Milton’s life was embittered by the contemptible spite of one Salmasius. Who was Salmasius? we ask nowadays. We do not task who was Milton. Salmasius was the author of the “Defensio Regi” or Defence of Kings, a poor piece of work long ago forgotten, and he was the procurer of foul libel against the author of “Paradise Lost,” one of England’s greatest and noblest men. What small claim he has to the world’s memory arises merely from his viciousness, for not only did he make use of the lowest tools to aid him in conspiring against Milton’s reputation, but he spread the grossest lies broadcast, even accusing the poet of having a hideous personal appearance--“a puny piece of man; a homunculus; a dwarf deprived of the human figure; a contemptible 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, You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip, You’ve never turned the wrong to right-- You’ve been a coward in the fight![5] But it is perhaps time that I should drop the masculine personal pronoun for the feminine, and, being a woman, treat of the Life Literary from the woman’s point of view. In olden days the profession of literature was looked upon as a terrible thing for a woman to engage in, and the observations of some very kindly and chivalrous writers on this subject are not without pathos. To quote one example only, can anything be more quaintly droll at this time of day than the following:--