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comes only once in a lifetime; but it was also a day of hard and strenuous work.

The meeting for laying the foundation-stone of the Federation Hall was fixed for 3.30 p.m. Long before the appointed hour, the grounds where the meeting was to be held were filled with a surging crowd, which flowed out into the streets, now rendered quite impassable. It was estimated that at least fifty thousand people must have been present. Yet so quiet and orderly was this vast assemblage that not a policeman was required, and no police- man was to be seen. The police had mustered strong in the different police stations, but their services were not needed either to main- tain order or to regulate traffic.

The function of laying the foundation-stone was to be performed by Mr. Ananda Mohan Bose. Of Mr. Ananda Mohan Bose I have spoken elsewhere and in another connexion. He came from one of the districts in the sundered province, the district of Mymensingh, and he not only regarded the Partition of Bengal as a great national calamity, but felt it as a personal grievance. He was now an invalid, the victim of a deadly disease which carried him off in less than twelve months' time. He was confined to his bed; but, as in the case of many other great men, the spirit rose above the ailments of the flesh; and, despite his weakness and the deepening shadow of his approaching end, his interest in public affairs continued unabated. We approached him. We consulted his medical advisers. They thought that under proper conditions he might be permitted to perform the function. To us it was a matter of great satisfaction that the foundation-stone would be laid by one of the noblest sons of Bengal, whose patriotic enthusiasm had been stirred by the severance, by autocratic power, of old and time- honoured associations.

The speech that he prepared on his sick-bed, amid the daily inroads of a mortal disease, is striking evidence of the triumph of mind and spirit over matter. I regard it as the greatest of his oratorical performances, and one of the noblest orations to which it has been one's privilege to listen. Indeed, judged by what happened within a few months, it was the song of the dying swan. The honour of reading the speech fell to me, for my friend was too weak to read it himself: he could not indeed stand on his legs. At the appointed hour, attended by his medical advisers and carried in an invalid's chair, he was brought to the meeting amid cries of Bande-Mataram, the whole of that vast audience rising to its feet,