uld be heart-sick
with horror had you gone through my experience. I have seen an army
slaughtered before my eyes, and am here alone to tell it."

It was true; the army had vanished; an event had happened almost without
precedent in the history of the world, unless we instance the burying of
the army of Cambyses in the African desert. When Dr. Brydon was
sufficiently rested and refreshed he told his story. It is the story we
have here to repeat.

In the summer of 1841 the British army under General Elphinstone lay in
cantonments near the city of Cabul, the capital of Afghanistan, in a
position far from safe or well chosen. They were a mile and a half from
the citadel,--the Bala Hissar,--with a river between. Every corner of
their cantonments was commanded by hills or Afghan forts. Even their
provisions were beyond their reach, in case of attack, being stored in a
fort at some distance from the cantonments. They were in the heart of a
hostile population. General Elphinstone, trusting too fully in the
puppet of a khan who had been set up by British bayonets, had carelessly
kept his command in a weak and untenable position.

The general was old and in bad health; by no means the man for the
emergency. He was controlled by bad advisers, who thought only of
returning to India, and discouraged the strengthening of the fortress.
The officers lost heart on seeing the supineness of their leader. The
men were weary of incessant watching, annoyed by the insults of the
natives, discouraged by frequent reports of the death of comrades, who
had been picked off by roving enemies. The ladies alone retained
confidence, occupying themselves in the culture of their gardens, which,
in the delightful summer climate of that situation, rewarded their
labors with an abundance of flowers.

As time went on the situation grew rapidly worse. Akbar Khan, the
leading spirit among the hostile Afghans, came down from the north and
occupied the Khoord Cabul Pass,--the only way back to Hindustan.
Ammunition was failing, food was decreasing, the enemy were growing
daily stronger and more aggressive. Affairs had come to such a pass that
but one of two things remained to do,--to leave the cantonments and seek
shelter in the citadel till help should arrive, or to endeavor to march
back to India.

On the 23d of December the garrison was alarmed by a frightful example
of boldness and ferocity in the enemy. Sir William Macnaughten, the
English envoy, who