For the moment, every one seemed to be carried away by the fascination of the man. His friends asserted that he was always right and always successful; that patriotism had guided him through the long, discouraging war, and that, swayed neither by prejudice, nor by the impulses of personal ambition, in every step he took and every measure he recommended, he was actuated by the most unselfish purpose. Of course, this was the extravagance of enthusiastic admirers; but it was founded on twelve years of public life, marked by success and by few errors of judgment or temper. Even Federalists ceased to be his critics. It is not easy to parallel Governor Tompkins' standing at this time. If DeWitt Clinton's position seemed most wretched, Tompkins' lot appeared most happy. His life had been pure and noble; he was a sincere lover of his country; a brave and often a daring executive; a statesman of high purpose if not of the most commanding talents. There was one man, however, with whom he must reckon. Ambrose Spencer not only loved power, but he loved to exercise it. He lacked the address of Tompkins, and, likewise, the vein of levity in the Governor's temperament that made him buoyant and hopeful even when most eager and earnest; but he was bold, enterprising, and of commanding intellect, with a determination to do with all his might the part he had to perform. His failure to become United States senator, and the appointment of Van Buren and Porter in place of Woodworth and Elisha Jenkins, rankled in his bosom. That was his first defeat. More than this, it proved that he could be defeated. Since DeWitt Clinton's defection in 1812, he had been the most powerful political factor in the State, a man whom the Governor had found it expedient to tolerate and to welcome.