alas, in what corner of this Planet, since Adam first awoke on
it, was that ever realised? The day's-wages of John Milton's
day's-work, named _Paradise Lost_ and _Milton's Works,_ were Ten
Pounds paid by instalments, and a rather close escape from death
on the gallows. Consider that: it is no rhetorical flourish;
it is an authentic, altogether quiet fact,--emblematic, quietly
documentary of a whole world of such, ever since human history
began. Oliver Cromwell quitted his farming; undertook a
Hercules' Labour and lifelong wrestle with that Lernean
Hydracoil, wide as England, hissing heaven-high through its
thousand crowned, coroneted, shovel-hatted quackheads; and he
did wrestle with it, the truest and terriblest wrestle I have
heard of; and he wrestled it, and mowed and cut it down a good
many stages, so that its hissing is ever since pitiful in
comparison, and one can walk abroad in comparative peace from
it;--and his wages, as I understand, were burial under the
gallows-tree near Tyburn Turnpike, with his head on the gable of
Westminster Hall, and two centuries now of mixed cursing and
ridicule from all manner of men. His dust lies under the
Edgeware Road, near Tyburn Turnpike, at this hour; and his
memory is--Nay, what matters what his memory is? His memory, at
bottom, is or yet shall be as that of a god: a terror and horror
to all quacks and cowards and insincere persons; an everlasting
encouragement, new memento, battleword, and pledge of victory to
all the brave. It is the natural course and history of the
Godlike, in every place, in every time. What god ever carried it
with the Tenpound Franchisers; in Open Vestry, or with any
Sanhedrim of considerable standing? When was a god found
agreeable to everybody? The regular way is to hang, kill,
crucify your gods, and execrate and trample them under your