“Oh, I can’t argue with you!” exclaimed Clinton, impatiently.  “No one can.  That is the reason you beat us when we clearly were in the right.  What says Madam?  She is our oracle.”  “If she would but bring him under her foot!” he said to Yates.  “She is heart and soul with us.  I augur well that he is here at last.”

“It is long since our fairy queen has spoken,” Franklin was saying; gallant to all women, he was prostrate before this one.  “Her genius directs her to the most hidden kernels.”

“What do you wish?” she asked lightly.  “A prophecy?  I am no Cassandra.  Unlike Dr. Franklin, I am too selfish to care what may happen when I am dead.  At this date we are assured of two elements in government:  unselfish patriotism and common-sense.  There never has been a nobler nor a more keenly intelligent group of men in public life than General Washington will be able to command as assistants in forming a government.  And should our Governor lead his own party to victory,” she added, turning to Clinton with so brilliant a smile that it dissipated a gathering scowl, “it would be quite the same.  The determined struggle of the weaker party for the rights which only supremacy can insure them is often misconstrued as selfishness; and power leads their higher qualities as well as their caution and conservatism to victory.  I am a philosopher.  I disapproved the Constitution, and loved the idea of thirteen little sovereignties; but I bow to the Inevitable and am prepared to love the Constitution.  The country has too much to accomplish, too much to recover from, to waste time arguing what might have been; it is sure to settle down into as complacent a philosophy as my own, and adjust itself to its new and roomy crinoline.”

“Crinoline is the word,” growled Clinton, who accepted her choice of words as a subtle thrust at Hamilton.  “It is rigid.  Wherever you move it will move with you and bound your horizon.”

“Oh, well, you know,” said Hamilton, who was tired of the conversation, “like a crinoline it can always be broken.”

XIV

Washington was President of the United States.  He had come over grandly from the Jersey shore in a magnificent barge manned by twelve oarsmen in white uniform, escorted by other barges but a shade less imposing.  A week later he had taken the oath of office on the new Broad Street gallery of Federal Hall, amidst the breathless silence of thousands, surrounded by the dignitaries of state and three personal friends, Hamilton, Steuben, and Knox.  The anti-Federalists were crushed, no longer of dignity as a party, although with ample resources for obstruction and annoyance.  The country, after an interval of rejoicing, had settled down to another period of hope and anxiety.