A 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.

“Then came the Commonwealth and the days of ‘Old Noll.’ It was not a ‘Merrie England’ in his time, I warrant you. There were no Maypoles and no Bartholomew fairs in his day; it was almost a sin to eat a mince pie. You young fellows would think yourselves hardly done by if those times were to return. But we were a strong nation then, my lad. Foreigners feared us, the Dutchmen had to eat humble pie, and money flowed right merrily into our coffers. It was a harsh and cheerless time, no doubt, and there was no liberty to speak of, but trade was brisk, and this land has never seen such good prosperous days since.

“When Cromwell died—the night after the great storm—and his son Dick couldn’t be bothered with business of state, we sent across the sea for Charles’s son, and I remember well the joy with which these fickle folk greeted him as he rode into London on Oak-apple Day. But, my lad, I blush with shame to think of the foreign wickedness he brought with him, of the way he squandered the public money and ‘made Israel to sin.’ Not to my dying day shall I forget standing in the Strand—the very year in which you were born—and hearing the Dutch guns roaring in the Thames. It was a bitter disgrace; we all felt it, and we all longed for Blake and Old Noll again to send the Dutchman to the right about in double-quick time. Aye, and the second Charles did worse than that; he sold himself and us to the French king for a dirty pension, and plotted to overturn the Church and rob us of our liberties. But, thank God! he went to his own place before he had time to do his worst. And then came his brother, James the Second. Well, you know all about him. Two short months ago he lay within these very walls. Now they say he’s with the French king, and here’s his son-in-law standing in his shoes. The Dutchman is welcome, lad; he is the saviour of the country, and he has secured our liberties. Please God, under him the old days of good government and prosperity shall come back again.”

The liberties of the land were indeed secured, for no future British king would dare to tread the path which the Stuarts had trod to their destruction. William and Mary now ruled in England by virtue of a solemn contract made between themselves and their subjects. Before the crown was offered to them they were required to assent to the Declaration of Rights, which branded as illegal all the arrogant pretensions of the Stuarts. This Declaration asserted anew the national liberties, and is the third great charter of British liberty.