Cleopatra | Page 4

no other means can the long dead past be made to live again before
the reader's eyes with all its accessories of faded pomp and forgotten
mystery. To such students as seek a story only, and are not interested in
the faith, ceremonies, or customs of the Mother of Religion and

Civilisation, ancient Egypt, it is, however, respectfully suggested that
they should exercise the art of skipping, and open this tale at its Second
Book.
That version of the death of Cleopatra has been preferred which
attributes her end to poison. According to Plutarch its actual manner is
very uncertain, though popular rumour ascribed it to the bite of an asp.
She seems, however, to have carried out her design under the advice of
that shadowy personage, her physician, Olympus, and it is more than
doubtful if he would have resorted to such a fantastic and uncertain
method of destroying life.
It may be mentioned that so late as the reign of Ptolemy Epiphanes,
pretenders of native blood, one of whom was named Harmachis, are
known to have advanced their claims to the throne of Egypt. Moreover,
there was a book of prophecy current among the priesthood which
declared that after the nations of the Greeks the God Harsefi would
create the "chief who is to come." It will therefore be seen that,
although it lacks historical confirmation, the story of the great plot
formed to stamp out the dynasty of the Macedonian Lagidae and place
Harmachis on the throne is not in itself improbable. Indeed, it is
possible that many such plots were entered into by Egyptian patriots
during the long ages of their country's bondage. But ancient history
tells us little of the abortive struggles of a fallen race.
The Chant of Isis and the Song of Cleopatra, which appear in these
pages, are done into verse from the writer's prose by Mr. Andrew Lang,
and the dirge sung by Charmion is translated by the same hand from
the Greek of the Syrian Meleager.

CLEOPATRA

INTRODUCTION
In the recesses of the desolate Libyan mountains that lie behind the

temple and city of Abydus, the supposed burying place of the holy
Osiris, a tomb was recently discovered, among the contents of which
were the papyrus rolls whereupon this history is written. The tomb
itself is spacious, but otherwise remarkable only for the depth of the
shaft which descends vertically from the rock-hewn cave, that once
served as the mortuary chapel for the friends and relatives of the
departed, to the coffin-chamber beneath. This shaft is no less than
eighty-nine feet in depth. The chamber at its foot was found to contain
three coffins only, though it is large enough for many more. Two of
these, which in all probability inclosed the bodies of the High Priest,
Amenemhat, and of his wife, father and mother of Harmachis, the hero
of this history, the shameless Arabs who discovered them there and
then broke up.
The Arabs broke the bodies up. With unhallowed hands they tore the
holy Amenemhat and the frame of her who had, as it is written, been
filled with the spirit of the Hathors--tore them limb from limb,
searching for treasure amidst their bones--perhaps, as is their custom,
selling the very bones for a few piastres to the last ignorant tourist who
came their way, seeking what he might destroy. For in Egypt the
unhappy, the living find their bread in the tombs of the great men who
were before them.
But as it chanced, some little while afterwards, one who is known to
this writer, and a doctor by profession, passed up the Nile to Abydus,
and became acquainted with the men who had done this thing. They
revealed to him the secret of the place, telling him that one coffin yet
remained entombed. It seemed to be the coffin of a poor person, they
said, and therefore, being pressed for time, they had left it unviolated.
Moved by curiosity to explore the recesses of a tomb as yet unprofaned
by tourists, my friend bribed the Arabs to show it to him. What ensued
I will give in his own words, exactly as he wrote it to me:
"I slept that night near the Temple of Seti, and started before daybreak
on the following morning. With me were a cross-eyed rascal named
Ali--Ali Baba I named him--the man from whom I got the ring which I
am sending you, and a small but choice assortment of his fellow thieves.

Within an hour after sunrise we reached the valley where the tomb is. It
is a desolate place, into which the sun pours his scorching heat all the
long day through, till the huge brown rocks which are strewn about
become so hot that one can scarcely bear to