When you read of Jacob in the Old Testament, that—
. . . the physicians embalmed him. And forty days were
fulfilled for him; for so are fulfilled the days of those
which are embalmed: and the Egyptians mourned for
him threescore and ten days. And when the days of
his mourning were past . . . Joseph went up to bury
his father: and with him went up all the servants of
Pharaoh, the elders of his house, and all the elders of
the land of Egypt . . .
you realise that there is perhaps somewhere a
mummy of Jacob, and a modern might see him
face to face.
Time flies. But the distance is near. I would like to imagine one night in ancient Egypt. The faces on the coffins, as I look at them, lid after lid, are quite realisable, those broad cheeks and bright eyes. . . . I suppose one could find five thousand mummies who in their lifetime were contemporaries, and one night they are all thinking about much the same thing. Something is toward at the Court; their chairs or carriages or chariots come for them; they are decked out, they have their jewels in their hair, their fine garb, their vanities, spites, triumphs, vexations, loves, ambitions. They dwell in their present moment, eyes burn, hearts beat faster, lips frame vain words. The same moon is on high, the same odour in the air. They bend their gaze towards the throne, they flock towards the throne as if the touch of it were miraculous. Vanity of vanities! The Israelites had to go out to the
