Lord Macaulay-Whig Traditionalist?

Dr Johnson defined Tory as, 'One who adheres to the ancient constitution of the state, and the apostolical hierarchy of the church of England, opposed to a Whig.' (Which is why I am a High or Traditional Tory!)

He defined Whig as, 'The name of a faction.'

Despite the fact that Thomas Babington Macaulay, 1st Baron Macaulay was a deep-dyed Whig, active as a Whig politician, and as an historian, influential in developing what has come to be called the Whig interpretation of history, his poetry often showed a different tendency.

Wikipedia says of his historical ideas,

Macaulay's political writings are famous for their ringing prose and for their confident, sometimes dogmatic, emphasis on a progressive model of British history, according to which the country threw off superstition, autocracy and confusion to create a balanced constitution and a forward-looking culture combined with freedom of belief and expression. This model of human progress has been called the Whig interpretation of history. 

And yet, in his poetry, he often sounds like a dyed-in-the-wool High Tory Traditionalist. Two examples:

In his 'Lays of Ancient Rome', in the Lay 'Horatius', he writes,

Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?

This could easily have been written of the 'villains' in his historiography such as the Cavaliers of the Civil War. Again, he believed that English history was an inevitable progression from the 'obscurantism' of the middle ages and the Tudor and Stuart 'despotism', to the enlightened Whig parliamentary monarchy of his hero, the usurper William III, but he could write 'The Cavalier's March To London' (My emphasis).

To horse! to horse! brave Cavaliers!
To horse for Church and Crown! 
Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! 
And ho for London town! 
The imperial harlot, doom'd a prey 
To our avenging fires, 
Sends up the voice of her dismay 
From all her hundred spires. 

The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks, 
The 'Change with merchants' sighs, 
And blushes stand on brazen cheeks, 
And tears in iron eyes; 
And, pale with fasting and with fright, 
Each Puritan Committee 
Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight 
The Roundheads of the City. 

And soon shall London's sentries hear 
The thunder of our drum, 
And London's dames, in wilder fear, 
Shall cry, Alack! They come! 
Fling the fascines;--tear up the spikes; 
And forward one and all. 
Down, down with all their train-band pikes, 
Down with their mud-built wall. 

Quarter?--Foul fall your whining noise, 
Ye recreant spawn of fraud! 
No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys. 
No quarter! Think on Laud. 
What ho! The craven slaves retire. 
On! Trample them to mud, 
No quarter!--Charge--No quarter!--Fire. 
No quarter!--Blood!--Blood!--Blood!-- 

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch, 
Brave lads, to tell us where, 
Sure London's sons be passing rich, 
Her daughters wondrous fair: 
And let that dastard be the theme 
Of many a board's derision, 
Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream 
Of any sweet Precisian. 

Their lean divines, of solemn brow, 
Sworn foes to throne and steeple, 
From an unwonted pulpit now 
Shall edify the people: 
Till the tir'd hangman, in despair, 
Shall curse his blunted shears, 
And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear, 
Around their leathern ears. 

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall, 
The city's grave Recorder, 
And on the den of thieves we'll fall, 
Though Pym should speak to order. 
In vain the lank-haired gang shall try 
To cheat our martial law; 
In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry 
That strangers must withdraw. 

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair, 
We'll build a glorious pyre, 
And tons of rebel parchment there 
Shall crackle in the fire. 
With them shall perish, cheek by jowl, 
Petition, psalm and libel, 
The Colonel's canting muster-roll, 
The Chaplain's dog-ear'd Bible. 

We'll tread a measure round the blaze 
Where England's past expires, 
And lead along the dance's maze 
The beauties of the friars: 
Then smiles in every face shall shine, 
And joy in every soul. 
Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine, 
And crown the largest bowl. 

And as with nod and laugh ye sip 
The goblet's rich carnation, 
Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip 
The wink of invitation; 
Drink to those names,--those glorious names,--
Those names no time shall sever,--
Drink, in draught as deep as Thames,
Our Church and King forever! 

It just shows that, no matter how wedded a man is to evil and stupid ideas, as Lord Macaulay was,
deep in his interior life lurks the decency of the innate, inborn conservatism and clear thinking
with which every man is born, only to ofttimes lose them in being 'educated'.