Then came the speech of the campaign at the court house. The relations of Col. Montjoy, his family friends, people connected with him in the remotest degree by marriage, army friends, members of the bar, merchants, warehousemen and farmers generally, and a large sprinkling of personal and political enemies of Swearingen made up the vast crowd.
In the rear of the hall, a smile upon his face, was Amos Royson. And yet the secret glee in his heart, the knowledge that he, one man in all that throng, by a single sentence could check the splendid demonstration and sweep the field, was clouded. It came to him that no other member of the Montjoy clan was a traitor. Nowhere is the family tie so strong as in the south, and only the power of his ambition could have held him aloof. Swearingen had several times represented the district in Congress; it was his turn when the leader moved on. This had been understood for years by the political public. In the meantime he had been state's attorney and there were a senatorship, a judgeship and possibly the governorship to be grasped. He could not be expected to sacrifice his career upon the altar of kinship remote. Indeed, was it not the duty of Montjoy to stand aside for the sake of a younger man? Was it not true that a large force in his nomination had been the belief that Swearingen's right-hand man would probably be silenced thereby? It had been a conspiracy.
These thoughts ran through his mind as he stood watching the gathering.
On the stage sat Edward Morgan, a prominent figure and one largely scanned by the public; and Royson saw his face light up and turn to a private box; saw his smile and bow. A hundred eyes were turned with his, and discovered there, half concealed by the curtains, the face of Mary Montjoy. The public jumped to the conclusion that had previously been forced on him.
Over Royson's face surged a wave of blood; a muttered oath drew attention to him and he changed his position. He saw the advancing figure of Gen. Evan and heard his introductory speech. The morning paper said it was the most eloquent ever delivered on such an occasion; and all that the speaker said was:
"Fellow-citizens, I have the honor to introduce to you this evening Col. Norton Montjoy. Hear him."
His rich bass voice rolled over the great audience; he extended his arm toward the orator of the evening, and retired amid thunders of applause. Then came Col. Montjoy.
The old south was famous for its oratory. It was based upon personal independence, upon family pride and upon intellect unhampered by personal toil in uncongenial occupations; and lastly upon sentiment. Climate may have entered into it; race and inheritance undoubtedly did. The southern orator was the feature of congressional displays, and back in congressional archives lie orations that vie with the best of Athens and of Rome. But the flavor, the spectacular effects, linger only in the memory of the rapidly lessening number who mingled deeply in ante-bellum politics. No pen could have faithfully preserved this environment.
So with the oration that night in the opening of the Montjoy campaign. It was not transmissible. Only the peroration need be reproduced here:
"God forbid!" he said in a voice now husky with emotion and its long strain, "God forbid that the day shall come when the south will apologize for her dead heroes! Stand by your homes; stand by your traditions; keep our faith in the past as bright as your hopes for the future! No stain rests upon the honor of your fathers! Transmit their memories and their virtues to posterity as its best inheritance! Defend your homes and firesides, remembering always that the home, the family circle, is the fountain head of good government! Let none enter there who are unclean. Keep it the cradle of liberty and the hope of the English race on this continent, the shrine of religion, of beauty, of purity!"