to cancel another in peace; the next will be drawn in blood.”  Whether the tradition is well or ill founded, the sentence has the ring of truth.  A great work had been accomplished.  If it were cast aside, Washington knew that the sword and not the pen would make the next Constitution, and he regarded that awful alternative with dread.  He signed first, and was followed by all the members present, with three notable exceptions.  Then the delegates dined together at the city tavern, and took a cordial leave of each other.  “After which,” the president of the convention wrote in his diary, “I returned to my lodgings, did some business with, and received the papers from, the secretary of the convention, and retired to meditate upon the momentous work which had been executed.”  It is a simple sentence, but how much it means!  The world would be glad to-day to know what the thoughts were which filled Washington’s mind as he sat alone in the quiet of that summer afternoon, with the new Constitution lying before him.  But he was then as ever silent.  He did not go alone to his room to exhibit himself on paper for the admiration of posterity.  He went there to meditate for his own guidance on what had been done for the benefit of his country.  The city bells had rung a joyful chime when he arrived four months before.  Ought they to ring again with a new gladness, or should they toll for the death of bright hopes, now the task was done?  Washington was intensely human.  In that hour of silent thought his heart must have swelled with a consciousness that he had led his people through a successful Revolution, and now again from the darkness of political confusion and dissolution to the threshold of a new existence.  But at the same time he never deceived himself.  The new Constitution was but an experiment and an opportunity.  Would the States accept it?  And if they accepted it, would they abide by it?  Was this instrument of government, wrought out so painfully, destined to go to pieces after a few years of trial, or was it to prove strong enough to become the charter of a nation and hold the States together indissolubly against all the shocks of politics and revolution?  Washington, with his foresight and strong national instinct, plainly saw these momentous questions, somewhat dim then, although clear to all the world to-day.  We can guess how solemnly he thought about them as he meditated alone in his room on that September afternoon.  Whatever his reflections, his conclusions were simple.  He made up his mind that the only chance for the country lay in the adoption of the new scheme, but he was sober enough in his opinions as to the Constitution itself.  He said of it to Lafayette the day after the signing:  “It is the result of four months’ deliberation.  It is now a child of fortune, to be fostered by some and buffeted by others.  What will be the general opinion or the reception of it is not for me to decide; nor shall I say anything for or against it.  If