“He is only too glad of the excuse to evade a mere mention.  You must write to him as peremptorily as only you dare to write to that majestic presence.  Don’t mince it.  Don’t be too respectful—­I was, because he is the one being I am afraid of.  So are all the others.  Besides, you have the most powerful and pointed pen in this country.  We have spoiled you until you are afraid of no one—­if you ever were.  And you know him as no one else does; you will approach him from precisely the right sides.  Your duty is clear, and the danger is appalling.  Besides, I want to go to Europe.  Promise me that you will write to-night.”

“Very well,” said Hamilton, laughing.  “I promise.”  And, in truth, his mind had opened at once to the certainty that the time was come for him to make the final effort to insure Washington’s acceptance.  He had felt, during the last weeks, as if burrowing in the very heart of a mountain of work; but his skin chilled as he contemplated the opening of the new government without Washington in the presidential Chair.

Two hours after dinner Morris escorted him to the library and shut him in, then went, with his other friends, to Fraunces’ tavern, and the house was quiet.  Hamilton’s thoughts arranged themselves rapidly, and before midnight he had finished his letter.  Fortunately it has been preserved, for it is of as vital an interest as anything he ever wrote, not only because it was the determining factor in Washington’s acceptance of an office toward which he looked with reluctance and dread, but because of its consummate sagacity and of its peremptory tone, which no man but Hamilton would have dared to assume to Washington.

It ran:—­

     NEW YORK, September, 1788.

...  I should be deeply pained, my dear sir, if your scruples in regard to a certain station should be matured into a resolution to decline it; though I am neither surprised at their existence, nor can I but agree in opinion, that the caution you observe in deferring an ultimate determination, is prudent.  I have, however, reflected maturely on the subject, and have come to a conclusion (in which I feel no hesitation), that every public and personal consideration will demand from you an acquiescence in what will certainly be the unanimous wish of your country.  The absolute retreat which you meditated at the close of the late war was natural, and proper.  Had the Government produced by the Revolution gone on in a tolerable train, it would have been most advisable to have persisted in that retreat.  But I am clearly of opinion that the crisis which brought you again into public view, left you no alternative but to comply; and I am equally clear in the opinion, that you are by that act pledged to take a part in the execution of the Government.  I am not less convinced, that the impression of this necessity of your filling the station in question is so universal, that you run no risk of any uncandid imputation by