out over the wide, wide world with an expression of haughty contempt, which is almost awe-inspiring. On the green foreground, which represents the grassy sward of the Cabul plain, a dog, abnormally developed in some particulars, gambols along, barking joyously (if the protrusion of a crimson tongue as big as his head means anything), and thoroughly enjoying his master’s triumph. What that triumph is has yet to be told! On the flank of the horse, and so close as to be in danger of its heels, is the figure of a British officer, clad in the old Pandy uniform, with a musket at the trail in his hand, and crouching in the most abject terror. His face, that of a boy subaltern, is turned upwards; while his eye, full of fear and respect, is watching his Afghan conqueror with great intentness. He is at the double, to keep up with the horse, and the artist has cleverly depicted in figure and expression the humiliation he is undergoing. Nothing could be finer than the contrast between the black-bearded Afghan, with his enormous pouting lips of a purple tinge, and staring eyes, and the smooth boyish face, full of timidity, of the unlucky Briton he is leading captive. We can afford to laugh at the picture, for “the wheel has come full circle,” and the subject now for an artist to draw would be an English Lancer, perfect in his array as a lily of the field, leading captive at his stirrup a typical Afghan (say Yakub Khan, for example) with a halter round his neck and clad in all the simplicity of a _dhotie_. The picture I have described is a standing curiosity in Camp, and is to be the nucleus of a future Cabul Picture Gallery.