I. (Sesostris)"! It need not be said
that he has greatly fallen away and blackened even in the fifteen yeas
that I have known him. He is a phantom that is about to disappear; in
spite of all the care lavished upon him, a poor phantom about to fall to
pieces, to sink into nothingness. We move our lantern about his hooked
nose, the better to decipher, in the play of shadow, his expression,
that still remains authoritative. . . . To think that once the destinies
of the world were ruled, without appeal, by the nod of this head, which
looks now somewhat narrow, under the dry skin and the horrible whitish
hair. What force of will, of passion and colossal pride must once have
dwelt therein! Not to mention the anxiety, which to us now is scarcely
conceivable, but which in his time overmastered all others--the anxiety,
that is to say, of assuring the magnificence and inviolability of
sepulture! . . . And this horrible scarecrow, toothless and senile,
lying here in its filthy rags, with the hand raised in an impotent
menace, was once the brilliant Sesostris, the master of kings, and by
virtue of his strength and beauty the demigod also, whose muscular limbs
and deep athletic chest many colossal statues at Memphis, at Thebes, at
Luxor, reproduce and try to make eternal. . . .

[*] This movement is explained by the action of the sun,
which, falling on the unclothed arm, is supposed to have
expanded the bone of the elbow.

In the next coffin lies his father, Seti I., who reigned for a much
shorter period, and died much younger than he. This youthfulness is
apparent still in the features of the mummy, which are impressed besides
with a persistent beauty. Indeed this good King Seti looks the picture
of calm and serene reverie. There is nothing shocking in his dead
face, with its long closed eyes, its delicate lips, its noble chin
and unblemished profile. It is soothing and pleasant even to see him
sleeping there with his hands crossed upon his breast. And it seems
strange, that he, who looks so young, should have for son the old man,
almost a centenarian, who lies beside him.

In our passage we have gazed on many other royal mummies, some tranquil
and some grimacing. But, to finish, there is one of them (the third
coffin there, in the row in front of us), a certain Queen Nsitanebashru,
whom I approach with fear, albeit it is mainly on her account that I
have ventured to make this fantastical round. Even in the daytime