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 wouldn’t be denied.  I’ve seen them come on and grab at the muzzles of the rifles.  We did a lot of fighting behind rough breastworks, but sometimes they would rush us then.  We lost thirty officers out of thirty-four before we were finished.  Well, when I came home and went about among the clubs, the fellows used to say to me, ’What was this affair of yours up in the hills?  We had no particulars except the fact that you were fighting.’  And that expedition cost ten times as many men as your Egyptian one, besides causing six weeks of almost constant fighting; yet not a newspaper had a word to say about it!  We never grumbled much—­it was all in the day’s work; but it shows how men’s luck varies.”