame, 61.
71. John Adams, [Birthday address], October 30, 1802, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society.
 322 notes to pages 139 – 144

72. Cunningham to Adams, August 18 and September 9, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspon-

dence,” 162, 164. For a sense of the contents of Adams’s letters, see these two letters to Adams
in full. Ibid., 156–64. Also Cunningham to Adams, January 15, 1810, ibid., 206.
73. Adams to Cunningham, November 25, 1808, ibid., 54.
74. William Cunningham to John Adams, May 6 and June 14, 1809, ibid., 122, 126–27.
75. Fisher Ames to Josiah Quincy, January 20, 1806, Works of Fisher Ames, 2:1493–95; Henry
Langdon to William Eustis, November 29, 1803, William Eustis Papers, Massachusetts His-
torical Society. For other such pleas for information, see Thomas Tillotson to DeWitt Clin-
ton, April 14, 1802, DeWitt Clinton Papers, Columbia University; Joseph G. Chambers to
Albert Gallatin, December 18, 1798, Albert Gallatin Papers, New-York Historical Society;
Richard Bland Lee to James Madison, April 17, 1791, and Hubbard Taylor to James Madison,
January 3, 1792, Madison Papers, 14:6–7.
76. Cunningham to Adams, January 10, 1804, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 6–7.
77. Hugh Henry Brackinridge to Thomas Jefferson, January 30, 1801, and John Odgen to Thomas
Jefferson, February 7, 1799, Thomas Jefferson Papers. The mere fact that a political letter came
from the “seat of government” gave it “seeming status of authenticity.” Timothy Pickering
to Samuel Putnam, November 8, 1804, Samuel Putnam Papers, Massachusetts Historical
Society.
78. Peter Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, April 20, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Histori-
cal Society. See also Grasso, Speaking Aristocracy, 456–57; and Benjamin [Rossiter?] to Theo-
dore Sedgwick, February 10, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical Society.
79. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, January 24, February 19, and March 18, 1798,
Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical Society; Joseph G. Chambers to Albert Gallatin, De-
cember 18, 1798, Albert Gallatin Papers, New-York Historical Society. On letters as political
bonds, see also Taylor, “ ‘Art of Hook and Snivey,’ ” 1382–83.
80. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, January 8, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts His-
torical Society; Van Schaack to Loring Andrews, August 1[?], 1798, Henry Van Schaack Pa-
pers, Massachusetts Historical Society. For examples of the extensive Sedgwick-Van Schaack-
Williams-Andrews correspondence, see Sedgwick III and Henry Van Schaack Papers,
Massachusetts Historical Society. National politicians also sent newspapers to constituents
because they were sure to reach their destination under cover of a congressional frank. John,
Spreading the News, 32.
81. Joseph Jones to James Madison, February 5, 1797, Madison Papers, 16:485–86. As an indication
of the speed of the mails, it took roughly four weeks for news to travel from the Philadelphia
Aurora to a Connecticut newspaper, three weeks for John Adams’s inaugural address to be
printed in New Hampshire; and two weeks for readers in Kinderhook, New York, to receive
William Cobbett’s Philadelphia Censor. Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 201; Walt
Brown, John Adams and the American Press: Politics and Journalism at the Birth of the Republic
(Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland, 1995), 45; Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, May 28,
1797, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical Society. For the definitive work on the American
postal system and its institutional influence on national governance, see John, Spreading the
News.
82. William Vans Murray to James McHenry, October 9, 1796, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence
of McHenry, 199. See also Hugh Williamson to James McHenry, October 20, 1796, ibid.,
200.
83. James Sullivan to Thomas Jefferson, June 3, 1807, James Sullivan transcripts, Massachusetts
Historical Society; Robert Goodloe Harper to Alexander Hamilton, June 5, 1800, Hamilton
Papers, 24:568–70. See also Alexander Dallas to Albert Gallatin, February 21, 1801, Albert
Gallatin Papers.
84. Edmund Quincy, Life of Josiah Quincy of Massachusetts (Boston, 1867), in Cunningham, Circu-
 notes to pages 144 – 147 323

lar Letters, xix; George Cabot to Alexander Hamilton, October 11, 1800, Hamilton Papers,
25:148–50.
85. John Daly Burk, New York Time Piece, July 11, 1798, in Smith, Freedom’s Fetters, 213; Theodore
Sedgwick, Jr., to Theodore Sedgwick, December 19, 1800, Theodore Sedgwick III, Massa-
chusetts Historical Society; George Washington to James McHenry, June 4, 1796, in Steiner,
Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 185, note 1. The relative scarcity of letters also encouraged
people to treat them like commodities. John, Spreading the News, 156–61.
86. See, for example, Benjamin Rossiter to Theodore Sedgwick, February 10, 1798, and Peter
Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, April 20, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical
Society; Theodore Sedgwick, Jr., to Theodore Sedgwick, December 19, 1800, Sedgwick Pa-
pers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Prince, New Jersey Republicans, 45; and John, Spreading
the News, 154–56, 161–67.
87. Peter Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, April 20, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Histori-
cal Society; Harrison Gray Otis to Sally Foster Otis, February 29, 1816, Harrison Gray Otis
Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society. My thanks to Catherine Allgor for bringing this
letter to my attention.
88. Peter Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, April 20 and March 20, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massa-
chusetts Historical Society. See also Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, December
27, 1796, January 2, May 24 and 28, June 1, and December 10, 1797, and January 25, 1798,
ibid.
89. Peter Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, April 20, 1798, and June 1, 1797, ibid. For the
post office anxieties of other politicians, see Peregrine Foster to Dwight Foster, June 23,
1797, and February 10, 1801, Dwight Foster Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Thomas
Jefferson to James Monroe, January 23, 1799, Thomas Jefferson Papers, Library of Congress;
Jefferson to John Taylor of Caroline, November 26, 1799, in Cunningham, Jeffersonian Repub-
licans, 139; Uriah Tracy to James McHenry, January 11, 1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspon-
dence of McHenry, 517–18; John Trumbull, Jr., to Jeremiah Wadsworth, February 7, 1796, John
Trumbull, Jr., Collection, Connecticut Historical Society.
90. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, February 5, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts
Historical Society.
91. James Madison to Joseph Jones, Mann Page, Jr., and Charles Simms, August [post 23], 1791,
Madison Papers, 14:71–73. Jefferson told Thomas Bell that if he convinced fifteen men to
subscribe to the National Gazette, he would get his own subscription free. Jefferson to Thomas
Bell, March 16, 1792, Jefferson to Philip Freneau, March 13, 1792, and Jefferson to Thomas
Mann Randolph, January 22, 1792, Jefferson Papers, 25:52–53. See also Henry Van Schaack to
Theodore Sedgwick, May 28, June 1 and 9, 1797, January 9, 21, and 29, and March 18, 1798,
and John Hopkins to Sedgwick, December 18, 1797, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical
Society. Daniel Carroll did the same for Madison in Maryland, as did Henry Lee and Madi-
son’s father in Virginia; Van Schaack peddled Porcupine’s Gazette in Massachusetts.
92. Thomas Jefferson to Tunis Wortman, August 15, 1813, in Levy, Jefferson and Civil Liberties,
197, note 29. Washington, Jefferson, and Monroe kept their names off certain subscription
lists. Philip Freneau to Tench Coxe, November 22, 1796, Tench Coxe Papers, Historical Soci-
ety of Pennsylvania; James Monroe to Jefferson, January 4, 1800, Thomas Jefferson Papers,
Library of Congress.
93. John Adams, [subscription request], September 17, 1802, Adams Family Papers, Massachu-
setts Historical Society; James Callender to Thomas Jefferson, August 10, 1799, Thomas Jef-
ferson Papers; Tunis Wortman to Albert Gallatin, December 24, 1799, Albert Gallatin Papers,
New-York Historical Society.
94. Henry Van Schaack to Theodore Sedgwick, June 9, 1797, and January 9 and 21, 1798, Sedg-
wick I, Massachusetts Historical Society.
 324 notes to pages 147 – 155

95. See John C. Williams to Theodore Sedgwick, March 13, 1798, Francis Silvester to Sedgwick,
March 15, 1798, Henry Van Schaack to Sedgwick, March 16, 1798, and Benjamin Rossiter to
Sedgwick, March 30, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical Society. See also Daniel
Dewey to Sedgwick, December 8, 1800, ibid.
96. Rutledge to Theodore Sedgwick, September 24, 1801, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts Historical
Society; Thomas Jefferson, memorandum, August 10, 1800, Jefferson Papers; John Page, “An
Address to the Citizens of the District of York in Virginia, by their Representative, John
Page, of Rosewell, dated June 20, 1794,” in Cunningham, Circular Letters, xxvi. Rutledge
subscribed to the Boston Palladium for several friends in South Carolina; see also Michael
Kern to Albert Gallatin, February 14, 1799, Albert Gallatin Papers. The national government
funded subscriptions to three daily newspapers per congressman, to be forwarded to men
of influence back home. Cunningham, Circular Letters, xxx–xxxi.
97. Cunningham to Adams, December 29, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 200.
98. Boston Patriot, May 20, 24, 27, 31, June 3, 7, 10, 14, 17, 21, 24, 1809; Cunningham to Adams,
June 14 and 30, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 128–29, 142.
99. Cunningham to Adams, June 14 and 30, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 128,
144–46.
100. Hamilton to Adams, August 1, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 51; Cunningham to Adams, June 30,
1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 147–48. In a pamphlet defending Burr’s con-
duct in his duel with Hamilton, the author compares Burr’s behavior in 1804 with that of
Hamilton in 1800 when he demanded an explanation for Adams’s insults. [“Lysander”], “A
Correct Statement of the Late Melancholy Affair of Honor, Between General Hamilton and
Col. Burr, in which the Former Unfortunately Fell, July 11, 1804 . . . To which is added, A
Candid Examination of the Whole affair In a Letter to a Friend” (New York, 1804); see also
[William Van Ness], “Vindix No. II,” New York Morning Chronicle, August 8, 1804.
101. Adams to Cunningham, November 7, 1808, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 42–50.
See also Adams to Cunningham, October 15 and November 25, 1808, ibid., 34–40, 54–58.
102. Boston Patriot, September 9, 1809; Timothy Pickering to James McHenry, June 4, 1809, in
Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 552–53. Pickering appears to have been consider-
ing a self-defense (“a defence of my character”) even before Adams’s essays, stemming back
to the dishonor of being fired from Adams’s cabinet. Pickering to McHenry, April 8, 1808,
and Pickering to Jacob Wagner, January 19, 1809, ibid., 547, 550–52; Pickering to Rebecca
Pickering, January 18, 1809, and John Jay to Timothy Pickering, March 24, 1809, Timothy
Pickering Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
103. John Adams, “Mr. Hamilton’s Letter,” 37, 46; Boston Patriot, June 7, 1809. For other passages
from Adams’s 1801 draft that made their way into the Patriot essays, see “Mr. Hamilton’s
Letter,” p. 23, 27, 76, 87, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
104. Almost every essay from May and June 1809 begins with a reference to “Mr. Hamilton” and
his “famous pamphlet.”
105. John Adams to William Cunningham, July 31, 1809 and Cunningham to Adams, August 9,
1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 150–52.
106. William Cunningham to John Adams, June 14 and August 9, 1809, ibid., 130, 153.
107. Cunningham to Adams, January 15, 1810, ibid., 206–10.
108. Adams to Rush, December 19, 1808, in Schutz and Adair, Spur of Fame, 123–24. Also Adams to
Rush, January 25, 1806, Sol Feinstone Collection, David Library of the American Revolution.
109. Cunningham to Adams, October 17, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 169.
110. Cunningham to Adams, December 9, 1809, and January 15, 1810, ibid., 195–96, 214.
111. Cunningham to Adams, December 29, 1809, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” 201.
112. Adams to Cunningham, January 16, 1810, and Cunningham to Adams, January 28, 1810, Janu-
ary 21, 1812, ibid., 216–18; introduction, ibid., ix–x. See also William Cunningham, Jr., to
 notes to pages 155 – 162 325

William Shaw, July 13, 1811, Miscellaneous Bound Manuscripts, 1809–1818, Massachusetts
Historical Society. The editor of the Adams-Jefferson letters notes that several people who
funded the pamphlet’s publication were later made postmasters or custom collectors by Presi-
dent Andrew Jackson. Adams-Jefferson Letters, 601, note 78.
113. Introduction, “Adams-Cunningham Correspondence,” vi.
114. Thomas Jefferson to John Adams, October 12, 1823, and Adams to Jefferson, November 10,
1823, Adams-Jefferson Letters, 599–602; Malone, Sage of Monticello, 434–35.
115. James McHenry to Timothy Pickering, June 16, 1809, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of
McHenry, 553.
116. For Pickering’s initial letter-by-letter response, see miscellaneous notes, [1811?] and [Queries
suggested by John Adams’s Letters], [1809], Timothy Pickering Papers, Massachusetts His-
torical Society; and Clarfield, Pickering and the American Republic, 266.
117. Timothy Pickering, “A Review of the Correspondence Between the Hon. John Adams, Late
President of the United States, and the Late Wm. Cunningham, Esq.” (Salem, 1824), 3–5.
118. Malone, Sage of Monticello, 434–35. Timothy Pickering showed Adams’s Patriot letters to John
Marshall, who had not yet seen them. Pickering to James McHenry, March 12, 1811, in Steiner,
Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 571.
119. Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington and Adams, 1:452–56, 462–73, 2:427,
465–66, 498. Gibbs in fact compared the “Anas” and Adams’s essays throughout his work;
he used Pickering’s “Review” as well. Ibid., 1:468.

4
Dueling as Politics
1. Alexander Hamilton, [Statement on Impending Duel with Aaron Burr], [June 28–July 10,
1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:278. Internal evidence suggests that Hamilton wrote this state-
ment on July 10, for it explains his decision to withhold his fire, a decision finalized with his
second the night before the duel. Further evidence is contained within Hamilton’s July 10
letter to his wife, explaining that he would withhold his fire owing to “the Scruples of a
Christian,” words that echo both his July 10 remarks to his second and the introductory
passage of his apologia. [Nathaniel Pendleton’s Amendments to the Joint Statement Made
by William P. Van Ness and Him on the Duel Between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron
Burr], [July 19, 1804] and Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, [July 10, 1804], ibid., 26:337–
39, 308; Charles King to Rufus King, April 7, 1819, and Rufus King to Matthew Clarkson,
August 24, 1804, in King, Correspondence of Rufus King, 4:396, 400–401. Burr seems to have
dated Hamilton’s statement July 10 as well; see text at note 77.
2. The best Hamilton biographies are by Forrest McDonald, John C. Miller, and Nathan
Schachner. The encyclopedia of Hamilton is Broadus Mitchell’s Alexander Hamilton; an
abridged version is also available: Mitchell, Alexander Hamilton: A Concise Biography.
3. Alexander Hamilton to John Rutledge, Jr., January 4, 1801, Hamilton to James Bayard, April
6, 1802, Hamilton, [Speech at a Meeting of Federalists in Albany], [February 10, 1804], and
Hamilton to Rufus King, February 24, 1804, Hamilton Papers, 25:293–98, 587–89; 26:187–
90, 194–96.
4. Biddle, Autobiography, 305; New York American Citizen, January 6, 1804. See also Aaron Burr
to Theodosia Burr Alston, March 8, 1802, Aaron Burr Papers, New-York Historical Society;
Thomas Jefferson, [Memorandum of a conversation with Burr], January 26, [1804], Papers
of Aaron Burr, 2:820. Cheetham, not Hamilton, wrote the pamphlets. Mitchell, Alexander
Hamilton, 2:526. Burr’s supporters blamed the duel on Cheetham’s newspaper diatribes. [Van
Ness], Correct Statement, 63–64.
 326 notes to pages 162 – 167

5. Charles D. Cooper to Philip Schuyler, [April 23, 1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:246; Albany
Register, April 24, 1804. For firsthand accounts of the duel’s proceedings, see William Cole-
man, A Collection of the Facts and Documents, relative to the Death of Major-General Alexander
Hamilton (New York, 1804); Syrett and Cooke, Interview in Weehawken; [William P. Van
Ness], A Correct Statement of the Late Melancholy Affair of Honor, Between General Hamilton
and Col. Burr (New York, 1804); Hamilton Papers, 26:235–349. Also see Mitchell, Alexander
Hamilton, 2:527–38; W. J. Rorabaugh, “The Political Duel in the Early Republic: Burr v.
Hamilton,” Journal of the Early Republic 15 (1995), 1–23.
6. Hamilton Papers, 26:240, headnote; Cooke, Alexander Hamilton, 240–43; Milton Lomask,
Aaron Burr, 2 vols. (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979), 1:344; McDonald, Alexan-
der Hamilton, 360; and Mitchell, Alexander Hamilton, 2:527, 542. Mary-Jo Kline confesses
herself “baffled.” Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:881. On honor and dueling in America see Ayers,
Vengeance and Justice; Bruce, Violence and Culture in the Antebellum South; Gorn, “ ‘Gouge
and Bite, Pull Hair and Scratch’ ”; Greenberg, Masters and Statesmen, and “The Nose, the
Lie, and the Duel in the Antebellum South”; Stowe, Intimacy and Power in the Old South;
and Wyatt-Brown, Southern Honor, and “Andrew Jackson’s Honor.”
7. Alexander Hamilton to unknown recipient, September 21, 1792, Hamilton Papers, 12:408.
Hamilton, [Statement on Impending Duel], [June 28–July 10, 1804], ibid., 26:279; Charles
King to Rufus King, April 7, 1819, and Rufus King to Matthew Clarkson, August 24, 1804,
in King, Correspondence of Rufus King, 4:396, 400–401; [Nathaniel Pendleton’s Amend-
ments], [July 19, 1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:338.
8. [Nathaniel Pendleton’s Amendments], [July 19, 1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:338. Hamilton’s
1804 apologia is extreme but not unique. Burr wrote a (somewhat utilitarian) parting state-
ment the night before the duel, as had Hamilton before his anticipated duel with James
Nicholson nine years earlier. The three statements reveal shared concerns—debts, family,
friends—but they also display significant differences in tone and content, a reminder of the
importance of considerations of temperament, self-conception, and circumstance to an under-
standing of the duel. Aaron Burr to Joseph Alston, July 10, 1804, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron
Burr, 2:324–26; Alexander Hamilton to Robert Troup, July 25, 1795, Hamilton Papers, 26:
503–7.
9. Alexander Hamilton, [Statement on Impending Duel with Aaron Burr], [June 28–July 10,
1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:278–81. All quotations within the next four paragraphs are from
this statement, as are all subheads.
10. On incompatible value systems see Douglass Adair and Marvin Harvey, “Was Alexander
Hamilton a Christian Statesman?” William and Mary Quarterly, 3d Ser., 12 (1955), 308–29;
Steinmetz, Romance of Duelling in all Times and Countries, 1:5–6; and Stourzh, Hamilton and
the Idea of Republican Government, 94.
11. Stourzh argues that during Hamilton’s public career, “ ‘selfishness’ and public service merged
in a single passion”—the love of fame—a reminder that even self-interest can be multidimen-
sional. A public servant could desire fame or power without necessarily being conscious of
the difference. Stourzh, Hamilton and the Idea of Republican Government, 105–6. See also
Adair, “Fame and the Founding Fathers”; and Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments,
ed. D. D. Raphael and A. L. Macfie (1759; Indianapolis: Liberty Press, 1982), 126–27.
12. One recent account of the Burr-Hamilton duel summarizes three weeks of meticulously rea-
soned correspondence in two sentences. Rorabaugh, “Political Duel in the Early Republic,”
9. On the importance of negotiations see Stowe, Intimacy and Power in the Old South, 30;
Bruce, Violence and Culture, 32; and Greenberg, “The Nose, the Lie, and the Duel,” 57, and
Honor and Slavery, xii. On dueling rules and rituals see Sabine, Notes on Duels and Duelling;
Steinmetz, Romance of Duelling; and Wilson, Code of Honor.
13. Hamilton was a principal in eleven affairs of honor: Reverend William Gordon (1779), Aeda-
 notes to pages 167 – 170 327

nus Burke (1790), John Francis Mercer (1792–93), James Nicholson (1795), Maturin Living-
ston (1795 and 1796), James Monroe (1797), John Adams (1800), Ebenezer Purdy/George
Clinton (1804), and Aaron Burr (1804). He claimed to have had one additional honor dispute
with Burr; Burr thought that there were two previous incidents. Nathaniel Pendleton to Wil-
liam P. Van Ness, June 26, 1804, Hamilton Papers, 26:270; Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18,
1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887. He also “posted” Andrew Fraunces, a man he deemed too
base to challenge (1793), and hovered on the edge of an honor dispute with John De Ponthieu
Wilkes (1785). He played a role in three other duels: as a second to John Laurens in his duel
with General Charles Lee (1779), as a second to legal client John Auldjo in his duel with
fellow Federal Convention delegate William Pierce (1787), and as an unofficial adviser to his
son Philip before his duel with George Eacker (1801). Also not counted among Hamilton’s
disputes is Major John Eustace’s failed attempt to provoke a duel with him in defense of
General Charles Lee’s honor (1779); see Eustace to Lee, August 24 and November 28, 1779,
“The Lee Papers (1778–1782),” Collections of the New-York Historical Society for the Year 1873
(New York, 1874), 362–63, 393–94.
14. The duel’s political function was so widely recognized that anti-dueling tracts regularly sug-
gested ending the practice by “withholding your suffrages from every man whose hands are
stained with blood.” Lyman Beecher, “The Remedy for Duelling. A Sermon” (New York,
1809), 4. See also Samuel Spring, “The Sixth Commandment Friendly to Virtue, Honor and
Politeness” (n.p., 1804), 24–25. This study is grounded on the analysis of sixteen interrelated
political duels in New York City between 1795 and 1807. My list is not comprehensive. Because
dueling was illegal, politicians often destroyed their correspondence once an affair was re-
solved. In addition, less controversial duels sometimes received little or no newspaper cover-
age. For the purposes of this study, the precise number of duels is less important than the
persistence of dueling as a form of political combat. Similarly, 1807 does not mark the demise
of dueling in New York City; on the contrary, I have discovered additional disputes brewing
for years thereafter.
15. J. M. Mason to William Coleman, July 18, 1804, in Coleman, Collection of the Facts and Docu-
ments, 53. See also James Nicholson to Albert Gallatin, May 6, 1800, Albert Gallatin Papers.
16. David Denniston and James Cheetham to Robert R. Livingston, March 23, 1802, Robert R.
Livingston Papers, New-York Historical Society. On public opinion, see also Wyatt-Brown,
Southern Honor, 14. A common eighteenth-century conceit depicted public opinion as a “mir-
ror” enabling men to see themselves. See, for example, Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments,
110–11; David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. L. A. Selby-Bigge (1739–40; Oxford:
Liberty, 1960), 365.
17. Joseph L. Buckminster to James Sullivan, April 3, 1806, Miscellaneous Bound Manuscripts,
Massachusetts Historical Society. See also James Sullivan to Joseph L. Buckminster, April 2,
1806, ibid; Argument of James Sullivan, Trial of Thomas O. Selfridge, Attorney at Law, Before
the Hon. Isaac Parker, Esquire. For Killing Charles Austin, on the Public Exchange, in Boston,
August 4th, 1806 (Boston, 1806), 140–55.
18. Christopher Gore to William Eustis, September 1, 1803, William Eustis Papers, Massachusetts
Historical Society; John H. Farnham to Mary B. Farnham, March 29–30, 1810, Farnham
Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society. See also Gore to Eustis, July 3, and August
8, 1803, William Eustis Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Theodore Sedgwick, Jr., to
Theodore Sedgwick, November 26, 1801, Theodore Sedgwick Papers, Massachusetts Histori-
cal Society. Bertram Wyatt-Brown discusses the same ambivalence in the South. Wyatt-
Brown, Southern Honor, 353.
19. John Gardner to Harrison Gray Otis, March 24, 1798, Harrison Gray Otis Papers, Massachu-
setts Historical Society; Albany Centinel, July 4, 1797. On violence within the U.S. Congress
during the late 1790s, see Kurtz, Presidency of John Adams, 51–53.
 328 notes to pages 170 – 174

20. For example, a duel resulted from John Swartwout’s assertion that Senator DeWitt Clinton
was “governed by unworthy motives.” DeWitt Clinton to John Swartwout, July 26, 1802,
New-York Evening Post, August 2, 1802. Similarly, Clinton and fellow Senator Jonathan Day-
ton almost dueled after Dayton said that Clinton “was in the habit of impeaching in debate
the motives of Members.” Robert Wright and Samuel Smith, [Statement of facts in an affair
of honor between DeWitt Clinton and Jonathan Dayton], November 20, 1803, DeWitt Clin-
ton Papers, Columbia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library. As Connecticut repre-
sentative Samuel Dana said after the Griswold-Lyon dispute, “What could be a more serious
charge than to be told, “You have betrayed your trust?” February 12, 1798, Annals of Congress,
Fifth Congress, Second Session, 1007.
21. For a similar phenomenon among newly promoted Revolutionary War officers, see Royster,
Revolutionary People at War, 88–95, 207–11. See also Wyatt-Brown, Southern Honor, 357.
22. Aaron Burr to Alexander Hamilton, June 21, 1804, Hamilton Papers, 26:250; Robert Goodloe
Harper, Annals of Congress, February 8, 1798, Fifth Congress, Second Session, 980; Wyatt-
Brown, Southern Honor, 61; Kiernan, Duel in European History, 97.
23. William Plumer, December 20, 1803, and February 14, 1804, “Repository—Volume 5,” 24–
27, 38–40, William Plumer Papers, New Hampshire Historical Society.
24. New York The People’s Friend & Daily Advertiser, January 24, 1807. The quotation concerns
an account of a political duel near Washington, D.C. On using honor to assert one’s member-
ship in an elite group, see also Wyatt-Brown, Southern Honor, 331.
25. Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, sect. 3, passim; Stowe, Intimacy and Power, 11–12.
26. George Thatcher to Sarah Thatcher, February 17, 1798, Thatcher Family Papers. Thatcher
was witnessing the resolution of the Griswold-Lyon dispute; see below.
27. Matthew Davis to Albert Gallatin, May 9, 1798, Albert Gallatin Papers; New York Commercial
Advertiser, May 11 and 14, 1798. See also Greenberg, “The Nose, the Lie, and the Duel.” Alan
Taylor describes another nose-twisting episode in William Cooper’s Town, 248.
28. William Plumer, January 23, 1808, “The Register of Opinions & events . . . From May 7,
1807 to April 2, 1836,” Papers of William Plumer, Library of Congress.
29. Annals of Congress, Fifth Congress, Second Session, 955–1068, passim; Aedanus Burke, quoted
in Greenleaf ’s New York Journal & Patriotic Register, April 15, 1790, Hamilton Papers, 6:335, note
2; William Maclay, March 31, 1790, Maclay’s Diary, 231; William Loughton Smith to Edward
Rutledge, April 2, 1790, Letters of William Loughton Smith, 111–14. The Oxford English Dictionary
defines a rascal as “a low, mean, unprincipled or dishonest fellow . . . a person of the lowest
class.” A scoundrel was a “mean rascal,” a man lacking moral principles. A puppy was a fop or
coxcomb; corresponding to the French poupée, the word charges a man with being little more
than a woman’s plaything or pet. In writing of the southern duel, Greenberg adds abolitionist
to the list of words that demand a challenge. Greenberg, Masters and Statesmen, 38.
30. James Madison to Thomas Jefferson, [ca. February 18, 1798], Madison Papers, 17:82. Modern-
day accounts of the Griswold-Lyon dispute often overlook its conformance with the honor
code; rather than a spontaneous brawl, the tussle on the House floor was a ritualistic caning.
For accounts of the dispute, see George Thatcher to Sarah Thatcher, February 17, 1798,
Thatcher Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Austin, Matthew Lyon: “New Man”
of the Democratic Revolution, 96–102; and Samuel Eliot Morison, Harrison Gray Otis, 1765–
1848: The Urbane Federalist (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1969), 110–11. Many New Englanders
wanted Griswold to cane Lyon. See, for example, Theodore Sedgwick to Ephraim Williams,
February 1 and 2, 1798, Benjamin Rossiter to Sedgwick, February 10, 1798, and Henry Van
Schaack to Sedgwick, February 19 and 25 and March 7, 1798, Sedgwick I, Massachusetts His-
torical Society; Jonathan Mason, Jr., to Harrison Gray Otis, February 19, 1798, Harrison
Gray Otis Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
31. J. Hamilton Moore, The Young Gentleman and Lady’s Monitor, and English Teacher’s Assistant
 notes to pages 176 – 179 329

(Wilmington, Del., 1797), 213. Chesterfield’s letters comprise most of the body of this popular
eighteenth-century schoolbook (that went through at least thirty-seven editions); one essayist
blamed it for the rise of the duel in America. “Anti-Duellist,” “On the Increasing Prevalence
of Duelling. No. II” (misnumbered “No. III”), [Hudson, New York] The Balance, and Co-
lumbian Repository, January 18, 1803; Hemphill, Bowing to Necessities, 72. On Chesterfield in
eighteenth-century America, see Bushman, Refinement of America, 30, 36–37, 84–86, and
passim.
32. [David Gelston’s Account of an Interview between Alexander Hamilton and James Monroe],
July 11, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 21:160–61.
33. John De Ponthieu Wilkes to Hamilton, November 8, 1785, and Hamilton to Wilkes, Novem-
ber 8, 1785, Hamilton Papers, 3:628–31.
34. Hamilton to Nicholson, July 20, 1795, Nicholson to Hamilton, July 20, 1795, Hamilton to
Nicholson, July 20, 1795, and Nicholson to Hamilton, July 21, 1795, Hamilton Papers, 18:471–
73.
35. Hamilton to Monroe, [July 10, 1797], ibid., 21:157.
36. David Hosack to John Church Hamilton, January 1, 1833, Hamilton Papers, 25:437, note 1.
37. Spring, “Sixth Commandment,” 15; Rufus King to E. King, February 12, 1819, in King, Corre-
spondence of Rufus King, 6:214–15. Though Spring differentiated “polite” from “malicious”
duelists, he condemned them both as murderers—polite duelists were guilty of self-murder.
King was discussing an 1819 duel fought at four paces with muskets, in which (not surpris-
ingly) one man was killed. See also Frevert, “Bourgeois honour,” 268.
38. For example, see Federalist charges against New York Republican Brockholst Livingston after
he killed Federalist James Jones in a duel. Lewis Morgan to Robert R. Livingston, May
15, 1798, Robert R. Livingston Papers, New-York Historical Society; New York Commercial
Advertiser, May 11 and 14, 1798.
39. [Petition for the discontinuance of charges against Burr], November 4, 1804, in Autobiography
of Charles Biddle, ed. James S. Biddle (Philadelphia: E. Claxton, 1883), 306–8. Of New York
City’s four fatal political duels between 1795 and 1807, only the Burr-Hamilton duel resulted
in murder charges, though Robert Swartwout and District Attorney Richard Riker were
charged with dueling two years after their duel—probably an attempt to dispel accusations
that the charges against Burr were exceptional and thereby partisan. New York Spectator,
January 12, 1805. After the 1798 Livingston-Jones duel, a police officer refused to arrest Living-
ston when urged by Jones’s friends, responding that if he did, “seconds & surgeons should
be arrested likewise.” There were no arrests. James Nicholson to Albert Gallatin, May 14,
1798, Albert Gallatin Papers, New-York Historical Society. In 1804, the chief justice of the
district court in Washington, D.C., was informed about a duel between two congressmen;
he issued a warrant and brought before him the participants, who were “recognized to keep
the peace.” Talk of a duel persisted nonetheless. William Plumer, February 14, 1804, “Reposi-
tory—Volume 5,” 38–40, William Plumer Papers, New Hampshire Historical Society.
40. James Nicholson to Albert Gallatin, May 14, 1798, Albert Gallatin Papers, New-York Histori-
cal Society; New York Morning Chronicle, January 5, 1804. On the infrequency of deaths and
injuries see Greenberg, Masters and Statesmen, 31–32; Steinmetz, Romance of Duelling, 1:12,
89–92.
41. [David Gelston’s Account of an Interview], July 11, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 21:161. The two
men continued to warn each other that they were “ready” to fight for more than five months,
each signaling his defiance in the hope that the other would take responsibility for issuing
a challenge. Hamilton eventually drafted—but did not send—an acceptance of Monroe’s
challenge. See James Monroe to Alexander Hamilton, July 25 and 31; Hamilton to Monroe,
August 4; Monroe to Hamilton August 6; Monroe to Hamilton, December 2; Hamilton to
Monroe, [January 1798]; ibid., 21:184, 193, 200, 204–5, 316–20, 346.
 330 notes to pages 179 – 184

42. New-York Evening Post, August 6, 1802.

43. William P. Van Ness vs. the People, [January 1805], Duel papers, William P. Van Ness Papers,
New-York Historical Society. This detailed transcript of Van Ness’s trial contains invaluable
eyewitness accounts of the duel. Quotes in this account are from this transcript.
44. Rufus King to Matthew Clarkson, August 24, 1804, in King, Correspondence of Rufus King,
4:400; Timothy Pickering to William Coleman, July 1, 1825, in Mitchell, Alexander Hamilton,
2:762, note 41; Lomask, Aaron Burr, 1:353; James Parton, The Life and Times of Aaron Burr
(New York: Mason Brothers, 1864), 352.
45. The two men advised Monroe during his dispute with Hamilton. James Monroe to Thomas
Jefferson, July 12, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 21:136–37, headnote; James Monroe to James Madi-
son, October 15, 1797, and James Madison to James Monroe, October 19, 1797, Madison Pa-
pers, 17:50–51, 53–54. They also advised Monroe during his later dispute with John Adams;
see introduction, above.
46. Robert Troup to Rufus King, August 24, 1802, Robert Troup Papers, New-York Historical
Society.
47. Aaron Hill to William Eustis, February 20, 1803, and Jacob Eustis to William Eustis, February
10, 1803, William Eustis Papers, Library of Congress; Robert Troup to Rufus King, October
1 and December 31, 1800, Robert Troup Papers, New-York Historical Society; Aaron Burr
to Joseph Alston, July 3, 1802, Aaron Burr Papers, New-York Historical Society. The familial
nature of many political alliances demonstrates the small scale and intimacy of the early repub-
lic’s political community. For example, John and William P. Van Ness, and John, Robert,
and Samuel Swartwout were Burrites. Clintonians included a mass of relatives by marriage.
See also Fischer, Revolution of American Conservatism, 220–21. On the link between family
and honor, see Wyatt-Brown, Southern Honor, passim.
48. Robert R. Livingston to DeWitt Clinton, February 4, 1803, DeWitt Clinton papers, Colum-
bia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library; Aaron Burr to Joseph Alston, July 19,
1802, Aaron Burr Papers, New-York Historical Society.
49. Matthew L. Davis to William P. Van Ness, August 15, 1805, Matthew L. Davis Papers, New-
York Historical Society.
50. “A Clintonian Memorandum for Nine Hours,” New York Morning Chronicle, January 26,
1807; New York American Citizen, March 30, 1804; Morgan, Inventing the People, 304–5.
51. Robert Wright and Samuel Smith, [Statement of facts in an affair of honor between DeWitt
Clinton and Jonathan Dayton], November 20, 1803, W. C. Nicholas to Clinton, October
27, 1803, and Pierce Butler to Clinton, October 30, 1803, DeWitt Clinton Papers, Columbia
University Rare Book and Manuscript Library; New-York Evening Post, November 8 and 10,
1803; Clinton to unnamed correspondent, October 25, 1803, DeWitt Clinton Papers, New
York Public Library; John Van Ness to William P. Van Ness, November 11, 1803, personal
misc. William P. Van Ness, New York Public Library. Van Ness suggests that Dayton’s attack
was also intended to defeat a pending bill that Clinton supported.
52. New-York Evening Post, August 9, 1802. Burrites responded to Clinton’s challenge with their
own snide challenge, published in the Post the next day. Viewed in this light, duels between
contending factions were a type of feud—a dispute between subgroups of a “politically orga-
nized whole” that involved intermittent instances of violence over a prolonged period and
usually occurred in a delicately balanced society experiencing an unsettling controversy. Leo-
pold Pospisil, “Feud,” International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, 5:389–93; Harold D.
Lasswell, “Feuds,” Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, 6:220–21. On the link between elections
and honor, see Wyatt-Brown, Southern Honor, 184–86.
53. New-York Evening Post, August 11, 1802; “Anti-Duellist,” “On the Increasing Prevalence of
Duelling, No. III,” Hudson, N.Y., The Balance, and Columbian Repository, January 18 and 25,
1803.
 notes to pages 186 – 192 331

54. See, for example, Brockholst Livingston vs. James Jones, New York Commercial Advertiser,
May 14, 1798; George Eacker vs. Philip Hamilton, New-York Evening Post, November 28,
1801; John Swartwout vs. DeWitt Clinton, New-York Evening Post, August 2, 1802, and New
York American Citizen, August 9, 1802.
55. “An Old Soldier,” New York American Citizen, August 27, 1802; “A Young Soldier,” New-
York Evening Post, August 30, 1802; William S. Smith, [untitled article], ibid., August 6, 1802.
56. Charles D. Cooper to Philip Schuyler, April 23, 1804, Hamilton Papers, 26:243–46. For the
details of this print controversy, see ibid., 26:243–44, notes 3 and 4; Papers of Aaron Burr,
2:876–77, headnote.
57. [Van Ness], “A Candid Examination of the Whole affair In a Letter to a Friend. By Lysander,”
in Correct Statement, 51. As Burr later explained, Hamilton “had a peculiar habit of saying
things improper & offensive in such a Manner as could not well be taken hold of.” Aaron
Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887.
58. Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:881; John Adams to William Tudor, January 20, 1801, Tudor-Adams
Correspondence, Massachusetts Historical Society; Aaron Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18,
1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887; [Van Ness], “Candid Examination,” 52.
59. Aaron Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887; [Van Ness], “Candid
Examination,” 62–63. During Monroe’s 1797 dispute with Hamilton, Burr assured him that
Hamilton “woud not fight.” John Dawson to James Monroe, December 24, 1797, Hamilton
Papers, 21:319, note 1.
60. [Nathaniel Pendleton’s First Account of Alexander Hamilton’s Conversation at John Tayler’s
House], June 25, 1804, Hamilton Papers, 26:260–61; William P. Van Ness to Nathaniel Pen-
dleton, [June 26, 1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:268.
61. Alexander Hamilton to Aaron Burr, June 20, 1804, ibid., 26:247–49. See also Stourzh, Ham-
ilton and the Idea of Republican Government, 94. For examples of Burr’s outrage at Hamilton’s
“defiance,” see Burr to Hamilton, June 22, 1804, [Aaron Burr’s Instructions to William P.
Van Ness], [June 22–23, 1804], and Burr to Van Ness, [June 26, 1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:
255–56, 256–57, 266–67, as well as Van Ness’s narrative of events as cited in notes throughout
the duel correspondence in Hamilton Papers.
62. [Van Ness], “Candid Examination,” 68; Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, [July
10, 1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:308; Aaron Burr to Joseph Alston, July 10, 1804, in Davis,
Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:324–26.
63. J. M. Mason to William Coleman, July 18, 1804, in Coleman, Collection, 51. Unless otherwise
noted, the account in this paragraph is taken from Parton, Life and Times of Aaron Burr, 356–
57.
64. Gouverneur Morris, [diary entry], July 13–14, 1804, The Diary and Letters of Gouverneur Mor-
ris, ed. Anne Carry Morris, 2 vols. (New York, 1888), 2:456–58.
65. See [Joint Statement by William P. Van Ness and Nathaniel Pendleton], [July 17, 1804];
[Pendleton’s Amendments], [July 19, 1804]; [William P. Van Ness’s Amendments], [July 21,
1804], Hamilton Papers, 26:333–36, 337–39, 340–41. Also see correspondence between Van
Ness and Pendleton between July 11 and 16, 1804, ibid., 26:311–12, 329–32. In a public state-
ment, attending physician David Hosack noted that Hamilton, after regaining consciousness,
did not remember discharging his pistol. David Hosack to William Coleman, August 17,
1804, ibid., 26:345 (first published in Coleman’s Collection, 18–22).
66. For examples of Cheetham’s charges, see New York American Citizen, July 23, July 26, August
7, August 16, 1804. For dueling offenses, see Sabine, Notes on Duels and Duelling, 37;
Steinmetz, Romance of Duelling, vol. 1. Burr allegedly laughed when he came across the follow-
ing verse on a wax museum’s re-creation of the duel: “O Burr, O Burr, what hast thou done?/
Thou has shooted dead great Hamilton. / You hid behind a bunch of thistle, / And shooted
him dead with a great hoss pistol.” Parton, Life and Times of Aaron Burr, 616.
 332 notes to pages 192 – 200

67. Aaron Burr to Joseph Alston, July 13, 1804, Aaron Burr Papers, New-York Historical Society;
Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887. Albert Gallatin agreed.
Gallatin to James Nicholson, July 19, 1804, Albert Gallatin Papers.
68. [William P. Van Ness], “Vindix No. I,” New York Morning Chronicle, August 6, 1804. Also
see “Vindix No. II” and “Vindix No. III,” ibid., August 8 and August 11, 1804.
69. [Van Ness], “Vindix No. III,” ibid., August 11, 1804. Van Ness’s pamphlet bears careful
comparison with his original autograph manuscripts detailing the events of the duel; with
the account he published in the newspapers; and most important, with the Hamiltonian
version of the duel as detailed by Pendleton in the newspapers and restated by Coleman in
his defense pamphlet.
70. Coleman, Collection, 14–16; [Van Ness], “Correct Statement,” 22.
71. [Van Ness], “Candid Examination,” 47–48.
72. Ibid., 52, 48, 49.
73. Nathaniel Pendleton, [unsigned draft], [ca. July 1804], Nathaniel Pendleton papers, “Duel
Material,” New-York Historical Society; “The Warning III,” February 21, 1797, Hamilton
Papers, 20:517–20.
74. Gouverneur Morris, diary entry, July 14, 1804, Letters of Gouverneur Morris, 2:458–59.
75. Aaron Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887. In yet another in-
stance of Hamilton’s tortured logic, he decided that he might shoot at Burr if they exchanged
a second round of fire. This explains his response to Pendleton’s query about setting his
pistol’s hair trigger: “Not this time.” Alexander Hamilton, [Statement on Impending Duel],
[June 28–July 10, 1804], and [Nathaniel Pendleton’s Amendments], [July 19, 1804], Hamilton
Papers, 26:280, 338.
76. [Aaron Burr’s Instructions to William P. Van Ness], [June 22–23, 1804], Hamilton Papers,
26:257; Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887. On Burr’s self-
conception as a man of honor, also see Burr to Joseph Alston, July 10, 1804, Memoirs of
Aaron Burr, 2:324–26. On his deathbed, Hamilton told Reverend J. M. Mason, “I used every
expedient to avoid the interview; but I have found, for some time past, that my life must be
exposed to that man.” Hamilton felt compelled to oppose Burr, a man he considered a threat
to the republic, and in doing so, he recognized that he ran a continual risk of inviting a
challenge. J. M. Mason to William Coleman, July 18, 1804, Coleman, Collection, 53.
77. Aaron Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887–88.
78. Parton, Life and Times of Aaron Burr, 615. Burrite Matthew Davis’s Memoirs of Aaron Burr,
published thirty years earlier, was largely an annotated assemblage of Burr’s correspondence,
compiled with Burr’s assistance. For the long-term impact of the Burr-Hamilton duel (which
did not end dueling in the North), see Wayne C. Minnick, “A Case Study in Persuasive Effect:
Lyman Beecher on Duelling,” Speech Monographs 38 (November 1971): 262–76.

5
An Honor Dispute of Grand Proportions
1. James Bayard to Aaron Burr, March 8, 1830, Burr to Bayard, March 10, 1830, Burr to Matthew
L. Davis, March 15, 1830, and Davis to Burr, March 18, 1830, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:1197–
1202. On Davis and his views of Jefferson (and Jefferson’s memoranda) see Pasley, “ ‘Artful
and Designing Men,’ ” chap. 2.
2. In addition to Bayard, Adams, Burr, Smith, and Jefferson, complainants included Timothy
Green, Abraham Bishop, John Swartwout, David A. Ogden, and Edward Livingston—all
accused of assisting Burr in his intrigues for the presidency. Though they did not defend
themselves publicly, New York Republican Pierpont Edwards (Burr’s uncle) and Connecticut
 notes to pages 200 – 211 333

Republican Gideon Granger were also attacked. See Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:91–98;
Pancake, Samuel Smith and the Politics of Business, 55; Richard Bayard, “Documents Relating
to the Presidential Election in the Year 1801: Containing a Refutation of Two Passages in
the Writings of Thomas Jefferson, Aspersing the Character of the Late James A. Bayard, of
Delaware” (Philadelphia, 1831). Merrill Peterson tracks the controversy until 1855, but Bayard’s
great-grandson republished the 1855 defense in 1907 when a Delaware newspaper published
an excerpt from the ‘Anas.’ Thomas F. Bayard, “Remarks in the Senate of the United States,
January 31, 1855, Vindicating the Late James A. Bayard, of Delaware, and Refuting the
Groundless Charges Contained in the ‘Anas’ of Thomas Jefferson, Aspersing His Character”
(n.p., 1907). Peterson, Jefferson Image in the American Mind, 34.
3. Smith refused Jefferson’s offer, though he agreed to serve as acting secretary until a replace-
ment could be found. Pancake, Samuel Smith and the Politics of Business, 61–62; Cassell, Mer-
chant Congressman in the Young Republic, 105–9; Thomas Jefferson, April 15, 1806, Anas.
4. Accounts that stress the modern aspects of the contest include Cunningham, Jeffersonian Re-
publicans; Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 691–754; Sisson, Revolution of 1800. For
a more sectional reading of the election—though it remains focused on warring “proto-
parties”—see Sharp, American Politics in the Early Republic. Peter S. Onuf offers a provocative
account of the election as a nationalizing—and boundary-setting—event for the Republicans.
Onuf, Jefferson’s Empire, chap. 3. For more general accounts of the election, see Malone, Jeffer-
son and the Ordeal of Liberty, 484–506; Kurtz, Presidency of John Adams; and Dauer, Adams
Federalists.
5. Peterson, Jefferson Image in the American Mind.
6. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:iii.
7. Peterson, Jefferson Image in the American Mind, 463–64.
8. The two standard biographies of Burr are Lomask, Aaron Burr; and Schachner, Aaron Burr.
See also Nolan, Burr and the American Literary Imagination. On Davis, see Mushkat, “Davis
and the Political Legacy of Aaron Burr”; and Pasley, “ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ” chap. 2.
9. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:44–45, 328. See also 2:15.
10. Aaron Burr to Joseph Alston, October 16, 1825, in ibid., 2:432–34.
11. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:387; Aaron Burr to Alexander Hamilton, June 21, 1804, Ham-
ilton Papers, 26:250.
12. Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, January 16, 1799, Madison Papers, 17:208–11.
13. See Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 701, 740; for a corrective of this view, see Ben-
Atar and Oberg, Federalists Reconsidered.
14. Lomask, Aaron Burr, 244; Aaron Burr to Aaron Ward, January 14, 1832, Papers of Aaron Burr,
2:1210–11. South Carolina Republican Charles Pinckney made a similar confession.
15. Theodore Sedgwick to Alexander Hamilton, January 10, 1801, and Hamilton to James Bayard,
January 16, 1801, Hamilton Papers, 25:311, 320–21. See also the insightful essay by Gordon S.
Wood, “The Real Treason of Aaron Burr,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 143
(June 1999).
16. During the election of 1800, Hamilton recalled a conversation in which Burr blamed him
for not taking advantage of his command of the army to “change the Government.” When
Hamilton responded that “this could not have been done without guilt,” Burr replied, “Les
grand ames se soucient peu de petits morceaux” (Great souls care little about small matters).
Alexander Hamilton to James A. Bayard, January 16, 1801, Hamilton Papers, 25:319–24.
17. Alexander Hamilton, [Speech at a Meeting of Federalists in Albany], [February 10, 1804],
Hamilton Papers, 26:188. Hamilton notes that the “mass of the people” admire Burr “as the
Grandson of President Edwards, and the son of President Burr.”
18. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:182, 2:56. For Burr’s admiration of Chesterfield, see Theodosia
Burr to Aaron Burr, February 12, 1781, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:224–25; Parton,
 334 notes to pages 212 – 218

Life and Times of Aaron Burr, 1:63, 373. On Burr’s assumptions about aristocratic license, see
Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:27, 40, 91, 181–82; and Parton, Life and Times of Aaron Burr,
2:276.
19. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:56.
20. Hannah Nicholson Gallatin to Albert Gallatin, May 7, 1800, and James Nicholson to Albert
Gallatin, May 7, 1800, Albert Gallatin Papers; Burr to Joseph Alston, November 15, 1815,
Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:1165–69. On mass confusion over political loyalties, also see also Oliver
Wolcott, Jr., to James McHenry, August 26, 1800, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations
of Washington and Adams, 2:409.
21. Jonathan Dayton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., September 15, 1796, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Adminis-
trations of Washington and Adams, 1:383–84.
22. For accounts of the presidential election of 1796, see Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans,
89–115; Dauer, Adams Federalists, 92–119; Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 518–28;
Kuroda, Origins of the Twelfth Amendment, 63–72; Kurtz, Presidency of John Adams, 78–238;
Malone, Jefferson and the Ordeal of Liberty, 273–94; Scherr, “ ‘Republican Experiment’ and
the Election of 1796 in Virginia”; Smith, “The 1796 Election: A World Without Washington,”
in Crisis, Unity, and Partisanship; Smith, John Adams, 2:878–917; and “Election of 1796,” in
History of American Presidential Elections, 1789–1968, ed. Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr. (New York:
Chelsea House, 1971), 59–80.
23. See also Kuroda, Origins of the Twelfth Amendment; Kurtz, Presidency of John Adams, 145–76;
and Slonim, “Electoral College at Philadelphia.”
24. Chauncey Goodrich to Oliver Wolcott, Sr., December 17, 1796, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the
Administrations of Washington and Adams, 1:411–13.
25. William Vans Murray to James McHenry, November 2, 1796, in Steiner, Life and Correspon-
dence of McHenry, 200. For examples of such party labels, see George Thatcher to the Town
of Wells, May 11, 1796, Thatcher Family papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; John Beck-
ley to William Irvine, September 22 and October 17, 1796, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 123,
128–29; Fisher Ames to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., September 26, 1796, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the
Administrations of Washington and Adams, 1:384–85; Robert Troup to Rufus King, November
16, 1796, Correspondence of Rufus King, 2:110; David Ross to Alexander Hamilton, November
16, 1796, Hamilton Papers, 20:395–97; Charles Carroll to James McHenry, December 5, 1796,
in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 204–5; John Adams to Abigail Adams, Decem-
ber 16, 1796, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Joseph Jones to James
Madison, [January] 1797, Madison Papers, 16:448–49.
26. William Loughton Smith to Rufus King, July 23, 1796, Correspondence of Rufus King, 2:65–
66; William Vans Murray to James McHenry, November 2, 1796, and undated, in Steiner,
Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 201–2; Dauer, Adams Federalists, 93–97; John Adams,
diary, August 11, 1796, and John Adams to John Quincy Adams, October 28, 1796, Adams
Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
27. William Loughton Smith to Ralph Izard, November 8, 1796, “South Carolina Federalist Cor-
respondence, 1789–1797,” American Historical Review 14 (July 1909): 784–85. See also William
Loughton Smith to Ralph Izard, May 18, 1796, ibid., 780–81; Christopher Gore to John
Quincy Adams, July 5, 1796, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; Oliver
Wolcott, Jr., to Jonathan Dayton, September 7, 1796, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations
of Washington and Adams, 1:381; Jonathan Dayton to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., September 15, 1796,
ibid., 1:383–84; William Vans Murray to James McHenry, October 2, 1796, in Steiner, Life
and Correspondence of McHenry, 198; Rufus King to John Quincy Adams, November 10, 1796,
Correspondence of Rufus King, 2:103–4. For Republican confusion about Burr and the vice
presidency, see John Beckley to James Madison, June 20 and October 15, 1796, 119–21, 127–
28, and Madison to Monroe, February 26, 1796, Madison Papers, 16:232–34.
 notes to pages 219 – 223 335

28. For example, see James Madison to Henry Tazewell, October 18, 1796, Madison Papers, 16:
410–11. See also Kuroda, Twelfth Amendment, 65; and Smith, Crisis, Unity, and Partisanship.
29. Fisher Ames to Josiah Quincy, February 1, 1806, Works of Fisher Ames, 2:1504–5; William
Vans Murray to James McHenry, October 9, 1796, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of
McHenry, 199. See also Hugh Williamson to McHenry, October 20, 1796, ibid., 200. On
newspaper coverage of the election of 1796, see Smith, “Election of 1796.” See also Cunning-
ham, Circular Letters, xv–xlv; Brown, Knowledge Is Power; Fischer, Revolution of American
Conservatism; and Warner, Letters of the Republic.
30. Tinkcom, Republicans and Federalists in Pennsylvania, 174; Abigail Adams to John Adams,
December 23, 1796, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society. See also John
Adams to Abigail Adams, January 3, 1797, ibid. The shopkeeper responded by reminding the
man that Adams was a lawyer, asking, “Can you believe that a lawyer can’t talk?”
31. It is worth noting that well over thirty thousand people voted in Pennsylvania’s gubernatorial
elections. John Beckley to James Madison, October 15, 1796, Beckley to William Irvine, Sep-
tember 15 and 22, October 4 and 17, 1796, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 122–23, 124–25, 127,
128–29; and Cooke, Tench Coxe, 285. For detailed accounts of Beckley’s efforts, see Elkins
and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 519–23; Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 101–7; Berke-
ley and Berkeley, John Beckley; and Pasley, “ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ” 104–30. See also
Tinkcom, Republicans and Federalists in Pennsylvania, 162–74.
32. See Jonathan Dayton to Theodore Sedgwick, November 12 and 13, 1796, and Sedgwick to
Dayton, November 19, 1796, enclosed in Sedgwick to Alexander Hamilton, November 19,
1796, Hamilton Papers, 20:402–7.
33. Theodore Sedgwick to Jonathan Dayton, November 19, 1796, enclosed in Sedgwick to Alex-
ander Hamilton, November 13, 1796, ibid., 404–6.
34. For example, a cursory examination of New Jersey in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries reveals that five electors went on to become U.S. senators, sometimes at the next
election: Franklin Davenport, Theodore Frelinghuysen, Aaron Ogden, James Parker, and
Richard Stockton. On undeclared presidential electors, see Scherr, “ ‘Republican Experi-
ment,’ ” 96–98; Gilpatrick, Jeffersonian Democracy of North Carolina, 74–75; Cunningham, Jef-
fersonian Republicans, 94–98; Joseph Bloomfield to Tench Coxe, November 20, 1796, Tench
Coxe Papers, Historical Society of Pennsylvania; George Cabot to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., No-
vember 30, 1796, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington and Adams, 1:404.
35. Samuel Andrew Law to Tench Coxe, December 12, 1796, Tench Coxe Papers, Historical
Society of Pennsylvania; Moore Furman to Tench Coxe, November 28, 1796, ibid.
36. Aaron Burr to William Eustis, November 30, 1796, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:277–78. On Burr’s
electioneering, see Abigail Adams to John Quincy Adams, November 25, 1796, Adams Family
Papers; Ebenezer Foote to Peter Van Gaasbeek, February 14, 1796, in Alfred F. Young, Demo-
cratic Republicans of New York, 548; [John Gardner], “A Brief Consideration of the Important
Services and Distinguished Virtues and Talents, which Recommend Mr. Adams for the Presi-
dency of the United States” (Boston, 1796), 29; and Peter Van Gaasbeek to Burr, November
25, 1796, State House Museum, Kingston, N.Y.
37. Aaron Burr to Elbridge Gerry, November 30, 1796, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:278–79; John
Adams to Abigail Adams, December 18, 1796, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical
Society; Stephen Higginson to Alexander Hamilton, December 9, 1796, Hamilton Papers,
20:437–38. On Burr, see also Gerry to Abigail Adams, December 28, 1796, Adams Family
Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society.
38. George Clinton to Michael Leib, November 19, 1796, in Kuroda, Origins of the Twelfth Amend-
ment, 69; William Loughton Smith to Ralph Izard, November 3, 1796, “South Carolina Fed-
eralist Correspondence,” 781–82; Moore Furman to Tench Coxe, November 28, 1796, Tench
Coxe Papers; William Vans Murray to James McHenry, October 9, 1796, in Steiner, Life and
 336 notes to pages 223 – 226

Correspondence of McHenry, 199; Stephen Higginson to Alexander Hamilton, December 9,

1796, Hamilton Papers, 20:437–38.
39. For information about electoral votes, see Congressional Quarterly’s Guide to U.S. Elections
(Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly, 1994), 361; Kurtz, Presidency of John Adams,
412–14. See also Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 514.
40. Philip Freneau to Tench Coxe, November 22, 1796, Tench Coxe Papers, Historical Society
of Pennsylvania; Henry Tazewell to James Madison, October 3, 1796, Madison Papers, 16:
405–8; Thomas Jefferson to James Monroe, March 2 and July 10, 1796, Thomas Jefferson
Papers, Library of Congress; William Wirt Henry, Patrick Henry: Life, Correspondence and
Speeches, 2:568–75; Rufus King to Alexander Hamilton, May 2, 1796, Hamilton to King, May
4, 1796, and John Marshall to King, May 24, 1796, Hamilton Papers, 20:151–53,158–59.
41. George Cabot to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., April 13, 1797, in Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations
of Washington and Adams, 1:491–93; John Beckley to James Madison, June 20, 1796, and
Beckley to William Irvine, October 4, 1796, in Gawalt, Justifying Jefferson, 119–21, 124–25. In
these three letters, John Browne Cutting and John Brown declare that Hamilton urged Jeffer-
son on them personally, a claim that could indict them as liars if proven untrue; far more
typical would be an assertion that they “had heard it said that” Hamilton supported Jefferson.
The willingness of both men to risk their reputations on such a comment, joined with a close
reading of Hamilton’s supposed words, suggests that he may indeed have endorsed Jefferson,
though in an extremely hypothetical manner. Brown asked Hamilton whether “there may
be a state of things in which it would be desirable that Mr. J. should be elected.” Hamilton’s
agreement that in case of war with France, Jefferson might be the only man able to save the
Union is not quite an endorsement of Jefferson’s candidacy, though it could be creatively
interpreted as such.
42. George Clinton to DeWitt Clinton, December 13, 1803, in Kaminski, George Clinton: Yeoman
Politician of the New Republic, 251–52.
43. Theodore Sedgwick to Ephraim Williams, January 9, 1797, Sedgwick III, Massachusetts His-
torical Society. See also Chauncey Goodrich to Oliver Wolcott, Sr., December 17, 1796, in
Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington and Adams, 1:411–13; Fisher Ames to
Thomas Dwight, January 5, 1797, Works of Fisher Ames, 2:1211–12; Robert Troup to Rufus
King, January 28, 1796, Theodore Sedgwick to King, March 12, 1797, and William Smith to
King, April 3, 1797, Correspondence of Rufus King, 2:135, 156, 164–67; Hamilton to King, Febru-
ary 15, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 20:551–56.
44. Thomas Jefferson to Archibald Stuart, January 4, 1797, Thomas Jefferson Papers, Library of
Congress; Joseph Jones to James Madison, January 29, 1797, Madison Papers, 16:477–79. See
also Jones to Madison, February 5, 1797, Madison Papers, 16:485–86.
45. Thomas Jefferson to John Adams, December 28, 1796, Thomas Jefferson Papers; Smith,
“Election of 1796,” in History of American Presidential Elections, 73. On Jefferson’s letter to
Adams, see Adams-Jefferson Letters, 1:243, 262–63; Smith, John Adams, 2:909; Elkins and
McKitrick, Age of Federalism, 539–49; Malone, Jefferson and the Ordeal of Liberty, 293–94; and
Ellis, Passionate Sage, 29–30.
46. James Madison to Thomas Jefferson, January 15, 1797, Madison Papers, 16:455–57; Jefferson
to Madison, December 17, 1796, and January 30, 1797, ibid., 16:431–32, 479–80; John Adams
to Abigail Adams, January 1, 1797, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society;
Jefferson to John Langdon, January 27, 1797, Thomas Jefferson Papers; Jefferson to Madison,
January 22, 1797, Madison Papers, 16:473–74. See also Jefferson to Thomas Mann Randolph,
January 22, 1797, Thomas Jefferson Papers.
47. Charles Carroll to James McHenry, November 28, 1796, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence
of McHenry, 202–3; Joseph Jones to James Madison, December 9, 1796, Madison Papers, 16:
 notes to pages 227 – 232 337

423–24; Thomas Jefferson to Archibald Stuart, January 4, 1797, Thomas Jefferson Papers;
Jefferson, memorandum, March 2, 1797, Anas, 184–85.
48. On the “cease-fire,” see Theodore Sedgwick to Rufus King, March 12, 1797, Correspondence
of Rufus King, 2:156–59; and Tagg, Benjamin Franklin Bache and the Philadelphia Aurora, 295–
300. See also Alexander Hamilton to Rufus King, February 15, 1797, Hamilton Papers, 20:
515–16; James Madison to Thomas Jefferson, January 29 and February 5, 1797, Madison Papers,
16:476, 483–84.
49. Roll-call congressional votes or petition signing could serve the same purpose, forcing peo-
ple to commit their name to a cause—and politicians often used them in this way. John
Beckley to DeWitt Clinton, July 24, 1795, DeWitt Clinton Papers, Columbia University;
Hamilton to Rufus King, February 21, 1795, and Hamilton to Theodore Sedgwick, February
18, 1795, Hamilton Papers, 17:277–81.
50. Memo of James Nicholson, December 26, 1803, American Historical Review 8 (April 1903):
511–13; Aaron Burr to John Taylor of Caroline, October 22, 1800, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:
451–52.
51. On sectional identity and its interconnectedness with nationalism, see Onuf, Statehood and
Union; and Ayers, Limerick, Nissenbaum, and Onuf, All over the Map. The foremost propo-
nent of the sectional view of partisan politics is Sharp, American Politics in the Early Republic.
Note also Jefferson’s 1795 letter in which he wrote “Southern” and then crossed it out and
replaced it with “Republican.” Jefferson to Madison, April 27, 1795, Madison Papers, 16:1–2.
Sharp discusses this letter in “Unraveling the Mystery of Jefferson’s Letter of April 17, 1795,”
Journal of the Early Republic 6 (1986): 411–18.
52. Hamilton to John Jay, May 7, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 24:464–67; Gideon Granger to Thomas
Jefferson, October 18, 1800, Thomas Jefferson Papers; see Wood, Radicalism of the American
Revolution, 296–98.
53. Matthew Davis to Albert Gallatin, May 5, 1800, Albert Gallatin Papers; John Adams to Abigail
Adams, November 15, 1800, Adams Family Papers; Philadelphia Aurora, May 7, 1800. For
preelection jitters, see also Abigail Adams to Thomas Adams, October 12, 1800, and William
Tudor to John Adams, November 5, 1800, Adams Family Papers; Gideon Granger to Thomas
Jefferson, October 18, 1800, Thomas Jefferson Papers.
54. Several historians consider the 1798 Virginia and Kentucky resolutions the opening salvo of
the 1800 campaign, and at least one contemporary saw Burr’s ardent support of the resolu-
tions in the New York Senate as evidence of a link between New York and Virginia in the
impending presidential contest. Burr began conferring with Jefferson as early as January 1800.
Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:393–95 and note 1; Theodore Sedgwick to Peter Van Schaack, February
10, 1799, Sedgwick III, Massachusetts Historical Society. On preparation among “profes-
sional” politicians, see Pasley, “ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ” 144–60.
55. Thomas Jefferson to Tench Coxe, May 21, 1799, Thomas Jefferson Papers; Jefferson to Madi-
son, November 22, 1799, and Monroe to Madison, November 22, 1799, Madison Papers, 17:
277–78, 278–79. Monroe suggested an alternate plan, noting that “there wod. be nothing
extr[aordinar]y” in a visit by Madison and his wife to his new house—where Jefferson might
just happen to be present.
56. Thomas Jefferson to James Monroe, March 26 and April 16, 1800, and Monroe to Jefferson,
[May 1800], Thomas Jefferson Papers, Library of Congress.
57. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:434–35, 2:54–55, 60; Matthew Davis to Albert Gallatin, May
1, 1800, Albert Gallatin Papers. As evidence of the electoral importance of New York, Davis
cites a letter of March 4, 1800, from Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, Madison Papers,
367–71.
58. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:434–35, 2:54–55, 60; Davis to Gallatin, May 1, 1800, Albert
 338 notes to pages 233 – 237

Gallatin Papers; Daily Advertiser, April 2, 1800; General Advertiser, April 3, 1800, in Lomask,
Aaron Burr, 244, note 39; Robert Troup to Peter Van Schaack, May 2, 1800, in Cunningham,
Jeffersonian Republicans, 183; Hamilton, History of the Republic of the United States of America,
375–76. The story may be apocryphal. John Church Hamilton reports that his father was on
horseback because he was on his way to his country home; he then offers a questionable
anecdote about how his father swayed the “rabble” after being forced from his horse.
59. Charles Pinckney to James Madison, September 30, 1799, Madison Papers, 17:272–74; Charles
Carroll to Alexander Hamilton, August 27, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:93–95; circular letter
from Massachusetts Delegates in Congress, January 31, 1800, in Cunningham, Jeffersonian
Republicans, 146. See also Pinckney to Madison, May 16, 1799, ibid., 17:250–51; John Dawson
to Madison, November 28, 1799, Madison Papers, 17:281–82; Stevens Thomas Mason to Madi-
son, January 16, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:357–58; Charles Peale Polk to Madison, June 20,
1800, Madison Papers, 17:384–86. For a detailed discussion of such electoral reform in 1800,
see Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 144–47.
60. Alexander Hamilton to John Jay, May 7, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 24:464–67. See Gabriel
Duvall to James Madison, June 6, 1800, Charles Peale Polk to Madison, June 20, 1800, and
John Dawson to Madison, July 28, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:392, 395, 399.
61. Alexander Hamilton to Charles Carroll, July 1, 1800, and Hamilton to James A. Bayard,
August 6, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:1–3, 56–58; Robert Goodloe Harper to Hamilton, June
5, 1800, ibid., 24:568–70; Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 129–31.
62. Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, February 7, 1799, Madison Papers, 17:225–27; Jefferson
to Tench Coxe, May 21, 1799, Thomas Jefferson Papers; Samuel Harrison Smith to Madison,
August 17, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:405–6; Fisher Ames to Thomas Dwight, March 19, 1801,
and Ames to John Rutledge, July 30, 1801, Writings of Fisher Ames, 2:1409–12, 1414–17. On
Federalist and Republican use of newspapers, see also Pasley, “ ‘Artful and Designing Men,’ ”
416–31, 445–57.
63. Matthew L. Davis, notebook, May 30, 1830, Rufus King Papers, New-York Historical Soci-
ety. See also George Clinton to DeWitt Clinton, December 13, 1803, in Kaminski, George
Clinton, 251–52; Davis, Memoirs, 2:58–59 (in which Davis claims to be quoting from the notes
quoted above).
64. Gabriel Duvall to James Madison, October 17, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:424–25; Theodore
Sedgwick to Rufus King, May 24, 1801, Correspondence of Rufus King, 3:454–57.
65. James Bayard to John Rutledge, Jr., June 8, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:36–38, note; Aaron
Burr to Robert R. Livingston, September 24, 1800, Robert R. Livingston Papers, New-York
Historical Society (see also Robert R. Livingston to Edward Livingston, February 20, 1801,
ibid.); Thomas Adams to Abigail Adams, October 19, 1800, Adams Family Papers, Massachu-
setts Historical Society; George Cabot to Alexander Hamilton, August 23, 1800, Hamilton
Papers, 25:77–79. For more Federalist suspicions, see Hamilton to James McHenry, June 6,
1800, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney to Hamilton, July 17, 1800, John Rutledge, Jr., to Hamil-
ton, July 17, 1800, Timothy Phelps to Oliver Wolcott, July 15, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:573,
27–29, 30–38, 52, note 2, and 24:484–86, note 3; Pinckney to McHenry, June 10 and 19,
1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 459–61; Timothy Pickering to Rufus
King, June 26, 1800, Fisher Ames to King, July 15, August 19, August 26, and September
24, 1800, Correspondence of Rufus King, 3:261–63, 273–74, 293–97, 303–7; Benjamin Stoddart
to John Adams, October 27, 1811, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society;
Trenton, N.J., The Federalist, June 2, 1800. Hamilton hints at this possibility in his notorious
1800 “Letter to John Adams.” Hamilton Papers, 25:169–234.
66. John Taylor of Caroline to Thomas Jefferson, June 25, 1798, Thomas Jefferson Papers.
67. See, for example, James Monroe to James Madison, October 21, 1800, George Jackson to
Madison, Madison Papers, 17:426, 460–61, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney to James McHenry,
 notes to pages 238 – 243 339

June 10, 1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 459–60; Robert Troup to Rufus
King, December 4, 1800, Fisher Ames to Rufus King, August 26, 1800, in King, Correspon-
dence of Rufus King, 3:295–97, 340–41; John Adams to Abigail Adams, December 16, 1796,
Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society; John Rutledge, Jr., to Alexander
Hamilton, July 17, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:30–38; David Gelston to Madison, October 8
and November 21, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:418–19, 438; George Cabot to Hamilton, August
21, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:74–75.
68. Thomas Adams to John Adams, January 22, 1801, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts His-
torical Society; John Francis Mercer to James Madison, January 5, 1801, Madison Papers, 17:
452–53.
69. George Cabot to Alexander Hamilton, August 21, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:74–75.
70. John Rutledge, Jr., to Alexander Hamilton, July 17, 1800, ibid., 25:30–38. See also Hamilton
to Theodore Sedgwick, May 8 and 10, 1800, ibid., 25:24; Sedgwick to Peter Van Schaack,
May 9, 1800, Theodore Sedgwick III, Massachusetts Historical Society; Charles Cotesworth
Pinckney to James McHenry, June 10 and 19, 1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of
McHenry, 459–61; Fisher Ames to Rufus King, August 26, 1800, Correspondence of Rufus King,
3:295–97.
71. Robert Goodloe Harper to Harrison Gray Otis, August 28, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:59,
note 9; Bushrod Washington to Oliver Wolcott, Jr., November 11, 1800, ibid., 25:249–50,
note 7.
72. George Cabot to Alexander Hamilton, ibid., 25:247–49; Charles Cotesworth Pinckney to
James McHenry, June 10, 1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of McHenry, 459–60; James
A. Bayard to Hamilton, August 18, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:68–71.
73. David Gelston to James Madison, October 8 and November 21, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:418–
19, 438; Madison to Thomas Jefferson, October 21, 1800, ibid., 17:425–26 (see also Madison to
James Monroe, [ca. October 21, 1800], Madison to David Gelston, October 24, 1800, ibid.,
17:426); Jefferson, memorandum, January 26, 1804, Anas, 224–28.
74. Timothy Green to David Denniston and James Cheetham, October 11, 1802, John Swartwout
to Denniston and Cheetham, October 13, 1802, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:91–93.
Green’s defense appeared in the New York American Citizen, October 11, 1802. Though Green
explicitly denied it, he did, indeed, report to Burr about South Carolina politics at least twice;
see Aaron Burr to William Eustis, December 9 and 16, 1800, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:466–
67, 470. He likewise reported to Burr on Rhode Island politics during a trip there; see Burr
to John Taylor of Caroline, December 18, 1800, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:472–73.
75. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:99, 139.
76. Uriah Tracy to James McHenry, December 30, 1800, in Steiner, Life and Correspondence of
McHenry, 483–84. See also John Francis Mercer to James Madison, January 5, 1801, Madison
Papers, 17:452–53. Studies that stress party loyalty include Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federal-
ism, 744; Cunningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 239; Sharp, American Politics in the Early Re-
public, 249. Sharp sees northern Federalists fighting southern Republicans but does not exam-
ine sectionalism within the parties themselves.
77. Hugh Henry Brackenridge to Thomas Jefferson, January 19, 1801, Thomas Jefferson Papers.
See also Thomas Mann Randolph to James Monroe, February 14, 1801, in Hamilton, History
of the Republic, 7:432–33.
78. James Gunn to Alexander Hamilton, January 9, 1801, Hamilton Papers, 25:303–4. For more
Federalist fears, see William Tudor to John Adams, November 5, 1800, Abigail Adams to
Thomas Adams, October 12, 1800, John Adams to Abigail Adams, November 15, 1800, El-
bridge Gerry to John Adams, January 16, 1801, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Histori-
cal Society; James Bayard to Allen McLane, February 17, 1801, Thomas Jefferson Papers.
79. Edward Livingston to Robert R. Livingston, January 29, 1801, Robert R. Livingston Papers,
 340 notes to pages 243 – 246

New-York Historical Society. Thomas Jefferson to James Monroe, February 15, 1801, in Cun-
ningham, Jeffersonian Republicans, 246; Jefferson to James Madison, February 18, 1801, Madi-
son Papers, 17:467–68. Jefferson denied the “idea of force” a few weeks later, claiming that a
constitutional convention “would have been on the ground in 8. weeks,” and “repaired the
Constitution.” Jefferson to Dr. Joseph Priestley, March 21, 1801, Thomas Jefferson Papers.
80. See, for example, Albert Gallatin to Hannah Nicholson Gallatin, January 5, 7, and 29, 1801,
Aaron Burr to Albert Gallatin, January 16, 1801, William Eustis to Gallatin, March 6, 1801,
John Beckley to Gallatin, February 15, 1801, Albert Gallatin Papers; Thomas Jefferson to An-
drew Ellicott, December 18, 1800, Caesar Rodney to Jefferson, December 28, 1800, Jefferson
to Tench Coxe, December 31, 1800, Monroe to Jefferson, January 6, 1801, Thomas McKean
to Jefferson, January 10, 1801, Horatio Gates to Jefferson, February 9, 1801, Thomas Jefferson
Papers; Jefferson to Madison, December 19 and 26, 1800, Madison Papers, 17:444–46, 448;
James Bayard to Alexander Hamilton, March 8, 1801, Gouverneur Morris to Hamilton, De-
cember 19, 1800, Hamilton Papers, 25:266–69, 322–46. Hamilton declared usurpation of the
government a “most dangerous and unbecoming policy.” Hamilton to Morris, January 9,
1801, Hamilton Papers, 304–5.
81. James Monroe to Thomas Jefferson, December 30, 1800, and January 6, 1801, Thomas Jeffer-
son Papers; James Madison to Monroe, [ca. November 10, 1800], Madison Papers, 17:435.
See also Jefferson to Thomas Mann Randolph, January 9, 1801, Thomas McKean to Jefferson,
January 10, 1801, Horatio Gates to Jefferson, February 9, 1801, and Caesar Rodney to Jeffer-
son, December 28, 1800, Thomas Jefferson Papers; and Madison to Jefferson, December 20,
1800, Madison Papers, 17:446–48.
82. See Onuf, Statehood and Union, esp. chaps. 1 and 7; and Ayers, Limerick, Nissenbaum, and
Onuf, All over the Map, 11–37.
83. Samuel Smith to Aaron Burr, January 11, 1801, Samuel Smith Papers, Alderman Library,
University of Virginia. Ogden denied any connection with Burr, Bishop dismissed the accusa-
tions as lies, and Livingston stated only that he had never heard Burr say anything to suggest
that he would seek the presidency over Jefferson. On Ogden, see [Deposition of James Ba-
yard], 1805, Peter Irving to Ogden, November 24, 1802, and Ogden to Irving, November
24, 1802; Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:95–97, 124–26; Samuel Smith to Burr, January 11, 1801,
Samuel Smith Papers, Alderman Library, University of Virginia; Burr to Smith, January 16,
1801, Correspondence of Aaron Burr, 1:493, 489–90, note 1. On Livingston, see [Statement
regarding Aaron Burr], ca. 1802, and [Deposition of James Bayard], Davis, Memoirs of Aaron
Burr, 2:97, 125; Alexander Hamilton to Gouverneur Morris, January 9, 1801, Hamilton Papers,
25:304–5; Burr to Albert Gallatin, January 16, 1801, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:492–93 and note
3. On Bishop, see Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:728–29, note 2; Burr to Tench Coxe, October 25,
1800, and Burr to Pierpont Edwards, November 18, 1800, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:452–53,
459.
84. See George Jackson to James Madison, February 5, 1801, Madison Papers, 17:460–61.
85. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:116, 130, 126, 115–16, 130.
86. James Bayard to John Adams, February 19, 1801, “Papers of James A. Bayard, 1796–1815,”
Annual Report of the American Historical Association 2 (1913): 129–30. See also [Deposition of
Samuel Smith], 1802; [Deposition of James Bayard], 1805, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr,
2:108, 127; Bayard to Hamilton, March 8, 1801, Hamilton Papers, 25:344–46.
87. James Bayard to Alexander Hamilton, January 7, 1801, Hamilton Papers, 25:199–303. On Ba-
yard’s decision, see Morton Borden, The Federalism of James A. Bayard (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1995).
88. James Bayard to Samuel Bayard, February 22, 1801, Annual Report of the American Historical
Association, 131–32.
 notes to pages 247 – 257 341

89. [Deposition of James Bayard], 1805, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:122–28.
90. Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 1:181–82. See also ibid., 1:27, 40, 90–92.
91. Shapin, Social History of Truth, 83–85.
92. Aaron Burr to Samuel Smith, December 16, 1800, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:471.
93. Burr to William Eustis, January 16, 1801, ibid., 1:490–91.
94. Burr to Smith, December 24 and 29, 1800, ibid., 1:475–76, 478–79.
95. James Madison to John Dawson, January 3, 1801, Madison Papers, 17:451–52; James Gunn to
Alexander Hamilton, January 9, 1801, Hamilton Papers, 25:303; Robert Troup to Rufus King,
February 12, 1801, Correspondence of Rufus King, 3:391; Gabriel Christie to Samuel Smith,
December 19, 1802, Papers of Aaron Burr, 1:484, editorial note. See also Benjamin Hichborn
to Thomas Jefferson, January 5, 1801, Thomas Jefferson Papers; and Jefferson, memorandum,
January 2, 1804, Anas, 223. For Smith’s role in the electoral tie, see Pancake, Smith and the
Politics of Business; and Cassell, Merchant Congressman in the Young Republic.
96. Burr to Joseph Alston, November 15, 1815, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:1165–69.
97. See Sharp, American Politics in the Early Republic, 27–33; Malone, Jefferson and the Ordeal of
Liberty; and Elkins and McKitrick, Age of Federalism. Malone wrestles with this issue in Jeffer-
son the President, First Term, 12–15, 487–93.
98. [Deposition of James Bayard], April 3, 1806, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:129–33.
99. [Deposition of Samuel Smith], April 15, 1806, in Davis, Memoirs of Aaron Burr, 2:133–37.
100. Jefferson, memorandum, April 15, 1806, Anas, 238.
101. January 12, 1831, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, 8:272–73. Adams was reading Jefferson’s
“Anas” at the time. Bayard told Adams about Jefferson’s deal “more than once.” February
11 and March 6, 1830, ibid., 8:188, 200.
102. Joseph Bloomfield to Aaron Burr, September 17, 1802, and Burr to Bloomfield, September
21, 1802, in New-York Evening Post, September 29, 1802, reprinted from the Trenton True
American, Aaron Burr Papers, New-York Historical Society; Hamilton, History of the Republic,
7:760–61. Editor Peter Irving of the Burrite Morning Chronicle also solicited a statement of
innocence from David Ogden, one of Burr’s supposed “agents.”
103. Aaron Burr to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:887; New-York Evening
Post, October 13, 1802, in Hamilton, History of the Republic, 7:760–61.
104. [Speech of James A. Bayard on the Judiciary Act,] February 20, 1802, in Hamilton, History
of the Republic, 7:467–68; Bayard to Hamilton, April 12, 1802, Hamilton Papers, 25:600–601;
“Address of Ajax, to James A. Bayard, Esq.,” March 25, 1802. Jefferson owned a copy. E.
Millicent Sowerby, comp., Catalogue of the Library of Thomas Jefferson (Charlottesville: Univer-
sity Press of Virginia, 1983), 3:337, no. 3293.
105. Jefferson, memorandum, January 26, 1804, Anas, 224–28.
106. [Deposition of Samuel Smith], Samuel Smith Papers, Alderman Library, University of Vir-
ginia. Burr’s suit against Cheetham was filed in 1804 and again in 1805; Bayard and Smith
deposed on both occasions. Additional deponents included Robert Goodloe Harper of South
Carolina, and James Ross of Pennsylvania. Burr notes that Jonathan Dayton of Maryland,
Samuel Dana of Pennsylvania, and Roger Griswold of Connecticut likewise offered deposi-
tions, but they have not been found. Burr to Robert Goodloe Harper, May 29, 1804, and
Harper to Burr, June 28, 1804, Papers of Aaron Burr, 2:870–76, 962–68. Jefferson claimed
that the libel suit was nothing more than an attempt to calumniate him, and accused Bayard
of “pretending” to have negotiated with him. Jefferson, memorandum, April 15, 1806, Anas,
237–41.
107. Gales and Seaton’s Debates and Proceedings of the Congress, 1830, 6:43–45, 54–55, 92–95. Also
February 11, 1830, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, 8:187, 199–200. Also Peterson, Jefferson
Image in the American Mind, 34. The issue was discussed in the Senate a second time in 1855.
 342 notes to pages 258 – 271

108. Richard and James Bayard, “Documents Relating to the Presidential Election of the Year
1801” (Philadelphia, 1831). Madison’s defense is mentioned in Peterson, Jefferson Image in the
American Mind, 34; March 1, 1831, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, 8:331.
109. James Hamilton, Reminiscences, 20–21.

Epilogue
1. On William Plumer, see Peabody, Life of William Plumer; and Turner, Plumer of New Hamp-
shire.
2. William Plumer’s Memorandum of Proceedings in the United States Senate, 1803–1807 [hereafter
Memoranda], ed. Everett Somerville Brown (New York: Macmillan, 1923), May 2, 1805, 321.
See also ibid., November 8, 1804, 186.
3. Ibid., December 23, 1806, 537–39.
4. Ibid.; Turner, William Plumer of New Hampshire, 99–100, 174.
5. On this historical impulse in general, see Cohen, Revolutionary Histories; McCoy, Last of the
Fathers; Peterson, Jefferson Image in the American Mind; and Casper, Constructing American
Lives. On early nineteenth-century visions of the Revolution, see Kammen, Season of Youth,
37–58.
6. Plumer, Memoranda, November 8, 1804, 186; Plumer, “Autobiography,” page 108, William
Plumer Papers, Library of Congress.
7. The published edition of Plumer’s memoranda omits “a few” entries (such as those between
March 7 and April 21, 1807) as well as Plumer’s appendixes, in the former case because the
editor deemed them purely “personal” and in the latter because the included documents are
readily available in print. For a full understanding of Plumer’s view of national politics, the
memoranda should be studied in their original form. For a detailed description of Plumer’s
papers, see Turner, William Plumer, 349–51.
8. Plumer Memoranda, November 15, 1804, 195. Young offers a lively treatment of life in early
Washington in Washington Community, but makes no use of Plumer’s memoranda. Noble
E. Cunningham, Jr., is an exception: see Process of Government Under Jefferson and Jeffersonian
Republicans in Power.
9. Plumer, Memoranda, November 28, 1804, 209. The Oxford English Dictionary describes a
memorandum as “ ‘a note to help the memory’; by extension, a record of events or of observa-
tions made on a particular subject, esp. when intended for the writer’s future consideration
or use.”
10. Plumer, Memoranda, November 17 and December 3, 1804, and March 12, 1806, 200, 211, 449.
See also Turner, Plumer of New Hampshire, 169.
11. “Repository—Volume 5,” title page, William Plumer Papers, New Hampshire State Library.
Plumer’s only modern biographer does not seem to have had access to this “Repository”
volume, for it does not appear in his detailed note on sources, nor is it mentioned by the
editor of Plumer’s Memoranda. It is the fifth in a series of at least nine “Repository” volumes
of varied contents. Lumped in with these collections of data, it has never been linked with
Plumer’s Memoranda, though it dates to his Senate term, covering the same year included
in his least anecdotal first volume of memoranda. On character, see Casper, Constructing
American Lives, 6.
12. “President Jefferson,” “Aaron Burr VP,” and “My design,” March 1, 1804, December 7, 1803,
and undated, “Repository—Volume 5,” 43, 4[?], 77, William Plumer Papers, New Hampshire
Historical Society.
13. The OED defines a register as a book or volume in which regular entry is made of particulars
or details of any kind. A repository is a receptacle in which things are placed, deposited, or
stored.
 notes to pages 271 – 278 343

14. Plumer, Memoranda, July 22, 1806, 508.

15. Ibid., 507–12. On Plumer’s decision to write a history, see Plumer to Jeremiah Mason, January
4, 1807, William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress; Plumer, Life of William Plumer, 357–60.
16. Plumer, Memoranda, June 25, 1806, 506; [Notes for Writing the History of North America],
undated, and March 1, 1807, William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress. See also Plumer,
Memoranda, February 4, 1807, 601. On Plumer’s shifting politics, see also Turner, William
Plumer, 164–67.
17. Plumer, Memoranda, February 4, 1807, 600–602.
18. Ibid., February 9, 1807, 605–7. Plumer must have been struck by Adams’s words, because
twenty-three years later, he repeated them back to Adams in a discussion of Jefferson’s histor-
ical reputation. Plumer to John Quincy Adams, October 13, 1830, William Plumer Papers,
Library of Congress.
19. Plumer, Memoranda, February 11, 1807, 607; June 5, 1829, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, 8:153.
Adams was discussing the possibility of writing a history of his father’s life; he also pondered
withholding the history until after his own death. Ibid. Madison echoed these sentiments.
Madison to Samuel H. Smith, February 2, 1827, in McCoy, Last of the Fathers, 163. Charles
Thomson, longtime secretary of Congress, mused along similar lines; Benjamin Rush to John
Adams, February 12, 1812, in Schutz and Adair, Spur of Fame, 210.
20. Plumer to John Quincy Adams, February 13, 1829, William Plumer Papers, Library of Con-
gress; Turner, William Plumer, 200–201, 320.
21. Plumer filled at least a dozen notebooks with more than 2,000 biographical sketches. “The
Register of Opinions & events—his readings &c. of William Plumer, From May 7, 1807 to
April 2, 1836,” William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress. On the popularity of this genre,
see Casper, Constructing American Lives, 21–22.
22. Plumer, “Register of Opinions & events . . . ,” April 22, 29, and May 7, 1808, William Plumer
Papers, Library of Congress. Readers criticized Marshall’s work for its broad focus and inat-
tention to details of Washington’s life and character. Casper, Constructing American Lives, 29,
35. In addition to Marshall, Plumer read Aaron Bancroft, Essay on the Life of George Washington,
commander in chief of the American Army, through the Revolutionary War; and the first President
of the United States (Worcester, Mass.: Thomas and Sturtevant, 1807); and David Ramsay,
The Life of George Washington (New York: Hopkins and Seymour, 1807). He considered Ram-
say the best.
23. Sawvel, Anas, 24–25; Plumer to John Quincy Adams, September 1, 1830, William Plumer
Papers, Library of Congress; Henry Lee, Jr., Observations on the Writings of Thomas Jefferson,
With Particular Reference to the Attack They Contain on the Memory of the Late Gen. Henry Lee
(Philadelphia: J. Dobson; Cowperthwait; Carey and Hart, 1839), 86. See also pp. xii–xiii.
24. Pickering, “Review of the Correspondence Between the Hon. John Adams . . . and the Late
Wm. Cunningham,” 6; Nicholas P. Trist to Martin Van Buren, May 31, 1857, MSS no. 38–
414-b, Alderman Library, University of Virginia. Madison himself wrote a brief autobiogra-
phy (in the third person!) in 1831. Douglass Adair, ed., “James Madison’s Autobiography,”
William and Mary Quarterly 2 (April 1945): 191–209. See also Casper, Constructing American
Lives, 56–57.
25. Samuel Bell to Plumer, January 30, 1830, William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress. Many
others denigrated Jefferson’s publication of “tattle.” See, for example, Sullivan, Public Men
of the Revolution, 183.
26. William Sullivan, “Introduction by the Author,” April 20, 1834, in Sullivan, Public Men of
the Revolution, 14. See also Bayard, “Documents Relating to the Presidential Election in the
Year 1801.” On the response to Jefferson’s Memoirs, see Peterson, Jefferson Image in the Ameri-
can Mind, 32–36, 130–35.
27. Hamilton, History of the Republic of the United States of America, 1:2; ibid., 7:836; Hamilton,
 344 notes to pages 279 – 283

Reminiscences, preface. Hamilton addressed the same theme in a second work, entitled “Martin
Van Buren’s Calumnies Repudiated, Hamilton’s Conduct as Secretary of the Treasury Vindi-
cated” (New York, 1870).
28. See, for example, William Jay’s Life of John Jay (1833); Charles Francis Adams’s Letters of John
Adams to his Wife (1841); Henry C. Van Schaack’s Life of Peter Van Schaack (1842); William
B. Reed’s Life and Correspondence of Joseph Reed (1847). Kammen, Season of Youth, 50. James
Hamilton told John Quincy Adams that he was worried about a publication by his brother
Alexander, because the outcome might suggest that James didn’t have “equal zeal for the
reputation of his father.” April 27, 1829, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, 8:145.
29. Hamilton, Reminiscences, 40–41; King, Correspondence of Rufus King, 6:612–21. See also Ham-
ilton, Reminiscences, 24–34; John Church Hamilton to John Wickham, May 23, 1834, Wick-
ham Family Papers, Virginia Historical Society. John Church demanded access to papers that
King had been given in 1810 by Hamilton’s second, Nathaniel Pendleton, with the injunction
that King keep them away from Hamilton’s sons—an attempt to protect Washington’s repu-
tation by preventing the Hamiltons from proving their father’s authorship of the address;
King ultimately burned some of these papers rather than hand them over to the Hamiltons.
Debate over its authorship continued for years thereafter. For a detailed treatment of the
controversy, see Paltsits, Washington’s Farewell Address, 75–94. For Daniel Webster’s take on
the controversy, see John Davis to Eliza Davis, March 23, 1832, John Davis Papers, Family
Correspondence, American Antiquarian Society.
30. Hamilton, Reminiscences, 55–57. Parton discusses the incident as well in Life of Aaron Burr,
265.
31. Casper, Constructing American Lives, 381, note 38.
32. Pickering, “Review of the Correspondence . . . ,” 2, 5, 4–6.
33. Turner, William Plumer, 336, note 9; Joseph Gales, Jr., and William Seaton to Simon Cam-
eron, January 7, 1859, George Washington Harris to James Hamilton, May 13, 1861, and
George Washington Harris receipt to Shippen B. Coxe, November 1863, FFC. See also Sam-
uel Barr to Harris, July 18, 1882, John Mitchell to Harris, July 18, 1882; Simon Cameron to
Harris, May 29, 1876, A. R. Spofford to Harris, April 9, 1866, and Spofford to Harris, May
12, 1866, ibid. My great thanks to Charlene Bickford and Ken Bowling of the Documentary
History of the First Federal Congress for giving me access to these papers.
34. Plumer to John Quincy Adams, March 27, 1829, William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress;
Concord New Hampshire Patriot, March 9, 1829, in Turner, William Plumer, 331, note 82.
Also Plumer, Life of William Plumer, 293–312. The detritus from this literary shouting match
formed the core of Henry Adams’s Documents Relating to New England Federalism, 1800–1815
(Boston: Little, Brown, 1877). On Plumer and the secession plot, see Turner, Plumer of New
Hampshire, chap. 8.
35. Plumer to Alexander Hamilton, Jr., March 27 and April 11, 1829, and Plumer to John Quincy
Adams, March 27, 1829, William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress. James Hamilton also
questioned Plumer and John Quincy Adams in person about this issue. Plumer, Life of Wil-
liam Plumer, 304–5; diary entry, March 11, 1829, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams, 8:110.
36. Gibbs, Memoirs of the Administrations of Washington and Adams, 1:ix; Clarfield, Pickering and
the American Republic, 269; Plumer, Life of William Plumer, 529–30. In a diary entry of Decem-
ber 28, 1848, William Plumer, Jr., described his father’s conversation at a moment when his
death seemed imminent; he rallied unexpectedly a week later and lived for another two years.
37. Parton, Life and Times of Burr, 2:326–27. Burr added, “If they persist in saying that I was a
bad man . . . they shall at least admit that I was a good soldier.” See also ibid., 2:275–76.
38. Plumer, “Autobiography,” 217–18, William Plumer Papers, Library of Congress. This explana-
tion of Jefferson’s reaction does not appear in Plumer’s original February 4, 1807, memo-
randum.
 notes to pages 283 – 290 345

39. For details of the rise and fall of the reputations of Hamilton and Jefferson, see Peterson,
Jefferson Image in the American Mind, and John S. Pancake, Thomas Jefferson and Alexander
Hamilton (Woodbury, N.Y.: Barron’s Educational Series, 1974), 371–409.
40. Richard Brookhiser, Alexander Hamilton: American (New York: Free Press, 1999); Karl-
Friedrich Walling, Republican Empire: Alexander Hamilton on War and Free Government (Law-
rence: University Press of Kansas, 1999); Mitchell, Alexander Hamilton: A Concise Biography;
and Peter McNamara, “Alexander Hamilton, the Love of Fame, and Modern Democratic
Statesmanship,” in his Noblest Minds, 141–62. There has also been a spurt of children’s books:
John M. Rosenburg, Alexander Hamilton: America’s Bold Lion (Breckenridge, Colo.: Twenty-
First Century Books, 2000); Veda Boyd Jones, Alexander Hamilton: First U.S. Secretary of
the Treasury (New York: Chelsea House, 2000); and Stuart A. Kallen, Alexander Hamilton
(Edina, Minn: Abdo and Daughters, 2000).
41. Roger G. Kennedy, Burr, Hamilton, and Jefferson: A Study in Character (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2000); Arnold A. Rogow, A Fatal Friendship: Alexander Hamilton and
Aaron Burr (New York: Hill and Wang, 1998). Somewhat less Burr-centric is Thomas Flem-
ing, Duel: Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and the Future of America (New York: Basic,
1999).
42. See, for example, Gail Collins, Scorpion Tongues: The Irresistible History of Gossip in American
Politics—Updated with the Latest Scandals and Innuendo (New York: Harvest, 1999).
43. Matthew L. Davis to William Van Ness, August [7?], 1809, Miscellaneous manuscripts, Mat-
thew Livingston Davis, New-York Historical Society.
44. See Bonomi, Lord Cornbury Scandal.

A Note on Method
1. Following similar lines are Reddy, Invisible Code, 2–4; Rakove, Beginnings of National Politics,
217; Young, Washington Community, 61; and Elias, Court Society, 211–13.
 Bibliography

Manuscript Collections
American Antiquarian Society
John Davis Papers
Chicago Historical Society
Joseph Ward Papers
College of William and Mary
Tucker-Coleman Papers
Columbia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library
DeWitt Clinton Papers
John Jay Papers
David Library of the American Revolution
Sol Feinstone Collection
Historical Society of Pennsylvania
Tench Coxe Papers
Library of Congress
John Adams Papers William Maclay Papers
Beckley Family Papers James McHenry Papers
Aaron Burr Papers James Monroe Papers
Tench Coxe Papers Gouverneur Morris Papers
Alexander Dallas Papers Robert Morris Papers
William Eustis Papers W. C. Nicholas Papers
John Fenno Papers John Nicholson Papers
Edmond C. Genet Papers Timothy Pickering Papers
Elbridge Gerry Papers Pinckney Family Papers
William Heth Papers William Plumer Papers
Harry Innes Papers Benjamin Rush Papers
Ralph Izard Papers T. L. Shippen Papers
Thomas Jefferson Papers William Short Papers
Tobias Lear Papers Oliver Wolcott Papers
Massachusetts Historical Society
Adams Family Papers William Cushing Papers
Jeremy Belknap Papers De Windt Collection
Jacob Bigelow Papers Dwight-Howard Papers
Bowdoin and Temple Papers William Eustis Papers
Aaron Burr Letters to William Eustis Farnham Family Papers
David Cobb Papers Dwight Foster Papers
Christopher P. Cranch Papers Charles Pelham Greenough Papers

{ 3 47 }
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David S. Greenough Papers James Sullivan Transcripts

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Jacob Norton Papers Tudor-Adams Correspondence
Norton Family Papers Henry Van Schaack Papers
Harrison Gray Otis Papers Peter Van Schaack Papers
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Timothy Pickering Papers Mercy Otis Warren Papers
Samuel Putnam Papers Winthrop Papers
Theodore Sedgwick Papers

Morristown National Historical Park

Miscellaneous manuscripts

Mount Vernon Library

Tobias Lear diary
Robert Lewis diary
Miscellaneous manuscripts

New-York Historical Society

Aaron Burr Papers Nicholas Low Papers
DeWitt Clinton Correspondence Gouverneur Morris Papers
George Clinton Papers Nathaniel Pendleton Papers
Matthew Livingston Davis Papers Thomas Tillotson Papers
James Duane Papers Robert Troup Papers
Albert Gallatin Papers John Trumbull Papers
Edmond Genet Papers William P. Van Ness Papers
Rufus King Papers Jeremiah Wadsworth Papers
Robert R. Livingston Papers
Miscellaneous manuscripts filed under: DeWitt Clinton, Matthew L. Davis, Herman Ely,
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New York Public Library

DeWitt Clinton Papers
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John P. Van Ness, William P. Van Ness

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Archibald Stuart Papers
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The Balance, and Columbian Repository (Hudson)
Commercial Advertiser (New York City)
The Diary: or Loudon’s Register (New York City)
Gazette of the United States (New York City)
Greenleaf’s New York Journal & Patriotic Register
Morning Chronicle (New York City)
The New-York Daily Gazette
New-York Evening Post
New York Journal
New York Weekly Museum
The People’s Friend & Daily Advertiser (New York City)
Spectator (New York City)
Time Piece (New York City)
New Jersey
Jersey Chronicle (Mount Pleasant)
Pennsylvania
Aurora and General Advertiser (Philadelphia)
Dunlap’s American Daily Advertiser (Philadelphia)
Gazette of the United States (Philadelphia)
General Advertiser (Philadelphia)
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Porcupine’s Gazette (Philadelphia)
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 Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations.

Adams, Abigail, 18, 54, 57, 77, 125, 136, 88–91, 102; notes for, 64, 70–72; pro-
222 tection of friends in, 102–3; purpose of,
Adams, John, 5–6, 18, 20, 105–58, 207, 65, 101–2; reactions to, 202–3, 277–78,
219, 267, 281; ambiguous politics of, 292, 343n25; on Washington, 79–80. See
153–54, 225–26, 236–37; arrogance of, also gossip; Memoir . . . of Jefferson
27–28; autobiography, 108, 316n6; car- Andrews, Loring, 142–43
riage, 47; ceremonial titles and, 41–42; Andriani, Paolo, 114, 317n17
characteristics of, 105–6, 126, 138–39; Anti-Federalists, 8
clothing, 48, 299n2; foreign relations, aristocracy, xxi–xxii, 48, 187, 209, 211–12,
109–12, 152–54, 236; Hamilton and, 261
105–9, 148–58, 315n3, 316n5; Jefferson Armstrong, John, Jr., 24, 299n2
and, 75, 224–27, 235–36; Maclay and, arrogance: of Adams, 27–28; of Hamil-
14, 25, 26, 31, 301n38; monarchy and, ton, 27, 190, 278; of national political
14–15; Monroe and, xxii–xxiii; Picker- figures, 27–28
ing and, 132, 137, 151–52, 156–57, 279– assumption. See Funding Act; state debts
80, 316n13, 324n102, 325n118; Thomas Aurora (Philadelphia), 124, 126, 227
Pinckney and, 124–25; portraits, 106, Austin, Benjamin, 222
110; on republicanism, 48; reputation
of, 5, 107–13 passim, 131, 315n85, 335n30; Bache, Benjamin Franklin, 227, 320n57
social etiquette and, 53, 54, 301n38. See Baer, George, 245
also Boston Patriot essays; “Letter . . . Balance, The (Hudson, N.Y.), 184
Concerning . . . Adams”; presidential Baldwin, Abraham, 1
elections Bank of the United States, 84
Adams, John Quincy, 126, 155, 253, 257, Barlow, Joel, 63
266, 273, 280–81, 343n19, 344n28 Bayard, James, 200, 236, 240, 245–60
Adams, Samuel, 223 passim, 280–81, 333n2, 341n106; por-
Adams, Thomas, 124–25, 127, 237 trait, 251
Adet, Pierre Auguste, 52 Bayard, Richard, 199–200, 257
Albany Centinel, 142–43 Beckley (Buckley), John, 22, 26, 118, 127,
Albany Register, 162, 186 130; gossip collection and, 68–73, 76–
Alston, Willis, Jr., 171 85 passim, 102, 309n23; Hamilton and,
ambition, 5–6, 39, 170, 205, 298nn6,10 82–84; presidential elections and, 117,
American Citizen (New York), 162, 182– 121, 220, 223–24
83, 192 Bee (New London, Conn.), 126
Ames, Fisher, 1–3, 21, 66, 90, 98, 132, Bell, Isabella, 56
140, 219, 235 Bell, Samuel, 277
“Anas” (Jefferson), 62–104, 71, 269–70, Benson, Egbert, 181
276–77; on “Citizen Genet” affair, 97; Benton, Thomas Hart, 257, 258
contents of, 63–65, 100–103, 307nn4,6, Biddle, Charles, 197
314n81; credibility of, 101–4 passim, biographies: credibility of, 276–80; parti-
257–58; as defense pamphlet, 100–104; san objectives of, 275–76; Plumer se-
editing of, 65, 100–104, 314n83; on elec- ries, 274–76; reputation and, 276–80.
tion of 1800, 200, 202–3; on Hamilton, See also specific biographies and memoirs

{ 3 65 }
 366 index

Bishop, Abraham, 244, 254–55, 332n2, farewell, 326n8; controversy following,

340n83 190–96; Cooper and, 187–89; coward-
Bloomfield, Joseph, 178, 254 ice and, 196–98; efforts to prevent, 181;
boarding houses, 68, 266 election of 1800 and, 201, 256–57; gos-
Boston Patriot, 112, 128, 150 sip and, 69–70, 188; gubernatorial elec-
Boston Patriot essays (Adams), 105–58, tion of 1804 and, 122, 162, 187–89, 256;
200; as attack on Federalists, 152–57; Hamilton’s apologia, 139, 164–66, 165,
emotional nature of, 149–52; failure of, 168, 170, 179, 190, 197–98, 325n1,
112, 158; logic behind, 126, 130–31; reac- 326n8; Hamilton’s decision not to fire,
tion to, 139–40, 148–58, 279–80 163–66, 190, 325n1, 331nn59,65, 332n75;
Brackenridge, Hugh Henry, 141, 243 Hamilton’s decision to participate,
Bradford, Alden: History of the Federal 189–90, 197, 332n76; honor code and,
Government, 278 166, 190, 206–7, 211; internal logic of,
Bréhan, Madame de, 54 162–63, 290; memorial handkerchief,
broadsides, xxi, 94, 122, 217, 316n9; as 194; murder charges, 178, 192; negotia-
weapons, 99, 113, 121–23, 172–73 tions, 162–66 passim, 170–71, 176–79,
Brown, Andrew, 131, 320n54 326n12; pamphlets defending, 193–95;
Burk, John Daly, 144 pistols used, 191; prior honor disputes
Burke, Aedanus, 30, 181. See also Hamil- of participants, 188–89, 255, 327n13;
ton-Burke dispute public opinion and, 192–96; reasons
Burr, Aaron, 85, 93, 122, 159–261 passim; for, 162–66, 187–90, 196–98, 326n6; rit-
aristocratic virtues of, 211–12, 334n18; uals of, 170–71, 176–80; rivalry and,
background, 159–60, 163, 211, 333n17; 159, 161–62; seconds, 177, 179–80, 191–
betrayal of, 206, 224, 227, 269; charac- 95. See also dueling; Pendleton, Nathan-
teristics of, 205, 260, 331n66; controver- iel; Van Ness, William P.
sial nature of, 192–95, 205–13, 254, 283; Burrites, 182–86, 194, 211–12. See also
defense of, 192–96, 254–56, 317n14; dis- Burr, Aaron; Republicans
trust of, 210, 223–24; downfall of, 197– Butler, Pierce, 24, 27, 40, 74, 76, 217–18
98, 254, 259; Federalist support and,
245–47; Hamilton and, 159–62 passim, Cabot, George, 144, 224, 238
168, 187–89, 197–98, 255, 259, 279, Callender, James, 131, 175, 320n54
333n16; honor and, 210–13, 247, 260; calumny, 67. See also gossip
Jefferson and, 77, 200–203, 248–49, “Candid Examination of the Whole Af-
259, 337n54; leadership role, 182; moral- fair, A” (Van Ness), 194–96
ity of, 160, 201, 206, 210, 256; political Canfield, Samuel, 145
intrigue and, 205, 230, 248–56 passim, canings, 172, 328n30. See also Griswold-
340n83; political skills, 160, 209–13, Lyon dispute
222, 231–32; portraits, 160, 202; reputa- capital, location of, 8, 32–33, 49–51,
tion, 121, 130, 188, 203, 213, 249, 254– 301n40
57, 259, 267, 276, 281, 283, 344n37; Carpenter, Orville, 133
self-interest of, 207, 210, 259; Senate carriages, 40, 45–48
farewell speech, 210; supporters of, Carroll, Charles, 90, 226, 233, 234
181–86, 199, 211–12, 218, 255, 317n14, cartoons, 33, 34, 175, 185
330n52. See also Burr-Hamilton duel; caucuses: election of 1796, 218; election of
Burrites; Davis, Matthew L.; Memoirs 1800, 201, 237–41, 245
of Aaron Burr; presidential elections ceremony: monarchism and, 38; repub-
Burr, Theodosia, 189 lican modifications to, 42–48; sig-
Burr-Church duel, 189, 191 nificance of, 38–39. See also titles,
Burr-Hamilton duel, 129, 149, 159–98; ac- ceremonial
counts of by seconds, 191–95; Burr’s Chambers, Joseph, 142
 index 367

character, definition of, xx tion of, 3, 5–7, 18–22; salaries of, 5–6,
Cheetham, James, 241, 256, 325n4, 37, 40, 56; self-presentation of, 38–48;
341n106. See also American Citizen turnover of, 300n14. See also politi-
Chesterfield, Lord, 174, 211, 329n31, cians, national
333n18 Constitution, U.S., 3, 41, 199, 241–42
Childs, Francis, 146 Cooper, Charles D., 162, 187–89
Church, Angelica, 309n27 Cooper, William, 137–38
Church, Edward, 53, 131, 305n88, 320n54 Correct Statement of the . . . Affair of
Church, John Barker, 175, 179. See also Honor . . . Between General Hamilton
Burr-Church duel and Col. Burr, A (Van Ness), 193–96,
circular letters, 116, 148, 317n21 318n27, 324n100, 332n69
Clarkson, Matthew, 181 correspondence, personal, xxi; catalogu-
Clayton, John, 257–58, 277 ing of, 114; etiquette of, 133, 136–38,
Clingman, Jacob, 70, 81–83 321n60; as historical evidence, 100, 155,
Clinton, Cornelia, 92, 97 276, 278; honor and, 133, 136–38; made
Clinton, DeWitt, 118, 179, 181–84, 185, public, 36–37, 69–70, 114–15, 133, 136–
328n20, 330n51 38, 144–45, 323n85; from national politi-
Clinton, George, 92, 214, 222, 235 cians, 140–44, 322nn77,80; as weap-
Clinton-Dayton dispute, 183, 328n20, ons, 113–16, 320n57. See also circular let-
330n51 ters; paper war
Clintonians, 182–83, 192. See also Clinton, “Correspondence Between . . . Adams
DeWitt; Republicans . . . and . . . Cunningham” (Cunning-
Clinton-Swartwout duel, 179, 184–86, 185, ham), 154–58, 279–80
328n20 corruption: ambiguities of, 209, 258–59;
clothing, 42–45, 48, 303nn62,64 bargaining as, 49–51; of Burr, 201–2;
Clymer, George, 7, 21, 35, 299n2, 300n17 concerns about, 15, 48–52; of Hamil-
Cobb, David, 33–34, 137–38 ton, 82
Cobbett, William, 131, 143–47, 320n54. “Court party,” 22–23
See also Porcupine’s Gazette cowardice: duels and, xvi, 176, 196–98,
Coleman, William, 172, 182, 193. See also 279; of Jefferson, 269–70. See also in-
New-York Evening Post sults, ritualistic
Collection of the Facts . . . relative to the Coxe, Tench, 118, 221–24, 230, 280,
Death of . . . Hamilton, A (Coleman) 311n49
193–94, 318n27 Craik, William, 245
Columbian Centinel (Boston), 124 credit, use of term, xx
Commercial Advertiser (New York), 232 crisis mentality, 10, 66–67, 133, 207–9,
Committees of correspondence, 91 229, 247, 258, 261, 285, 310n36
Congress: Confederation, 1–3; congres- “crowding,” 169–70
sional record, 15–16, 27, 266; Continen- culture, politics and, xxiv, 297n16
tal, 1, 263; First Federal, 1, 3, 9; histori- Cunningham, E. M., 279–80. See also
cal documentation of, 262–66. See also “Correspondence Between . . . Adams
House of Representatives; Maclay, Wil- . . . and . . . Cunningham”
liam; Senate Cunningham, William, 111, 126, 130–41
congressional members: ambition of, 5–6, passim, 280, 316n10; Adams’s Boston Pa-
298n6; carriages of, 40; communica- triot essays and, 148–57
tion with constituents, 31–37 passim, Cutting, John Browne, 224
98–99, 140–48; competition among,
21; honor attacks by, 25–31; lodgings, Daily Advertiser (New York), 232
40, 68, 266; mediocrity, 1–3, 9; ora- Daily Advertiser (Philadelphia), 96–97
tory of, 24–25, 33–34, 300n23; reputa- Dallas, Alexander, 93, 96–97, 99
 36 8 index

Dalton, Tristram, 29, 46 Ellsworth, Oliver, 49

Davis, Matthew L., 181, 212; on election emotion: Adams and, 105, 138–39, 149,
of 1800, 229, 231, 235–36, 242, 247, 252– 155–58; gossip and, 73–74, 101–2; Ham-
53, 259; on party politics, 182, 284; por- ilton and, 119, 126; historical evidence
trait, 204. See also Memoirs of Aaron Burr as, 282, 289–90, 291; paper war and,
Dayton, Jonathan, 175, 220, 341n106. See 119, 158
also Clinton-Dayton dispute etiquette: of gossip, 69–74; importance
defense pamphlets. See pamphlets of, 53, 302n53; of social calls, 53–54
Delaware, election of 1800 and, 245–46 Europe, 5, 7–8, 39, 286. See also foreign
democracy: election of 1800 and, 261; relations; France; Great Britain
honor culture and, xvii, xxi, xxii, 187, Eustis, William, 33–34, 137–38, 140, 222,
211; leadership and, xiv–xv, 209, 232 248
Democratic-Republican societies, 91 Everett, David, 128
Dennis, John, 245
Diary (New York), 95–96 fame, xx, 69, 308n15, 326n11. See also repu-
dinner parties: Jefferson’s, 86–87, 89–90, tation
268; Maclay at, 53, 299n3; political nego- Farnham, John, 169
tiation and, 52–57; Washington’s, 53, 55; fashion. See clothing
women and, 53 federal city. See capital
dueling, 159–98, 185; arrests for, 178, 180, Federal Hall, 4, 19
329n39; cowardice and, 196–98, 279; Federalist, The, 260; No. 10, 228; No. 69,
deliberate use of, xxi, 167, 183–84; fatal- xix; No. 70, xix, 261, 284
ities, 178–79; gossip and, 67, 69–70, Federalists: Adams and, 152–54, 225–26,
187–88; injuries, 178–79; internal logic 236–37; France and, 91–98, 109, 152–53;
of, 166–68, 290, 328n20; justification general ideology of, xix, 8, 216; Great
of, 194–95; language of, 132, 177; let- Britain and, 109; history and, 262–63,
ters of inquiry, 149–50, 176–77; as mur- 269, 277; Jefferson and, 62–65, 74–77,
der, 178, 183–85, 192, 195, 329nn37,39; 102, 236; leadership of, 119, 181–82;
in newspapers, xxii, 183–86; political monarchism and, 65, 74–77, 102; in
significance of, 163, 181–87, 197, New York City, 162, 181–84; popular
327n14; regional attitudes toward, 168– politics and, 90–93; secessionism and,
70; rituals and rules of, 167, 170–80; 246, 281. See also Hamilton, Alexander;
rule books, xvi; seconds, xvii, 177, 179, northerners; regionalism
184–85, 191–95; threat of, xxi, 27; will- Fenno, John W., 124, 131, 143, 320n54
ingness to die in, 178, 196–97; written feuds, 333n52
accounts of, 184–86. See also honor en- Findley, William, 36
tries; individual duels Fitzhugh, Peregrine, 128
Duer, William, 80 Fitzsimons, Thomas, 21, 32–33, 87,
Duvall, Gabriel, 128, 236 300n16
Dwight, Theodore: Character of Thomas Foote, Ebenezer, 222
Jefferson, The, 104, 278, 315n87 foreign relations: Adams and, 109–12,
152–53, 225; foreign observations, 39,
Edwards, Jonathan, 159, 211, 333n17 51–52, 54, 56, 123–24; impressing for-
Edwards, Pierpoint, 254, 332n2 eign nations, 39–40. See also France;
election banner (1800), 253 Great Britain
elections of 1796 and 1800. See presidential France: Adams and, 109, 111, 152–53, 225,
elections 236; comments on America, 39, 51–52,
Electoral College, 215–16; election of 1796 54; comparison with, 302n51, 303n62,
and, 219–23; election of 1800 and, 241– 310n39; election of 1796 and, 224; Feder-
53; electors, 219–23, 233–34, 335n34 alists and, 91–98, 109, 152–53; Republi-
 index 369

cans and, 93, 109; Revolution, 91, 93. as politics, xxi, 65–69, 85–91, 97; public
See also Bréhan, Madame de; Genet, opinion and, 79–80; transmission of,
Edmond; Moustier, Comte de; xxi, 67, 73, 75, 308n17, 315n3
“Quasi-War” Graham, Catharine Macaulay, 9
Franklin, Benjamin, 138, 299n2 grammar of political combat. See political
Franks, David Salisbury, 56, 306n96 combat
Fraunces, Andrew. See Hamilton- Granger, Gideon, 171, 229, 333n2
Fraunces dispute Great Britain: Adams and, 152–53, 225;
Freneau, Philip, 97, 118, 131, 146, 223–24, “Citizen Genet” affair and, 93; Federal-
320n54, 312n59. See also National Ga- ists and, 109; honor culture and, 286;
zette Parliament, 7, 300n23; political prece-
friendship: dueling and, 181; gossip and, dent from, 7–8, 286, 302n51; stigma,
77–78; instability of, 78; of Jefferson 107. See also monarchism
and Adams, 224–27, 236–37; newspa- Green, Timothy, 240–41, 254–55, 332n2,
per subscriptions and, 146–48; per- 339n74
sonal letters and, 136; politics of, 78, Griswold, Roger, 341n106
213–14, 224, 226, 252–53. See also loyal- Griswold-Lyon dispute, 9, 173–75, 175,
ties; political alliances 328nn20,26,30
Funding Act, 22–23, 32–33, 85. See also Gunn, James, 243
state debts
Furman, Moore, 222, 223 Hamilton, Alexander, 18, 54, 159–98; 267,
280; Adams and, 105–9, 148–58; arro-
Gales, Joseph, Jr., 280 gance of, 27, 190, 278; background,
Gallatin, Albert, 118, 142 160–63; Burr and, 159, 161–62, 168,
Gamble, Robert, 117–18 187–89, 255, 259, 333n16; capital loca-
Gazette of the United States (Philadelphia), tion and, 49, 305n82; characteristics of,
90, 124, 143 46, 174–76, 304n73, 331n57; “Citizen
Gelston, David, 176, 179, 241 Genet” affair and, 93–98; on congres-
Genet, Edmond, 94; “Citizen Genet” af- sional salaries, 5–6; defense of, 192–94,
fair, 91–99, 313nn70,71, 314n73; por- 278–79, 316n4; on dueling, 163–67,
trait, 92 196–98; electoral reform and, 233–34;
gentleman, definition of, xv, xviii, 128, fame and, 68–69, 326n11; Funding Act
170, 172, 247 and, 22–23, 36, 85; “Giles Resolutions”
Gerry, Elbridge, 21, 87, 222 and, 101–2, 308n11; gossip and, 66–74,
Gibbs, George, 157–58, 278, 281 80–85, 107; honor disputes of, 167,
Giles, William Branch, 141, 308n11; resolu- 326n13; Jay Treaty and, xiii–xv, xxi,
tions, 101–2 171; Jefferson and, 70–72, 102, 115, 129,
Goodrich, Chauncey, 215 281–82, 312n59, 336n41; on joint na-
Goodrich, Samuel: Recollections of a Life- tional executive, 284; as monarchist,
time, 278 74–76; political style, 49, 51, 55–56, 87–
Gore, Christopher, 169 91, 312n62; portraits, 81, 161; reputation
gossip, 62–104; animosity and, 73–74; at- of, 56, 192–96, 276–83 passim; “Reyn-
titudes toward, 66–69; “Citizen olds Affair,” 70–72, 81, 308n15; as secre-
Genet” affair and, 91–99; collection of, tary of the treasury, 28–29, 87–88, 175;
68, 79–80; credibility of, 72–74, 79; sons and, 161, 177–78, 258, 278–81,
definition of, 66, 308n7; etiquette of, 344n28; Washington portrait owned by,
69–74; friendship and, 77–78, 181; 44. See also “Letter . . . Concerning . . .
Hamilton and, 66–84 passim, 95, 107, Adams”; monarchism
187–88; hidden meaning in, 74–78; as Hamilton, Alexander, Jr., 280–81, 344n28
history, 104; local leaders and, 79–80; Hamilton, Elizabeth, 161
 370 index

Hamilton, James, 258, 278–79, 344n28 honor disputes; definition of, 167. See also
Hamilton, John Church, 278–79, 344n29; individual disputes
History of . . . the United States, 278 Hopkinson, Francis, “A Plan for the Im-
Hamilton, Philip, 161, 177–78, 279 provement of the Art of Paper War,”
Hamilton-Burke dispute, 29–31, 72, 173 134–35
Hamilton-Fraunces dispute, 81–84, 99– Hosack, David, 177–78, 180, 331n65
100, 311nn42–45 House of Representatives, 26, 85; clerk,
Hamilton-Mercer dispute, 123 14. See also Beckley (Buckley), John;
Hamilton-Monroe dispute, 174–81 pas- Congress; congressional members
sim, 329n41, 330n45 Hume, David, 38–39
Hamilton-Nicholson dispute, xiii–xiv, Humphreys, David, 48
xvii, xviii, xxii, 171, 176
Hammond, George, 56 insults, ritualistic, xvi–xvii, 67, 134–35,
handbills. See broadsides 173; “lie direct,” 30, 67, 123, 173, 247; ly-
handwriting, 127 ing, 67, 128, 247; nose-tweaking, 172;
Harper, Robert Goodloe, 143, 234, 239, “puppy,” xvi, 328n29; “rascal,” xvi,
341n106 328n29; “scoundrel,” xvi, 328n29. See
Harris, George Washington, 59, 280 also cowardice
Hartley, Thomas, 21–22 Irvine, William, 73, 299n2, 309n23
Hayne, Robert, 257 Irving, Peter, 182, 341n102. See also Morn-
Hemings, Sally, 283 ing Chronicle
Henry, Patrick, 217, 224 Izard, Ralph, 22, 27, 29, 40–41, 41, 46, 52
Heth, William, 78
Higginson, Stephen, 222–23 Jackson, Andrew, 214, 249, 325n112
Hillegas, Michael, 28–29 Jackson, James, 300n26
Hillhouse, James, 269–70 Jarvis, Charles, 222
history, 265–88; construction of, 156, Jay, John, 53, 54, 95–97, 99, 181, 217,
272–82; documentation of, 262–77; 305n87, 313n72
emotion as evidence, 289–93; gossip Jay Treaty, xiii–xv, xxi, 109, 171, 232
as, 104; reputation and, 157–58, 274– Jefferson, Thomas, 18, 62–104, 181; Ad-
83; threat of, 158, 272–82 ams and, 155–58, 224–27, 235–37; bar-
Hoffman, Josiah Ogden, xiii gain of 1801, 250–53, 341n101; Burr and,
honor: aristocracy and, xxi, xxii, 261; as 77, 248–55, 259, 337n54, 341n106; charac-
bond of party, 220–21, 237–45, 251, teristics of, 45, 207, 235–36, 260, 268–
260; Burr and, 210–13; definition of, 70, 304n69; “Citizen Genet” affair and,
xv, xx, 170; democracy and, xxii; impor- 93–99, 313nn70,71; credibility of, 235–
tance of xv–xvi, xxi, 28–29, 170, 245– 36, 257–58; dinner invitation, 268; din-
86; political stability and, xv, xviii, 170, ner parties, 86–87, 89–90, 266, 268;
285–87, 289, 296n7. See also reputation election banner, 253; Hamilton and,
honor, code of: canings, 172, 328n30; code 70–72, 102, 129, 281–82, 313n72, 317n20,
duello, 195, 247; as deliberate weapon, 336n41; history and, 62–66, 101–4,
xviii–xix, 28–29; “men of the sword,” 267, 272–73, 276, 281–82, 315n86; Loui-
174; nose-tweakings, 172; postings, siana Purchase and, 265, 283; Marshall
121–23, 149, 172–73; regional differ- and, 61–63, 275–78; Plumer and, 86,
ences, xvi–xvii, 168–70; rituals, 134–35, 265–70, 272–73, 282; political betrayal
167–80; tone, 31; verbal assaults, xvi– by, 200, 224–25, 235–37; political style,
xvii, 134–35, 173. See also dueling; 56, 64–65, 70–71, 85–91, 230–31; por-
emotion; insults, ritualistic; political traits, 64, 208, 217, 253; as president, 262,
combat 265–70; as print combatant, 65, 70–71,
honor culture, xxi, 286 87, 100–104, 115–18 passim, 121, 130,
 index 371

132, 138, 141, 147, 317n20, 320n57; repu- Louisiana Purchase, 265, 283
tation of, 56, 272–73, 276, 281–83; loyalties: election of 1796 and, 214–16,
“Walker affair” and, 115, 269, 317n19; 223, 227–28; election of 1800 and, 235–
Washington and, 74–76, 276, 42, 260; instability of, xvii–xix, 215–16,
309nn28,29; women and, 77. See also 223. See also friendship; political alli-
“Anas”; Beckley (Buckley), John; gos- ances; political betrayal; political par-
sip; Madison, James; monarchism ties; politics, partisan
joint national executive, 284 luxury, 46–48
Jones, James, 172, 178, 329n38. See also Lyman, Erastus, 108–9, 111, 131, 148,
Livingston-Jones duel 316n9. See also Boston Patriot
Jones, Joseph, 225, 226 Lyon, Matthew, 141, 143, 145. See also
Jones, Walter, 39, 47–48 Griswold-Lyon dispute
judiciary, 36
Maclay, William, 11–61, 210; Adams and,
King, Rufus, 126, 178; Burr-Hamilton 14, 25, 26, 31, 301n38; appointment of,
duel and, 163, 181, 344n29; “Citizen 24, 299n8, 300n22; background, 12,
Genet” affair and, 92–99; intrigue and, 299n1; bargaining and, 49–52; charac-
49, 50, 301n29 teristics of, 13; constituency and, 15, 31–
Knox, Henry, 93, 95, 97 38; dinner parties and, 53, 299n3; fail-
ure of, 57–59; Hamilton and, 22–23,
Langdon, Henry, 140 27–29, 55, 58; Jefferson and, 45; newspa-
Langdon, John, 217, 226 per articles by, 35, 302n45; oratory of,
Law, Samuel Andrew, 222 24–25; portrait, 12; Washington and,
leadership: culture of honor and, xv, xxi– 11, 43–45, 54–55, 80
xxii; dueling and, xxiii, 166, 168, 170– Maclay’s diary, 17, 60; as communication
72, 184–88; national model, 40–48 with constituents, 15, 31–35, 38; con-
Lear, Tobias, 26, 57, 73, 74, 80, 309n23 tents, 11, 13–16, 299n10, 301n38; lack of
Learned, Amassa, 87 interest in, 58, 307n101; notes for, 70,
Lee, Henry, 7, 66, 70, 277–78, 308n13, 309n19; publication of, 16, 59,
323n91 306nn100,101; purposes of, 15–18, 31,
Lee, Henry, Jr., Observations on the Writ- 266–67; significance, 16–18, 59–61
ings of Thomas Jefferson, 276 Madison, James, 7, 39, 42, 54, 228; arro-
“Letter . . . Concerning . . . Adams” gance of, 22, 27, 301n32; “Citizen
(Hamilton), 107–13, 119–20, 120, 125– Genet” affair and, 97–99; dueling and,
27, 137–39, 149, 151, 158, 319n40; Ad- 173–74, 181; history and, 267, 273, 277;
ams and, 107–8, 112–13, 137–39 passim, Jefferson and, 78, 84–85, 115–16, 207,
150, 152, 157 225–26, 236, 258, 317n20, 320n47; on
levees, 38, 52–53, 74–75, 302n51, 310n40 public opinion, 98–99, 314n75; reputa-
Lewis, Morgan, 188 tion of, 5, 277, 343n24; as strategist,
“lie direct,” 30, 67, 123, 173, 247 84–85, 114–116, 131, 146, 225–26,
Life of Washington (Marshall), 61–63, 271, 236
275–76, 307n1, 343n22. See also “Anas” “Mammoth Cheese,” 86
Livingston, Brockholst, 172, 178–79, Markoe, Peter, 131, 320n54
329n38 Marshall, John, 325n118. See also Life of
Livingston, Edward, 144, 243–44, 250, Washington
254, 257, 277, 332n2, 340n83 Mason, Rev. John M., 332n76
Livingston, Maturin, xiv, 327n14 Mason, George, 28, 47–48, 75, 76
Livingston, Robert R., 68, 96, 217–18 Massachusetts Centinel (Boston), 53
Livingston-Jones duel, 172, 178, Massachusetts Historical Society, 108,
329nn38,39 264
 372 index

McHenry, James, 133, 151, 240; on Feder- New Hampshire Patriot (Concord), 281
alists, 90–91; and history, 156; as secre- newspaper editors: caning of, 172; libel
tary of war, 105, 107, 113, 144, 316n13 suits, 129. See also individuals
Memoir . . . of Jefferson (Randolph), 65, newspapers, xxi; authentication of articles
200, 277–78. See also “Anas” in, 128; authorship, 35, 73, 128; “Citizen
Memoirs of Aaron Burr (Davis), 199–206, Genet” affair and, 95–97; as communi-
213, 235, 247, 249, 252–53, 256, 277, 279, cation, 35, 322n80, 324n96; description
332n78, 344n37 of, 123–26; duel accounts in, xxii, 183–
Memoirs . . . of Washington and Adams 86; election of 1800 and, 232, 234–35;
(Gibbs), 157–58, 278 gossip in, 69–70; nationalizing influ-
Mercer, John Francis, 123, 238, 326n13 ence of, 235; pamphlets and, 114, 118–
Mifflin, Thomas, 52, 93 19; partisan politics and, 182–84;
Miller, Johannes, 222 personal relationships and, 146–48;
monarchism: fears of, 8, 11, 14–15, political speeches in, 5; subscriptions,
303n60; Federalists and, 65, 74–77; Jef- 146–48, 323n92; as weapons, 113, 123–
ferson and, 63, 65, 74–76, 102, 236; lev- 26. See also individual newspapers
ees and, 38, 74–75; Maclay and, 11, 14, New York City: affairs of honor, 167,
22, 38; standing army and, 207 181–87, 327n14, 329n39; election of 1800
Monroe, James, 70, 85, 231, 243; Adams and, 231; as national capital, 8, 33; na-
and, xxii–xxiii, 297n13; “Citizen Genet” ture of residents, 20; Washington’s in-
affair and, 97; as “man of the sword,” auguration, 14. See also Federal Hall
174–76; on print attacks, 129–30. See New-York Evening Post, 140, 172, 182, 184,
also Hamilton-Monroe dispute 192, 254, 255
Morning Chronicle (Boston), 182–83, 192– New-York Journal, 40
93 Nicholas, John, 250–51
Morris, Gouverneur, 190–91 Nicholas, John (Albermarle County), 68
Morris, Lewis Richard, 245–46 Nicholson, James, xiii–xiv, xvii, xviii,
Morris, Mary, 56 xxii, 171, 176, 178, 181
Morris, Robert, 90, 299n2, 300n22; capi- Nicholson, John, 21, 35, 36, 93, 227
tal location and, 32–37 passim, Niles, Hezekiah, 257–58
301nn29,40, 305n82; intrigue and, 49; northerners: code of honor and, xvi, 168–
oratorical attacks and, 26–27, 29; por- 70, 295n4; election of 1800 and, 237–41,
trait, 50 244–46, 339n76; regional style, 6–7,
Moustier, Comte de, 39, 51, 54 20; republicanism of, 42. See also Feder-
Muhlenberg, Frederick, 22, 35, 70 alists; regionalism
Muhlenberg, Peter, 35, 305n82 Northern Whig (Hudson, N.Y.), 151
Munroe, Isaac, 128
Odgen, David, 244, 322n2, 340n83,
name, xx; authority of, 127–31. See also 341n102
reputation Ogden, John, 141, 254
name-calling, 173. See also insults, ritual- Otis, Harrison Gray, 145, 239
istic Otis, Samuel A., 16, 25, 264
national character, 7–9, 38–48 “ouch factor,” 292, 309n17
National Gazette (Philadelphia), 118, 146,
258 Page, John, 26, 28, 148
National Intelligencer (Washington, Paine, Thomas, 131, 320n54; “Common
D.C.), 235, 273 Sense,” 80, 318n24
nationalism, xxiii–xxiv, 123, 170, 234–35 pamphlets, xxi; audience for, 116, 318n24;
New Englanders. See northerners authorship, 73; characteristics of, 116–
New England Palladium (Boston), 235 17; defense pamphlets, 100–113, 119,
 index 373

314nn77,78; distribution, 117–18; pur- ton and, 55–56; Jefferson and, 200,
poses, 99–104, 113, 116–19, 125–26; as 230–31, 250–53; public good and, 207,
weapons, 113, 116–19 229, 234, 244, 258–59; role of, 230–31;
paper war, xxi, 105–58; authorship, 127– socializing and, 52–57, 77–78; women
31; choice of medium, 113, 125–26; dis- and, 56–57
honor and, 131–39; duel language and, political betrayal, 260; of Burr, 224, 227;
132; hierarchy of print, 123; impact of by Jefferson, 200, 224–25, 235–37
national writings, 139–48; inappropri- political change: crisis mentality and,
ate targets, 132–33; power and risks, 207–9, 229, 258, 261, 285; in election of
99, 112–13, 132; regional variation, 116, 1800, 229–41
148, 168–70; rules, 112–13. See also political combat: grammar of, xxii–xxiii,
broadsides; correspondence, personal; 171–73, 187–89; nature of, xvii–xxiii,
newspapers; pamphlets 259, 284. See also dueling; gossip; paper
Pendleton, Nathaniel: defense of Hamil- war; self-presentation
ton, 191–93, 344n29; urges Hamilton political elite, as subject of study, xxiii–
to fire, 163–64 xxiv, 297n15. See also politicians, na-
Penn, Thomas, 12 tional
Philadelphia, as national capital, 8, 32, political oratory, 5, 24–25, 33–34
33–34, 34 political parties, 296n8; development of,
Pickering, Timothy: Adams and, 132, 137, 261, 284–85; honor bonds and, 239–41,
151–52, 156–57, 280, 316n13, 324n102, 244–45, 260, 293; individual reputation
325n118; history and, 277, 281; as politi- and, 235–41, 245, 261, 284; lack of,
cian, 52, 113, 124; “Review of the Corre- xviii–xix, 8–9, 214–16, 218, 225, 227,
spondence Between . . . Adams . . . 237–46 passim, 260–61, 286–87. See
and . . . Cunningham,” 156–57, 280 also caucuses; friendship; loyalties; po-
Pinckney, Charles, 233, 333n14 litical alliances; politics, partisan
Pinckney, Charles Cotesworth, 76; elec- politicians, local: gossip and, 78–79; na-
tion of 1800 and, 119, 214, 237–40 tional politics and, 18–22, 140–48, 218–
Pinckney, Thomas: Adams and, 124–25; 22, 227–29, 232
election of 1796 and, 216–18, 223, 226 politicians, national, xvii; federal reputa-
Plumer, William: autobiography, 282, tion, 31–38; impact of national stage, 3,
344n38; biographical series, 274–76, 5–10, 18–48; morality of, 206–7, 210,
343n21; characteristics of, 262, 266; his- 258–60, 285; popular will and, xiv–xv,
tory and, 262–75, 280–82, 344n36; Jef- 231–32; provincialism of, 20. See also
ferson and, 86, 265–70, 273, 276, 282, congressional members; regionalism
344n38; memoranda, 265–70, 270, 281, politics: culture and, xxiv, 297n16; defini-
316n5, 342nn7,9; national history, 271– tion of, 286
74; portrait, 263. See also “Repository” politics, partisan: distrust of, 78, 170, 183,
political alliances: in election of 1796, 221– 206–7, 216, 229, 258, 285; duels and,
28; in election of 1800, 242–53; familial 181–87; justification of, 258; morality
nature of, 330n47; honor and, 239–41, of, 205–6, 209, 213, 229, 258–59, 292;
244–45, 260; instability of, xviii, xix, mutual faith, 244; newspapers and,
78, 208, 214, 226–27; personal nature 182–84. See also friendship; loyalties
of, 213, 218, 259; significance of, 22, Porcupine’s Gazette (Philadelphia), 143,
238, 259–61. See also friendship; loyal- 145–46, 323n91
ties; political betrayal; political parties; Portland Gazette (Maine), 49
politics, partisan postal system, 143, 145–46, 322n8;
political bargaining: distrust of, 48–51; franked mail, 141–42, 322n80; postmas-
election of 1800 and, 200, 237–41, 250– ters, 145–46, 325n112; post offices, 144–
53; foreign relations and, 51–52; Hamil- 46; problems in, 114, 143
 374 index

postings, 121–23, 149, 172–73. See also rank, defined, xx

broadsides Read, George, 24
presidential election of 1796, 213–29; Ad- regionalism: in culture, 6–7; election of
ams and, 216–27; Burr and, 217–30; 1796 and, 214–22, 228; election of 1800
candidate selection, 216–18, 228–29; and, 228–30, 237–41, 242–53, 255, 260;
electioneering, 218–20, 230; electors, honor code and, xvi–xvii, 168–70;
219–23; Jefferson and, 214, 217, 223, national character and, 42; provin-
224, 228, 230, 235; Madison and, 225– cialism, 20. See also northerners; south-
26, 236; partisan loyalties, 214–16, 227– erners
28; regionalism, 214–22, 228 Repertory (Boston), 140
presidential election of 1800, 199–261; Ad- “Repository” (Plumer), 268–69, 270,
ams and, 228, 235–40; Burr and, 199, 342n13
227, 235, 238–60; candidate selection, “republican court,” 6
227–29; caucuses, 201, 237–41, 245; republicanism, xxi–xxii; definition of, 3,
civil war fears, 229–30, 243, 340n79; 7, 32, 42; dueling and, 169–70; na-
election banner, 253; electoral innova- tional character and, 7–9, 38–48; pub-
tions, 230–41 passim; electoral tie, lic will and, 32, 205; regional disagree-
241–53; Hamilton and, 229, 231–34, ment on, 7; as restraint, 210, 259;
243, 338n58; Jefferson and, 127–28, self-consciousness, 303nn55,56,62; self-
199–209, 214, 229–31, 238, 240–54; leg- presentation and, 42–48
acy, 199–205, 254–61; Madison and, Republicans: France and, 93, 109; general
230, 240, 243, 249; modernity of, 201, ideology, xix, 216; Jay Treaty and,
209, 333n4; partisan loyalties, 235–42, xiii–xiv; leadership of, 181–82; post-
259–61; regionalism and, 228–30, 237– masters, 145–46; as “Virginia junto,”
48 passim, 255, 260; voting process, 206, 214. See also “Anas”; Burrites;
199, 231–32. See also Bayard, James; Clintonians; Jefferson, Thomas;
“Letter . . . Concerning . . . Adams” southerners
Preston, John, 117 reputation: definition of, xx; importance
print culture. See paper war of, xix, 5–7, 24, 59–60, 69, 128, 283. See
printers. See newspaper editors also honor
pseudonyms, role of, 128–29 Reynolds, James, 70, 308n15
public good, 207, 229, 234, 244, 258–59. Reynolds, Maria, 70–72
See also republicanism Riker, Richard, 185, 329n39
public opinion, 327n16; ambiguities, 37, Rodgers, John, 52
98–99; Burr-Hamilton duel and, 184, rumors. See gossip
192–96; “Citizen Genet” affair and, 91– Rush, Benjamin, 6, 8, 45, 77, 305n82;
99; congressional salaries and, 37; corre- Maclay and, 18, 31, 35–36, 77
spondence as, 36–37, 302n47; gossip Rutledge, Edward, 223
and, 79–80; power of, xxii, 90–91, Rutledge, John, Jr., 147, 238–39
168, 184, 195–96, 222; republicanism
and, 32 salaries, congressional, 5–6, 37, 40, 56
Schuyler, Philip, 75–76, 187
“Quasi-War,” 109, 110 Scott, Thomas, 27, 36
Quincy, Josiah, 140 Seaton, William, 280
secessionism, 281
Randolph, Edmund, 70, 74, 117, 314n75 seconds: duel accounts by, 191–95; role
Randolph, John, 171, 173 of, xvii, 177, 179–80, 185
Randolph, Thomas Jefferson, 65, 277. See Sedgwick, Theodore, 47, 54, 79, 142–47
also Memoir . . . of Jefferson passim, 220, 225, 236
 index 375

Sedition Act, xvii–xviii, 295n6 Sullivan, James, 143

seditious libel, xvii Sullivan, John T. S., Public Men of the
self-interest, 170, 186, 197, 205, 249, 285, Revolution, 278
328n20 Swaine, John, 73
self-presentation, 11–61; carriages, 45–47; Swartwout, John, 181, 184–85, 185, 241,
ceremonial titles, 40–42; clothing, 42– 255, 328n20, 330n47, 332n2
45, 48, 303nn62,64; national character Swartwout, Robert, 329n39, 330n47
and, 38–48; politics of, 38–48; repub- Swartwout-Riker duel, 329n39
lican virtue, 42–48; reputation and,
xx Taylor, John, 113–14, 116, 118, 227
Senate: atmosphere, 25–26; closed ses- Thatcher, George, 37, 172
sions, 15, 125; Executive Journal, 264; Thomas, John Chew, 245
salaries, 5–6, 37, 40; secretary (Samuel titles, ceremonial, 40–42, 303n60
A. Otis), 16, 25, 264; sergeant at arms, Tracy, Uriah, 242
14. See also Congress; Maclay, William Treasury Act, 87
“serious quarrels,” 27 Troup, Robert, 70, 78, 98, 119, 279,
Seton, William, 66 310n34
signatures, authority of, 115, 127 truth: biographies and, 276, 280; emo-
slander, 67. See also gossip tional, 282; historical, 272–74
Smith, Melancton, 80, 222 Tucker, Thomas Tudor, 28, 301n32
Smith, Samuel, 200, 244, 248–56 passim, Tudor, William, 126
277, 333n3, 341n106 Twelfth Amendment, 199
Smith, Samuel H., 273–74
Smith, William Loughton, 8–9, 31, 44– Universal Gazette (Washington), 235
45, 49–50, 67, 93, 99, 118, 217, 222–23,
300n26 Van Buren, Martin, 157, 27
Smith, William S., 186 Vanderlyn, John, and Burr, 160
social life: etiquette, 53–55; political nego- Van Gaasbeek, Peter, 222
tiation and, 51–57, 78, 252; social calls, Van Ness, John, 317n14, 330n47
52, 53–55 Van Ness, William P., 129, 284, 317n14;
Society of the Cincinnati, 255 Burr-Hamilton duel and, 180, 188,
southerners: code of honor and, xvi, 168; 190–95, 330n43. See also Correct State-
“crowding” by, 169–70; election of ment of the . . . Affair of Honor . . .
1800 and, 237–41, 244–45; Funding Act Between General Hamilton and Col.
and, 22–23; national capital and, 8; pa- Burr, A
per war and, 116–17; regional style, 6– Van Schaack, Henry, 142, 145, 317n18,
7, 20; republicanism and, 42; as Repub- 323n91
licans, 206, 214, 337n51, 339n76. See also Van Schaack, Peter, 141–42, 145–47
Republicans Vans Murray, William, 126, 143, 219, 223;
Standard of the Union (New York), 147 election of 1800, 127–28, 215–16
standing army, 207, 312n56 Venable, Abraham, 70
state debts: federal assumption of, 22–23, verbal assaults, 173. See also insults, ritual-
29–30; political bargaining and, 32–33, istic
49, 51. See also Funding Act vice presidential candidates, 199, 216–18
status, definition of, 212–13
St. Clair, Arthur, 80 Wadsworth, Jeremiah, 70, 71
Steuben, Friedrich von (Baron), 301n33 Walker, John, 115, 269, 317n19
Stoddert, Benjamin, 316n13 Warren, Mercy Otis: and Adams, 108;
Stuart, David, 46 History of the . . . Revolution, 108
 37 6 index

Warville, Brissot de, 124 Webb, Bernard, 72

Washington, Bushrod, 239 whisper campaigns. See gossip
Washington, George, 4, 16, 34, 114, 144, White, Alexander, 54
203, 214, 216, 262; biographies, 61–63, Wilkinson, James, 173
271, 274–76, 343n22; carriage, 45–47; Willcocks, William, 83
“Citizen Genet” affair and, 93; cloth- Williams, Otho H., 93, 313n65
ing, 43–44, 303n64; demeanor, 53, 56, Wolcott, Oliver, Jr., 70, 113, 157, 239–40.
304n70; dinner parties, 53, 55, 305n87; See also Gibbs, George
farewell address, 116–17, 279, 318n23, women: dinner parties and, 53; gossip
344n29; gossip and, 66, 68, 73, 84–85; and, 77; Jefferson and, 77; levees held
inauguration of, 4, 14; interaction by, 53; political bargaining and, 56–57;
with, 51–56; Jefferson and, 74–76, 276, print attacks against, 132–33; splendor
309nn28,29; levees, 38, 310n40; monar- of, 47–48; status of, 133. See also Ad-
chism and, 6, 74–75; political savvy, ams, Abigail
114; portraits, 44, 217; public opinion Wortman, Tunis, 147
and, 79–80; on salaries, 56; social calls Wright, Daniel, 108–9, 111, 131, 148,
by, 54–55; walks, 45–46 316n9. See also Boston Patriot essays
Washington, Martha, 57, 80, 306n97 Wynkoop, Henry, 21, 33, 300n17