the people.  It has been from times immemorial one of the principles of Indian rulership that the ruler cannot deny to his subjects the privilege of access to his person, and many are those who have gained more popularity by giving ample opportunity to their subjects for stating to them their grievances in the royal presence than by ever actually redressing them.  In Calcutta especially when the King and Queen moved cheerfully amongst the delirious crowds that had thronged to the Maidan to worship them, the scene surpassed all previous experiences.  For had not one of the measures announced as the Royal will at the Delhi Durbar been the revision at last of Lord Curzon’s detested Partition of Bengal?  The furious agitation of the first few years had broken in vain against the dead wall of the chose jugee which Mr. Morley had upheld, and it had gradually died down.  The wound, however, had been still there, and now the King’s hand had touched and healed it.  The old Province of Bengal was not indeed restored within its former limits, but Eastern Bengal, created as the Hindu Bengalees believed, in favour of Mahomedan ascendancy, disappeared, and in its stead Behar and Orissa, where a large part of the population was of a different stock and spoke a different tongue, were detached to the west and south of Bengal proper and formed into a separate province which served equally well to relieve administrative congestion without doing violence to Bengalee sentiment.

On the very first anniversary, however, of the day of the great Delhi Durbar an audacious attempt to murder the Viceroy at the moment when he was making his solemn entry into the new capital came as a painful reminder that the fangs of Indian anarchism had not yet been drawn.  From one of the balconies of the Chandni Chauk, the chief thoroughfare of the native city, a bomb was thrown at Lord Hardinge who was riding with Lady Hardinge on a State elephant, in accordance with Indian usage, on his way to the Fort where he was to have delivered a message of greeting to the people of India recalling the memorable results of the Royal visit.  The Viceroy was severely wounded and Lady Hardinge, though she escaped without any apparent hurt, suffered a shock which at least hastened her premature death two and a half years later.  Lord Hardinge had already earned the widespread confidence of Indians by his undisguised sympathy with all their legitimate aspirations, and the Lady Hardinge’s School of Medicine for Indian women stands now at Delhi as an enduring monument, not only of the keen interest which she took in the cause of Indian womanhood and in everything that could tend to its advancement, but of the affection she had won by a rare charm of manner that was, with her, merely the outward reflection of a gentle and finely tempered nature.  There had been abortive plots against Lord Minto’s life, but it had been deemed politic to minimise their importance.  This, however, was an attempt too