They returned and were hooted for belying the bellicose by their mission, and interpreting too well the peaceful.

They were the unparalyzed Ministers of the occasion, but helpless.
And now came war, the purifier and the pestilence.
The cry of the English people for war was pretty general, as far as the criers went.

They put on their Sabbath face concerning the declaration of war, and told with approval how the Royal hand had trembled in committing itself to the form of signature to which its action is limited.

If there was money to be paid, there was a bugbear to be slain for it; and a bugbear is as obnoxious to the repose of commercial communities as rivals are to kings.
The cry for war was absolutely unanimous, and a supremely national cry, Everard Romfrey said, for it excluded the cotton-spinners.
He smacked his hands, crowing at the vociferations of disgust of those negrophiles and sweaters of Christians, whose isolated clamour amid the popular uproar sounded of gagged mouths.
One of the half-stifled cotton-spinners, a notorious one, a spouter of rank sedition and hater of aristocracy, a political poacher, managed to make himself heard.

He was tossed to the Press for morsel, and tossed back to the people in strips.