Hamilton answered by letter, for Washington was wedded to the formalities, but he followed it with a request for a private interview; and after the lapse of eight years Washington and Hamilton met once more for a purely personal colloquy.

Washington was occupying temporarily the house of Walter Franklin, on the corner of Cherry Street and Franklin Square, a country residence at which society grumbled, for all the world lived between the present site of the City Hall and Battery Park.  Hamilton rode up on horseback, and was shown into the library, which overlooked a pleasant garden.  The President, in the brown suit of home manufacture which he had worn at the inauguration, as graceful and erect as ever, although with a more elderly visage than in the days of war, entered immediately, closed the door carefully, then took both Hamilton’s hands in his enormous grasp.  The austere dignity of his face relaxed perceptibly.

“Oh!” he said.  “I am glad to see you!”

“It is not a return to old times, alas!” said Hamilton, gaily; “for what we all had to do then was a bagatelle to this, and you have made the supreme sacrifice of your life.”

Washington seated himself in an arm-chair, motioning Hamilton to one opposite.  “I wrote Knox,” he said, “that I felt as if setting out to my own execution; and I swear to you, Hamilton, that if it had not been for you I doubt if my courage would not have failed me at the last moment.  I had a moment of nervous dread this morning before I opened your letter, but I believed that you would not fail me.  It is a colossal enterprise we are embarked upon, this constructing of a great nation for all time.  God knows I am not equal to it, and although I shall always reserve to myself the final judgement, I expect a few of you to think for me—­you, in particular.  Then with the Almighty’s help we may succeed, but I can assure you that it has cost me many wakeful nights—­and cold sweats.”

He spoke with his usual slow impressiveness, but he smiled as he watched Hamilton’s flashing eyes and dilating nostrils.  “You look but little older,” he added.  “Not that you still look a stripling, controlling your temper with both hands while I worked you half to death; but you have the everlasting youth of genius, I suppose, and you look to me able to cope with anything.”

Hamilton laughed.  “I am far older in many things, sir.  I fear I often seemed ungrateful.  I have blessed you many times, since, for the discipline and the invaluable knowledge I gained in those years.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Washington.  “Ah!  I am very glad to hear you say that.  It is like your generosity, and I have had many anxious moments, wondering if there might not still be a grudge.  But not only were your peculiar gifts indispensable to this country, but, I will confess, now that it is over, I mortally dreaded that you would lose your life.  You and Laurens were the most reckless devils I ever saw in the field.  Poor Laurens!  I felt a deep affection for him, and his death was one of the bitterest blows of the war.  If he were here now, and Lafayette, how many pleasant hours I should look forward to; but I have you, and God knows I am grateful.  Lafayette, I am afraid, has undertaken too great a business for his capacity, which is admirable; but he is not strong enough to be a leader of men.”