Winkie," and in the "Ballad of the King's Jest," are pictures and glimpses of Peshawar, the Pathans and the hills, that flash upon one's memory at every turn. With Peshawar, too, are associated all the great names of Anglo-Indian history of the past half-century,—Lawrence, Edwards, Nicholson, and both the Robertses.
The great cantonment at the end of the track is one of the chief military stations of the empire, and while it rejoices in a crisp, electric air worthy of a sanatorium in midwinter, its climate for the rest of the year gives it an evil name. It is another of the many "ovens of India," where the thermometer rises to 102° and 110° every summer, and where the gray, beclouded, breathless dog-days during the rains aggravate men to madness.
After all the other bazaars of India, after the Chandni Chauk of Delhi and the brilliant, theatrical, spectacular streets of Lahore, the bazaars of Peshawar were captivating out of all reason, and held us fascinated until dusk, when lamps and lanterns threw strange illumination upon all the picturesque people known to the Middle East. There was not so much color as at Lahore, perhaps; but the fiercely bearded ones, with their tremendous turbans, long chogas, or caftans, and gay vests, were so many hundreds of Vereshchagin's models turned loose, and kodak film was reeled away by the yard as long as the spool would turn. It was too striking, too theatrical, and too spectacular to be the every-day life at even the farthest end of the empire. Each little open alcove of a shop along the
