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WITNESSES.

The protracted proceedings of our criminal courts are productive of one serious evil, which we have never seen noticed.  Domestic servants, and others who appear as witnesses, must frequently wait, day after day, in the court-yard and avenues, or in the adjacent public-houses, until the cases on which they have been subpoenaed are called for trial.  During these intervals they converse and become acquainted with others in attendance, a large proportion of whom are generally friends or associates of the prisoners.  It is thus that the most dangerous intimacies have been formed; and many instances have occurred where servants, who have been seen in the courts as witnesses for a prosecution, have soon afterwards appeared there as prisoners.

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YOU’LL COME TO OUR BALL.

“Comment! c’est lui?—­que je le regarde encore!—­c’est que vraiment il est bien change; n’est pas, mon papa?”—­Les premiers Amours.

  You’ll come to our Ball—­since we parted,
    I’ve thought of you, more than I’ll say;
  Indeed, I was half broken-hearted,
    For a week, when they took you away. 
  Fond Fancy brought back to my slumbers
    Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
  And echoed the musical numbers
    Which you used to sing to me then. 
  I know the romance, since it’s over,
    ’Twere idle, or worse, to recall:—­
  I know you’re a terrible rover: 
    But, Clarence,—­you’ll come to our Ball!

  It’s only a year, since at College
    You put on your cap and your gown;
  But, Clarence, you’re grown out of knowledge,
    And chang’d from the spur to the crown: 
  The voice that was best when it faltered
    Is fuller and firmer in tone;
  And the smile that should never have altered,—­
    Dear Clarence,—­it is not your own: 
  Your cravat was badly selected,
    Your coat don’t become you at all;
  And why is your hair so neglected? 
    You must have it curled for our Ball.

  I’ve often been out upon Haldon,
    To look for a covey with Pup: 
  I’ve often been over to Shaldon,
    To see how your boat is laid up: 
  In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
    I’ve ridden the filly you broke;
  And I’ve studied your sweet, little Dante,
    In the shade of your favourite oak: 
  When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,
    I sat in your love of a shawl;
  And I’ll wear what you brought me from Florence,
    Perhaps, if you’ll come to our Ball.

  You’ll find us all changed since you vanished: 
    We’ve set up a National School,
  And waltzing is utterly banished—­
    And Ellen has married a fool—­
  The Major is going to travel—­
    Miss Hyacinth threatens a