Alexander Hamilton (105 page)

The Republican press had a field day with the pamphlet and battened off it for years. Henceforth, Hamilton would be viewed as the oversexed treasury secretary. Callender rejoiced at Hamilton’s indiscretion, telling Jefferson, “If you have not seen it, no anticipation can equal the infamy of this piece. It is worth all that fifty of the best pens in America could have said ag[ains]t him.”
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Drawing on this material, Callender wrote mockingly that the “whole proof in this pamphlet rests upon an illusion. ‘I am a rake and for that reason I cannot be a swindler.’ ”
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The
Aurora
responded similarly when it paraphrased Hamilton as saying, “I have been grossly ...charged with...being a
speculator,
whereas I am only
an adulterer.
I have not broken the
eighth
commandment....It is only the
seventh
which I have violated.”
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In sacrificing his private virtue, Hamilton had imagined he would at least preserve a spotless public record. He would have been disheartened by Jefferson’s reaction. Writing to John Taylor, a Virginia politician, the circumspect Jefferson said that Hamilton’s “willingness to plead guilty to adultery seems rather to have strengthened than weakened the suspicions that he was in truth guilty of the speculations.”
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Madison’s reaction was more perceptive: “The publication . . . is a curious specimen of the ingenious folly of its author. Next to the error of publishing it at all is that of forgetting that simplicity and candor are the only dress which prudence would put on innocence.”
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For John and Abigail Adams, who already considered Hamilton a debauchee, their suspicions were fully confirmed. Before the pamphlet appeared, Abigail told her husband of Hamilton, “Oh, I have read his heart in his wicked eyes. The very devil is in them. They are lasciviousness itself.”
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Timothy Pickering, the secretary of state, recalled that soon after Adams became president, Abigail called on Mrs. Pickering and “took her to ride with her in her carriage.... [M]y wife afterwards told me that Mrs. Adams dwelt on the licentiousness of Hamilton’s character in regard to the female sex.”
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When the scandal broke, the Adamses were probably less shocked at Hamilton’s behavior than at his candor in admitting it. After they returned to Philadelphia in November 1797, fresh from a four-month absence, Abigail wrote of the Reynolds pamphlet, “Alas, alas, how weak is human nature.”
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John Adams traced Hamilton’s roguish deeds back to his days on Washington’s staff, followed by “debaucheries in New York and Philadelphia” at which he had made “his audacious and unblushing attempts upon ladies of the highest rank and purest virtue.”
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It is difficult to figure out if the charges of sexual profligacy made against Hamilton all trace back, ultimately, to Maria Reynolds. There are only scattered references to his amorous ways in contemporary documents between the time of the affair (1791–1792) and its exposure (1797), then a tremendous increase after Callender performed his dirty work. That Hamilton loved the ladies and had a high libido seems clear. But was his adult life really a rake’s progress of sexual conquests? For all the innuendoes about adultery, he did not engage in indiscriminate sex, and we can connect him with only Maria Reynolds for certain. There was plenty of understandable speculation about Angelica Church, but she was mostly abroad between 1783 and 1797, and we will never know whether her mutual enchantment with Hamilton was sexually consummated. One strong argument against such outright adultery was that Eliza and the entire Schuyler family adored Hamilton until the day he died. Would they have tolerated Hamilton if he had been sleeping with Eliza’s sister? After Hamilton’s death, the ever vigilant John Beckley referred to Hamilton as a “double adulterer”—presumably referring to Maria Reynolds and Angelica Church—but he named no one else.
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Alexander Hamilton was the most controversial public figure of his era. If he had other women, why didn’t the scandal-loving Republican press refer to these other romances? It seems unlikely that, if other women abounded, their identities would have been so well concealed for two centuries. And why, if Hamilton was so promiscuous, did he father no illegitimate children that we know of?

For all the tongue clucking and finger wagging at Hamilton, the Reynolds scandal diminished but scarcely destroyed his political stature. Though the Reynolds pamphlet provided the Jeffersonian press with fodder for satire, it did not lead to a wholesale abandonment of Hamilton by the Federalists. As David Cobb, a Federalist judge from Massachusetts, told Henry Knox, “Hamilton is fallen for the present, but if he fornicates with every female in the cities of New York and Philadelphia, he will rise again, for purity of character after a period of political existence is not necessary for public patronage.”
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In later years, John Adams conducted a revealing exchange of letters with William Cunningham, who said that Hamilton’s friends had not abandoned him for straying from his wife. He offered an analogy from Roman history, the patriot Cato:

Cato valued himself on his integrity and was, it is said, addicted to intemperance. But the friends of Cato prized him so highly for his main excellence that they looked upon his occasional intoxication with indulgence. Thus I have understood it of Hamilton. He set the estimation made of his uprightness against that which might be formed from the confession of his lewdness and he determined that the weight of his cardinal virtues would preponderate over every defect and forever keep that scale immovably down.
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Perhaps the most telling reaction to Hamilton’s troubles came from Washington, who knew Hamilton better than any other public figure. On August 21, from out of the blue, he sent his beleaguered friend a gift along with a note that made no reference to the scandal.

Not for any intrinsic value the thing possesses, but as a token of my sincere regard and friendship for you and as a remembrance of me, I pray you to accept a wine cooler for four bottles....I pray you to present my best wishes, in which Mrs. Washington joins me, to Mrs. Hamilton and the family, and that you would be persuaded that with every sentiment of the highest regard, I remain your sincere friend and affectionate honorable servant.
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The letter was eloquent for what it did not say. It confirmed that Washington thought Hamilton was being persecuted and that he wanted to express solidarity with him. The wine cooler would always be treasured by Eliza Hamilton. That she cherished this gift so much tells us something about her view of the Maria Reynolds scandal.

For Hamilton and his descendants, the villain of the piece was always James Monroe. Hamilton’s grandson blamed the exposure of the Reynolds affair on “the mean traps laid for him, principally by Monroe.”
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During the summer of 1797, Hamilton figured out pretty quickly that Monroe had made the Reynolds papers available to John Beckley in 1792. In
The History of the United States for 1796,
Callender had reproduced a statement by Muhlenberg, Venable, and Monroe about their dramatic confrontation with Hamilton on December 15, 1792, but now quoted them as saying that they had left Hamilton that evening “
under an impression our suspicions were removed.
”
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This implied that they had not really believed Hamilton. Still more damaging was a private memo, published by Callender, that Monroe had written on January 1, 1793. It reported on a meeting at which Jacob Clingman told Monroe that the putative romance between Hamilton and Maria Reynolds was a mere “fabrication” to cover up Hamilton’s wrongdoing at Treasury. By reporting this conversation without comment, Monroe seemed to lend tacit credence to its contents.

Now Hamilton promptly wrote and asked the three legislators to repudiate Callender’s interpretation of the December 1792 meeting. Muhlenberg sent a friendly reply, regretted publication of the Reynolds papers, and confirmed that he had trusted Hamilton’s account at the time. Venable’s response, if a bit testier, agreed that the trio had accepted Hamilton’s explanation. He also imparted the key piece of information that the Reynolds documents had been entrusted to James Monroe: “I do not know any means by which these papers could have got out unless by the person who copied them [i.e., John Beckley].”
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Monroe received Hamilton’s letter just as he was preparing to visit his New York in-laws, the Kortrights. Before replying, Monroe wanted to huddle with Muhlenberg and Venable. Miffed by what he saw as stalling, Hamilton flew into a rage when he heard that Monroe was staying near him, on Wall Street. On July 10, he sent Monroe a terse note: “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 another.”
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Beyond its cold formality, the note’s reference to bringing witnesses signified the potential onset of an affair of honor. Faced with this challenge, Monroe consented to have Hamilton come to his lodgings at ten o’clock the next morning. It was to be one of the most emotional encounters of Hamilton’s tumultuous life.

James Monroe was a tall, handsome man with piercing blue eyes and a rather awkward manner. Unlike the quick-witted Hamilton, Monroe was a plodding speaker and a middling intellect. Jefferson and other companions valued his sincerity. “Turn his soul wrong side outwards and there is not a speck on it,” Jefferson once told Madison.
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Like Hamilton, Monroe, a carpenter’s son who had fought courageously in the Revolution, came from humble origins. He had crossed the Delaware with Washington, and his lung had been pierced by a bullet at the battle of Trenton. By war’s end, Monroe was a protégé of Jefferson, who urged him to study law and enter politics. The two Virginians shared a belief that emancipation should be postponed, with the freed slaves someday transplanted to Africa. As a member of the Confederation Congress in the early 1780s, Monroe drew close to Madison but voted against ratifying the Constitution at the Virginia convention.

In the Senate, Monroe had exhibited special fervor in the Republican cause, just as Madison did in the House. He dismissed Britain as a corrupt, tottering state, saw the Federalists as their spineless lackeys—he denounced Hamilton’s programs as “calculated to elevate the government above the people”—and favored an outright military alliance with France.
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For Monroe, the “enemies of the French Revolution” were likewise “partisans for monarchy” in America.
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Five days after Monroe arrived in Paris as American minister, Robespierre was executed, but all the carnage did not cool Monroe’s infatuation for the Revolution. He frequently sided with the French government, advised it to ignore Washington as an “Angloman,” and opposed the Jay Treaty. After two years of such disloyal bungling, Monroe was recalled by Washington and chastised as “a mere tool in the hands of the French government.”
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Hamilton arrived on the morning of July 11 with John B. Church, while Monroe invited along David Gelston, a New York merchant and Republican politician. Gelston left a graphic account of the showdown between the ex–treasury secretary and the future president. From the second he entered the room, Hamilton seemed beside himself with rage. In Gelston’s words, he “appeared very much agitated” and launched into an extended monologue about the December 1792 meeting. Even in Gelston’s neutral chronicle, one can feel the extreme tension throbbing in the air. The two antagonists were visibly offended by each other. Hamilton pointed out that he had written to Monroe, Muhlenberg, and Venable and had “expected an immediate answer to so important a subject in which his character, the peace and reputation of his family were so deeply interested.” Monroe replied that if Hamilton “would be temperate or quiet for a moment...he would answer him candidly.”
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Hamilton asked if Monroe had leaked the Reynolds papers or failed to guarantee their security. Monroe replied that he thought the documents had “remained sealed” with a Virginia friend, that he had not intended to publish them, and knew nothing of their appearance until his return from Europe.
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At this, Hamilton dropped any pose of civility and chastised Monroe, saying “your representation is totally false.”
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According to Gelston, the two men rose instantly. Monroe called Hamilton a “scoundrel,” whereupon Hamilton immediately adopted the ritual language of dueling, saying, “I will meet you like a gentleman.” To which Monroe retorted, “I am ready, get your pistols.”
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The two men, like a pair of squabbling schoolboys, nearly came to blows, and Gelston and Church had to pry them apart, urging moderation. Although they soon sat down, Gelston observed that Hamilton was still “extremely agitated,” while Monroe adopted an icy tone of contempt, telling Hamilton he would explain what he knew if the latter would just calm down.
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Gelston brought the hourlong meeting to a close by saying that Hamilton should wait until Monroe met with Venable and Muhlenberg in Philadelphia. Hamilton agreed reluctantly.

This began an interminable correspondence between Hamilton and Monroe that lasted the rest of the year and never gave Hamilton satisfaction. After Monroe conferred with Muhlenberg in Philadelphia (Venable having left for Virginia), the two men drafted a joint letter to Hamilton. They agreed that in December 1792 they had credited his story about Maria Reynolds and had dropped their suspicions about Treasury misconduct. This letter removed one bone of contention and took Muhlenberg out of the picture. But it left Hamilton brooding about another piece of evidence: the January 1, 1793, statement in which Monroe seemed to endorse Jacob Clingman’s wild allegation. Hamilton followed Monroe to Philadelphia and peppered him with brief, pointed letters, trying to get him to renounce that statement. “Alexander Hamilton has favored this city with a visit,” the
Aurora
reported with hearty pleasure. “He has certainly not come for the benefit of the fresh air.”
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Because Monroe had been responsible for the documents surfacing, Hamilton lectured him that it was incumbent upon him “as a man of honor and sensibility to have come forward in a manner that would have shielded me completely from the unpleasant effects brought upon me by your agency. This you have not done.” Hamilton then employed language that again presaged a duel: “The result in my mind is that you have been and are actuated by motives towards me malignant and dishonorable.”
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