th joy upon it. And they are surely dancing
still.

Here you may see, brilliant as yesterday's picture anywhere,
fascinatingly decorative trees growing bravely in little pots, red
people offering incense which is piled up on mounds like mountains,
Ptah-Seket, Osiris receiving a royal gift of wine, the queen in the
company of various divinities, and the terrible ordeal of the cows.
The cows are being weighed in scales. There are three of them. One is
a philosopher, and reposes with an air that says, "Even this last
indignity of being weighed against my will cannot perturb my soaring
spirit." But the other two sitting up, look as apprehensive as old
ladies in a rocking express, expectant of an accident. The vividness
of the colors in this temple is quite wonderful. And much of its
great attraction comes rather from its position, and from them,
than essentially from itself. At Deir-el-Bahari, what the long shell
contains--its happy murmur of life--is more fascinating than the shell.
There, instead of being uplifted or overawed by form, we are rejoiced
by color, by the high vivacity of arrested movement, by the story that
color and movement tell. And over all there is the bright, blue, painted
sky, studded, almost distractedly studded, with a plethora of the yellow
stars the Egyptians made like starfish.

The restored apricot-colored columns outside look unhappily suburban
when you are near them. The white columns with their architraves are
more pleasant to the eyes. The niches full of bright hues, the arched
chapels, the small white steps leading upward to shallow
sanctuaries, the small black foxes facing each other on little yellow
pedestals--attract one like the details and amusing ornaments of a
clever woman's boudoir. Through this most characteristic temple one
roves in a gaily attentive mood, feeling all the time Hatshepsu's
fascination.

You may see her, if you will, a little lady on the wall, with a face
decidedly sensual--a long, straight nose, thick lips, an expression
rather determined than agreeable. Her mother looks as Semitic as a Jew
moneylender in Brick Lane, London. Her husband, Thothmes II., has a weak
and poor-spirited countenance--decidedly an accomplished performer on
the second violin. The mother wears on her head a snake, no doubt a
cobra-di-capello, the symbol of her sovereignty. Thothmes is clad in
a loin-cloth. And a god, with a sleepy expression and a very fish-like
head, appears in this group