II
The gas light and electric light illuminating the opera house fell with a curious distinction in tone upon the crowd which filled the building and overflowed through darkened doors and windows. Beneath the electric jets the faces were focussed to a white hush of expectancy, which mellowed into a blur of impatient animation where the dim gas flickered against the walls.
Since the birth of Virginia Democracy, the people had not witnessed so generous an outpouring of delegates. In a State where every man is more or less a politician, the convention had assumed the air of a carnival of males—the restriction of sex limiting it to an expression of but half the population.
The delegations from the congressional districts were marshalled in line upon the floor and stage, their positions denoted by numbered placards on poles, while in the galleries an enthusiastic swarm of visitors gave vent to the opinions of that tribunal which is the public. A straggling fringe of feet, in white socks and low shoes, suspended from the red and gilt railings of the boxes, illustrated the peculiar privileges enjoyed in the absence of the feminine atmosphere. From stage to gallery the play of palm-leaf fans produced the effect of a swarm of gigantic insects, and behind them rows of flushed and perspiring faces were turned upon the gentleman who held the floor.
A composite photograph of the faces would have resulted in a type at once alarming and reassuring—alarming to the student of individual endeavour, reassuring to the historian of impersonal issues. It would have presented a countenance that was unerringly Anglo-Saxon, though modified by the conditions of centuries of changes. One would have recognised instinctively the tiller of the soil—the single class which has refused concessions to the making of a racial cast of feature. The farmer would have stamped his impress indelibly upon the plate—retaining that enduring aspect which comes from contact with natural forces—that integrity of type which is the sole survival of the Virginian pioneer.
In the general face, the softening influences of society, the relaxing morality of city life would have appeared only as a wrinkle here and there, or as an additional shadow. Beneath the fluctuating expression of political sins and heresies, there would have remained the unaltered features of the steadfast qualities of the race.
The band in a far corner rolled out "Dixie," and the mass heaved momentarily, while a cloud of tobacco smoke rose into the air, scattering into circles before the waving of the palm-leaf fans. Here and there a man stood up to remove his coat or to stretch his hand to the vendor of lemonade. Sometimes the fringe of feet overhanging the boxes waved convulsively as a howl of approbation or derision greeted a fresh arrival or the remarks of a speaker. Again, there would rise a tumultuous call for a party leader or a famous story teller. It was a jovial, unkempt, coatless crowd that spat tobacco juice as recklessly as it applauded a fine sentiment.
As an unwieldy gentleman, in an alpaca coat, made his appearance upon the platform, there was an outburst of emotion from where the tenth delegation was seated. The unwieldy gentleman was the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield, a popular aspirant to the governorship.
When Galt entered the hall, an athletic rhetorician was declaiming an eulogy which had for its theme the graces of his candidate. "You came too soon," observed a man seated next a vacant chair, which Galt took. "You should have escaped this infliction."