Anno Domini sixteen hundred and fifty-three;--let us look round through
historic mist for landmarks, so that we may know our whereabouts. The
narrow streets of Worcester had been but lately stained by the blood of
heaped corpses. Cromwell was meditating an abolition of the Parliament,
and a practical coronation of himself. The world had ceased to wonder
at English democracy giving laws to their quondam rulers, and the
democracy was beginning to be a little tired of itself, to disbelieve in
its own irksome discipline, and to sigh for the flesh-pots of a modified
Presbyterian monarchy. Cromwell, indeed, was at the height of his glory,
his honours lie thick upon him, and now, if ever, he is the regal
Cromwell that Victor Hugo has portrayed, the uncrowned King of England,
trampling under foot that sacred liberty, the baseless ideal for which
so many had fought and bled. He is soon to be Lord Protector. He is
second to none upon earth. England is again at peace with herself, and
takes her position as one of the great Powers of Europe; Cromwell is
England's king. So much for our rulers and politics. Now let us remember
our friends, those whom we love on account of the work they have done
for us and bequeathed to us, through which we have learned to know them.
One of the best beloved and gentlest of these, who by the satire of
heaven was born into England in these troublous times, was now wandering
by brook and stream, scarcely annoyed by the uproar and confusion of the
factions around him. And what he knew of England in these days he has
left in perhaps the gentlest and most peaceful volume the world has ever
read. I speak of Master Izaak Walton, who in this year, 1653, published
the first edition of his _Compleat Angler_, and left a comrade for the
idle hours of all future ages. Other friends we have, then living, but
none so intimate or well beloved. Mr. Waller, whom Dorothy may have
known, Mr. Cowley, Sir Peter Lely,--who painted our heroine's
portrait,--and Dr. Jeremy Taylor; very courtly and superior persons are
some of these, and far removed from our world. Milton is too sublime to