Emportant Notice. HE EDITOR has much pleasure in announcing that he has entered into an engagement with the two celebrated authors, Tifkins Thudd, Esquire, and Whiteley Grew, for the production in Things in General of a Thrilling Narrative of Patagonian life. After considerable difficulty, the two gentlemen in question have been induced to collaborate in the production of this important work. The Thrilling Narrative will commence in the next issue of Things in General, and will be entitled The Ice-pail of the Ganges. A DOMESTIC TALE OF PATAGONIAN LIFE. R Things in General. APRIL, 1878. On Things in General. BY TEUFELSDRÖCKH, JUNIOR. IDDLES AND MRS. HEMANS.-Little apparent connexion is there between conundrums and the writer of" Casabianca," yet the twain were brought into my mind in close relation to each other a few days ago during my study of a book-stall. It was one of those stalls that remind you of almshouses for decayed gentlewomen. These books have seen better days. They have still about them an air as of goodbreeding. They have been of value to some one in the past. Gentle hands have touched them. Tender eyes have looked upon them not without affection. Now that they are in reduced circumstances, you would not treat them roughly for the world. You handle them very carefully, for, indeed, they cannot bear harsh treatment. Out of a chaos of old books lying in an ancient wooden box, stuck, at an angle of 45° with the vertical, a piece of wood bearing a card with a huge 2 scrawled thereon that seemed to have nothing to do with the minute D in the upper right hand corner. Topmost of these books lay two-(1) "A Book of Riddles ;" (2) "The Poems of Mrs. Hemans." Both could be purchased for 4d. Once on a time riddles were, I suppose, of moment to society. Possibly, still, mild youths at mild teaparties ask the maidens of their hearts "Why is a something like a something else?" But now, on the whole, the age looks down on the conundrum-proposer. Time was when Felicia Hemans was a great poetess to many; I doubt not many white-haired old ladies at Bath and kindred places, haunted by modest competencies, could recite several of her pleasant verses, and would be quite agitated if you suggested she was not a great genius. And yet, now-a-days, she is but little read. The busy stream of life hustles along Tottenham Court Road, and none of the sharp-featured, knowing boys stops to buy "The Book of Riddles " for twopence; none of the anxious men and women stops to purchase "The Poems of Mrs Hemans" for twopence. Possibly all the riddles are known by heart, and every one has a copy of the poems. Possibly there are other destinations for the twopence. A NEW INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE.-I, Teufelsdröckh, junior, dared to purchase a hat last week. "Dared" is the word, for it was my desire, mark you, to buy a hat; and he that ventureth within a hatter's shop with the determination of securing one hat, and not of emerging thence furnished as to his head after the fashion of the typical modern Shylock, is, indeed, of a daring and withal a hopeful nature. It is as difficult for a man to order one article at his tailor's or his hatter's as it is impossible for a woman to perform that feat at her bonnet-shop. By dint of unexampled firmness, I had obtained my new head-gear, and was making for the door with it in my hand. Why did I not clap it on my head and flee? Even as I raised it crown-wards, the enemy bore down upon me. An enterprising shopman swooped out from some hiding place, and in a moment had placed on my defenceless head a ghastly instrument of torture. Ask me not to recall its nature. A thing of wooden rods, and springs, and screws, whose baleful touch I feel upon my forehead now. How long the torture lasted I know not. There are moments when we live years. When I emerged into the Strand's idea of the light of day, I breathed again. The agony was past! But not its consequences. Three days later from the torture-chamber came another hat of shape utterly unwearable. Placed upon my head this hat slid down with startling rapidity until it rested on my ears and the bridge of my nose. Then-not till then-did I know that the instrument of torture was a machine for measuring heads. A BATH-CHAIR IN SEVEN DIALS.-With a pale, worn, poverty-stricken woman in it; pushed slowly along by a hulking hobbledehoy, such as one sees on the curb-stones in Bow Street what time the prisoners' van waits for its freight of rascality; a very small boy at the handle, feeling a way for the strange procession through the unsavoury crowd. The pushing youth has frequently quite long spells of rest, while the steerer is prodding sodden men or draggle-tailed women in the back with the handle of the chair, and bidding them "Get out o' ther way, can't yer?" On the whole, the crowd makes way for them, not unfeelingly, and one drunken man reels obligingly out into the road and narrowly escapes one of those Juggernaut's cars of Seven Dials, a Victoria omnibus. I heard the woman in the chair speak "We'd best go in, Tom. minutes." I've been out my ten "One more turn, mother. It'll do yer good bein' out in the open air." The procession swung slowly round, traversed the crowded main thoroughfare once again, and yet again, and then disappeared down one of the fouler and yet noisier streets. I wonder if that dying woman has daily "ten minutes " in the "open air" of Seven Dials. ON THE DIFFICULTY OF LOSING A NEWSPAPER.When one has perused a daily paper there is not so much difficulty in getting rid thereof (1) Because it is not of sufficient value for benevolent humanity to think that you would not like to lose it. (2) Because benevolent humanity always likes to read newspapers. But let the paper be a weekly one of higher type than ordinary, and there are few more difficult matters than to lose it when it is once finished. There was a man once who had just read that excellent periodical Public Opinion. He had derived much information and amusement from its perusal. He would give the world at large an opportunity of doing the same. Therefore, as he walked along he surreptitiously dropped the paper in the street and hurried onwards. "Hi! hi! here! Mister! You've dropped something! Hi! hi!” Chorus of crowd. He hurried onwards madly. In vain. Nemesis was on his track. A small boy came panting after him. "You've dropped your paper, sir, please sir." He was an amiable man, and therefore he gave the boy copper coin of the realm, and passed onwards with his paper. Entering a railway carriage on the Metropolitan, whose sole other occupant was an old gentleman fast asleep, he secreted Public Opinion between himself and the arm of the carriage. Then when his station was reached, he rose stealthily, opened the door quietly, and with a triumphant smile strode away. They get up speed very quickly on that line. Ere he reached the exit the train was speeding out of the station. "I beg your pardon. You left-" shout from an old gentleman leaning from a carriage window, with a benign smile. The paper was hurled at his feet as the train vanished into the tunnel. Sadly he picked it up. Calling on a friend to lunch, as he divested himself of his great coat, he deposited Public Opinion, unseen, in the hall drawer. He lunched. He left. All was well at last. He required a light for his cigar. He plunged into the recesses of his great coat pocket for his match-case. There was a paper there. It was He sought his apartments with a chastened spirit. As he read his letters, and cast those Public Opinion. requiring no answers (and the bills) into the waste |