ace. Those about to die, salute thee, O England, our mother!
Is it worth while? Sometimes I have my doubts. Moreover, I never talk
with one of our impassive, masterful Anglo-Indians without feeling sorry
that their splendid capacities should be so often cast into darkness,
and their fame confined to the gossip of a clump of bungalows. Verily
our little wars use up an immense quantity of raw material in the shape
of intellect and power. A man whose culture is far beyond that of the
mouthing politicians at home and whose statesmanship is not to be
compared to the ignorant crudities of the pigmies who strut and fret on
the English party stage--this man spends great part of a lifetime in
ruling and fighting; he gives every force of a great intellect and will
to his labours, and he achieves definite and beneficent practical
results; yet his name is never mentioned in England, and any vulgar
vestryman would probably outweigh him in the eyes of the populace.
Carlyle says that we should despise fame. "Do your work," observes the
sage, "and never mind the rest. When your duty is done, no further
concern rests with you." And then the aged thinker goes on to snarl at
puny creatures who are not content to be unknown. Well, that is all very
stoical and very grand, and so forth; but Carlyle forgot human nature.
He himself raged and gnashed his teeth because the world neglected him,
and I must with every humility ask forgiveness of his _manes_ if I
express some commiseration for the unknown braves who perish in our
little wars. Our callousness as individuals can hardly be called lordly,
though the results are majestic; we accept supreme services, and we
accept the supreme sacrifice (Skin for skin: all that a man hath will he
give for his life), and we very rarely think fit to growl forth a chance
word of thanks. Luckily our splendid men are not very importunate, and
most of them accept with silent humour the neglect which befalls them.
An old fighting general once remarked, "These fellows are in luck since
the telegraph and the correspondents have been at work. We weren't so
fortunate in my day. I went through the Crimea and the Mutiny, and there
was yet another affair in 1863 that was hotter than either, so far as
close fighting and proportional losses of troops were concerned. A
force of three thousand was sent against the Afghans, and they never
gave us much rest night or day. They seemed determined to give their
lives away, and they