remained silent; and the bill passed without a division.

By this time the King's strong understanding had mastered, as it
seldom failed, after a struggle, to master, his rebellious
temper. He had made up his mind to fulfil his great mission to
the end. It was with no common pain that he admitted it to be
necessary for him to give his assent to the disbanding bill. But
in this case it would have been worse than useless to resort to
his veto. For, if the bill had been rejected, the army would have
been dissolved, and he would have been left without even the
seven thousand men whom the Commons were willing to allow him. He
determined, therefore, to comply with the wish of his people, and
at the same time to give them a weighty and serious but friendly
admonition. Never had he succeeded better in suppressing the
outward signs of his emotions than on the day on which he carried
this determination into effect. The public mind was much excited.
The crowds in the parks and streets were immense. The Jacobites
came in troops, hoping to enjoy the pleasure of reading shame and
rage on the face of him whom they most hated and dreaded. The
hope was disappointed. The Prussian Minister, a discerning
observer, free from the passions which distracted English
society, accompanied the royal procession from St. James's Palace
to Westminster Hall. He well knew how bitterly William had been
mortified, and was astonished to see him present himself to the
public gaze with a serene and cheerful aspect.

The speech delivered from the throne was much admired; and the
correspondent of the States General acknowledged that he
despaired of exhibiting in a French translation the graces of
style which distinguished the original. Indeed that weighty,