HORACE. Meaning me? I note that politeness is at a discount in Mars. MESSENGER. We are not upon that planet now. HORACE. I thank my stars. MESSENGER. Know you why I am here? HORACE. No more than why the other tramp bothered me. You have come rather farther—you may stay a little longer. From the venturesome spirit that prompted this visit I conclude you are of the greatest of your race. MESSENGER. I am the poorest gifted, most unhappy, lowest fallen, and easiest spared. I am a criminal, and therefore condemned to make this journey. HORACE. What had you been up to? Do tell. MESSENGER. I sinned in vanity. A dear companion and myself had composed a hymn of praise. He died, and I gave it forth as entirely my own. HORACE. (_Gleefully_) Did you make much out of it? MESSENGER. It was chanted by many. HORACE. Then it paid pretty well? MESSENGER. In Mars we do not write for gain. For five days I endured the bitterest remorse when I confessed my crime, and was sentenced to make this journey. HORACE. Doubtless you have learnt that I am interested in your world and quite rightly expected a sympathetic welcome from me? MESSENGER. No. But of all countries yours seemed the most promising field—— HORACE. Bravo! Rule, Britannia! MESSENGER. Of all cities, this London, the greatest, and most intense—— HORACE. Good old London! MESSENGER. And of all its citizens yourself the most striking example—(_HORACE bows_)—of the Greed and Egoism of the age. HORACE. (_Staggering to his feet and about to rush at MESSENGER_) Hullo! I’ll not stand for this! Get out of my—— (_MESSENGER raises his arm and HORACE receives an electric shock which reels him back into his chair. The furniture may be arranged to shake and rock about as if under the same influence. MESSENGER refrains and HORACE slowly recovers himself._) MESSENGER. Are you properly impressed, or shall I——? HORACE. No, no! Don’t do it again, please! It hurts! MESSENGER. Good! Now listen with heart and mind. You have learnt that Mars has a planetary lifetime brief compared with Earth, and yet we Martians are to you as are you to the cattle that you breed. HORACE. As bad as that? MESSENGER. Triflers of Time, learn the cause. Self—_Self_ is the Miasm of the world you live in; a soul plague blotching Earth’s body over with its petty spites, outraged homes, labor riots, revolutions, civil wars, carnivals of blood, marring the Grand Purpose. No war has ever wasted Mars, nor could it. There have been no rushings back, no buried epochs, no sleeping centuries, for Self was unmasked at the beginning. HORACE. Mask? What mask? MESSENGER. Self wears a thousand, making a counterfeit of every virtue. The soldier’s glory, the painter’s touch, the statesman’s aim, the poet’s dream hide something still of self behind them. Even your children are becoming egoists—the saddest sign of all. HORACE. Very sad and quite true, but why tell me all this? MESSENGER. You are the chosen subject. HORACE. But why?