He was endowed with a personal magnetism that fascinated the young as the hiss of a snake holds a bird. His serious work was politics and sensualism. In politics he was at his best. Here he was cunning, plausible, careful, brilliant and daring. He never lost his head in defeat or victory. He never forgot a friend, or forgave an enemy. Of his foe he asked no quarter and gave none. His ambitions were purely selfish. He meant to climb to the top. As to the means, the end would justify them. He preferred to associate with white people. But when it was necessary to win a negro, he never hesitated to go any length. The centre of the universe to his mind was A. McLeod. He was fond of saying to a crowd of youngsters whom he taught to play poker and drink whiskey, “Boys, I know the world. The great man is the man who gets there.” He was generous with his money, and the boys called him a jolly good fellow. He used to say in explanation of this careless habit, “It won’t do for an ordinary fool to throw away money as I do. I play for big stakes. I’m not a spendthrift. I’m simply sowing seed. I can wait for the harvest.” And when they would admire this overmuch he would warn them, As a rule my advice is, “Get money. Get it fairly and squarely if you can, but whatever you do,--get it. When you come right down to it, money’s your first, last, best and only friend. Others promise well but when the scratch comes, they fail. Money never fails.” A boy of fifteen asked him one day when he was mellow with liquor, “McLeod, which would you rather be, President of the United States or a big millionaire?” “Boys,” he replied, smacking his lips, and running his tongue around his cheeks inside and softly caressing them with one hand, while he half closed his eyes, “They say old Simon Legree is worth fifty millions of dollars, and that his actual income is twenty per cent on that. They say he stole most of it, and that every dollar represents a broken life, and every cent of it could be painted red with the blood of his victims. Even so, I would rather be in Legree’s shoes and have those millions a year than to be Almighty God with hosts of angels singing psalms to me through all eternity.” And the shallow-pated satellites cheered this blasphemy with open-eyed wonder. The weakest side of his nature was that turned toward women. He was vain as a peacock, and the darling wish of his soul was to be a successful libertine. This was the secret of the cruelty back of his desire of boundless wealth. He had the intellectual forehead of his Scotch father, large, handsomely modelled features, nostrils that dilated and contracted widely, and the thick sensuous lips of his mother. His eyebrows were straight, thick, and suggested undoubted force of intellect. His hair was a deep red, thick and coarse, but his moustache was finer and it was his special pride to point its delicately curved tips.