“Ay! but my creditors have!”
“Your creditors? Who are they?”
“Every soul who lost a dollar by my Southwestern ambitions—you, with others. Man, I owe millions!”
Aaron works like a horse and lives like a Spartan. He rises with the blue of dawn. His servant appears with his breakfast—an egg, a plate of toast, a pot of coffee. He is at his desk in the midst of his papers when the clerks begin to arrive. All day he is insatiable to work. He sends messages, receives them, examines authorities, confers with fellow lawyers, counsels clients, dictates letters. Business incarnate—he pushes every affair with incredible dispatch. And the last thing he will agree to is defeat.
“Accept only the inevitable!” is his war-word, in law as in life.
Aaron’s day ends with seven o’clock. He shoves everything of litigation sort aside, helps himself to a glass of wine, and refuses further thought or hint of business. It is then he calls about him his friends. The evening is merry with laughter, jest and reminiscence. At midnight he retires, and sleeps like a tree.
“Colonel Burr,” observes Dr. Hosack—he who attended Hamilton at Weehawken—“you do not sleep enough; six hours is not enough. Also, you eat too little.”