Meanwhile Robert Swartwout, brother to the wounded Swartwout, calls out Mr. Riker, who acted for Clinton against the stubborn one, and has the pleasure of dangerously wounding that personage. Also, Editor Coleman of the Evening Post, weary with that felon scribe, goes after type-dog Cheetham of Clinton’s American Citizen; whereat dog Cheetham flies yelping.
This last so disturbs Harbor Master Thompson of the Clinton forces, that he offers to take type-dog Cheetham’s place. Editor Coleman being agreeable, they fight in a snowstorm in (inappropriately) Love’s Lane—it will be University Place later—and the port loses a harbor master at the first fire.
Aaron, gaveling the Senate in the way it should legislatively go, pays no apparent heed to the smoky doings of his warlike subordinates. He never takes his eyes from Hamilton, however; and, if that retired publicist, complaining in his garden, would but cast his glance that way, he might read in their black ophidian depths a saving warning. But Hamilton is blind or mad, and thinks only on what he may do to injure Aaron, and never once on what that perilous Vice-President might be carrying on the shoulder of his purposes.
Hamilton devotes his garden leisure to vilifying Aaron. He goes stark staring raving Aaron-mad; at the mention of the name he pours out a muddy stream of slander. In talk, in print, in what letters he indites, Aaron is accused of every infamy. There is nothing so preposterously vile that he does not charge him with it. Aaron looks on and listens with a grim, evil smile, saying nothing. It is as though he but waits for Hamilton’s offenses to ripen in their accumulation, as one waits for apples to ripen on a tree.
At last the hour of harvest comes; Aaron leaves Washington for Richmond Hill, and sends for his friend Van Ness.
“You once marveled at my Hamilton moderation—wondered that I did not stop his slanders with convincing lead?”
“Yes,” says Van Ness.
“You shall wonder no longer, my friend. The hour of his death is about to strike.”
Van Ness breaks into a gale of protest. Hamilton, beaten, disgraced, deposed, is in political exile! Aaron, powerful, victorious, is on the crest of fortune! There is no fairness, no equality in an exchange of shots under such circumstances! Thus runs the opposition of Van Ness.
“In short,” he concludes, “it would be a fight downhill—a fight that you, in justice to yourself, have no right to make. Who is Alexander Hamilton? Nobody—a beaten nobody! Who is Aaron Burr? The second officer of the nation, on his sure way to a White House! Let me say, sir, that you must not risk so much against so little.”