ds of papers required in the
administration of the State. It contained I also, however, literary
works, many of which even at this early date were already old, prayers
drawn up during the first dynasties, devout poetry belonging to times
prior to the misty personage called Mini--hymns to the gods of light,
formulas of black magic, collections of mystical works, such as the
"Book of the Dead"* and the "Ritual of the Tomb;" scientific treatises
on medicine, geometry, mathematics, and astronomy; manuals of practical
morals; and lastly, romances, or those marvellous stories which preceded
the romance among Oriental peoples.

* The "Book of the Dead" must have existed from
prehistoric times, certain chapters excepted, whose
relatively modern origin has been indicated by those who
ascribe the editing of the work to the time of the first
human dynasties.

All these, if we had them, would form "a library much more precious to
us than that of Alexandria;" unfortunately up to the present we have
been able to collect only insignificant remains of such rich stores. In
the tombs have been found here and there fragments of popular songs.
The pyramids have furnished almost intact a ritual of the dead which
is distinguished by its verbosity, its numerous pious platitudes, and
obscure allusions to things of the other world; but, among all this
trash, are certain portions full of movement and savage vigour, in which
poetic glow and religious emotion reveal their presence in a mass of
mythological phraseology. In the Berlin Papyrus we may read the end of
a philosophic dialogue between an Egyptian and his soul, in which the
latter applies himself to show that death has nothing terrifying to man.
"I say to myself every day: As is the convalescence of a sick person,
who goes to the court after his affliction, such is death.... I say to
myself every day: As is the inhaling of the scent of a perfume, as a
seat under the protection of an outstretched curtain, on that day, such
is death.... I say to myself every day: As the inhaling of the odour
of a garden of flowers, as a seat upon the mountain of the Country of
Intoxication, such is death.... I say to myself every day: As a road
which passes over the flood of inundation, as a man who goes as a
soldier whom nothing resists, such is death.... I say to myself every
day: As the clearing again of the sky, as a man who goes out to catch
birds with a net, and suddenly find