Cromwell played with Calais and Dunkirk as with two shuttlecocks on a

battledore. The Continent had been taught to tremble, peace had been

dictated, war declared, the British Ensign raised on every pinnacle. By

itself the Protector's regiment of Ironsides weighed in the fears of

Europe against an army. Cromwell used to say, "I wish the Republic of

England to be respected, as was respected the Republic of Rome." No

longer were delusions held sacred; speech was free, the press was free.

In the public street men said what they listed; they printed what they

pleased without control or censorship. The equilibrium of thrones had

been destroyed. The whole order of European monarchy, in which the

Stuarts formed a link, had been overturned. But at last England had

emerged from this odious order of things, and had won its pardon.

The indulgent Charles II. had granted the declaration of Breda. He had

conceded to England oblivion of the period in which the son of the

Huntingdon brewer placed his foot on the neck of Louis XIV. England said

its mea culpa, and breathed again. The cup of joy was, as we have just

said, full; gibbets for the regicides adding to the universal delight. A

restoration is a smile; but a few gibbets are not out of place, and

satisfaction is due to the conscience of the public. To be good subjects

was thenceforth the people's sole ambition. The spirit of lawlessness

had been expelled. Royalty was reconstituted. Men had recovered from the

follies of politics. They mocked at revolution, they jeered at the

republic, and as to those times when such strange words as Right,

Liberty, Progress, had been in the mouth--why, they laughed at such

bombast! Admirable was the return to common sense. England had been in a

dream. What joy to be quit of such errors! Was ever anything so mad?

281

The Man Who Laughs