INTERVIEW

By Warren Haskin

Presented to

The Chicago Literary Club

December 4, 2006

On the evening of July 10, 1804, Alexander Hamilton wrote: “On my expected interview with Col. Burr, I think it proper to make some remarks explanatory of my conduct, motives and views.” In this four page document, Hamilton explained his decision to accept Aaron Burr’s challenge to a duel. Since dueling was a crime in New York, duelists resorted to the euphemism “interview” to refer to a duel. He was desirous of avoiding the interview for a number of reasons, Hamilton wrote. These included his religious and moral principles, the law, and the threat to the welfare to his family and creditors. A duel, he concluded, would and put him in a position in which he would “hazard much and . . . possibly gain nothing.”

But he could not avoid the duel, he wrote, because he had, indeed, made “extremely severe” attacks on Burr’s character and, since he had made these remarks sincerely, he could not apologize for them. Of course, one challenged to a duel was not obliged to accept the challenge. Hamilton dealt with this point in the convoluted language of nineteenth century educated men as follows: “All the considerations which constitute what men of the world denominate honor impressed on me . . . 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.” In simpler words, his refusal to duel would be regarded as dishonorable and he would lose his influence as a public man.

How did this all come about? The immediate cause was the publication of a letter in April 1804 in the Albany Register in which a doctor named Charles Cooper recalled that in February of that year, when Burr was running for Governor of New York, Hamilton had attacked his qualifications. Cooper’s letter concluded: “I could detail to you a still more despicable opinion which General Hamilton has expressed of Mr. Burr.” When this letter came to Burr’s attention, two months after its publication in the newspaper and four months after Hamilton had expressed the so-called despicable opinion, Burr wrote to Hamilton, also in the language and syntax of nineteenth century gentlemen: “You might perceive, Sir, the necessity of a prompt and unqualified acknowledgment or denial of the use of any expression which could warrant the assertions of Dr. Cooper.” This led to several exchanges of correspondence between the principals and their seconds. Ultimately, no accommodation could be reached and the interview was set for the morning of July 11.

Hamilton and Burr were close contemporaries and had known each other as officers in the Continental Army, where both had served with distinction. As lawyers in New York City they had been thrown together on many occasions and had sometimes acted as co-counsel for the same client. They had dined in each other’s houses. A week before the duel, they had sat at the same table at a Fourth of July celebration dinner. But politically they had become antagonists, if not outright enemies. Thirteen years before the duel, Burr had angered Hamilton when he defeated Hamilton’s father-in-law, Philip Schuyler, in the race for the United States Senate, an office from which Burr opposed Hamilton’s fiscal program. Hamilton opposed Burr’s candidacy for Vice President in 1792. At the time of the Presidential election of 1800, candidates did not run as part of a slate, one for President and a running mate who would become Vice President. The constitution, later changed by the 12^th amendment, provided that the candidate receiving the most electoral votes would become President, the candidate with the second highest total would become Vice President. When Jefferson and Burr each received the same number of electoral votes, the election was thrown into the House of Representatives, where there ensued a six-day, thirty-six ballot deadlock. Republicans supported Jefferson, Federalists Burr. The deadlock was broken when some Federalists, having been lobbied by Hamilton (himself a Federalist), switched their support to Jefferson, making him President and Burr Vice President. Burr regarded Hamilton’s support of Jefferson a treacherous act. Four years later Burr, although the incumbent Vice President of the United States, ran for Governor of New York. Hamilton, who fundamentally did not trust Burr, supported Burr’s opponent.

A parenthetical note here. Jefferson a Republican? I had thought the Republican Party was formed a few years before Lincoln was elected President in 1860. In fact what is now the Republican Party was formed in the 1850s to oppose the extension of slavery. The founders chose the name “Republican” because they wished to be thought of as the political descendants of the original Republican party of Jefferson. That party had adopted the name Democratic-Republican, which was shortened to Republican by the time of Jefferson’s election and then had become the Democratic party during Jackson’s presidency. The Federalist party of Adams and Hamilton withered away and was replaced by the Whig party. I beg the pardon of those of you who did not need this lecture on our political history.

Thus it was that the interview took place early on the morning of July 11. Weehawken, New Jersey, was the chosen place because, although dueling was prohibited in that state as well as in New York, the law there was seldom enforced. The actual site was a narrow ledge a few feet above the water. The two combatants were rowed across the Hudson separately, with their seconds and a doctor. The two actors took their places. One of the seconds, Hamilton’s as it happened, said “Present,” after which both were free to fire. There are three versions of what happened next. All versions agree that each of the combatants fired. There are two Hamiltonian versions. The first is that Hamilton “wasted” his shot by deliberately firing wildly, and that Burr, despite observing this, cooley waited for the smoke to clear and shot to kill. The second Hamiltonian version is that Burr fired first and the impact of the shot finding its mark caused an involuntary jerk of Hamilton’s trigger finger, causing his pistol to discharge with a shot that went wildly above Burr and into the trees. The Burrite version is that Hamilton fired first and missed, after which Burr waited a few seconds for the smoke to clear and then fired his shot. In any case, Burr’s ball struck Hamilton above the right hip, ricocheted off a rib and up through his liver and diaphragm and splintered the second lumbar vertebra. Hamilton fell, the doctor approached, and Hamilton said, before passing out, “This is a mortal wound, doctor.” Burr tried to approach his victim but was restrained by his second. Hamilton was rowed back to Manhattan and died the next day.

In his explanatory memorandum of the night before, Hamilton reconciled the conflict between his religious and moral principles and the demands of honor by deciding to expose himself to Burr without retaliating. “I have resolved . . . to reserve and throw away my first fire, and I have thoughts even of reserving my second fire—and thus giving a double opportunity to Col. Burr to pause and reflect.” [Parenthetically, I should note here that both participants were referred to, and referred to each other, by the military ranks they had obtained in the Revolutionary War.] Did Hamilton reserve his fire? He thought he had. In the boat returning to Manhattan, Hamilton warned his second to be careful of the pistol because it was still loaded. This indicates that Hamilton though he had not fired, and supports the theory that the shot from Hamilton’s pistol was a spasmodic reaction to his being struck. Even if one accepts the Burrite version—that Hamilton fired first—one might conclude that Hamilton, although he did fire first, deliberately fired wildly, thinking that this would be evident to Burr and would persuade him to do likewise. In this version, Hamilton did not reserve his fire but honored his vow to throw it away. What actually happened we will never know.

Neither Hamilton nor Burr were strangers to dueling, although Hamilton had not actually taken the field before his encounter with Burr. Most duels did not end in death or serious injury and most incidents that might have led to duels were reconciled by negotiations. In 1798, Burr and John Baker Church, Hamilton’s brother-in-law, dueled to no effect. Each fired but neither was wounded. Hamilton, for his part, had challenged or been challenged on many occasions, none of which led to an encounter. He had served as a second a few times. In July 1795 during the debate over the Jay Treaty, Hamilton had, on a single day, offered to duel with two of his antagonists. Both disputes were settled by apologies—by the others, not by Hamilton. In 1797, Hamilton and James Monroe had a confrontation because of Hamilton’s belief that Monroe had leaked accounts of Hamilton’s affair with Maria Reynolds, which had become notorious. The two had a heated argument during which Monroe called Hamilton a “scoundrel,” a word virtually guaranteed to precipitate an affair of honor. Hamilton challenged and Monroe accepted. Lengthy negotiations followed. The dispute was never resolved but never led to a duel. In what would seem supremely ironic later, it was Aaron Burr, who had been drafted by Monroe to be his second, who deliberately failed to carry out his principal’s instructions and thus quietly allowed the feud to peter out. In 1800, Hamilton actually initiated an affair of honor with the President of the United States, writing to John Adams to demand an explanation for some allegedly slanderous remarks uttered by the latter. Adams did not answer the letter.

Hamilton’s sometimes hotheaded willingness to challenge, to invite challenges, and to accept challenges, underwent a radical change in 1801 when his son Philip was killed in a duel. Philip and a friend were rude to George Eacker and another and Eacker called them “rascals” (“rascal,” like “scoundrel,” was a word that invited the target to initiate an affair of honor). Eacker and Philip Hamilton’s friend dueled; after four shots to no effect, they declared the matter closed. Negotiations between friends of Philip and Eacker were unavailing as Eacker refused to retract the word “rascal.” Hamilton advised his son to throw away his shot, just as in 1804 he would resolve to do the same in his duel with Burr (and may or may not have done so). The idea was that if a duelist wasted his shot by firing in the air, his opponent would do the same; if he did not, honorable men would regard it as murder or attempted murder. In the event, the two stared at each other for several moments, then Eacker lifted his pistol and fired. Philip was hit. In what may have been a spasmodic reaction (eerily similar to what may have happened three years later) Philip then fired. His shot was wild. Philip died hours later.

The word “duel” is a contraction of two Latin words, duo and bellum, a war between two. It originated centuries ago and survived until the late nineteenth century. To modern sensibilities dueling seems absurd. After all, there was no assurance that the duelist who had been insulted would prevail. As often as not the “wrong” person would be injured or killed. And if a duel was actually fought, and no one was harmed, how was it that the offended party could conclude that his honor had been satisfied? If one demanded “satisfaction” in the form of a duel, how was it that he became satisfied if he and the offender dueled but neither was hit, or, worse, if he were hit and his opponent were unscathed? If one is insulted and demands satisfaction and a duel is fought, but the result is inconclusive, how has the insult been expunged? What if Hamilton had wounded or killed Burr? Injury would have been added to insult, literally. It all seems mysterious to our modern eyes and ears.

The rules and customs and rituals surrounding dueling were elaborate. Dueling was an aristocratic tradition. One insulted by his social inferior did not challenge the offender, nor need he accept a challenge by such a person. Only an insult to a person’s personal honor or reputation was could lead to a duel; one’s political and ideological beliefs and pronouncements could be attacked with impunity. Typical insults that could lead to an affair of honor were “liar,” “rascal,” “scoundrel,” “coward,” “poltroon,” and “puppy.” The offensive word in the Burr-Hamilton affair was “despicable.”

In the early nineteenth century, it was almost impossible for someone to avoid a fight if an adversary was determined to provoke one. Aaron Burr was apparently of such a mind. After Hamilton replied to Burr’s letter asking Hamilton to acknowledge or deny the use of the word “despicable,” to which Hamilton had replied that the word was inherently ambiguous, Burr then demanded that Hamilton disavow “any intention . . . in his various conversations to convey impressions derogatory to the honor of [Mr.] Burr.” In effect Burr was now asking Hamilton to make an apology or explanation for any past uncomplimentary statements he may have made about Burr. Hamilton replied, as he should have in his first response, that “the conversations to which Doctor Cooper alluded turned wholly on political topics and did not attribute to Colo. Burr any instance of dishonorable conduct, nor relate to his private character.” But Burr stuck to his demand that Hamilton disavow any past derogatory statements. Hamilton was trapped.

And what, exactly, was the “despicable opinion” that Hamilton had allegedly expressed to Dr. Cooper? This remains a mystery. Gore Vidal, in his novel “Burr,” speculates that Hamilton had accused Burr of having an incestuous relationship with his daughter. Ron Chernow, in his recent biography of Hamilton, mentions this possibility and then adds: “But Burr was such a dissipated, libidinous character that Hamilton had a rich field to choose from in assailing [Burr’s] personal reputation.” Aaron Burr has his admirers, but Ron Chernow is not one of them.

A man wishing to duel need not hope his enemy would give him cause to challenge; he could provoke his enemy by issuing an insult publicly. The one insulted was honor-bound to demand an apology or a challenge; if he did not, or if he did but no apology was given, he would be dishonored unless he challenged. If a challenge were given and ignored or refused, the challenger could resort to “posting,” a practice in which the offended party denounced his adversary as a coward in a newspaper or broadside. Such an announcement usually carried the heading “A Card.”

Once an affair of honor was initiated, the protagonists appointed seconds to negotiate and, if necessary, to attend them in the field. More often than not, a final confrontation was avoided by an apology or an explanation. The duel itself followed formal rules agreed upon by the parties, such as which actor chose the weapons (in the United States this was invariably the dueling pistol), who chose where to stand, when it was permissible to fire, and whether or not a second or third round should take place.

Hamilton’s death caused a revulsion throughout the country, and led, in the Northern states at least, to a crusade against dueling. Still, dueling survived for another several decades, particularly in the South, and by 1830 it was confined to the South.

Just outside Washington, D.C., near Bladensburg, Maryland, stood the Bladensburg dueling ground, which became the country’s most celebrated site for affairs of honor. Hundreds of duels were fought there, most notably the encounter between Stephen Decatur and James Barron. Decatur was a naval hero in the War of 1812 and is famous for his toast: “To our country! May she always be in the right; but our country, right or wrong!” He later sat on two boards of inquiry that suspended Barron, also a naval officer, from service because of an incident at sea in which Barron’s actions were regarded as ignoble. Barron accused Decatur of insulting him and a voluminous correspondence followed, over a period of several months. In one letter Decatur virtually assured that a duel would take place when he taunted Barron with the following: “It appears to me, that you have come to the determination to fight some one, and you have selected me for that purpose. . . . Your object would have been better attained, had you made this decision during our late war, when your fighting might have benefited your country, as well as yourself.” The two met at Bladensburg in 1820. Barron was wounded; Decatur killed.

Andrew Jackson fought many duels, the number reported varying between 14 and more than 100. Many of these were the result of insults, or supposed insults, to Jackson’s wife Rachel. Jackson had married her twice, the second one being necessary because the first had taken place before Rachel was divorced. Jackson’s opponents often made unflattering insinuations about that circumstance. Jackson was often unwilling to accept an apology, insisting that a duel was the only satisfactory resolution. Of the future president’s many duels, only one resulted in a fatality. That encounter took place because Jackson insisted that Charles Dickinson had taken Rachel’s “sacred name” into his “polluted mouth.” Dickinson fired first and his round struck Jackson in the chest, where it lodged for the rest of Jackson’s life. Jackson stood impassively, not willing to give his opponent the satisfaction of knowing that his shot had found its mark. Dickinson, who was a crack shot, exclaimed “Great God, have I missed him?” He stepped back a pace but his seconds ordered him to return to his mark. Jackson calmly took aim and pulled the trigger. The hammer stuck at half cock. Under the rules of dueling this counted as a shot, and Jackson was not entitled to another. Not concerned with such niceties, Jackson recocked his weapon and fired. Dickinson was hit and died hours later. Jackson’s wound was serious but not life-threatening. He recovered and fought many later duels.

Thomas Hart Benton, and Charles Lucas were political rivals in Missouri. Benton was an experienced duelist and had had a previous encounter with Jackson, after which the two became fast friends and supporters. On election day in 1817 Lucas inquired whether Benton had paid his taxes so as to give himself the right to vote. Benton remarked to the judges of the election that if they had any questions to ask he would answer, but “I do not propose to answer charges made by any puppy who may happen to run across my path.” “Puppy” was a fighting word and Lucas challenged. The two dueled on Bloody Island, a favorite dueling ground on a sand bar in the Mississippi River between St. Louis and Illinois. Both were wounded, Lucas so badly that he could not continue. A second encounter was agreed and then the matter was thought to have been settled. But Benton heard reports that Lucas was continuing to disparage him and so issued his own challenge. Bloody Island was again the site and this time Lucas was killed. Three years later Missouri joined the Union and sent Benton to the United States Senate, where he served for 30 years. His reputation as a duelist having been established, Benton no longer needed to prove his courage and declined subsequent challenges.

Another celebrated duel took place in 1826, celebrated because of the prominence of the participants but anticlimactic in its outcome. The two who took the field were John Randolph, a veteran member of Congress and a Virginia, and Henry Clay, a Kentuckian and Speaker of the House. Randolph held all Kentuckians in contempt. When Clay backed John Quincy Adams in the disputed election of 1824 that was thrown into the House of Representatives, and was later chosen by Adams to be Secretary of State, Randolph suspected there had been an unsavory deal. In early 1826, in a Senate speech Randolph accused Clay of several improprieties, including cheating at cards. Clay challenged and Randolph accepted. He insisted that the duel take place in his home state of Virginia, so the party convened on the banks of the Potomac, near Little Falls Bridge. Randolph decided he would not return fire, then changed his mind, only to change it back again. The count was given and both fired; both missed badly. The seconds suggested that the two consider their honor satisfied and that the affair be ended, but both insisted on a second round. This time Clay’s shot struck the long white bathrobe that Randolph had bizarrely worn to the interview. Randolph ostentatiously shouted “I do not fire at you, Mr. Clay” and fired at the sky. The parties reconciled and Randolph said, “You owe me a coat, Mr. Clay,” to which Clay responded “I am glad the debt is no more.” It is not known whether the debt was actually paid.

Of course, dueling was outlawed everywhere, even in the South. But the law was all but ignored. To “go to law” was to confess that you could not redeem your honor. The South preferred personal justice rather than the impersonal justice afforded by litigation. Northern abolitionists portrayed Southerners as childish and said that honor—the Southern variety—was another word for lack of self control. Some historians believe that slavery was one reason that dueling persisted in the South, and it is true that the duel did disappear after the Civil War. This theory holds that slavery fostered a society in which the opinions of relatively few people mattered and by its nature bestowed honor on this class and dishonored the slave class. Members of the favored class took pride in the fact that they were not slaves, which gave them the sense that they were endowed with the intangible thing called honor.

Southern clergy railed against dueling. One minister said “ . . . dueling is opposed in spirit and practice to the Law of God. It is, therefore, a sin, a crime. No circumstance can make it right. No one except an atheist can . . . advocate it.” Another asked: “Is the crime redeemed of its ignominious wickedness because it is introduced with all the punctilios of etiquette, and perpetrated according to all the rules of polished gentility?”

Some proponents of dueling argued that it served a benign purpose because it controlled unpredictable violence. The code of dueling prevented killings in the heat of anger and allowed passions to cool and friends of the antagonists to intervene and encourage them to settle their dispute without resort to weapons. But the opposite opinion was also expressed, that killing in the heat of passion was understandable but killing in a calculated, ritual exercise days or weeks after an insult was what made dueling objectionable.

By the end of the Civil War, dueling in the South had become rare and by the beginning of the twentieth century it was a thing of the past. Ultimately, public opinion turned decisively against dueling and the “honorable” person was the one who refused to duel. In 1873, the editor of the Knoxville, Tennessee, Journal, refused a challenge by the Mayor of the City, who took exception to statements made in paper regarding his actions as Mayor and demanded a retraction. The editor refused both the retraction and the challenge. The editor said: “You might take my life or I might take yours and yet not a single feature of the publication complained of would be changed by the results. If that publication was false, it would be false still; if it were true, it remains true; hence nothing would be gained by either of us losing his life in the manner proposed.” The Mayor responded that “just and enlightened people” would hold [the editor] either in esteem or contempt. Overwhelmingly, letters from the public held the editor in esteem, not contempt.

In the North, by Abraham Lincoln’s time, the idea of dueling had become somewhat of a laughing matter, or at least something that was not taken seriously. In 1842, Lincoln ridiculed the tax policies of the Illinois State Auditor, James Shields, and referred to Shields as a fool and a liar. Lincoln signed the letter “Rebecca.” A furious Shields called upon the newspaper’s editor demanding to know the identity of the writer. A second letter followed in which “Rebecca” wrote: “I hear the way of these fire-eaters is to give the challenged party the choice of weapons, which, being the case, I’ll tell you in confidence that I never fight with anything but broomsticks or hot water or a shovelful of coals.” When the editor of the paper disclosed the identiry of “Rebecca,” Shields challenged Lincoln. The parties eventually agreed on sabers as the weapons and their friends, but not the antagonists themselves, met on a sandbar on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, opposite Alton, Illinois. After some back and forth between these friends, a settlement was reached in which Lincoln said that he had not meant anything personal and was merely taking exception to Shields’s tax policies.

In an effort to persuade would-be duelists to go to court instead of the field of honor, the legislatures of Mississippi and Virginia in the early nineteenth century adopted anti-dueling laws that included a provision creating a private cause of action for insults. These laws are still in effect in those states, plus West Virginia, which inherited its law from Virginia. The statutes provide that “All words shall be actionable which from their usual construction and common acceptance are construed as insults and tend to violence and breach of the peace.” The preamble to the Virginia statute at the time of its enactment referred to the “barbarous custom of dueling” and it “destructive consequences” that required an effort on the part of the legislature to “arrest a vice, the result of ignorance and barbarism, justified neither by the precepts of morality nor by the dictates of reason.” There are a handful of cases under these statutes. The modern cases have construed the reach of the statutes as co-extensive with the common law of defamation. As such, an insult that does not meet the test for a libel or slander action is not actionable. One would suppose, therefore, that calling a person a “scoundrel” would be regarded as an expression of opinion and protected by the first amendment, whereas calling a person a “liar” or a “thief,” if false, would be actionable.

Freedom of speech is also prized in Germany but is balanced against the right of each person to personal honor. Germany has a law of insult, which arose from a desire to eliminate dueling. In Germany, every person has the right to express his or her opinion freely but subject to each person’s right to personal honor, and a person’s personal honor includes the right not to be insulted. Thus, “insult” is a crime in Germany and the crime of insult gives rise to a private right to institute a criminal prosecution. Interestingly, “insult” is not defined. Many of the common derogatory words that are heard all the time on the sidewalks and streets of Chicago, such as “jerk,” “idiot” and “asshole” are actionable in Germany, as are hundreds of others such as “schweinhund” and “bastard” and “schmutzfink,” which means dirty old man.”

News of Hamilton’s death sent shock waves through New York and the North. In the South the reaction was more muted. A state funeral was hastily arranged for Saturday, July 14, two days after Hamilton expired. Guns fired from the Battery; ships flew their flags at half-mast; a huge funeral cortege assembled and made its way to Trinity Church at the foot of Wall Street. The crowd of mourners spilled into the street, where most were unable to hear the funeral oration by Gouverneuer Morris. Similar reactions were observed in Boston and Philadelphia. New Yorkers wore black bands on their arms for thirty days.

Hamilton had made known his intention to throw away his shot in his memorandum of the evening before the duel and also to his second, Nathaniel Pendleton, and had repeated it several times on his deathbed. If the public had not already been outraged by Burr’s killing of Hamilton, news of Hamilton’s passive attitude toward his antagonist in the duel inflamed the harsh feelings against Burr, who thought it prudent to absent himself from New York. In early August, arrest warrants were issued after a coroner’s jury delivered a verdict that Burr had been guilty of murder and the two seconds had been accessories. Two weeks later a grand jury reduced the murder charge to the lesser charge of sending a challenge to a duel. Then in October a New Jersey grand jury indicted Burr for murder. Burr’s supporters urged its dismissal based on the fact that earlier duels in New Jersey had not led to prosecutions. Eventually, all indictments were dismissed.

In November 1804, United States senators were astonished to see Burr take his place as President of the Senate. In that position he presided over the impeachment trial of Samuel Chase, an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, who had been charged with unbecoming conduct in a trial under the infamous Sedition Act. Not a few thought it incongruous that Burr, at the time under indictment for murder, should preside at the trial of a Supreme Court Justice.

At the end of his term as Vice President, Burr traveled westward, where he hatched various schemes to create a new empire. These led to his arrest for treason and in 1807 he was tried and, to the disgust of President Jefferson, acquitted in a trial at which Chief Justice John Marshall presided. He lived until 1836, thirty-two years after his interview with Hamilton.

Hamilton’s widow, Eliza, lived for 50 years after the duel, to the age of 97.

Joseph Ellis, in his Pulitzer Prize-winning study “Founding Brothers” writes that a succinct version of the duel could read like this:

“On the morning of July 11, 1804, Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton were rowed across the Hudson River in separate boats to a secluded spot near Weehawken, New Jersey. There, in accord with the customs of the code duello, they exchanged pistol shots at ten paces. Hamilton was struck on his right side and died the following day. Though unhurt, Burr found that his reputation suffered an equally fatal wound. In this, the most famous duel in American History, both participants were casualties.”