In the spring of 1783, intelligence arrived that a treaty of peace had been signed at Paris, and that the independence of the United States had been acknowledged by the British Government. Shortly afterward, a cessation of hostilities was announced, and arrangements were made for the evacuation of New York. On a November morning, the English troops finally embarked; a long procession, with Washington at its head, made formal entry and took possession of the city. At his side――followed by the provincial functionaries, officers, senators, and citizens――rode the governor, who closed the proceedings of the memorable day with a costly banquet. Yet, however flattering to their pride as a new nation, the ceremony was not altogether unsuggestive of melancholy considerations. The chief, the greatest, the most conspicuous actor in it, must have been conscious of mixed feelings; and it was natural that, a few days later, when parting with his warlike associates, his emotion should have been visible. He had conducted a great civil war; he had triumphed where the most sanguine might, without reproach have despaired; and he had throughout, without an interval, exhibited high mental dignity. He had earned the position of a prince, and the proud title of “Father of his country;” won for himself glorious renown, and achieved national independence for millions. But it was impossible to look for a moment to the future, enveloped as it then was in uncertainty, without recollecting――perhaps not without a sigh――that America was no longer a portion of that mighty empire on which the sun never sets; reared by Saxon sagacity, and sustained by Norman valor; constituted by the toil of the wise, and consecrated by the blood of the brave; and to whose immemorial institutions he had lately been as much attached as the inhabitants of Kent or Northumberland. When Washington resigned the command of that army with which he had outmanœuvred the tactics of successive generals, and brought a war with the most powerful nation in the world to a triumphant issue, he was still in his fifty-first year; but he had a right to believe that his long and continuous services entitled him to repose. He had affluence and station; he did not covet power; and he looked forward to the enjoyment of calm, contemplative retirement, till, in God’s appointed time, he should sleep with his fathers. He therefore went to Mount Vernon, devised schemes of internal navigation for developing the resources and extending the commerce of the country, and seems even to have indulged in prophetic visions of that vast trade which has since crowded the docks of Liverpool and stocked the warehouses of Manchester. It was then that he had the satisfaction of welcoming the visit of Lafayette, whose friendship he highly esteemed, and whose former services he duly appreciated. They parted with mutual regret; never to meet again.