Certainly, the Prince of Orange did not at that moment indulge in speculations concerning the nature and origin of government.  The Congress of Delft had just clothed him with almost regal authority.  In his hands were the powers of war and peace, joint control of the magistracies and courts of justice, absolute supremacy over the army and the fleets.  It is true that these attributes had been conferred upon him ad interim, but it depended only upon himself to make the sovereignty personal and permanent.  He was so thoroughly absorbed in his work, however, that he did not even see the diadem which he put aside.  It was small matter to him whether they called him stadholder or guardian, prince or king.  He was the father of his country and its defender.  The people, from highest to lowest, called him “Father William,” and the title was enough for him.  The question with him was not what men should call him, but how he should best accomplish his task.

So little was he inspired by the sentiment of self-elevation, that he was anxiously seeking for a fitting person—­strong, wise, and willing enough —­to exercise the sovereignty which was thrust upon himself, but which he desired to exchange against an increased power to be actively useful to his country.  To expel the foreign oppressor; to strangle the Inquisition; to maintain the ancient liberties of the nation; here was labor enough for his own hands.  The vulgar thought of carving a throne out of the misfortunes of his country seems not to have entered his mind.  Upon one point, however, the Prince had been peremptory.  He would have no persecution of the opposite creed.  He was requested to suppress the Catholic religion, in terms.  As we have seen, he caused the expression to be exchanged for the words, “religion at variance with the Gospel.”  He resolutely stood out against all meddling with men’s consciences, or inquiring into their thoughts.  While smiting the Spanish Inquisition into the dust, he would have no Calvinist inquisition set up in its place.  Earnestly a convert to the Reformed religion, but hating and denouncing only what was corrupt in the ancient Church, he would not force men, with fire and sword, to travel to heaven upon his own road.  Thought should be toll-free.  Neither monk nor minister should burn, drown, or hang his fellow-creatures, when argument or expostulation failed to redeem them from error.  It was no small virtue, in that age, to rise to such a height.  We know what Calvinists, Zwinglians, Lutherans, have done in the Netherlands, in Germany, in Switzerland, and almost a century later in New England.  It is, therefore, with increased veneration that we regard this large and truly catholic mind.  His tolerance proceeded from no indifference.  No man can read his private writings, or form a thorough acquaintance with his interior life, without recognizing him as a deeply religious man.  He had faith unfaltering in God.  He had also faith in man and love for