a springy step, Sir John Lawrence, with a visible feebleness, made the customary three paces forward to the edge of the landing-place to receive him. I was among the group of officers who followed them into the Council Chamber; and as we went, a friend compared the scene to an even more memorable one on these same stairs. The toilworn statesman, who had done more than any other single Englishman to save India in 1857, was now handing it over to an untried successor; and thirteen years before, Lord Dalhousie, the stern ruler who did more than any other Englishman to build up that Empire, had come to the same act of demission on the same spot, with a face still more deeply ploughed by disease and care, a mind and body more weary, and bearing within him the death which he was about to pay as the price of great services to his country.
In the Chamber, Sir John Lawrence and his Council took their usual seats at the table, the chief secretaries stood round, a crowd of officers filled the room, and the pictured faces of the Englishmen who had won and kept India in times past looked down from the walls. The clerk read out the oaths in a clear voice, and Lord Mayo assented. At the same moment the Viceroy's band burst forth with 'God Save the Queen' in the garden below, a great shout came in from the people outside, the fort thundered out its royal salute, and the 196 millions of British India had passed under a new ruler.
In the evening, at a State dinner given by Sir
