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Edwin Arlington Robinson - On the Way

NOTE.—The following imaginary dialogue between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, which is not based upon any specific
incident in American history, may be supposed to have occurred a few months previous to Hamilton’s retirement from
Washington’s Cabinet in 1795 and a few years before the political ingenuities of Burr—who has been characterized, without
much exaggeration, as the inventor of American politics—began to be conspicuously formidable to the Federalists. These
activities on the part of Burr resulted, as the reader will remember, in the Burr-Jefferson tie for the Presidency in 1800,
and finally in the Burr-Hamilton duel at Weehawken in 1804.


BURR

Hamilton, if he rides you down, remember 
That I was here to speak, and so to save 
Your fabric from catastrophe. That’s good; 
For I perceive that you observe him also. 
A President, a-riding of his horse,
May dust a General and be forgiven; 
But why be dusted—when we’re all alike, 
All equal, and all happy? Here he comes— 
And there he goes. And we, by your new patent, 
Would seem to be two kings here by the wayside,
With our two hats off to his Excellency. 
Why not his Majesty, and done with it? 
Forgive me if I shook your meditation, 
But you that weld our credit should have eyes 
To see what’s coming. Bury me first if I do.

HAMILTON

There’s always in some pocket of your brain 
A care for me; wherefore my gratitude 
For your attention is commensurate 
With your concern. Yes, Burr, we are two kings; 
We are as royal as two ditch-diggers;
But owe me not your sceptre. These are the days 
When first a few seem all; but if we live 
We may again be seen to be the few 
That we have always been. These are the days 
When men forget the stars, and are forgotten.

BURR

But why forget them? They’re the same that winked 
Upon the world when Alcibiades 
Cut off his dog’s tail to induce distinction. 
There are dogs yet, and Alcibiades 
Is not forgotten.

HAMILTON

Yes, there are dogs enough, 
God knows; and I can hear them in my dreams. 

BURR

Never a doubt. But what you hear the most 
Is your new music, something out of tune 
With your intention. How in the name of Cain,
I seem to hear you ask, are men to dance, 
When all men are musicians. Tell me that, 
I hear you saying, and I’ll tell you the name 
Of Samson’s mother. But why shroud yourself 
Before the coffin comes? For all you know,
The tree that is to fall for your last house 
Is now a sapling. You may have to wait 
So long as to be sorry; though I doubt it, 
For you are not at home in your new Eden 
Where chilly whispers of a likely frost
Accumulate already in the air. 
I think a touch of ermine, Hamilton, 
Would be for you in your autumnal mood 
A pleasant sort of warmth along the shoulders. 

HAMILTON

If so it is you think, you may as well
Give over thinking. We are done with ermine. 
What I fear most is not the multitude, 
But those who are to loop it with a string 
That has one end in France and one end here. 
I’m not so fortified with observation
That I could swear that more than half a score 
Among us who see lightning see that ruin 
Is not the work of thunder. Since the world 
Was ordered, there was never a long pause 
For caution between doing and undoing.

BURR

Go on, sir; my attention is a trap 
Set for the catching of all compliments 
To Monticello, and all else abroad 
That has a name or an identity. 

HAMILTON

I leave to you the names—there are too many;
Yet one there is to sift and hold apart, 
As now I see. There comes at last a glimmer 
That is not always clouded, or too late. 
But I was near and young, and had the reins 
To play with while he manned a team so raw
That only God knows where the end had been 
Of all that riding without Washington. 
There was a nation in the man who passed us, 
If there was not a world. I may have driven 
Since then some restive horses, and alone,
And through a splashing of abundant mud; 
But he who made the dust that sets you on 
To coughing, made the road. Now it seems dry, 
And in a measure safe. 

BURR

Here’s a new tune
From Hamilton. Has your caution all at once, 
And over night, grown till it wrecks the cradle? 
I have forgotten what my father said 
When I was born, but there’s a rustling of it 
Among my memories, and it makes a noise
About as loud as all that I have held 
And fondled heretofore of your same caution. 
But that’s affairs, not feelings. If our friends 
Guessed half we say of them, our enemies 
Would itch in our friends’ jackets. Howsoever,
The world is of a sudden on its head, 
And all are spilled—unless you cling alone 
With Washington. Ask Adams about that. 

HAMILTON

We’ll not ask Adams about anything. 
We fish for lizards when we choose to ask
For what we know already is not coming, 
And we must eat the answer. Where’s the use 
Of asking when this man says everything, 
With all his tongues of silence? 

BURR

I dare say.
I dare say, but I won’t. One of those tongues 
I’ll borrow for the nonce. He’ll never miss it. 
We mean his Western Majesty, King George. 

HAMILTON

I mean the man who rode by on his horse. 
I’ll beg of you the meed of your indulgence
If I should say this planet may have done 
A deal of weary whirling when at last, 
If ever, Time shall aggregate again 
A majesty like his that has no name. 

BURR

Then you concede his Majesty? That’s good,
And what of yours? Here are two majesties. 
Favor the Left a little, Hamilton, 
Or you’ll be floundering in the ditch that waits 
For riders who forget where they are riding. 
If we and France, as you anticipate,
Must eat each other, what Cæsar, if not yourself, 
Do you see for the master of the feast? 
There may be a place waiting on your head 
For laurel thick as Nero’s. You don’t know. 
I have not crossed your glory, though I might
If I saw thrones at auction. 

HAMILTON

Yes, you might. 
If war is on the way, I shall be—here; 
And I’ve no vision of your distant heels. 

BURR

I see that I shall take an inference
To bed with me to-night to keep me warm. 
I thank you, Hamilton, and I approve 
Your fealty to the aggregated greatness 
Of him you lean on while he leans on you. 

HAMILTON

This easy phrasing is a game of yours
That you may win to lose. I beg your pardon, 
But you that have the sight will not employ 
The will to see with it. If you did so, 
There might be fewer ditches dug for others 
In your perspective; and there might be fewer
Contemporary motes of prejudice 
Between you and the man who made the dust. 
Call him a genius or a gentleman, 
A prophet or a builder, or what not, 
But hold your disposition off the balance,
And weigh him in the light. Once (I believe 
I tell you nothing new to your surmise, 
Or to the tongues of towns and villages) 
I nourished with an adolescent fancy— 
Surely forgivable to you, my friend—
An innocent and amiable conviction 
That I was, by the grace of honest fortune, 
A savior at his elbow through the war, 
Where I might have observed, more than I did, 
Patience and wholesome passion. I was there,
And for such honor I gave nothing worse 
Than some advice at which he may have smiled. 
I must have given a modicum besides, 
Or the rough interval between those days 
And these would never have made for me my friends,
Or enemies. I should be something somewhere— 
I say not what—but I should not be here 
If he had not been there. Possibly, too, 
You might not—or that Quaker with his cane. 

BURR

Possibly, too, I should. When the Almighty
Rides a white horse, I fancy we shall know it. 

HAMILTON

It was a man, Burr, that was in my mind; 
No god, or ghost, or demon—only a man: 
A man whose occupation is the need 
Of those who would not feel it if it bit them;
And one who shapes an age while he endures 
The pin pricks of inferiorities; 
A cautious man, because he is but one; 
A lonely man, because he is a thousand. 
No marvel you are slow to find in him
The genius that is one spark or is nothing: 
His genius is a flame that he must hold 
So far above the common heads of men 
That they may view him only through the mist 
Of their defect, and wonder what he is.
It seems to me the mystery that is in him 
That makes him only more to me a man 
Than any other I have ever known. 

BURR

I grant you that his worship is a man. 
I’m not so much at home with mysteries,
May be, as you—so leave him with his fire: 
God knows that I shall never put it out. 
He has not made a cripple of himself 
In his pursuit of me, though I have heard 
His condescension honors me with parts.
Parts make a whole, if we’ve enough of them; 
And once I figured a sufficiency 
To be at least an atom in the annals 
Of your republic. But I must have erred. 

HAMILTON

You smile as if your spirit lived at ease
With error. I should not have named it so, 
Failing assent from you; nor, if I did, 
Should I be so complacent in my skill 
To comb the tangled language of the people 
As to be sure of anything in these days.
Put that much in account with modesty. 

BURR

What in the name of Ahab, Hamilton, 
Have you, in the last region of your dreaming, 
To do with “people”? You may be the devil 
In your dead-reckoning of what reefs and shoals
Are waiting on the progress of our ship 
Unless you steer it, but you’ll find it irksome 
Alone there in the stern; and some warm day 
There’ll be an inland music in the rigging, 
And afterwards on deck. I’m not affined
Or favored overmuch at Monticello, 
But there’s a mighty swarming of new bees 
About the premises, and all have wings. 
If you hear something buzzing before long, 
Be thoughtful how you strike, remembering also
There was a fellow Naboth had a vineyard, 
And Ahab cut his hair off and went softly. 

HAMILTON

I don’t remember that he cut his hair off. 

BURR

Somehow I rather fancy that he did. 
If so, it’s in the Book; and if not so,
He did the rest, and did it handsomely. 

HAMILTON

Commend yourself to Ahab and his ways 
If they inveigle you to emulation; 
But where, if I may ask it, are you tending 
With your invidious wielding of the Scriptures?
You call to mind an eminent archangel 
Who fell to make him famous. Would you fall 
So far as he, to be so far remembered? 

BURR

Before I fall or rise, or am an angel, 
I shall acquaint myself a little further
With our new land’s new language, which is not— 
Peace to your dreams—an idiom to your liking. 
I’m wondering if a man may always know 
How old a man may be at thirty-seven; 
I wonder likewise if a prettier time
Could be decreed for a good man to vanish 
Than about now for you, before you fade, 
And even your friends are seeing that you have had 
Your cup too full for longer mortal triumph. 
Well, you have had enough, and had it young;
And the old wine is nearer to the lees 
Than you are to the work that you are doing. 

HAMILTON

When does this philological excursion 
Into new lands and languages begin? 

BURR

Anon—that is, already. Only Fortune
Gave me this afternoon the benefaction 
Of your blue back, which I for love pursued, 
And in pursuing may have saved your life— 
Also the world a pounding piece of news: 
Hamilton bites the dust of Washington,
Or rather of his horse. For you alone, 
Or for your fame, I’d wish it might have been so. 

HAMILTON

Not every man among us has a friend 
So jealous for the other’s fame. How long 
Are you to diagnose the doubtful case
Of Demos—and what for? Have you a sword 
For some new Damocles? If it’s for me, 
I have lost all official appetite, 
And shall have faded, after January, 
Into the law. I’m going to New York.

BURR

No matter where you are, one of these days 
I shall come back to you and tell you something. 
This Demos, I have heard, has in his wrist 
A pulse that no two doctors have as yet 
Counted and found the same, and in his mouth
A tongue that has the like alacrity 
For saying or not for saying what most it is 
That pullulates in his ignoble mind. 
One of these days I shall appear again, 
To tell you more of him and his opinions;
I shall not be so long out of your sight, 
Or take myself so far, that I may not, 
Like Alcibiades, come back again. 
He went away to Phrygia, and fared ill. 

HAMILTON

There’s an example in Themistocles:
He went away to Persia, and fared well. 

BURR

So? Must I go so far? And if so, why so? 
I had not planned it so. Is this the road 
I take? If so, farewell. 

HAMILTON

Quite so. Farewell. 

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Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Poem: On the Way
Year: Published/Written in 1794
Poem of the Day: Jun 28 2014
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