“The explosion was terrific; down toppled tower and bastion, enveloping in their ruins the remainder of the garrison, and the castle was in a few moments reduced to the shapeless mass which it now presents.

“The wounded author of the catastrophe alone escaped; but the knowledge of his crimes prevented him from returning to his country, and he wandered for many years about the blackened walls, the terror of the neighbourhood, who considered him an evil spirit.  He subsisted on herbs growing on the adjacent mountains, till at last he disappeared no one knew where.  Since that period, the fortress has never been the resting place of the traveller or the haunt of the freebooter.”

Such was the terrible tale of blood and wounds which my informant communicated to me, and certainly, if it rests its foundation on any one of the horrors with which it is filled, the castle of Zohawk does well deserve its bad repute.

On the 23rd we left Bamee[=a]n and proceeded over the Ir[=a]k pass to Oorgundee, where we arrived on the 28th.  No event occurred nor any thing worth mentioning, unless it be the “naivete” of an old man, who, observing me light my cigar with a lucifer-match, asked in a grave and solemn tone, whether that was indeed fire.  I took his finger, and placed it in the flame, much to his astonishment, but convincing him of its reality.  He then enquired if it was the fire from heaven, which he heard the Feringhis were possessed of.  I endeavoured, but I fear without success, to explain to the old gentleman the nature of fulminating substances, and though he listened with patience, he was evidently still in the dark, when I presented him with the contents of my match-box and shewed him how to ignite them; his gratitude was manifest, as he walked off highly pleased with his toy, which I hope may not have burned his fingers.

Sturt left me on the 29th, being anxious to get back to Cabul; but as I had three days to spare, and my taste for wandering was still unabated, I joined Capt.  Westmacott, of the 37th Native Infantry, in a flying excursion into the valley of Charrik[=a]r, which the Affgh[=a]ns consider as the garden of Cabul.  The first day we rode from Oorgundee to Shukkur Durra, or “the sugar valley,” so called, not from growing that useful article of grocery, but from its fertile orchards and extensive vineyards.  After a few miles’ ride we crossed a low range of hills, and came upon the flourishing district of Be-tout,—­literally, “without mulberries.”  The sagacious reader will justly infer that mulberry trees were in profusion every where else; indeed so plentiful are they in general that many of the natives live almost exclusively in winter upon the fruit, which is dried and reduced to a powder, and after being mixed with a little milk, or even water, forms a palatable and nutritious food.  The view from the crest of the low range of hills was really enchanting, and strongly contrasted with the wild and craggy mountains