being away on service with General Macpherson, who has started eastwards to join hands with General Charles Gough’s Brigade, now somewhere near Gundamak, on the Khyber side. Wood in abundance, from the houses in the Bala Hissar, has been brought in; and in the matter of doors and windows, Cabul _mistris_ are hard at work all day, turning them out by the score. There is much to be done yet before we are all housed for the winter, and the camp-followers and kahars have yet to be provided for, it being found impossible to clear out the Bemaru village for them, as the inhabitants are more numerous than were at first supposed, and they would have difficulty in finding shelter in Cabul or the villages about. Bemaru, which is embraced within the line of fortifications, will, therefore, remain undisturbed, for the present. If Bemaru could be turned into a large bazaar it would be a great gain, as the Cabul bazaar is a mile and a half away; and when snow is on the ground, such a distance cannot be travelled daily by our sepoys and followers without much discomfort. With native troops, and even European soldiers accustomed to Indian stations, a bazaar is almost a necessity, as little additions to the men’s rations and clothing can be picked up in it—all tending to keep them more contented and in better health. It is needless to say that stringent rules will be framed against the vending of native liquors; but these are most unpalatable, as a rule, and are not likely to be much in request. A mixture of strong Hollands gin and fusil oil, flavoured with turpentine, may give you some idea of Afghan arrack, but it must be tasted to be fully appreciated. We have been so long without rum, that a few strong stomachs have been found equal to grappling with it when largely diluted with water; but, as a “dram,” it would choke off a highly-seasoned Dutch skipper. Then, as food is good and plentiful, there is not the demand for strong liquor that there might otherwise be. Besides, hard work keeps the soldiers from that idle lounging which is such an incentive to drink. One little incident, however, while I am dealing with this matter of drinking, is worth mentioning. Some casks of Commissariat rum were left, too temptingly unguarded, near one of the British regiments; and a toper, who had scarcely seen a dram since the fight at Charasia, yielded to the temptation. As a consequence, he was soon under arrest. In the bustle of camp-life, there is but little accommodation for prisoners; and the lucky Highlander—we have had no “lucky Ghoorka” yet as at Jellalabad last campaign—was marched off to the spot in the ditch (the space between the outer wall and the line of barracks) where the Afghans awaiting trial are lodged. The man was placed in a tent where a sirdar (an Afghan noble) was calmly reflecting on his _kismut_ in being delivered into our hands, and the two prisoners were left to “make friends” as best they could. The sirdar was equal to