There lies a curious and disquieting paradox in the realm of Albion, a land once girded by liberty, where men could speak their minds without fear of fetters or flame. For in this isle of ancient oaks and chartered rights, it is now considered a grievous offence to question the Crescent, while Canterbury may be mocked from the stage to the schoolroom without rebuke.

The difference is not merely one of dogma, but of disposition. Canterbury, long rooted in the soils of scepticism and reform, has endured lampoon and heresy alike with weary resilience, forged through centuries of blood and reformation into a doctrine that tolerates dissent, even embraces it. Its gospel, though sacred, does not demand silence from its critics, only space to reply.

The Crescent, however, in its stricter forms and imported interpretations, brooks no rival on the battlefield of belief. It regards inquiry as insult, satire as sedition, and demands submission not only from its adherents but from all within earshot. To offend it is to trespass upon territory zealously guarded, not merely by faith, but by fear.

And thus, the law, bent under the weight of appeasement, now finds it safer to silence the speaker than to risk the fury of the offended. This is not justice, but cowardice cloaked in the raiment of tolerance. When the balance of law shifts from equal protection to selective fear, Albion ceases to be the land of free men and becomes instead a field of whispered trepidation.

A nation that permits one creed to shield itself with swords while another must answer blasphemy with charity is not free, but fractured. And unless this imbalance is addressed with courage and clarity, the Tyburn Tree may again claim those whose only crime is to question that which claims to be unquestionable.