table stuff to follow. The end of the scene exhibited
the paper on the turf, and Colonel Halkett's hand on Cecil's shoulder,
Mr. Romfrey nodding some sort of acquiescence over the muzzle of his gun,
whether reflective or positive Rosamund could not decide. She sent out a
footman for the paper, and was presently communing with its eloquent
large type, quite unable to perceive where the comicality or the
impropriety of it lay, for it would have struck her that never were truer
things of Nevil Beauchamp better said in the tone befitting them. This
perhaps was because she never heard fervid praises of him, or of anybody,
delivered from the mouth, and it is not common to hear Englishmen
phrasing great eulogies of one another. Still, as a rule, they do not
object to have it performed in that region of our national eloquence, the
Press, by an Irishman or a Scotchman. And what could there be to warrant
Captain Baskelett's malicious derision, and Mr. Romfrey's nodding assent
to it, in an article where all was truth?

The truth was mounted on an unusually high wind. It was indeed a leading
article of a banner-like bravery, and the unrolling of it was designed to
stir emotions. Beauchamp was the theme. Nevil had it under his eyes
earlier than Cecil. The paper was brought into his room with the beams of
day, damp from the presses of the Bevisham Gazette, exactly opposite to
him in the White Hart Hotel, and a glance at the paragraphs gave him a
lively ardour to spring to his feet. What writing! He was uplifted as
'The heroical Commander Beauchamp, of the Royal Navy,' and 'Commander
Beauchamp, R.N., a gentleman of the highest connections': he was 'that
illustrious Commander Beauchamp, of our matchless, navy, who proved on
every field of the last glorious war of this country that the traditional
valour of the noble and indomitable blood transmitted to his veins had
lost none of its edge and weight since the battle-axes of the Lords de
Romfrey, ever to the fore, clove the skulls of our national enemy on the
wide and fertile campaigns of France.' This was pageantry.

There was more of it. Then the serious afflatus of the article
condescended, as it were, to blow a shrill and well-known whistle:--the
study of the science of navigation made by Commander Beauchamp, R.N., was
cited for a jocose warranty of a seaman's aptness to assist in steering
the Vessel of the State. After thus heeling over, to tip a familiar wink
to the multitude, the