"This is the worst time of _my_
life. I am not ashamed to say I've cried my eyes out."
"I have cried my heart out," said Troup.
The funeral took place from the house of John Church, in Robinson
Street, near the upper Park. Express messengers had dashed out from New
York the moment Hamilton breathed his last, and every city tolled its
bells as it received the news. People flocked into the streets, weeping
and indignant to the point of fury. Washington's death had been followed
by sadness and grief, but was unaccompanied by anger, and a loud desire
for vengeance. Moreover, Hamilton was still a young man. Few knew of his
feeble health; and that dauntless resourceful figure dwelt in the high
light of the public imagination, ever ready to deliver the young country
in its many times of peril. His death was lamented as a national
calamity.
On the day of the funeral, New York was black. Every place of business
was closed. The world was in the windows, on the housetops, on the
pavements of the streets through which the cortege was to pass:
Robinson, Beekman, Peal, and Broadway to Trinity Church.
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