The biggest disjuncture in writing this book was the network of support and friendship that bolstered my study of violence and nastiness. From start to finish, friends, family, and colleagues unselfishly gave their support, counsel, and wisdom. The thanks offered here can’t begin to do them justice.
When I was first seeking (and finding) my topic, the J. Franklin Jameson fellowship from the American Historical Association and the Library of Congress was essential; the ability to spend several months at the Library rummaging through the papers of congressmen revealed and fleshed out the trail of violence at the heart of this book. For that early support, I am eternally grateful. The Dirksen Congressional Center also provided funding at an early crucial point. And the American Council of Learned Societies and the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library offered support that was transformative, not only funding and guiding a year of research and writing, but also introducing me to a cohort of warm and wonderful writers and scholars, some of them now dear friends. Adrien LeBlanc and Joel Kaye offered sage advice and cheered from the sidelines for years; Mark Stevens was a wonderful partner in intellectual crime at the center, as were Jennifer Vanderbes and Han Ong, and I had several idea-shaping lunches with Jim Oakes. Our fearless leader Jean Strouse was wise, encouraging, nurturing, and writing-savvy all in one. My thanks to all for their generous intellectual and emotional support (and the scotch-filled end-of-writing-day confabs as well).
Many librarians and curators were exceedingly generous with their time and wisdom, particularly in Washington, this book’s ground zero. In the Manuscript Division at the Library of Congress, the Civil War and Reconstruction specialist Michelle Krowl helped me access and use French’s writings (and seemed to enjoy getting to know French almost as much as I did). The reference librarian Bruce Kirby not only helped me with my research, but also gave me a copy of his fine master’s thesis on the Cilley-Graves duel and accompanied me to the “mountaintop” (the Smithsonian gun storage room) to see the Cilley-Graves rifles. The man who showed us those rifles—David Miller, Curator of Armed Forces History at the National Museum of American History—went out of his way to display and decode an array of weapons that were popular with congressmen; many years later, he stepped forward again to provide photographs of a few of those weapons for use as illustrations. Senate Historian Emeritus Don Ritchie toured me around the Capitol’s open and closed spaces as I chatted about who hit whom in what corner for what reason. From the U.S. Senate Commission on Art, Curator Diane Skvarla offered visual fodder, and Scott Strong generously sent me an ongoing stream of materials on congressional set-tos. From the Office of the House Historian, Associate Historian Kenneth Kato, Historian Matthew Wasniewski, and Historian Emeritus Ray Smock were wonderfully hospitable as I rummaged through their files. Without these wonderful Washington folk, I couldn’t have found the ground-level reality of the antebellum Congress.
The Library of Congress’s invaluable abridged edition of French’s diary—Witness to the Young Republic: A Yankee’s Journal, 1828–1870, edited by Donald B. Cole and John J. McDonough—led me to another person who helped me envision French’s world. Peter S. French, the great-great-grandson of the man at the heart of this book, not only answered my questions, but welcomed me into his home, showed me some of French’s belongings, and provided me with a family tree. Great thanks are also due to Peter for giving French’s writings to the Library of Congress many years ago. When we first met, he couldn’t believe that anyone would read them. Hopefully, this book will show him the benefits when someone does. Thanks also to Roger Ginn, who sent me a copy of his study of Jonathan Cilley.
Many others stepped forward at key moments to solve mysteries and answer questions. Dayle Dooley at the Congressional Cemetery was kind enough to photograph French’s grave so I could see its wording. Long after I had left the New Hampshire Historical Society, the librarian William Copeley helped me decode a letter from afar. The librarian Elizabeth Dunn at the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Duke University helped me track down some details in Lawrence Keitt’s life. Heartfelt thanks are also due to the folks at the Massachusetts Historical Society, the Rauner Special Collections Library at Dartmouth College, the National Archives, the Southern Historical Collection at UNC Chapel Hill, the British Library, the Special Collections and Archives at Bowdoin College Library, and the Huntington Library. In this digitized age, these archives and libraries are irreplaceable centers of study staffed by expert librarians and archivists and containing invaluable holdings that often can’t be found in any database. For those reasons and more, they deserve applause. Former Clerk of the House of Commons Sir Malcolm Jack discussed clerkiness with me over a wonderfully informative lunch. Kathy White was host extraordinaire during my extended research trip to North Carolina, showing me the sights and pointing me to much good food. Michael Donaldson, the general manager of the Franklin Hotel in Chapel Hill, did me a great kindness in facilitating my stay. To all of these people, I offer my heartfelt thanks.
I’m also in the debt of the many historians and scholars who provided insights over the years. Michael Les Benedict, Dan Feller, Michael Grow, Pauline Maier, Joseph Meisel, Randy Roth, Tony Rotundo, Walter Stahr, and Julian Zelizer were exceedingly generous with their time and knowledge. (Dan generously advanced me information about Henry Wise, and was my partner in crime in poking fun at him.) I’m particularly indebted to Peter Onuf, Edward Ayers, John Demos, James Brewer Stewart, Frank Cogliano, and R. B. Bernstein for reading the manuscript and providing essential and deeply appreciated feedback. Peter read it more than once, offering his crystallizing-as-always feedback as well as ongoing encouragement. He has shaped my work and thinking in more ways than he can ever know. Ed kept me on an even keel between North and South while being wonderfully supportive. John—enthusiastic from the start—supported this project in countless ways and coached me on the fine art of storytelling. Jim couldn’t have been more supportive not only of the project, but of what he called my “anthropological” approach to political history; his enthusiasm was—and is—gratefully appreciated. Frank offered to read the book years ago, and generously did so at the last minute, when I was almost done. And Richard listened to me talk (and occasionally panic) about this book for many years, an eternally calm and soothing voice as well as a source of sage advice and counsel. I’m more grateful than I can say for the support of these friends and colleagues. They represent the best of what the profession of history has to offer, as well as the best of friends.
My colleagues at Yale have been unfailingly interested and encouraging. In the History Department, Dan Kevles, David Blight, Ed Rugemer, and Naomi Lamoreaux cheered me on; Alejandra Dubcovsky and Joanne Meyerowitz provided vital moral support (plus, as a fellow early Americanist, Alejandra offered great feedback, as did Ed). David Mayhew and I had some informative Congress lunches. Akhil Amar asked some key questions. The Legal Theory Colloquium, the Yale Early American Historians Colloquium (YEAH), the Race and Slavery Working Group, and the Gilder Lehrman Center workshopped parts of this book (YEAH more than once), and the book is much the better for it. In addition, three American history librarians lent a helping hand: Greg Eow and David Gary were invaluable in tracking down obscure materials, and James Kessenides, along with Research Data Support Specialist Joshua Dull, took the time to show me how to use the ICPSR database.
This brings me to the remarkable students at Yale. How can I thank them? They were more important to this project than they know. Undergraduates and graduate students have heard material from this book for many years, and have offered wonderful insights along the way. When my momentum slowed or my energy flagged, their interest urged me on. Graduate students Michael Blaakman, Zach Conn, and James Shinn deserve special notice. Skilled historians of early and antebellum America who have a way with a pen, they read an early version of this book and offered extensive feedback (over New Haven pizza, of course). James went the extra mile, doing a second reading toward the end of the project. I can’t thank them enough for their input as well as their support. Working with people like M1, Zach, and James makes teaching at Yale the joy that it is.
Outside of Yale, a host of other groups workshopped parts of this book. The American Political History Seminar at Princeton, the Columbia Seminar on Early American History, the Congress and History conference at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the National Council for History Education, and the Charles Warren Center at Harvard helped me hash things out. Pauline Maier, who attended my session at the Warren Center, was particularly encouraging. Over the course of many years, she was a much-loved mentor and friend. I wish that I could show her the end product. Also, great thanks to my fellow members of the Little Summit: Amy Chazkel, Seth Fein, Chris Hill, and Pablo Piccato. Their keen insight and advice made an enormous difference in the early phases of this project; their friendship and encouragement made those phases fun. The wonderful people at the OpEd Project—which is working to boost the presence of women in the arena of public commentary—were invaluable at a key point in this project; Katie Orenstein, Chloe Angyl, and Mary Curtis helped me find the best ways to use my work about the past to comment on the present, and I thank them.
I wasn’t always a barrel of laughs in the many years that it took me to write this book, so I want to offer my heartfelt thanks and apologies to any and all friends and colleagues I’ve inconvenienced as I’ve hidden myself away to write. Thanks to everyone at BackStory for their encouragement and patience in putting up with my ongoing need to “finish the book.” Thanks, too, to the friends who listened to me talk for years on end about congressmen behaving badly. Janice Norian, Kristen Walters, Anne Marie Alino, Lisa Bloom, Donna Saleh, and Alan Mowatt never failed to cheer me on. Honor Sachs supported me through some trying times and sent kick-ass encouragements to write. Beth Wrightson and Kelly Allgaier were the truest of friends through times high and low. Ted Weinstein offered sage publishing advice. I couldn’t have written this book without their friendship and support. My fellow “gym rats” at In-Shape in North Haven—and particularly Bob Strathdee—were equally enthusiastic, even in the midst of lifting weights. Rudy Williams, Tony Delfi, Emir Graciano, Adam Ufret, and Efrain Burgos were friends through it all, listening to a good many fight stories and urging me forward. Muffie Meyer and Ron Blumer urged me forward as well, even when I vanished into my writing hole, as did Gloria Sesso. Mel McCombie, Harris Friedman, and their feathered little Dickens were dedicated supporters and friends. Helen Lankenau had many words of wisdom. In many ways, Doris Silverman’s advice and support were the backbone of my writing process. And finally, the folks at Meredith’s Bread in Kingston, New York, deserve a shout-out; their “magical biscotti” (as I call them) were my ritualistic prewriting breakfast, and though I’ve thanked them on many a Saturday morning at the local farmer’s market, now it’s official because I’ve put it in writing.
In the final phases of writing this book, two people deserve special mention and special thanks. When my project became a book that needed a home, my agent, Wendy Strothman, was a tireless advocate and advisor, and she generously gave the book a final read in my last week of writing. My editor, Alex Star, was deeply engaged with my book from the outset, offering crucial editorial advice and encouragement; it has been a joy to work with him. Indeed, my heartfelt thanks to all of the wonderful people at Farrar, Straus and Giroux, including the wonderful Dominique Lear, Stephen Weil, and Jonathan Lippincott, who designed this book.
Thanks to my family as well, who never failed in their faith in me. My brothers, Richard and Marc, and my sister-in-law Joanne Keegan were ace advisors; Marc went out of his way to encourage me to tell a good story. My mother enthusiastically and appreciatively listened to me read bits of the book aloud, which meant a lot. My father, market researcher that he is, couldn’t wait to advertise the end result. My niece, Olivia, didn’t really help me with this book, but I love her—so here she is.
And finally, much love to my cockatiel Boo, my constant writing companion. He came into my life when I started this book and died when I ended it. Throughout it all, he sat by my side, giving my manuscript a dubious side-eye and laughing along with me when I found a particularly egregious bit of mayhem. As goofy as it is to credit a pet in one’s acknowledgments, Boo merits it. He witnessed it all.