If a bitter experience showed that frequently, indeed generally, they travelled scarce a tottering stagger farther than they were precipitated, the wretched consolation afforded by a side glance at a more enlightened passion, solitary in its depth, was Rockney's.

Others perchance might equal his love, none the wisdom of it; actually none the vigilant circumspection, the shaping forethought.

That clear knowledge of the right thing for the country was grasped but by fits by others.
Enough to profit them this way and yonder as one best can! You know the newspaper Press is a mighty engine.

Still he had no delight in shuffling a puppetry; he would have preferred automatic figures.

His calls for them resounded through the wilderness of the wooden.
Any solid conviction of a capable head of a certainty impressed upon the world, and thus his changes of view were not attributed to a fluctuating devotion; they passed out of the range of criticism upon inconsistency, notwithstanding that the commencement of his journalistic career smelt of sources entirely opposed to the conclusions upon which it broadened.
One secret of the belief in his love of his country was the readiness of Rockney's pen to support our nobler patriotic impulses, his relish of the bluff besides.