themselves.1

After reposing some hours in the hut of a peasant, William
proceeded to the Hague. He was impatiently expected there for,
though the fleet which brought him was not visible from the
shore, the royal salutes had been heard through the mist, and had
apprised the whole coast of his arrival. Thousands had assembled
at Honslaerdyk to welcome him with applause which came from their
hearts and which went to his heart. That was one of the few white
days of a life, beneficent indeed and glorious, but far from
happy. After more than two years passed in a strange land, the
exile had again set foot on his native soil. He heard again the
language of his nursery. He saw again the scenery and the
architecture which were inseparably associated in his mind with
the recollections of childhood and the sacred feeling of home;
the dreary mounds of sand, shells and weeds, on which the waves
of the German Ocean broke; the interminable meadows intersected
by trenches; the straight canals; the villas bright with paint
and adorned with quaint images and inscriptions. He had lived
during many weary months among a people who did not love him, who
did not understand him, who could never forget that he was a
foreigner. Those Englishmen who served him most faithfully served
him without enthusiasm, without personal attachment, and merely
from a sense of public duty. In their hearts they were sorry that
they had no choice but between an English tyrant and a Dutch
deliverer. All was now changed. William was among a population by
which he was adored, as Elizabeth had been adored when she rode
through her army at Tilbury, as Charles the Second had been
adored when he landed at Dover. It is true that the old enemies
of the House of Orange had not been inactive during the absence