had his official residence on the Dutchess turnpike, a short distance from town; and this was his court.  Nevertheless, it was proudly conscious of the dignity incumbent upon it as the legislative centre of the State, and no matter what the suspense or the issue, had no mind to make the violent demonstrations of other towns.  Nearly every town of the North, including Albany, had burned Hamilton in effigy, albeit with battered noses, for he had his followers everywhere; but here he was met with a refreshing coolness, for which the others of his party, at least, were thankful.

They went first to Van Kleek’s tavern, on the Upper Landing Road, not far from the Court-house, to secure the rooms they had engaged; but finding an invitation awaiting them from Henry Livingston to make use of his house during the Convention, repaired with unmixed satisfaction to the large estate on the other side of the town.  The host was absent, but his cousin had been requested to do the honours to as many as he would ask to share a peaceful retreat from the daily scene of strife.

“And it has the advantage of an assured privacy,” said Hamilton.  “For here we can hold conference nightly with no fear of eavesdropping.  Moreover, to get a bath at Van Kleek’s is as easy as making love to Clinton.”

General Schuyler joined them an hour later.  He had been in town all day, and had held several conferences with the depressed Federalists, who, between a minority which made them almost ridiculous, and uncomfortable lodgings, were deep in gloomy forebodings.  As soon as they heard of their Captain’s arrival they swarmed down to the Livingston mansion.  Hamilton harangued them cheerfully in the drawing-room, drank with them, in his host’s excellent wine, to the success of their righteous cause; and they retired, buoyant, confirmed in their almost idolatrous belief in the man who was responsible for all the ideas they possessed.

VI

Although Hamilton and Clinton had no liking for each other, they were far from being the furious principals in one of those political hatreds which the times were about to engender,—­an intellectual cataclysm which Hamilton was to experience in all its blackness, of which he was to be the most conspicuous victim.  He had by no means plumbed his depths as yet.  So far he had met with few disappointments, few stumbling blocks, never a dead wall.  Life had smiled upon him as if magnetized.  At home he found perfect peace, abroad augmenting ranks of followers, sufficient work to use up his nervous energies, and the stimulant of enmity and opposition that he loved.  It was long since he had given way to rage, although he flew into a temper occasionally.  He told himself he was become a philosopher, and was far from suspecting the terrible passions which the future was to undam.  His mother, with dying insight, had divined the depth and fury of a nature which was