derive a more lively impression of the sombre mountains, and of the
peoples who dwell beneath their shadow.

The tale that I have to tell is one of frontier war. Neither the
importance of the issues, nor the numbers of the combatants, are on an
European scale. The fate of empires does not hang on the result. Yet the
narrative may not be without interest, or material for reflection. In
the quarrels of civilised nations, great armies, many thousands strong,
collide. Brigades and battalions are hurried forward, and come perhaps
within some fire zone, swept by concentrated batteries, or massed
musketry. Hundreds or thousands fall killed and wounded. The survivors
struggle on blindly, dazed and dumfoundered, to the nearest cover. Fresh
troops are continuously poured on from behind. At length one side or the
other gives way. In all this tumult, this wholesale slaughter, the
individual and his feelings are utterly lost. Only the army has a tale
to tell. With events on such a scale, the hopes and fears, the strength
and weakness, of man are alike indistinguishable. Amid the din and dust
little but destruction can be discerned. But on the frontier, in the
clear light of morning, when the mountain side is dotted with smoke
puffs, and every ridge sparkles with bright sword blades, the spectator
may observe and accurately appreciate all grades of human courage--the
wild fanaticism of the Ghazi, the composed fatalism of the Sikh, the
stubbornness of the British soldier, and the jaunty daring of his
officers. He may remark occasions of devotion and self-sacrifice, of
cool cynicism and stern resolve. He may participate in moments of wild
enthusiasm, or of savage anger and dismay. The skill of the general, the
quality of the troops, the eternal principles of the art of war, will be
as clearly displayed as on historic fields. Only the scale of the
statistics is reduced.