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