is left to chaffer and sort and select alone. In the name
of the Sacred Unities do not, young people, retire to the meat-stalls to
exchange confidences! Come up to this end, where the roses are arriving
in great flat baskets, where the air is heavy with the fragrance of
flowers, and the young buds and greenery are littering all the floor.
They won't--they prefer talking by the dead, unromantic muttons, where
there are not so many buyers. There must have been a quarrel to make up.
Thisbe shakes the blue velvet Tam-o'-Shanter and says, "Oah yess!"
scornfully. Pyramus answers: "No-a, no-a. Do-ant say thatt." Mamma's
basket is full and she picks up Thisbe hastily. Pyramus departs. _He_
never came here to do any marketing. He came to meet Thisbe, who in ten
years will own a figure very much like Mamma's. May their ways be smooth
before them, and after honest service of the Government, may Pyramus
retire on 250 rupees per mensem, into a nice little house somewhere in
Monghyr or Chunar!

From love by natural sequence to death. Where _is_ the Park Street
Cemetery? A hundred hack-drivers leap from their boxes and invade the
market, and after a short struggle one of them uncarts his capture in a
burial-ground--a ghastly new place, close to a tramway. This is not what
is wanted. The living dead are here--the people whose names are not yet
altogether perished and whose tombstones are tended. "Where are the
_old_ dead?" "Nobody goes there," says the driver. "It is up that road."
He points up a long and utterly deserted thoroughfare, running between
high walls. This is the place, and the entrance to it, with its gardener
waiting with one brown, battered rose for the visitor, its grilled door
and its professional notices, bears a hideous likeness to the entrance
of Simla churchyard. But, once inside, the sightseer stands in the heart
of utter desolation--all the more forlorn for being swept up. Lower
Park Street cuts a great graveyard in two. The guide-books will tell you
when the place was opened and when it was closed. The eye is ready to
swear that it is as old as Herculaneum and Pompeii. The tombs are small
houses. It is as though we walked down the streets of a town, so tall
are they and so closely do they stand--a town shrivelled by fire, and
scarred by frost and siege. Men must have been afraid of their friends
rising up before the due time that they weighted them with such cruel
mounds of masonry. Strong man, weak woman, or so