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.”

“My dear fellow, I never escaped an infliction in my life,” responded Galt serenely.  “I cut my teeth on them—­but here’s another,” and he turned an indifferent gaze on the orator, who had risen upon the platform.  “Good Lord, it’s Gary!” he groaned.  “Now we’re in for it.”

“Mr. Chairman and gentlemen of the convention,” Gary was beginning, “it is my pleasant duty to second the nomination of the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield of the gallant little county of Botetourt.  Before this august body, before this incomparable assemblage of the intellect and learning of the State, my tongue would be securely tied ("I’d like that little job,” grunted the man next to Galt) did not the majesty of my subject loosen it to eloquence.