d, and they chatter eternally in that curious dialect that no
one has yet reduced to print. Beyond what little they please to reveal
now and again in the newspapers, we know nothing about their life which
touches so intimately the White on the one hand and the Black on the
other. It must be interesting--more interesting than the colourless
Anglo-Indian article; but who has treated of it? There was one novel
once in which the second heroine was an Eurasienne. She was a strictly
subordinate character, and came to a sad end. The poet of the race,
Henry Derozio,--he of whom Mr. Thomas Edwards wrote a history,--was
bitten with Keats and Scott and Shelley, and overlooked in his search
for material things that lay nearest to him. All this mass of humanity
in Dhurrumtollah is unexploited and almost unknown. Wanted, therefore, a
writer from among the Eurasians, who shall write so that men shall be
pleased to read a story of Eurasian life; then outsiders will be
interested in the People of India, and will admit that the race has
possibilities.

A futile attempt to get to Park Street from Dhurrumtollah ends in the
market--the Hogg Market men call it. Perhaps a knight of that name built
it. It is not one-half as pretty as the Crawford Market, in Bombay, but
... it appears to be the trysting place of Young Calcutta. The natural
inclination of youth is to lie abed late, and to let the seniors do all
the hard work. Why, therefore, should Pyramus, who has to be ruling
account forms at ten, and Thisbe, who _cannot_ be interested in the
price of second-quality beef, wander, in studiously correct raiment,
round and about the stalls before the sun is well clear of the earth?
Pyramus carries a walking stick with imitation silver straps upon it,
and there are cloth tops to his boots; but his collar has been two days
worn. Thisbe crowns her dark head with a blue velvet Tam-o'-Shanter; but
one of her boots lacks a button, and there is a tear in the left-hand
glove. Mamma, who despises gloves, is rapidly filling a shallow basket,
that the coolie-boy carries, with vegetables, potatoes, purple brinjals,
and--Oh, Pyramus! Do you ever kiss Thisbe when Mamma is not
by?--garlic--yea, _lusson_ of the bazaar! Mamma is generous in her views
on garlic. Pyramus comes round the corner of the stall looking for
nobody in particular--not he--and is elaborately polite to Mamma.
Somehow, he and Thisbe drift off together, and Mamma, very portly and
very voluble,