This is that war. This is that moral war.
It was said by old Trivulzio, that the Battle of Marignano was the
Battle of the Giants,--that all the rest of the many he had seen were
those of the Cranes and Pygmies. This is true of the objects, at least,
of the contest: for the greater part of those which we have hitherto
contended for, in comparison, were the toys of children.
The October politician is so full of charity and good-nature, that he
supposes that these very robbers and murderers themselves are in a
course of melioration: on what ground I cannot conceive, except on the
long practice of every crime, and by its complete success. He is an
Origenist, and believes in the conversion of the Devil. All that runs in
the place of blood in his veins is nothing but the milk of human
kindness. He is as soft as a curd,--though, as a politician, he might be
supposed to be made of sterner stuff. He supposes (to use his own
expression) "that the salutary truths which he inculcates are making
their way into their bosoms." Their bosom is a rock of granite, on which
Falsehood has long since built her stronghold. Poor Truth has had a hard
work of it, with her little pickaxe.
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