M. Mag. But tell me, prithee, what the outcome was of these my leniences. Did results not justify——?
The Butcher. Oh, yes, indeed, in my case! Taking courage, seeing that justice was so linked with mercy, I did extend most energetically my little venture in unwholesome meat, and now am rich, and have been made a lord.
The Rough. And since your clemency, O sweet your Worship, I've kicked to death some dozens of assorted victims—policemen, girls, and infants.
The Hawker. And I——
M. Mag. (writhing). Oh, peace, and spare me! Get ye gone!
The Criminals. What? This is passing strange! You will not bless the work yourself have fostered?
M. Mag. (tearing his hair). I fostered? I, the gentle magistrate, the soul of clemency——?
The Spirit. Come, bless thy chosen clients!
[With a shriek the Metropolitan Magistrate awakes from his doze. He is haggard; his eye is bloodshot with horror. He speaks, shuddering:—
What are these hideous crimes that I have done, mistaking them for mercy? How unworthy am I to touch so sweet an attribute, distorting and most basely turning it from its appointed course! There chime the bells. Let them proclaim how, in the coming year they usher in, I will essay to win this fair, sweet attribute entrusted to me, and so misshapen by my cruelties, back to her rightful form! I will begin by showing mercy unto Mercy's self.