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 clamor amid the popular uproar sounded of gagged mouths. "Now," said Everard, "we shall see what staff there is in that fellow Nevil." He expected, as you may imagine, a true young Beauchamp-Romfrey to be straining his collar like a leash-hound.
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