Hamilton, who often had odd little attacks of modesty, signed the letter, James Montague; address, Morristown.  He read it to Washington before posting.

The Chief, whose men were aching, sighed heavily.

“They will pick a few crumbs out of it,” he said.  “But they will not make a law of it in toto; the millennium is not yet come.  But if it gives them one idea we should be thankful, it being a long and weary time since they have experienced that phenomenon.  If it does not, I doubt if these men fight another battle.  I wonder if posterity will ever realize the indifference of their three million ancestors to the war which gave them their independence—­if we accomplish that end.  I ask for soldiers and am treated much as if I had asked for my neighbour’s wife.  I ask for money to keep them from starving and freezing and am made to feel like an importunate beggar.”

“I had a letter from Hugh Knox not so long since,” said Hamilton, in his lightest tone; for Washington was on the verge of one of his attacks of infuriated depression, which were picturesque but wearing.  “He undertakes to play the prophet, and he is an uncommon clever man, sir:  he says that you were created for the express purpose of delivering America, to do it single-handed, if necessary, and that my proud destiny is to be your biographer.  The first I indorse, so does every thinking man in the country.  But for the second—­alas!  I am not equal to a post of such exalted honour.”

Washington smiled.  “No one knows better than your old Chief that your destiny is no such ha’penny affair as that.  But at least you wouldn’t make an ass of me.  God knows what is in store for me at the hands of scribblers.”

“You lend yourself fatally well to marble and stone, sir,” said Hamilton, mischievously.  “I fear your biographers will conceive themselves writing at the feet of a New World Sphinx, and that its frozen granite loneliness will petrify their image of you.”

“I like the prospect!  I am unhappily conscious of my power to chill an assemblage, but the cold formality of my manner is a safeguard, as you know.  My nature is one of extremes; if I did not encase myself, I should be ramming every man’s absurd opinions down his throat, and letting my cursed temper fly at each of the provocations which constantly beset me.  I have not the happy gift of compromise; but I am not unhuman, and I like not the prospect of going down to posterity a wooden figurehead upon some emblematic battle-ship.  Perhaps, my boy, you, who best know me, will be moved by charity to be my biographer, after all.”

“I’ll make it the business of my old age, sir; I pledge you my word, and no one loves you better nor can do you such justice as I. When my work in the National Family is done, then shall I retire with my literary love, an old and pleasant love; and what higher subject for my pen?”

He spoke in a tone of badinage, for he was bent on screwing up Washington’s spirits, but he made his promise in good faith, nevertheless, and Washington looked at him with deep affection.