pedagogue." When the despicable slanderer learned the fact that Milton, so far from answering to this description, was of a pleasing and attractive appearance, he immediately changed his tactics and began to attack his moral character—which, as even Milton's bitterest political enemies knew, was austerely above the very shadow of suspicion. It was said that the poet's over-zealousness in answering the calumnies of Salmasius cost him his eye-sight, which, if true, was surely regrettable. Salmasius died dishonoured and disgraced, as such a cowardly brute deserved to die; Milton still holds his glorious place in England's literary history. So it was, so it is, so it ever will be.
Greatness is always envied—it is only mediocrity that can boast of a host of friends. "When you have resolved to be great," says Emerson, "abide by yourself, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world." It is impossible to quote one single instance of a truly great man existing without calumniators. And the Life Literary without any enemies would be a shabby go-cart; or, as our American cousins put it, a "one-horse concern." Some lines that were taught to me when I was a child seem apposite to this subject, and I quote them here for the benefit of any struggling units of the Life Literary who may haply be in need:—
You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor—
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
Must have made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done;
You've hit no traitor on the hip,
