What a strange pathos seems to me to accompany all our Indian story! Besides that official history which fills Gazettes, and embroiders banners with names of victory; which gives moralists and enemies cause to cry out at English rapine; and enables patriots to boast of invincible British valour--besides the splendour and conquest, the wealth and glory, the crowned ambition, the conquered danger, the vast prize, and the blood freely shed in winning it--should not one remember the tears, too?
Besides the lives of myriads of British men, conquering on a hundred fields, from Plassey to Meanee, and bathing them cruore nostro: think of the women, and the tribute which they perforce must pay to those victorious achievements.

Scarce a soldier goes to yonder shores but leaves a home and grief in it behind him.

The lords of the subject province find wives there; but their children cannot live on the soil.

The parents bring their children to the shore, and part from them.

The family must be broken up--keep the flowers of your home beyond a certain time, and the sickening buds wither and die.