a capitalist to the extent of a few hundred dollars.  The chief editor of the paper which he now abandoned sometimes lost as much in a single evening at the card-table.  It probably never occurred to him that this poor, ill-favored Scotchman was destined to destroy his paper and all the class of papers to which it belonged.  Any one who now examines a file of the Courier and Inquirer of that time, and knows its interior circumstances, will see plainly enough that the possession of this man was the vital element in its prosperity.  He alone knew the rudiments of his trade.  He alone had the physical stamina, the indefatigable industry, the sleepless vigilance, the dexterity, tact, and audacity, needful for keeping up a daily newspaper in the face of keen competition.

Unweaned yet from the politicians, he at once started a cheap party paper, “The Globe,” devoted to Jackson and Van Buren.  The party, however, did not rally to its support, and it had to contend with the opposition of party papers already existing, upon whose manor it was poaching.  The Globe expired after an existence of thirty days.  Its proprietor, still untaught by such long experience, invested the wreck of his capital in a Philadelphia Jackson paper, and struggled desperately to gain for it a footing in the party.  He said to Mr. Van Buren and to other leaders, Help me to a loan of twenty-five hundred dollars for two years, and I can establish my Pennsylvanian on a self-supporting basis.  The application was politely refused, and he was compelled to give up the struggle.  The truth is, he was not implicitly trusted by the Jackson party.  They admitted the services he had rendered; but, at the same time, they were a little afraid of the vein of mockery that broke out so frequently in his writings.  He was restive in harness.  He was devoted to the party, but he was under no party illusions.  He was fighting in the ranks as an adventurer or soldier of fortune.  He fought well; but would it do to promote a man to high rank who knew the game so well, and upon whom no man could get any hold?  To him, in his secret soul, Martin Van Buren was nothing (as he often said) but a country lawyer, who, by a dexterous use of the party machinery, the well-timed death of De Witt Clinton, and General Jackson’s frenzy in behalf of Mrs. Eaton, had come to be the chosen successor of the fiery chieftain.  The canny Scotchman saw this with horrid clearness, and saw nothing more.  Political chiefs do not like subalterns of this temper.  Underneath the politician in Martin Van Buren there was the citizen, the patriot, the gentleman, and the man, whose fathers were buried in American soil, whose children were to live under American institutions, who had, necessarily, an interest in the welfare and honor of the country, and whose policy, upon the whole, was controlled by that natural interest in his country’s welfare and honor.  To our mocking Celt nothing of this was apparent, nor has ever been.