Pity a poor Home Secretary! Verily
His days are hard, his nights can scarce wag merrily;
But of all burdens on his mind distracted,
Greatest must be that dread responsibility
Where sense of justice wars with sensibility.
_Punch_ hardly thinks the two have interacted
This time with quite ideal force and fitness,
And that the Public doubts, let the Press witness!
A loathsome story, sordid, brutal, sickening!
Dull callousness to smug contrition quickening
Under the spur of an ignoble terror,
A hope scarce less ignoble--in expression,
At least. Yes, calm judicial self-possession
Is difficult, most easy trimming error;
But compromise with claims conflicting _here_,
Is scarce the course of equity one must fear.
The logic of it does not stand forth clearly;
The public conscience fidgets, and feels queerly.
Yes, to be arbiter, by law's compulsion,
In such a case, with issues so immense,
_Is_ hard, no doubt; the public common sense
Against the arrangement turns with strong revulsion;
And the right remedy, as all must feel,
Is in a Court of Criminal Appeal!
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[Illustration: EXTREMES MEET!
_Hearty Luncher._ "THIS FASTING IS ALL BOSH! ROBERT, ANOTHER PLATE OF
PORK AND ANOTHER PINT OF STOUT. I'M GOING TO SEE SUCCI THIS AFTERNOON!"]
* * * * *