while still, in proportion, shall the doom he is about to draw on himself, manifest itself more and more distinctly, till at the last, he shall achieve the salvation of man, body (by the gift of fire) and soul (by even those [Greek:  tuphlai elpides],[7] hopes of immortality), and so having rendered him utterly, according to the mythos here, independent of Jove—­for observe, Prometheus in the play never talks of helping mortals more, of fearing for them more, of even benefiting them more by his sufferings.  The rest is between Jove and himself; he will reveal the master-secret to Jove when he shall have released him, &c.  There is no stipulation that the gifts to mortals shall be continued; indeed, by the fact that it is Prometheus who hangs on Caucasus while ‘the ephemerals possess fire,’ one sees that somehow mysteriously they are past Jove’s harming now.  Well, this wholly achieved, the price is as wholly accepted, and off into the darkness passes in calm triumphant grandeur the Titan, with Strength and Violence, and Vulcan’s silent and downcast eyes, and then the gold clouds and renewed flushings of felicity shut up the scene again, with Might in his old throne again, yet with a new element of mistrust, and conscious shame, and fear, that writes significantly enough above all the glory and rejoicing that all is not as it was, nor will ever be.  Such might be the framework of your Drama, just what cannot help striking one at first glance, and would not such a Drama go well before your translation?  Do think of this and tell me—­it nearly writes itself.  You see, I meant the [Greek:  meg’ ophelema][8] to be a deep great truth; if there were no life beyond this, I think the hope in one would be an incalculable blessing for this life, which is melancholy for one like AEschylus to feel, if he could only hope, because the argument as to the ulterior good of those hopes is cut clean away, and what had he left?

I do not find it take away from my feeling of the magnanimity of Prometheus that he should, in truth, complain (as he does from beginning to end) of what he finds himself suffering.  He could have prevented all, and can stop it now—­of that he never thinks for a moment.  That was the old Greek way—­they never let an antagonistic passion neutralise the other which was to influence the man to his praise or blame.  A Greek hero fears exceedingly and battles it out, cries out when he is wounded and fights on, does not say his love or hate makes him see no danger or feel no pain.  AEschylus from first word to last ([Greek:  idesthe me, oia pascho][9] to [Greek:  esoras me, hos ekdika pascho][10]) insists on the unmitigated reality of the punishment which only the sun, and divine ether, and the godhead of his mother can comprehend; still, still that is only what I suppose AEschylus to have done—­in your poem you shall make Prometheus our way.