So intolerable was the pressure that, after much delay and repeated refusals to interfere, the Whig ministers were compelled to bestir themselves, and to suspend the operation of the Banking Act, in order to save the country from actual convulsion. Parliament was summoned about the middle of November, more, perhaps, for the sake of obtaining a bill of indemnity for the suspension—a measure which, after all, did not lead to any infringement of the Act—than with the view of boldly facing the increasing difficulties of the country. Notwithstanding annual disappointment, every one waited for the speech from the throne with the most intense anxiety, trusting that at such a time some comforting glimpses for the future, some earnest ministerial schemes would be announced, likely to retrieve the commercial world from its embarrassment. These expectations were destined to receive an immediate check. The financial prose of the author of “Don Carlos” was as vague and unsatisfactory as his halting tragic verse. There was, of course, a decent show of regret for public calamity, but no vestige of an intention to interpose any remedial measure. In point of finance, the only intelligible topic contained in the speech was ominous of the repeal of the Navigation Laws. Sanitary improvements, the great Whig hobby, which they are constantly thrusting forward beneath the public nose, were also recommended. Ireland, then testifying the humane and Christian disposition of its inhabitants, by a series of the most cold-blooded and revolting murders, was recommended to the benevolence of the state. A treaty with the Republic of the Equator, touching the suppression of the slave-trade, was announced; and the Whigs looked forward “with confidence to the maintenance of the general peace of Europe.” A more paltry programme was never yet submitted to the public eye.