“I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fixed and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.”
PRINCE now passes by on horseback. He is small, almost diminutive, but by no means insignificant. His figure is slender and apparently feeble, but few men have borne such hardships and sustained such reverses of fortune as he. His forehead is ample, his nose aquiline, his eye bright and keen, his lips thin and compressed, his cheek pale and deeply furrowed by the marks of sickness and care. His whole aspect is pensive, severe, almost morose. At a glance you judge him to be neither a happy nor a good-humoured man. His bearing is simple; he cares nothing for pomp and parade, and he has no particular desire for popularity; yet there is an unmistakable dignity in his presence, and you feel as you gaze upon him that here is a man of high spirit and of great intellectual power, of constant and lofty soul, of unshaken courage and calm fortitude.
This is William of Orange, the man whom the exasperated English people called upon to invade their country in order to preserve their liberties and the Protestant faith. He accepted the invitation, and without striking a blow marched from Torbay to London, where he and his wife became King and Queen of Great Britain and Ireland.
You are once more standing outside Whitehall. It is the thirteenth day of February, in the year of grace 1689. All London is agog with excitement. Trumpets sound and kettledrums roll as the Garter King of Arms in tabard and plumed hat rides up to the gates, followed by officials carrying the maces of the two Houses of Parliament, the Lord Chancellor and the Speaker, the chief officers of state, and a long train of coaches filled with noblemen and gentlemen. Then in loud, clear tones he proclaims the Prince and Princess of Orange King and Queen of England, and charges all Englishmen to bear, from that moment, true allegiance to the new sovereigns. He concludes by praying that God, who has already wrought a signal deliverance for Church and nation, will bless William and Mary with a long and happy reign.
Loud cheers break forth, and the procession re-forms and winds its way along the Strand to Temple Bar. The streets, the balconies, the very housetops are crowded with gazers, and all the steeples from the Abbey to the Tower ring out a joyous peal. The proclamation is repeated at Temple Bar and in front of the Royal Exchange, amidst the shouts of citizens and the din of trumpets.
In the evening every window from Whitechapel to Piccadilly is illuminated. The state rooms of the palace are thrown open, and are filled with a brilliant company of courtiers eager to see and to do homage to their new sovereigns. The features of the Prince of Orange are familiar to them from his portraits, but now for the first time most of them see him in the flesh. They cannot fail to note, even in this scene of gaiety, his cold, reserved manner and his lack of kingly grace. The new queen, however, charms all beholders. She is beautiful, winning, and gracious, with a good heart, an excellent disposition, and an affection for her sullen husband which nothing can daunt. It is clear from the first that Mary’s popularity will be great, and that William, though he may be respected, will never be loved by his new subjects.
Look at yonder graybeard gazing up at the gay lights glittering in the windows. He has seen many changes in his sixty-five years of life, and he cannot but reflect on the strange vicissitudes through which the Stuart kings, now barred for ever from the British throne, have passed. Listen to him as he talks to the youth at his side. “My lad,” he says, “I remember well the Scotchman James the First feasting in this very hall, and expounding to his son Charles and the courtiers in right learned language the pestilent principles of what he called ‘statecraft’ and the divine right of kings to rule and to suspend the laws of the land at their will and pleasure. Right well did young Charles learn the lesson, and perchance we should blame his father and not him for all that happened. He held by the hateful doctrines which he had sucked in as a youth, like the obstinate man that he was, and ruthlessly destroyed our liberties till we were forced to take up arms and fight him for seven long, miserable years. I got this wound, that makes me go lame, at Naseby, the last great battle of the war. That was forty-three years ago save three months. I mind well seeing King Charles step through a hole in yonder wall on to the black-draped scaffold and lay his head on the block. It was a pitiful sight. I did not hold with killing him, mark you, but perchance it was better so.