The man whom I have thus described had from infancy suffered from bad health. Asthma and consumption--likely to be increased by the damp atmosphere and the unhealthy fogs which float about the Dutch dykes--rendered it necessary for him to be propped up in bed, when cruel headaches did not make repose impossible; and soon after reaching manhood, he had to endure a severe attack of that virulent disease--small-pox. Such circumstances did not improve a melancholy temperament. Not naturally unamiable, William, like his countrymen, was grave and taciturn; and amongst his original endowments we notice a judgment unaccompanied by imagination, but with a quick perception and a keen forecast, which made him sensitively alive to the responsibilities and issues of his own career. He saw himself entering a thorny road, which might conduct to prosperity or end in defeat; at any rate, he resolved it should not lead to disgrace. In such circumstances and with such a character, we are not surprised to find him pronounced cold, reserved, and phlegmatic. His lofty forehead, piercing eyes, aquiline nose, and compressed lips, indicated energy of mind and force of will; but attenuated features, delicate limbs, and feeble gait, betrayed the frailty of the framework which encased his soul. People of his disposition at times reveal the existence of tender sensibilities. They form friendships limited in extent, but intense in degree. Nor do sallies of humour fail to sparkle in their sombre lives. William’s almost romantic love for Bentinck, who watched him in illness, is generally known. Less noticed is the Prince’s power of repartee. One day as he walked in the pleasant gardens of the Hague, the Grand Pensionary praised one of the parterres. “Yes,” replied His Highness, “this garden is very fine, but there is too much _white_ in it.” The lilies were abundant, but the Pensionary--whose name, De Witt, meant white--perceived at once that William was thinking more of him and of his influence than of the flowers smiling at his feet. Averse to fashionable amusements, he dearly loved the chase. He was, according to Sir William Temple, always in bed and asleep by ten o’clock; and he preferred a “tumbler of cold ale” to a glass of the choicest wine.[1] The Prince paid a second visit to England in 1678, when he married his cousin, the Princess Mary--a match which, though suggested by State policy, turned out one of pure affection. It prepared the way for the part he was to play in the Revolution, and on account of that event, which, in its ecclesiastical consequences, forms a prominent subject in this volume, a glance at his early life has been deemed essential. What most concerns us is not his military and political character, not his career as a soldier or a statesman, but his religious opinions, sympathies, and policy, and the bearing of these upon the changes wrought during his reign in the ecclesiastical affairs of our country.