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 Oh, English hearts, how is it that you can forget! I would that every one of the millions who glory in the name of Briton might have been gathered from every quarter of that glorious Empire on which no sun can set to see that remnant of its fighting days pass by. There could have been no heart that would not have been stirred. For none who saw can forget. Would that I had the pen to paint it in words that might bring home its power to those to whom it was not given to see. Pride of race is a good thing for a nation. England has so much of it in one way and so little in another. I have lived years in England, and I might scarcely have known that you ever possessed such a place as India at all. You have so little enthusiasm. I don't want you to shriek and gesticulate. That would be un-English. But do know something about and take an interest in and be proud of your great Indian Empire. Is this small band of heroes nothing to you as it passes by? Do you ever think what it would have meant if you had lost India? Impossible, you say; but what would have happened save for the loyalty of the native troops? And this feeble little company passing by represent all that is left of them. Surely if the great heart of England knew, it would go out to them. But you Englishmen are so dreadfully hard to rouse. For fifty years those men who did so much for you have been growing old, poor, unnoticed, with but scant honour and respect. That was half the pathos of it as one watched them marching by. It was as if one brought from some old time cabinet a