It seems to have been the intention of his guardians that the limit of young Hamilton’s stay in America was to be two years, and by that time his education would be “complete,” and he would return to the West Indies and surprise the natives.

But his father, who supplied the money, and the mystical kinsmen who supplied advice, and the kind friends who had given him letters to the Presbyterian clergymen at New York and Princeton, had figured without their host.  Young Hamilton knew all that Nevis had in store for him:  he knew its littleness, its contumely and disgrace, and in the secret recesses of his own strong heart he had slipped the cable that held him to the past.  No more remittances from home; no more solicitous advice; no more kind, loving letters—­the past was dead.

For England he once had had an almost idolatrous regard; to him she had once been the protector of his native land, the empress of the seas, the enlightener of mankind; but henceforth he was an American.

He was to fight America’s battles, to share in her victory, to help make of her a great Nation, and to weave his name into the web of her history so that as long as the United States of America shall be remembered, so long also shall be remembered the name of Alexander Hamilton.

* * * * *

What General Washington called his “family” usually consisted of sixteen men.  These were his aides, and more than that, his counselors and friends.  In Washington’s frequent use of that expression, “my family,” there is a touch of affection that we do not expect to find in the tents of war.  In rank, the staff ran the gamut from captain to general.  Each man had his appointed work and made a daily report to his chief.  When not in actual action, the family dined together daily, and the affair was conducted with considerable ceremony.  Washington sat at the head of the table, large, handsome and dignified.  At his right hand was seated the guest of honor, and there were usually several invited friends.  At his left sat Alexander Hamilton, ready with quick pen to record the orders of his chief.

And methinks it would have been quite worth while to have had a place at that board, and looked down the table at “the strong, fine face, tinged with melancholy,” of Washington; and the cheery, youthful faces of Lawrence, Tilghman, Lee, Aaron Burr, Alexander Hamilton and the others of that brave and handsome company.  Well might they have called Washington father, for this he was in spirit to them all—­grave, gentle, courteous and magnanimous, yet exacting strict and instant obedience from all; and well, too, may we imagine that this obedience was freely and cheerfully given.

Hamilton became one of Washington’s family on March First, Seventeen Hundred Seventy-seven, with the rank of lieutenant-colonel.  He was barely twenty years of age; Washington was forty-seven, and the average age of the family, omitting its head, was twenty-five.  All had been selected on account of superior intelligence and a record of dashing courage.  When Hamilton took his place at the board, he was the youngest member, save one.  In point of literary talent, he stood among the very foremost in the country, for then there was no literature in America save the literature of politics; and as an officer, he had shown rare skill and bravery.