Minoo Dinshaw’s Friends in Youth: Choosing Sides in the English Civil War has been warmly received. The book is an impressive achievement: learned, elegantly written, densely researched, and unusually attentive to personality, friendship, and the texture of political life. But the critical enthusiasm surrounding it also speaks to the political atmosphere in which the English Revolution is now being interpreted. The publisher presents its protagonists as principled young men hoping to restore harmony between Crown and Parliament. At the same time, the book’s publicity repeatedly emphasises reluctant choices, subtle differences, accident and the tragedy of unnecessary civil conflict. [penguin.co.uk]
That interpretation has proved especially congenial to reviewers. The Telegraph described the book as a “necessary cautionary tale about the human cost of political division”. At the same time, the Financial Times praised its “elegiac portrait of well-meaning moderates who tried to halt the slide towards violent division”. The publisher’s material and elsewhere reproduce these descriptions. Andrew Gimson’s ConservativeHome review goes further, explicitly welcoming Dinshaw’s resistance to the supposedly inadequate division of seventeenth-century politics into Cavaliers and Roundheads and concluding with Dinshaw’s own vision of his subjects as embodying an “attractive common world” opposed to party enmity.
The response matters because Dinshaw’s book frames the English Revolution as, above all, a tragedy of political polarisation: a catastrophe in which thoughtful, cultivated, and essentially decent men found themselves divided by forces that wiser statecraft might have controlled. Against revolution stands conversation; against ideology, friendship; against mass political mobilisation, the civilised intercourse of lawyers, scholars and gentlemen.
But this framing raises a more fundamental historical question. What if the destruction of that “common world” was not primarily the consequence of a failure of moderation? What if the institutions within which Edward Hyde, Bulstrode Whitelocke, John Selden and Lucius Cary moved were themselves being destabilised by transformations that no amount of cultivated conversation could reconcile? The great limitation of Friends in Youth is that it approaches a social revolution through the consciousness of men who desperately wanted to prevent it from becoming one.
Two friends and the collapse of a political world
Dinshaw builds his narrative around the remarkable parallel careers of Edward Hyde, later Earl of Clarendon, and Bulstrode Whitelocke. Their friendship developed in the intellectual and social environment of the Inns of Court. Both became lawyers, parliamentarians, politicians, and eventually historians of the revolution they lived through. Yet in 1642 they chose opposing camps.
This imaginative strength is central to Dinshaw’s project. Rather than starting with the armies already assembled, he reconstructs the political world before those divisions hardened. John Adamson notes that the originality of the conception lies partly in recognising how deep the friendship between Hyde and Whitelocke had been and how closely their political careers and attitudes had once converged.
Both men belonged to the extraordinary cultural world surrounding the Inns of Court, which functioned as far more than professional training grounds for lawyers. They brought together law, politics, literature, patronage and intellectual discussion. Their association with the Great Tew circle around Lucius Cary, Viscount Falkland, placed them within a cultivated milieu that recoiled from both Laudian authoritarianism and what its members regarded as Puritan fanaticism. Jackie Eales describes this circle as characterised by scepticism towards religious dogmatism and a tolerance of political disagreement, even as its individual members eventually divided over the war. [historytoday.com]
The tragedy at the centre of Dinshaw’s story therefore has genuine historical substance. Hyde and Whitelocke were not ideological opposites destined from youth to become Cavalier and Roundhead. Both opposed important features of Charles I’s Personal Rule. Both were hostile to prerogative government. Their differences sharpened as the parliamentary movement itself developed. Hyde interpreted Parliament’s increasingly radical demands as constitutional innovation, whereas Whitelocke remained with Parliament while continuing to seek compromise. Blair Worden summarises Dinshaw’s interpretation by noting his emphasis upon the comparatively small original political distance between the two men and upon the tragedy of their eventual separation. This makes for compelling biography. But it does not in itself explain the revolution [the-tls.com].
The virtues and limitations of political biography
Dinshaw possesses an exceptional eye for character. His narrative brings court, chambers, country houses, parliamentary debates, and personal relationships to life in remarkable detail. His use of memoir, correspondence, and Hyde and Whitelocke’s later historical writings lets him reconstruct how contemporaries understood their own decisions without simply accepting their retrospective accounts at face value.
The book should therefore not be dismissed as merely conservative history dressed up in elegant prose. The emotional consequences of political rupture were real. Friendships were broken, families were divided, property destroyed and careers overturned. It is also historically unsatisfactory to imagine that everyone entering political conflict in 1640 already knew England would experience civil war, regicide, and republican government before the decade was out. Dinshaw is right to restore uncertainty to historical experience. History is lived forwards even if it is written backwards. The danger arises when uncertainty becomes explanation. Neither contingency nor individual political actors’ reluctance shows that the structural crisis producing their choices was accidental. A revolutionary situation can contain innumerable contingencies yet still emerge from profound contradictions within a society. This is precisely where biography reaches its limits. The crucial historical question is not simply why Hyde eventually chose Charles while Whitelocke remained with Parliament. It is why, by 1642, those alternatives confronted them at all.
Revisionism rendered as literature
In this respect Friends in Youth belongs, even if not programmatically, within the historiographical landscape created by the revisionist assault on older interpretations of the English Revolution. From the late twentieth century, historians including Conrad Russell, John Morrill and Kevin Sharpe challenged explanations that emphasised long-term social transformation and class conflict. They drew renewed attention to religion, political contingency, the composite monarchy, conflicts among the three kingdoms, parliamentary-political contingencies, and Charles I’s decisions.
That intervention corrected real weaknesses in schematic accounts in which a “rising bourgeoisie” appeared almost automatically upon the historical stage to overthrow feudalism. Historical materialism cannot be reduced to assigning political actors fixed class labels and then treating everything they subsequently do as an expression of an economically predetermined script. But the revisionist reaction frequently produced the opposite distortion. In discarding crude determinism, they also erased social development itself. The causes of revolution dissolved into a chain of political accidents, misunderstandings, confessional disputes and personal decisions.
Dinshaw’s narrative is particularly effective as a literary expression of this approach because biography naturally privileges the immediate field of individual consciousness. His protagonists knew one another personally. Their choices were difficult. Their disagreements could sometimes appear surprisingly narrow. Therefore the subsequent catastrophe appears all the more tragic. Yet revolutions rarely begin because everyone wants a revolution. On the contrary, revolutionary crises historically develop precisely through the failure of successive attempts at compromise.
Beneath Westminster: the transformation of English society
The weakness of a history organised around political friendship becomes apparent once the social transformation of seventeenth-century England is restored to the picture. England experienced enormous changes in agriculture, property relations, commerce, and the concentration of population and wealth. Agrarian capitalism had advanced further than in much of continental Europe. Competitive leasing, market dependence, enclosure, and the transformation of relations among landlords, tenant farmers, and rural labourers reshaped the countryside. London expanded dramatically, becoming the centre of government, finance, trade, printing, and popular political mobilisation. The dispute between Crown and Parliament developed within this changing society.
This does not mean that Charles I represented “feudalism” while Parliament straightforwardly represented “capitalism”. Both camps contained landowners; commercial interests crossed political divisions; religious allegiance mattered enormously; and Parliament itself included men terrified by popular radicalism. But these complexities do not abolish class relations. They show how political institutions inherited from an earlier social order mediate class interests.
Robert Brenner’s Merchants and Revolution matters precisely here. Brenner showed that political conflicts surrounding Parliament cannot be reconstructed solely from parliamentary speeches or constitutional theory. The changing organisation of overseas commerce and the interests of London merchant groups shaped the material environment of political radicalisation. Similarly, Brian Manning insisted that the revolution cannot be understood exclusively through the political nation. London crowds, apprentices, artisans, tradespeople and poorer sections of society intervened directly in political events. Street pressure affected Parliament itself. Once these forces enter the picture, “moderation” ceases to be a politically neutral category.
The problem of the crowd
The parliamentary crisis of 1640–42 cannot be understood simply as a dispute within an educated governing class. Calling the Long Parliament created a political opening through which grievances accumulated during the Personal Rule could be articulated on a different scale. Petitions circulated. Print expanded. Crowds gathered around Westminster. Religious disputes became mass political issues. The struggle over Strafford, episcopacy, and the militia increasingly took place in an environment where political action could not be confined to the Commons and Lords.
Here Hyde’s evolution takes on a social dimension that describing him merely as a constitutional royalist cannot capture. Hyde had opposed important abuses of royal government. But as the opposition movement increasingly mobilised forces outside the established political elite, his overriding concern became preserving political and social order. The controversy over the Grand Remonstrance marked the widening division. The question was no longer merely whether to correct particular royal abuses. It increasingly became a question of who possessed political authority and on which forces that authority would depend.
For men such as Hyde, mobilising wider layers of the population threatened to transform constitutional opposition into something altogether more dangerous. This is the contradiction within the politics of the celebrated “moderates”. They could oppose arbitrary monarchy when the issue concerned the political rights of the propertied classes, but recoiled when resistance threatened to mobilise those below them. Moderation therefore describes not an absence of political interest, but a definite social standpoint.
Falkland and the tragedy of moderation
No figure better embodies Dinshaw’s elegiac interpretation than Lucius Cary, Viscount Falkland. Falkland’s death at the first Battle of Newbury in September 1643 became inseparable from the mythology that was later constructed around him. He appears as a sensitive intellectual destroyed by political fanaticism, a gentleman so disgusted by civil conflict that death became a release. Dinshaw’s world naturally gravitates toward such a figure. Yet Falkland’s tragedy was also the tragedy of a political programme.
The constitutional royalists hoped to restrain the monarch and preserve the monarchy; defend Parliament while containing the popular forces increasingly mobilised behind it; oppose religious authoritarianism without permitting radical religious pluralism; and reform the state without letting reform develop into revolution. The programme became increasingly impossible because the conflict itself transformed the forces engaged in it. War required taxation, administration, recruitment and mobilisation. Parliamentary victory ultimately demanded a reorganisation of military power. The creation of the New Model Army in 1645 produced not merely a more effective army but a social and political institution within which religious and political radicalism could flourish. The revolution was beginning to develop its own organs and political language.No Great Tew conversation could halt that development.
Hyde, Whitelocke and the search for peace
Dinshaw does not end his story with Falkland’s death, which makes his account of attempted reconciliation more interesting than a simple elegy ending at Newbury would have been. As Blair Worden notes, Hyde and Whitelocke met during wartime negotiations, including at Oxford and Uxbridge, where Dinshaw portrays them as continuing their attempts to settle. But these negotiations actually reinforce the deeper historical problem. Why did peace repeatedly prove impossible? If civil war resulted principally from misunderstanding or extremist passions, reasonable negotiators ought eventually to have discovered a constitutional formula capable of reuniting the protagonists. Yet every stage of the conflict produced new facts on the ground and new demands.
A settlement had to determine control of the armed forces, religion, parliamentary authority, and the King’s position. Behind these questions stood competing conceptions of sovereignty and different social constituencies that the war itself had encouraged to mobilise. The failure of negotiation therefore cannot simply be reduced to inadequate statesmanship. Contradictions progressively consumed the middle position it could not resolve.
Revolution breaks through its moderates.
This was the process that Leon Trotsky, looking back on the English Revolution from the revolutionary struggles of the twentieth century, considered essential. In Where Is Britain Going?, he emphasised the conflict’s revolutionary significance and how political leadership passed beyond those initially seeking limited opposition to the monarchy. The history of the 1640s repeatedly confirms this pattern. The Presbyterian leadership sought victory over the King but feared the social and religious forces the struggle released. The Independents pushed further. The military crisis produced the New Model Army. Within the army, political radicalisation increasingly challenged the gentlemen who believed Parliament’s victory should end the revolutionary process. Then came the Levellers.
At the Putney Debates of 1647, questions implicit during the initial constitutional conflict became explicit: who constituted the political nation? Did political authority ultimately derive from property or from the people? What political rights did men who had fought for Parliament but lacked sufficient property to qualify for conventional political power possess? Putney’s enormous historical significance lies in the fact that the revolution brought into political speech people whose voices had previously been largely excluded from the constitutional arena. This is precisely the world that is not easily seen from Great Tew.
The people enter history.
The Levellers represented one expression of the radicalisation. Their programme of political reform, religious toleration, and substantially enlarged male political participation went far beyond anything the constitutional opposition envisaged in 1640.
Beyond them stood the Diggers, whose challenge went further still. Christopher Hill’s The World Turned Upside Down remains indispensable not because every theological radical can be translated into a modern political category, but because Hill grasped something that much subsequent historiography has tried to push back to the margins: once the old structures of authority fractured, groups previously excluded from political discourse began asking questions about property, religious authority and social hierarchy that the parliamentary leadership had never intended to place on the agenda. The revolution opened political possibilities larger than the objectives of those who began the parliamentary struggle. That is what revolutions do.
It also explains why the language of “moderation” must be treated critically. Moderate relative to whom? Moderate in defence of what? From the perspective of the Leveller soldiers who demanded political rights after risking their lives in Parliament’s army, restrictions imposed in the name of property and social stability did not constitute political neutrality. The centre was already situated inside a social order.
Clarendon and the memory of revolution
Hyde’s later career as Earl of Clarendon adds significance to the story. His monumental History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England became a foundational interpretation of the revolution. The title itself announced the perspective. What later generations might interpret as revolution appeared, from Clarendon’s standpoint, as rebellion: a rupture of legitimate government, social hierarchy, and political order. Clarendon was far too intelligent an observer to produce simple royalist propaganda. The enduring power of his history comes precisely from its psychological acuity and its understanding of political character. Yet these literary qualities should not obscure the social assumptions organising the narrative.
Clarendon’s hostility to political enthusiasm and mass mobilisation expressed the standpoint of a governing elite traumatised by discovering what could happen when political conflict escaped the established political classes’ control. Dinshaw approaches Clarendon critically, rather than taking his retrospective account at face value. John Adamson praises the book for its alertness to distortions in its subjects’ later accounts. But the larger problem remains: Friends in Youth reconstructs an emotional world that is overwhelmingly that of the educated and propertied classes.
We learn what revolution felt like through the eyes of gentlemen who feared losing control of it. Whitelocke is in some respects the more revealing figure because he survived politically through successive revolutionary regimes. His career shows the inadequacy of dividing the period into revolutionaries and conservatives solely by formal allegiance in 1642. He remained Parliamentarian without becoming a social revolutionary. Under the Republic and Protectorate, he held important state positions; John Adamson describes him as a senior legal figure in the English Republic and a Cromwellian confidant.
This career matters beyond personal adaptability. The English Revolution destroyed one political order without abolishing property or creating social equality. Its bourgeois character lay precisely in the contradiction between its revolutionary destruction of essential components of the old political structure and the social limitations that constrained that transformation. The propertied classes required revolutionary methods against the Crown, yet feared the democratic implications of mobilising the lower orders.
Cromwell himself personified this contradiction at a far higher historical level. The force capable of defeating royalism had to be mobilised through religious and political energies that could not subsequently be switched off at will. Hence the revolutionary army could become a political threat to the very property-owning forces whose victory it had secured. The suppression of the Levellers cannot be separated from Parliament’s victory. They were contradictory moments within the same bourgeois revolutionary process.
1660 did not turn the clock back
The Restoration therefore did not simply erase the revolution. Charles II returned, but neither the political nor the social world of the 1630s could be reconstructed. The revolutionary decades had transformed relations between monarchy, Parliament, taxation, religion, landed wealth and commerce. The later settlement culminating in 1688–89 would confirm a political order fundamentally more congenial to the development of capitalist property and parliamentary government than the Personal Rule of Charles I had been. This is one reason why interpreting the 1640s exclusively through tragedy is inadequate.
Revolutions are undoubtedly tragic for individuals. They involve violence, dislocation and suffering. But historical judgement cannot stop at registering catastrophe—the enslaved person who rebels causes disorder. The peasant who refuses feudal obligations disrupts established custom. The worker who strikes interrupts economic life. Judging every social struggle primarily by the tranquillity it destroys already adopts the standpoint of the existing order. The English Revolution must therefore be judged not only by what collapsed but by what historical possibilities were created.
Marxism and the bourgeois revolution
The older Marxist interpretation was never as simple as its critics suggested. Karl Marx recognised the seventeenth-century English Revolution and the French Revolution of 1789 as struggles whose significance extended far beyond the political language consciously employed by their participants. The actors might appeal to religion, ancient liberties, or constitutional precedent; nevertheless, the struggles they pursued transformed the conditions of European social development. This distinction between political consciousness and objective historical function is essential.
Hyde did not have to understand himself as defending one configuration of class society for his actions to possess a class content. Whitelocke did not need to imagine himself an agent of capitalist development for parliamentary victory to affect the political environment in which capitalist relations subsequently expanded. Historical materialism asks not simply what people said they were doing, but what social relations made their activity possible and what consequences followed from their victory or defeat. Revisionism often turns the discrepancy between intention and outcome into an argument against social explanation. Marxism sees that discrepancy as one of the central problems historical explanation must solve.
The contemporary appeal of the “moderate”
This brings us back to the remarkable reception of Dinshaw’s book. Readers are not wrong to find parallels between the political divisions of the seventeenth century and those of the present. Indeed, the Guardian review explicitly opened this comparison, linking the appeal of Dinshaw’s subject to more recent experiences of political division. But such analogies themselves require political examination. “Polarisation” has become a preferred category for discussing contemporary political crises. Political conflict appears as a disease of democratic culture. The solution is dialogue, moderation, civility, and rebuilding a political centre. This language excludes the possibility that polarisation itself has objective causes.
Growing social inequality, declining living standards, war, collapsing confidence in established parties and institutions, and widespread hostility towards existing political arrangements cannot simply be explained as failures of civility. A political centre can disintegrate because the social relationships that support it have become unstable. From this perspective, Dinshaw’s reconstruction of the “common world” of Hyde, Whitelocke and Falkland resonates unmistakably today. It presents a lost world of cultivated men who disagree but keep talking, whose tragedy is being overwhelmed by less restrained political forces. The danger lies not in telling their story. It lies in mistaking their story for the revolution’s meaning.
The view from Great Tew and the view from Putney
Friends in Youth deserves to be read. Dinshaw’s achievement is considerable. He reconstructs a political and intellectual milieu with unusual intimacy and reminds readers that historical actors cannot be reduced to the labels later attached to them. Hyde was more complicated than “Royalist”; Whitelocke more complicated than “Roundhead”. Men who eventually fought on opposite sides could start with overlapping assumptions and still be haunted by the destruction of their earlier friendships. Dinshaw’s strength is that it lets us understand these people from inside their world. But historical explanation must also stand outside that world.
The gentlemen of Great Tew believed civilisation depended upon moderation, learning, hierarchy and conversation among educated men. The revolution demonstrated that England contained other voices and other interests. The distance between Great Tew and Putney is therefore more than geographical. At Great Tew, cultivated members of a narrow elite discussed how England should be governed. At Putney, the political revolution raised a far more disturbing question: who possessed the right to govern England at all? Friendship could not answer that question.
Conclusion: the revolution the moderates could not prevent
A collective loss of political manners did not cause the English Revolution. Neither was it the mechanical product of an economically predestined bourgeoisie marching towards capitalism. It emerged from the interaction of profound social transformation, religious conflict, constitutional crisis, capitalist development, popular mobilisation and the international and British crisis of the Stuart kingdoms. Contingency operated everywhere. But contingency operated inside structures.
The tragedy of Hyde, Whitelocke and Falkland was therefore more substantial than the tragedy of friendship destroyed by political extremism. They represented a political milieu that wanted reform without revolution and resistance without mobilising forces from below. Events repeatedly demonstrated the impossibility of maintaining that position. The revolution advanced because the moderates could neither defeat the King decisively nor restore the old equilibrium. The forces required to win the struggle transformed it. The New Model Army, the Independents, the Levellers and the Diggers did not appear because English political society temporarily forgot the virtues of moderation. They arose from contradictions that moderate constitutionalism could not resolve.
That is why the story cannot end emotionally with the lost civilisation of Great Tew. It must proceed to the army councils, the Leveller petitions, the Putney Debates, the regicide and the republic. Minoo Dinshaw has written a beautifully crafted portrait of men watching their political world collapse. Friends in Youth deserves praise for helping us understand what that collapse looked like from their chambers, libraries, and country houses. But the observer who remains there will misunderstand the revolution.
To understand why the old world collapsed, you must leave Great Tew and Westminster and follow the revolution into London’s streets, the parliamentary army, and the debates at Putney. There artisans, soldiers and men without great property entered a political argument from which the established order had largely excluded them, and asked the question the cultivated moderates could never satisfactorily answer: if ordinary people had fought to determine the future of the kingdom, by what right should political power remain the monopoly of the propertied few? That democratic eruption from below, rather than the disappearance of an “attractive common world” among gentlemen, gives the English Revolution its enduring historical significance.
Bibliography
Brenner, Robert. Merchants and Revolution: Commercial Change, Political Conflict, and London’s Overseas Traders, 1550–1653. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993.
Clarendon, Edward Hyde, Earl of. The History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England. Various editions.
Dinshaw, Minoo. Friends in Youth: Choosing Sides in the English Civil War. London: Allen Lane, 2025.
Hill, Christopher. The English Revolution 1640. London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1940.
Hill, Christopher. The Century of Revolution, 1603–1714. London: Nelson, 1961; later editions.
Hill, Christopher. The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the English Revolution. London: Temple Smith, 1972.
Manning, Brian. The English People and the English Revolution, 1640–1649. London: Heinemann, 1976.
Manning, Brian. 1649: The Crisis of the English Revolution. London: Bookmarks, 1992.
Morrill, John. The Revolt of the Provinces: Conservatives and Radicals in the English Civil War, 1630–1650. London: Allen & Unwin, 1976.
Russell, Conrad. The Causes of the English Civil War. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990.
Sharpe, Kevin. The Personal Rule of Charles I. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992.
Trotsky, Leon. Where Is Britain Going? 1925.
Whitelocke, Bulstrode. Memorials of the English Affairs. First published 1682; various subsequent editions.
Reviews and contemporary responses
John Adamson, “Lawyers in Arms”, Literary Review, review of Friends in Youth. Adamson describes the work as a major exercise in historical narration, emphasising Dinshaw’s discovery of the extent of Hyde and Whitelocke’s early friendship and political affinities. [literaryreview.co.uk]
Jackie Eales, review of Friends in Youth, History Today, March 2025. The review stresses Dinshaw’s treatment of the Great Tew circle, the parallel legal and political careers of Hyde and Whitelocke, and their developing constitutional disagreements. [historytoday.com]
Andrew Gimson, “Book review: Politics is not just a battle between Cavaliers and Roundheads”, ConservativeHome, 31 January 2025. Particularly useful for assessing the conservative reception of Dinshaw’s conception of moderation and the supposedly lost common political culture. [conservativehome.com]
Kathryn Hughes, review of Friends in Youth, The Guardian, 22 January 2025. Hughes focuses on the parallel lives and reluctant divergence of Hyde and Whitelocke, and explicitly places the book in a modern context of political division. [theguardian.com]
Blair Worden, “Long divisions: A friendship broken by war”, Times Literary Supplement, 24 January 2025. Especially valuable as a critical counterweight to the more celebratory notices: Worden identifies both the gains produced by Dinshaw’s close-focus method and the historical problems generated by that restricted perspective. [the-tls.com]
