of all Western lands. After the most pompous marriage
ceremonies, the monkey soldiers made a bridge, with the help of their
own tails, and safely landed with their spouses in Europe, where they
lived very happily and had a numerous progeny. This progeny are we,
Europeans. Dravidian words found in some European languages, in Basque
for instance, greatly rejoice the hearts of the Brahmans, who would
gladly promote the philologists to the rank of demi-gods for this
important discovery, which confirms so gloriously their ancient legend.
But it was Darwin who crowned the edifice of proof with the authority of
Western education and Western scientific literature. The Indians became
still more convinced that we are the veritable descendants of Hanuman,
and that, if one only took the trouble to examine carefully, our tails
might easily be discovered. Our narrow breeches and long skirts only add
to the evidence, however uncomplimentary the idea may be to us.

Still, if you consider seriously, what are we to say when Science, in
the person of Darwin, concedes this hypothesis to the wisdom of ancient
Aryas. We must perforce submit. And, really, it is better to have for a
forefather Hanu-man, the poet, the hero, the god, than any other monkey,
even though it be a tailless one. Sita-Rama belongs to the category
of mythological dramas, something like the tragedies of Aeschylus.
Listening to this production of the remotest antiquity, the spectators
are carried back to the times when the gods, descending upon earth, took
an active part in the everyday life of mortals. Nothing reminds one of
a modern drama, though the exterior arrangement is the same. "From the
sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step," and vice versa. The
goat, chosen for a sacrifice to Bacchus, presented the world tragedy
(greek script here). The death bleatings and buttings of the quadrupedal
offering of antiquity have been polished by the hands of time and of
civilization, and, as a result of this process, we get the dying
whisper of Rachel in the part of Adrienne Lecouvreur, and the fearfully
realistic "kicking" of the modern Croisette in the poisoning scene of
The Sphinx. But, whereas the descendants of Themistocles gladly receive,
whether captive or free, all the changes and improvements considered
as such by modern taste, thinking them to be a corrected and enlarged
edition of the genius of Aeschylus; Hindus, happily for archaeologists
and lovers of antiquity