“He was sitting in the office of _The Gazette_ in Hanover Square. Peter goes there often in the evenings. It is a great place of resort for the men of that quarter; but being Saturday night no one was there but Mr. Lang and Alderman Cebra; and they were just going to shut up the office when a pilot rushed in. He stood for a moment breathless and speechless, and while they wondered he gasped out, ‘_Peace! the boat is here with the treaty!_’ In a minute, Peter says, every one rushed into the Square shouting _Peace!_ and every window was thrown up, and every one in the surrounding houses was on the street. And immediately the cry was heard from all quarters of the city. The news spread like wildfire. No one could say how it happened, but in less than one hour every waking soul in New York knew it. Houses were all illuminated, and I wonder if there was any one left in them, for the streets were crowded with men and women both; and none thought of the cold, and no one knew that it was snowing.” “And now you can hardly speak, Gerardus.” “I have been shouting, though I did not know that I opened my lips. Such a song of gladness I shall never hear again, Carlita, in this world. I am glad I lost my voice in it.” “Well and good; but what did the Democrats say? Did they----” “We were all Democrats, and we were all Federalists to-night. Men that have not spoken to each other for four years shook hands to-night. Strangers were friends to-night. There were no rich and no poor to-night. We were all citizens of New York to-night. We were all brothers. Carlita, Sappha, I would not have missed to-night for anything in the world.” “I am afraid you will have to suffer for it, Gerardus.” “I do not believe it. I never felt better in all my life. Why, here comes Mr. Goodrich!” And with these words a bright, exulting gentleman walked into the room. “Your door stood open, judge,” he said, “and I did not know you were able to be out, so I thought I would call and rejoice a while with you.” “I have been on the street for four hours, Mr. Goodrich; four of the happiest hours of my life. You know about that?” “Thank God, I do! I went last night to Miss Dellinger’s concert and ball at the City Hotel. She was singing _The Death of Lawrence_ when I heard a strange murmur, and then a wild shout on the street. The next moment the door of the concert hall was thrown open and a man, breathless with excitement, rushed in crying ‘_Peace! Peace!_ An English sloop-of-war is here with the treaty.’ The music instantly ceased, and the hall was empty in a few minutes. No one thought of the song, no one remembered the ball. We all, men and women, rushed into the street. Broadway was a living tide of happy, shouting human beings. Many were bare-headed, and did not know it. No one cared for the cold. They were white with snow, and quite indifferent to the fact.”