s a general, and a leader of men. Afghanistan stands as
a line between the two great empires of England and Russia; and is
likely, sooner or later, to become the scene of a tremendous
struggle between these nations. Happily, at the present time the
Afghans are on our side. It is true that we have warred with, and
beaten them; but our retirement, after victory, has at least shown
them that we have no desire to take their country while, on the
other hand, they know that for those races upon whom Russia has
once laid her hand there is no escape.
In these pages you will see the strength and the weakness of these
wild people of the mountains; their strength lying in their
personal bravery, their determination to preserve their freedom at
all costs, and the nature of their country. Their weakness consists
in their want of organization, their tribal jealousies, and their
impatience of regular habits and of the restraint necessary to
render them good soldiers. But, when led and organized by English
officers, there are no better soldiers in the world; as is proved
by the splendid services which have been rendered by the frontier
force, which is composed almost entirely of Afghan tribesmen.
Their history shows that defeat has little moral effect upon them.
Crushed one day, they will rise again the next; scattered--it would
seem hopelessly--they are ready to reassemble, and renew the
conflict, at the first summons of their chiefs. Guided by British
advice, led by British officers and, it may be, paid by British
gold, Afghanistan is likely to prove an invaluable ally to us, when
the day comes that Russia believes herself strong enough to move
forward towards the goal of all her hopes and efforts, for the last
fifty years--the conquest of India.
G. A. Henty.
Chapter 1: The Lost Child.
"My poor pets!" a lady exclaimed, sorrowfully; "it is too bad. They
all knew me so well; and ran to meet me, when they saw me coming;
and seemed really pleased to see me, even when I had no food to
give them."
"Which was not often, my dear," Captain Ripon--her husband--said.
"However it is, as you say, too bad; and I will bring the fellow to
justice, if I can. There are twelve prize fowls--worth a couple of
guineas apiece, not to mention the fact of their being pets of
yours--stolen, probably by tramps; who will eat them, and for whom
the commonest barn-door chickens would have done as well. There are
marks of blood in two or three
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