"Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him." I can neither envy nor estimate the feelings which must have occupied the hearts of his invidious traducers, (and one especially, high in rank and authority, though ennobled only by name,) when the deeds and fate of the talented and lion-hearted Dennie wrung from the senate of England, after his death, that well-merited tribute which had not fallen to his lot during a life of gallant exploits, hardships, and sufferings. The simultaneous advances of Generals Pollock and Nott from Jellalabad and Kandahar, were almost daily marked by the defeat or flight of the savage tribes who had aided in the massacre of the ill-fated garrison of Caubul. Ghuzni was not defended a second time, but evacuated on the approach of Nott, who dismantled its blood-stained fortifications, and thence moved, unopposed, to unite his army with Pollock's at Caubul. The tribes under Akbar Khan were more resolute in their defence; but light mountain troops, without artillery, and ignorant even of the most simple methods of rendering their passes more difficult of approach, present but a contemptible barrier to a well-organized and effective army. Marching over the heights, which were strewn with the mangled corpses of their ill-fated comrades, peals of British musketry rung a tardy death-knell to their memories, but wrote the epitaph in the blood of their assassins. Leaving Khoord Caubul, the most formidable barrier to the metropolis, undefended, Akbar and his forces fled from the field of Tezeen, and left the country again in the hands of the British conquerors. The capture of Istalif closed the three years' tragedy enacted amidst the rugged defiles of Afghanistan. The unexpected release of the prisoners crowned the successes of this fortunate expedition; and it now remained only to retire, with as good a grace as possible, from a country where the most extraordinary vagary which had ever invaded the head of civilized man had originally conducted the army of the Indus. As a last memento of the British invasion, the arched bazaars of the city of Caubul were destroyed, and buried in a confused mass of blackened ruins. This has always appeared to me rather a wanton mode of exciting the hostility of the harmless bunneahs[4] of Caubul against us: for the insurrection and its concomitant disasters arose not amongst the mercantile community of Caubul, but amongst the warlike mountain tribes. To punish the unfortunate house-owners of the bazaars, was not a dignified retaliation for our losses.