The sight of a broken-down plough is mournful, but the one thing to do with it is to remove it from the field.
Among the patriotic of stout English substance, who blew in the trumpet of the country, and were not bards of Bull to celebrate his firmness and vindicate his shiftings, Richard Rockney takes front rank.

A journalist altogether given up to his craft, considering the audience he had gained, he was a man of forethought besides being a trenchant writer, and he was profoundly, not less than eminently, the lover of Great Britain.

He had a manner of utterance quite in the tone of the familiar of the antechamber for proof of his knowing himself to be this person.
He did not so much write articles upon the health of his mistress as deliver Orphic sentences.

He was in one her physician, her spiritual director, her man-at-arms.

Public allusions to her were greeted with his emphatic assent in a measured pitch of the voice, or an instantaneous flourish of the rapier; and the flourish was no vain show.