There has been for so many years such a peculiar interest attaching to the name of Cabul, that one naturally expected to be struck with the appearance of the city; and it was therefore disappointing to find nothing in its features remarkable or impressive. Viewed from the ridge in which we are now encamped, the town presents a mass of mud walls and flat roofs, with trees and gardens scattered among them, and belting them on the north and east with rich verdure. To the west the bastions and walls of the Bala Hissar, and the double line of fortifications about the Arsenal, stand out in bold relief; the steep hills to the north and south, with the open gorge through which the Cabul river runs, forming an imposing background. Apart from these there are no distinctive signs to distinguish the place from any other Eastern city; in fact, it lacks the tall buildings, mosques, and minarets which many a centre of Mahomedan fanaticism boasts. The strong wall which once guarded it and made it a place of strength has crumbled away, or been broken down, and in its place are the wretched mud structures called houses, in which it pleases the citizens to live. There is one landmark, the tomb of Taimur Shah: its low dome standing out in solitary state, and only noticeable by reason of the dead level of dreariness which surrounds it. The Cabul River is now dwarfed to a shallow streamlet which a child could wade, and the paltry bridges of masonry which span it are half ruinous, and of a style which any Western engineer would despise. The fact that there is a river at all is only patent when we come suddenly upon it; and though it may in flood-time swirl along with some attempt at dignity, it is now beneath contempt. The broad current which roars by Daka, and finally swells the Indus above Attock, would be angered if it could see its parent stream crawling so sluggishly along that even a _dhobie’s_ stone might turn it from its course. It is not at Cabul a river to be proud of, however much it may fertilize the valleys through which it runs. It is practical and commonplace, and the latter epithet applies with some little reserve to Cabul itself. There is not the overwhelming interest aroused as one traverses its streets that might be reasonably anticipated; and the picture of its teeming life and swarming bazaars has certainly been overdrawn. I do not mean to infer that its streets are deserted and its stalls forsaken. There are 23,000 houses and some 70,000 people within its bounds; but there is no greater sign of active commerce than Peshawur and half a dozen other cities of Northern India present to a stranger. As it is far from civilization, and is the first and last stage between Central Asia and India, accordingly as the current of trade sets in either direction, it has drawn to itself merchants of varied nationality, and become an exchange where trafficking in Eastern and Western goods goes on side by side. In