great chasm between himself and life, and he had
often hated it. This mighty river, haughty and calm in spite of the
primeval savagery of its course, beat upon the gates of his soul, beat
them down, filled him with a sense of grandeur which made him tremble.
He had a vision of the vastness and magnificence of the New World, of
the great lonely mountains in the North, with their countless lakes
hidden in the immensity of a trackless forest, of other mountain ranges
equally wild and lonely, cutting the monotony of plains and prairies,
and valleys full of every delight. All that Hamilton had read or heard
of the immense area beyond or surrounding the few cities and hamlets of
the American colonies, flew to coherence, and he had a sudden
appreciation of the stupendousness of this new untravelled world,
understood that with its climate, fertility, and beauty, its large
nucleus of civilization, its destiny must be as great as Europe's, nor
much dissimilar, no matter what the variance of detail. The noblest
river in the world seemed to lift its voice like a prophet, and the time
came--after his visit to Boston--when Hamilton listened to it with a
thrill of impatient pride and white-hot patriotism. But to-day he felt
only the grandeur of life as he never had felt it before, felt his soul
merge into this mighty unborn soul of a nation sleeping in the infinity,
which the blue flood beneath him spoke of, almost imaged; with no
premonition that his was the destiny to quicken that soul to its birth.

* * * * *

While on the ship, Alexander had written to his father, asking for news
of him and telling of the change in his own fortunes. James Hamilton had
replied at once, gratefully, but with melancholy; by this time he knew
himself to be a failure, although he was now a planter in a small way.
Alexander's letter, full of the hope and indomitable spirit of youth,
interested as keenly as it saddened him. He recalled his own high
courage and expectant youth, and wondered if this boy had stronger
mettle than his own equipment. Then he remembered Rachael Levine and
hoped. He lived to see hope fulfilled beyond any achievement of his
imagination, although the correspondence, brisk for a time, gradually
subsided. From Hugh Knox and Mrs. Mitchell Alexander heard constantly,
and it is needless to state that his aunt kept him in linen which was
the envy of his friends. His beruffled shirts and lace stocks were
ma