England in 1648, like that in France in 1792, was but a rope of sand which nothing could cement and consolidate but the blood of the Kings—­that was a common crime and a common and indissoluble tie which gave all their consistency and force to both revolutions—­a stroke of original sagacity in Cromwell and of imitative dexterity in Robespierre.  If Mr. Macaulay admits, as he subsequently does (i. 129), that the regicide was “a sacrament of blood,” by which the party became irrevocably bound to each other and separated from the rest of the nation, how can he pretend that Cromwell derived no advantage from it?  In fact, his admiration—­we had almost said fanaticism—­for Cromwell betrays him throughout into the blindest inconsistencies.

The second vision of Mr. Macaulay is, if possible, still more absurd.  He imagines a Cromwell dynasty!  If it had not been for Monk and his army, the rest of the nation would have been loyal to the son of the illustrious Oliver.

Had the Protector and the Parliament been suffered to proceed undisturbed, there can be little doubt that an order of things similar to that which was afterwards established under the House of Hanover, would have been established under the house of Cromwell.—­i. 142.

And yet in a page or two Mr. Macaulay is found making an admission—­ made, indeed, with the object of disparaging Monk and the royalists—­but which gives to his theory of a Cromwellian dynasty the most conclusive refutation.

It was probably not till Monk had been some days in the capital that he made up his mind.  The cry of the whole people was for a free parliament; and there could be no doubt that a parliament really free would instantly restore the exiled family.—­i. 147.

All this hypothesis of a Cromwellian dynasty looks like sheer nonsense; but we have no doubt it has a meaning, and we request our readers not to be diverted by the almost ludicrous partiality and absurdity of Mr. Macaulay’s speculations from an appreciation of the deep hostility to the monarchy from which they arise.  They are like bubbles on the surface of a dark pool, which indicate there is something rotten below.

We should if we had time have many other complaints to make of the details of this chapter, which are deeply coloured with all Mr. Macaulay’s prejudices and passions.  He is, we may almost say of course, violent and unjust against Strafford and Clarendon; and the most prominent touch of candour that we can find in this period of his history is, that he slurs over the murder of Laud in an abscure half-line (i. 119) as if he were—­as we hope he really is—­ashamed of it.