What would all Mr. Applegath’s machinery do towards producing the newspaper without the aid of short-hand, which makes its expedition second only to thought.  Half an hour’s delay of “the paper” makes us fret and fume and condemn the fair provider of our breakfast—­for over-roasted coffee and stale eggs—­all because the paper is not “come;” but when would it come without short-hand? why at dinner-time, and that would make short work of a day—­for thousands cannot set to work till they have consulted it as a mainspring of action.  People who aim at the short cuts to knowledge should study stenography, and for this purpose they will do well to provide themselves with Mr. Harding’s System, which will be as good as “a cubit to a man’s height.”

* * * * *

LOVE’S MASTERY.

  She was his own, his all:—­the crowd may prove
  A transient feeling, and misname it love:—­
  His was a higher impulse; ’twas a part
  Of the warm blood that circled through his heart,
  A fervid energy, a spell that bound
  Thoughts, wishes, feelings, in one hallow’d round.

The Winter’s Wreath.

* * * * *

CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

The second edition of a pamphlet, entitled the Voice of Humanity, has just reached us.  It contains details of the disgusting cruelties of the metropolis—­as bear and badger baiting, dog-fighting, slaughtering-horses, &c.—­and reference to the abattoirs, or improved slaughter-houses for cattle, which was illustrated in our 296th Number.  In the appendix are many interesting particulars of Smithfield Market and similar nuisances.  The pamphlet is dedicated to that enlightened friend of humanity, Sir James Mackintosh, and it appears worthy of his patronage.

* * * * *

WOMANKIND.

The womankind never looks sae bonnie as in wunter, accepp indeed it may be in spring.  You auld bachelors ken naething o’ womankind—­and hoo should ye, when they treat you wi’ but ae feelin’, that o’ derision?  Oh, sirs! but the dear creters do look weel in muffs—­whether they haud them, wi’ their invisible hauns clasped thegither in their beauty within the cozy silk linin’, close prest to their innicent waists, just aneath the glad beatins o’ their first love-touched hearts.  Or haud them hingin’ frae their extended richt arms, leavin’ a’ the feegur visible, that seems taller and slimmer as the removed muff reveals the clasps o’ the pelisse a’ the way doon frae neck till feet!  Then is there, in a’ the beautifu’ and silent unfauldin’s o’ natur amang plants and flowers, ony thing sae beautifu’ as the white, smooth, saft chafts o’ a bit smilin’ maiden o’ saxteen, aughteen, or twunty, blossomin’ out, like some bonnie bud or snaw-white satin frae a coverin’ o’ rough leaves,—­blossomin’ out, sirs, frae the edge o’ the fur-tippet, that haply a lover’s happy haun had delicately hung ower her gracefu’ shoothers—­oh, the dear, delightfu’ little Laplander!—­Noctes—­ Blackwood’s Magazine.