a necessary of life to him.  But it was of importance that Heinsius should be fully informed both as to the whole plan of the next campaign and as to the state of the preparations.  Albemarle was in full possession of the King’s views on these subjects.  He was therefore sent to the Hague.  Heinsius was at that time suffering from indisposition, which was indeed a trifle when compared with the maladies under which William was sinking.  But in the nature of William there was none of that selfishness which is the too common vice of invalids.  On the twentieth of February he sent to Heinsius a letter in which he did not even allude to his own sufferings and infirmities.  “I am,” he said, “infinitely concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite reestablished.  May God be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery.  I am unalterably your good friend, William.”  Those were the last lines of that long correspondence.

On the twentieth of February William was ambling on a favourite horse, named Sorrel, through the park of Hampton Court.  He urged his horse to strike into a gallop just at the spot where a mole had been at work.  Sorrel stumbled on the mole-hill, and went down on his knees.  The King fell off, and broke his collar bone.  The bone was set; and he returned to Kensington in his coach.  The jolting of the rough roads of that time made it necessary to reduce the fracture again.  To a young and vigorous man such an accident would have been a trifle.  But the frame of William was not in a condition to bear even the slightest shock.  He felt that his time was short, and grieved, with a grief such as only noble spirits feel, to think that he must leave his work but half finished.  It was possible that he might still live until one of his plans should be carried into execution.  He had long known that the relation in which England and Scotland stood to each other was at best precarious, and often unfriendly, and that it might be doubted whether, in an estimate of the British power, the resources of the smaller country ought not to be deducted from those of the larger.  Recent events had proved that, without doubt, the two kingdoms could not possibly continue for another year to be on the terms on which they had been during the preceding century, and that there must be between them either absolute union or deadly enmity.  Their enmity would bring frightful calamities, not on themselves alone, but on all the civilised world.  Their union would be the best security for the prosperity of both, for the internal tranquillity of the island, for the just balance of power among European states, and for the immunities of all Protestant countries.  On the twenty-eighth of February the Commons listened with uncovered heads to the last message that bore William’s sign manual.  An unhappy accident, he told them, had forced him to make to them in writing a communication which he would gladly have made from the throne.  He had, in the first year of his reign, expressed his desire