Inquisitiveness has been well described as “an itch for prying into other people’s affairs, to the neglect of our own; an ignorant hankering after all such knowledge as is not worth knowing; a curiosity to learn things that are not at all curious.” People of this stamp would rather be “put to the question” than not to ask questions. Silence is torture to them. A genuine _quidnunc_ prefers even false news to _no_ news; he prides himself upon having the first information of things that never happened. Yankees are supposed to have attained the greatest art in parrying inquisitiveness, but there is a story extant of a “Londoner” on his travels in the provinces, who rather eclipses the cunning “Yankee Peddler.” In traveling post, says the narrator, he was obliged to stop at a village to replace a shoe which his horse had lost; when the “Paul Pry” of the place bustled up to the carriage-window, and without waiting for the ceremony of an introduction, said: “Good-morning, sir. Horse cast a shoe I see. I suppose, sir, you are going to—?” Here he paused, expecting the name of the place to be supplied; but the gentleman answered: “You are quite right; I generally go there at this season.” “Ay—ahem!—do you? And no doubt you are now come from—?” “Right again, sir; I _live_ there.” “Oh, ay; I see: you do! But I perceive it is a London shay. Is there any thing stirring in London?” “Oh, yes; plenty of other chaises and carriages of all sorts.” “Ay, ay, of course. But what do folks say?” “They say their prayers every Sunday.” “That isn’t what I mean. I want to know whether there is any thing new and fresh.” “Yes; bread and herrings.” “Ah, you are a queer fellow. Pray, mister, may I ask your name?” “Fools and clowns,” said the gentleman, “call me ‘Mister;’ but I am in reality one of the clowns of Aristophanes; and my real name is _Brekekekex Koax!_ Drive on, postillion!” Now this is what _we_ call a “pursuit of knowledge under difficulties” of the most _obstinate_ kind. ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ In these “leaking” days of wintry-spring, when that classical compound called “_splosh_,” a conglomerate of dirty snow and unmistakable mud, pervades the streets of the city, perhaps these “_Street Thoughts by a Surgeon_” may not be without some degree of wholesome effect upon the community: “In perambulating the streets at this period, what a number of little ragamuffins I observe trundling their hoops! With what interest I contemplate their youthful sport; particularly when I regard its probable consequences! A hoop runs between a gentleman’s legs. He falls. When I reflect on the wonderful construction of the skeleton, and consider to how many fractures and dislocations it is liable in such a case, my bosom expands to a considerate police, to whose ‘non-interference’ we are indebted for such chances of practice!