noticing, and he roused. I was so afraid of exhausting him that I would not let him speak again. We withdrew, and he waved his hand, saying over and over again, "Good-by." The few minutes that we dared to let him talk were too precious to ask questions in. We did not even ask what sickness he had been through since he wrote on the 15th. He pointed to the record on the wall, which indicated that he was alarmingly worse. I feared that he was dying. Had they told us so, I would have asked some questions for his friends' sake.

I could not tell whether it was death or a fearful crisis from which he might rally. We were left alone with him, and did not see the doctor. Sattay asked us to look round and see what a bright, cheerful room he was in. He said he had the best of care. His cot was near a window, through which the shifting clouds were seen, and where he was protected from draught by a white muslin screen. He was delighted to be where he made no trouble. I think he never spoke after bidding us "good-by." He passed away at the end of nine hours, without a struggle. The case was considered obscure, and an autopsy was held. It was decided that he had died of malarial fever.

Here ends the brief record of a most remarkable man. Sattay put nothing in his scrip; he took no thought of the morrow. He asked no questions, entertained no scruples; but, inspired partly by Anandabai Joshee's glowing accounts of America, and still more by his own desire to benefit his people, he left his native land. He came here to prepare the way for other Hindus, to free as many as he could from the "British yoke." If they would not settle here, he hoped they would live here long enough to be fired "with the spirit of freedom, and carry back fresh energies to the whole Hindu population!" He wanted, however, to estab lish a colony, and was busy devising ways and studying climate and location to that end. He was thoroughly unselfish and ready for any sacrifice a good cause or a good friend might need. The spiritual element so conspicuous in Anandabai and Sattay is not characteristic of other Oriental nationalities. Sattay lived the practical life of a Christian. There was not a word that Jesus is recorded to have spoken that he did not accept; but he called him, not the Christ, but the "expounder of Vedic truth." I wish we could have many such visitors, but the Hindus only come here to die. The climate kills them, as it does the Aleuts.

CAROLINE HEALEY DALL.

ÆSCHYLUS ON SOME MODERN SOCIAL
PROBLEMS.

Eschylus, the founder of the Greek lyric drama, possessed a soul severely grand like that of Milton, austerely just like that of Dante; and, like these poets, he too was drawn towards the religious, moral, and social problems of his time and of all time. These great masters of poetry are driven by a mighty wind; they are the voices of an uncounted multitude; and so must it be with all the great bards of the world's great literature.

No deeper problems occupy now the thought of mankind than those which make the contents of the Prometheus of Eschylus. There remains to us only one of the parts of this trilogy, the second, or middle one,― and the structure can be completed only by inference; but what we have is enough to show the groundwork of the whole.

In the Prometheus is symbolized the progress of the human race; and, under this statement, we have a representation of the poet's view of man's relation to the universe, of the advance of culture and civilization, and of those problems of might and right, of justice and equality, of those eternal laws of progressive change for good, which it is the work to-day of science to establish for the satisfaction of man's reason and intellect.

According to the appearance that Nature presents to the first men, ignorant of any means of protection, of defence, what is its aspect? Evidently, that of a hostile, tyrannical, merciless being, now blasting with burning heat, now crystallizing with icy cold, now sending, according to his pleasure, the deadly arrows of pestilence, now sapping the strength by old age, and extinguishing all by death. And in social life are found might of arm and cunning of brain, securing to themselves wealth and power, and then plunged into the lowest wretchedness, the ruler of a people begging his bread; the dweller in palaces an outcast in the

desert, glad to find shelter in a cave, and share with the wild beast its prey. Man seems despised and hated by some higher powers. The gods envy his too great prosperity they are indifferent to his good. Everywhere is the spectacle of triumphant might and of man, feeble, ignorant, suffering under numberless ills, dying from generation to generation, yet engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with this seemingly irresistible force.

What must first free him? Knowledge, foresight, the divine spark within of aspiration and unconquerable will, the never-resting desire to better his condition, to find out all secrets, and use for himself every divine force, every hidden power. Whatever furthers this tendency to free and help humanity is man's friend, man's benefactor, man's divine protector and champion.

With a different theory of the origin and progress of civ ilization from that which looked back to an age of gold, and laid its paradise in some far-off period of blessed innocence and of happy contentment with the gods, Eschylus describes the early condition of the human race as but just removed from that of brutes:

--

"They dwelt

In hollowed holes like swarms of tiny ants
In sunless depths of caverns; and they had
No certain signs of winter, nor of spring
Flower-laden, nor of summer with her fruits.
... And I

Found number for them, chief of all the arts;
Groupings of letters; memory, handmaid true,
And mother of the Muses.

And I first

Bound in the yoke wild steeds, that so

They might in man's place bear his greatest toils;
And horses, trained to love the rein, I yoked
To chariots, glory of wealth's pride of state;

Nor was it any one but I that found
Sea-crossing, canvas-wingèd cars of ships; . . .
And 'neath the earth the hidden boons for men,-
Bronze, iron, silver, gold, who else could say
That he, ere I did, found them?

None, I know,

Unless he fain would babble in his speech.

In one short word, then, learn the truth condensed,—
All arts of mortals from Prometheus spring."

And in another place he says,

"I, poor I, through giving

Great gifts to mortal men, am prisoner made
In these fast fetters; yea, in fennel stalk
I snatched the hidden spring of stolen fire,
Which is to men a teacher of all arts,
Their chief resource."

Here in Prometheus, then, is represented that grand idea of a progressive culture, under the symbolic form of a Titanic contest with the Ruler of the world, the Power that has seated itself by mere force on the throne, and who hates the human race, so that he is willing to see it perish, that its place may be supplied by creatures of its own. In the view of Eschylus, Zeus himself was subject to a power which he must acknowledge, or himself in turn be overthrown. And this power was not the mere blank, rigid fate, which is often spoken of; not the blind, irresistible chance for which no one could account, and before which each one must quake and tremble; but this power was the Eternal Justice, the law of right, the everlasting balance, harmony, and proportion of all things human and divine, which raised up the low and cast down the high, which visited arrogance with humiliation, which levelled every excess, and filled up every hole and cranny of the universe with the needed supply. Prometheus boldy contended for right against might, for the suffering against his potent oppressor, for the vile worm against him who trampled him in the dust. He identified himself with the race of men, was their champion and saviour; and therefore he suffered.

For the poet recognized the fundamental law of all human growth and progress, the law of martyrdom,- and has embodied it in that godlike form spiked to the bare Cau

casus:

"Behold me bound, a god to evil doomed,

The foe of Zeus, and held

In hatred by all gods

Who tread the courts of Zeus;

And this for my great love,

Too great for mortal men."

This law of martyrdom, behold it in the very constitution of the natural world: each successive step of ascending life is gained by the rendering up of life in that which precedes; growth comes out of decay, life out of death. The earth is fertile because innumerable forms have lived and died. The solidest rock is crumbled into finest, impalpable powder; the hardest mineral renders up its form, and, equally with the tenderest moss disintegrating at the touch, it becomes dissolved into dust; plants springing from these inhale the atmosphere and rains of heaven and ministering juices of the soil, and then give themselves up in turn to animal and man. Each higher form lives by the martyrdom of some lower, and death is everywhere the price of life. Is it any different in the moral and social spheres? Is not the present civilization of the world - its knowledge, art, comfort, well-being-the result of innumerable sorrows and deaths? Is not every stone of the foundation and every joint of the rising superstructure cemented by blood of the body, blood of the mind, blood of the very heart and soul of the noblest of the race in every age and among every people, from the earliest moment until this very hour in which we breathe our little lives? Not alone upon the battle-field, the gibbet, the cross, not alone in dungeons and filthy prison-cells, have martyrs struggled and suffered for the good of man; but on sea and in the wilderness, in the workshop and the study, the pioneer of truth has swung his axe, has gazed into the heavens, has pored over the annals of the past, has delved and toiled, has despaired and hoped again, has seen the stars rise and set, the sun pursue his daily course, and seasons come and go, still eager for the coming truth, watching for the new day, looking through tearful eyes for a light that no mortal eye has ever seen, a good