cipline it was greatly the inferior of its antagonist; nor could it under ordinary circumstances make up for that deficiency by superior enthusiasm. It had a tendency in the direction of selectness, which gave it a distinguished character, challenging the admiration of others as well as exciting its own, but also calculated to limit its popularity.
There were, then, two political parties again, and at the same time two party leaders whose equals — it may be said without exaggeration — the American people had never seen before, and have never seen since, excepting Abraham Lincoln, who, however, was something more than a party leader. They were, indeed, greatly inferior to Hamilton in creative statesmanship, and to Jefferson in the faculty of disseminating ideas, and of organizing, stimulating, and guiding an agitation from the closet. But they were much stronger than either in the power of inspiring great masses of followers with enthusiastic personal devotion, of inflaming them for an idea or a public measure, of marshaling them for a conflict, of leading them to victory, or rallying them after defeat. But while each of them possessed the magic of leadership in the highest degree, it would be difficult to find two men more different in almost all other respects.
Andrew Jackson, when he became President, was a man of sixty-two. A life of much exposure, hardship, and excitement, and also ill-health, had made him appear older than he was. His great military achievement lay fifteen years back in the
