“They are the least in the town!” he mutters. “I shall pit against them the town’s greatest.”
Aaron with his Bucktails, now makes ready his own legislative ticket. At the head he places old North-of-Ireland Clinton—a local Whittington, ten times governor of the State. General Gates—for whom Aaron, when time was, plotted the downfall of Washington, and who received the sword of the vanquished Burgoyne and sent that popinjay back to England to fail at play-writing—comes next. After General Gates the wily Aaron writes “Samuel Osgood”—who was Washington’s postmaster general—“Henry Rutgers, Elias Neusen, Thomas Storms, George Warner, Philip Arcularius, James Hunt, Ezekiel Robbins, Brockholst Livingston, and John Swartwout”—every name a tower of strength.
Hamilton cannot repress a flutter of fear as he reads the noble roster; but his unflagging vanity, which serves him instead of a more reasonable optimism, rushes to his rescue. None the less it jars on him a bit strangely, albeit, he laughs at it for a jest, that the best regarded of the town should make up the ticket of the yeomanry and the crude Bucktails, while the aristocratical Federals and the equally aristocratical Cincinnati—that coterie of perfume and patricianism!—search the gutters for theirs.
Seeing himself on the Jefferson ticket, old North-of-Ireland Clinton makes trouble. He sends for Aaron and his committee, and notifies them that he cannot consent to run.
“If you, Colonel Burr, were the candidate,” he says, “I should run gladly; but Jefferson I hate.”
In his hope’s heart, old North-of-Ireland Clinton—-who, for all his North-of-Ireland blood, was born in America—thinks he himself may be struck by the presidential lightning, and does not intend to place any deflecting obstruction in the path of such descending bolt.
Aaron has forestalled the Clinton refusal in his thoughts, and is not surprised by the high Clintonian attitude. He tries persuasion; the old ex-governor and would-be president only plants himself more firmly. Under no circumstances shall he agree to run; his honored name must not be used.
It is now that Aaron shows his teeth: “Governor Clinton,” says he, “when it comes to that, our committee’s appearance before you, preferring the request that you run, is a ceremony rather of courtesy than need. With the last word, regardless of either your plans or your preferences, the public we represent is perfect in its right to name you, and compel you to run. And, sir, making short what might become long, and so saving time for us all, I must now notify you that, should you continue to withhold your consent, we stand already determined to retain and use your name despite refusal, as a course entirely within the lines of popular right.”
In the looks and tones of Aaron, the old North-of-Ireland governor reads decision not to be revoked, and for once in his obstinate life surrenders gracefully.
“Gentlemen,” says he, with a bland wave of the hand to Aaron and his Bucktail committee, “since you put it in that way, refusal is out of my power. Also let me add, that no man could take a nomination from a higher, a more honorable, a more patriotic source.”