The History of England from the Accession of James II, vol 3 | Page 4

from Whitechapel to Piccadilly was
lighted up. The state rooms of the palace were thrown open, and were
filled by a gorgeous company of courtiers desirous to kiss the hands of
the King and Queen. The Whigs assembled there, flushed with victory
and prosperity. There were among them some who might be pardoned
if a vindictive feeling mingled with their joy. The most deeply injured
of all who had survived the evil times was absent. Lady Russell, while
her friends were crowding the galleries of Whitehall, remained in her
retreat, thinking of one who, if he had been still living, would have held

no undistinguished place in the ceremonies of that great day. But her
daughter, who had a few months before become the wife of Lord
Cavendish, was presented to the royal pair by his mother the Countess
of Devonshire. A letter is still extant in which the young lady described
with great vivacity the roar of the populace, the blaze in the streets, the
throng in the presence chamber, the beauty of Mary, and the expression
which ennobled and softened the harsh features of William. But the
most interesting passage is that in which the orphan girl avowed the
stern delight with which she had witnessed the tardy punishment of her
father's murderer.1
The example of London was followed by the provincial towns. During
three weeks the Gazettes were filled with accounts of the solemnities
by which the public joy manifested itself, cavalcades of gentlemen and
yeomen, processions of Sheriffs and Bailiffs in scarlet gowns, musters
of zealous Protestants with orange flags and ribands, salutes, bonfires,
illuminations, music, balls, dinners, gutters running with ale and
conduits spouting claret.2
Still more cordial was the rejoicing among the Dutch, when they
learned that the first minister of their Commonwealth had been raised
to a throne. On the very day of his accession he had written to assure
the States General that the change in his situation had made no change
in the affection which he bore to his native land, and that his new
dignity would, he hoped, enable him to discharge his old duties more
efficiently than ever. That oligarchical party, which had always been
hostile to the doctrines of Calvin and to the House of Orange, muttered
faintly that His Majesty ought to resign the Stadtholdership. But all
such mutterings were drowned by the acclamations of a people proud
of the genius and success of their great countryman. A day of
thanksgiving was appointed. In all the cities of the Seven Provinces the
public joy manifested itself by festivities of which the expense was
chiefly defrayed by voluntary gifts. Every class assisted. The poorest
labourer could help to set up an arch of triumph, or to bring sedge to a
bonfire. Even the ruined Huguenots of France could contribute the aid
of their ingenuity. One art which they had carried with them into
banishment was the art of making fireworks; and they now, in honour

of the victorious champion of their faith, lighted up the canals of
Amsterdam with showers of splendid constellations.3
To superficial observers it might well seem that William was, at this
time, one of the most enviable of human beings. He was in truth one of
the most anxious and unhappy. He well knew that the difficulties of his
task were only beginning. Already that dawn which had lately been so
bright was overcast; and many signs portended a dark and stormy day.
It was observed that two important classes took little or no part in the
festivities by which, all over England, the inauguration of the new
government was celebrated. Very seldom could either a priest or a
soldier be seen in the assemblages which gathered round the market
crosses where the King and Queen were proclaimed. The professional
pride both of the clergy and of the army had been deeply wounded. The
doctrine of nonresistance had been dear to the Anglican divines. It was
their distinguishing badge. It was their favourite theme. If we are to
judge by that portion of their oratory which has come down to us, they
had preached about the duty of passive obedience at least as often and
as zealously as about the Trinity or the Atonement.4 Their attachment
to their political creed had indeed been severely tried, and had, during a
short time, wavered. But with the tyranny of James the bitter feeling
which that tyranny had excited among them had passed away. The
parson of a parish was naturally unwilling to join in what was really a
triumph over those principles which, during twenty-eight years, his
flock had heard him proclaim on every anniversary of the Martyrdom
and on every anniversary of the Restoration.
The soldiers, too, were discontented. They hated Popery indeed; and
they had not