scarcely a country of any dignity in Europe
that does not leave to its felons and forcats an
appeal of some description to a higher court.
In imperial France, the Court of Cassation—
"the Breaking Court" — whose name signifies
the tendency of its office, is kept always busy,
hearing appeals from minor tribunals. These
despotic countries allow their malefactors a
privilege which British prisoners are denied, and
almost every forcat, as a matter of course,
appeals to the higher tribunal, which patiently
investigates his case.

And yet, see the inconsistency in our dear
British Perfection of Human Wisdom! A
judge trying a criminal case, is esteemed
fallible. Should he trip or be doubtful in his
rendering of the law, the point is forthwith
"saved," and there is an appeal to a tribunal
composed of his brethren. Thus, by a brilliant
stroke of consistency, a learned, well-trained,
skilled, and judicial mind is set down as
dangerously fallible, and its errors are guarded
against by careful supervision, while the collective
wisdom of the magic Dozen is assumed to
be a sacred oracular utterance, which cannot go
astray. Nor do the perfections of the Perfection of
Human Wisdom finish here. There is one crowning
inconsistency behind. The magic Dozen are
impeccable when dealing with an offence of a
criminal sort; but are common fallible mortals
when they sit to decide upon a civil matter.
The verdict of "the twelve intelligent men"
may be appealed from, in any ordinary action
between citizens, and touching citizens' goods
or pecuniary wrongs; but where there is a
question of a citizen's life, and where evidence
is far more delicate and precarious, there their
collective voices are lifted into the realms of
unerring certainty and precision. Lastly, charges
a Secretary of State, equally superior to fallible
Judge and infallible Jury, who has never seen
the witnesses, who has never seen the prisoner,
who has never beheld a face or heard a voice
that is in question, and who lays the whole
thirteen on their backs: not only without any
reason assigned, but frequently against all pos-
sibly assignable reason!

So when the child whom nurse from danger guards,
Sends Jack for mustard with a pack of cards,
Kings, queens, and knaves, throw one another down,
Till the whole pack lies scatter'd and o'erthrown.

A STEADFAST TOWER.

UPON the weary waves of the world
To and fro,
This tired life of mine had been whirl'd;
In the flow
And ebb of every tide
It had drifted far and wide,
As on the bare hill-side
Drifts the snow.

At last to my tired heart I said,
"Heart of mine,
This weary, weary life thou hast led
'Mid the shine
Of parching summer's heat
And wintry tempest's beat,
Poor heart, it is not meet
Should be thine.

"Take up thy courage then, 0, my heart,
Make a stand,
Be brave, be steadfast, do thy part;
On the sand
When next thou shalt be cast
By the scorning of the blast,
Then cling thou firm and fast
To the strand.

"And there a massive Tower thou shalt build
On the rock,
A Tower whose mighty walls shall not yield.
And the shock
Of all the winds and waves
Of Ocean's unknown caves,
Where the northern tempest raves,
Thou shalt mock."

And so I built my vast Tower of strength
By the sea;
I built it strong and high, and at length
Came to me
A new and holy guest,
The sense of peace and rest,
And I felt my heart as blest
As could be.

And a wall round the Tower I did raise
With all care,
No skill nor labour through long days
Did I spare.
And when winds and waves awoke,
Against the wall, they broke
And melted like the smoke
In the air

And now unto my happy heart I said,
"Heart of mine,
There is nothing evermore thou need'st dread,
For the shine
Of full prosperity
Has fallen now on thee,
And it shall ever be
Firmly thine."

And so I ever sung 'mid the storm
Without fright,
And lay cradled close and warm
Through the night.
But a day was yet in store,
Though I knew it not before—
When the tempest with a roar
Proved its might.

With the bowl of a demon on it came
Rolling in,
And the lightning's tongues of flame
And the din
Of thunder stormed the wall
Which 'mid the mighty brawl
Trembled— tottered to its fall,
While within

The circle I had deemed so secure
From the sea,
Hushed the waters grown so sure
Now of me.