‘The blood of the Scarabæus!’ exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.

‘Yes. The Scarabæus was the insignium, or the “arms,” of a very distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be “of the blood of the Scarabæus,” is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabæus is the insignium. I speak figuratively.’

‘But what has this to do with your being alive?’

‘Why, it is the general custom in Egypt, to deprive a corpse, before embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the Scarabæi alone did not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scarabæus, therefore, I should have been without bowels and brains; and without either it is inconvenient to live.’

‘I perceive that,’ said Mr. Buckingham; ‘and I presume that all the entire mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scarabæi.’

‘Beyond doubt.’

‘I thought,’ said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, ‘that the Scarabæus was one of the Egyptian gods.’

‘One of the Egyptian what?’ exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its feet.

‘Gods!’ repeated the traveller.

‘Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this style,’ said the Count, resuming his seat. ‘No nation upon the face of the earth has ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabæus, the Ibis, &c., were with us (as similar creatures have been with others) the symbols, or media, through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be more directly approached.’

There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor Ponnonner.

‘It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,’ said he, ‘that among the catacombs near the Nile, there may exist other mummies of the Scarabæus tribe, in a condition of vitality.’

‘There can be no question of it,’ replied the Count; ‘all the Scarabæi embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive. Even some of those purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and still remain in the tombs.’

‘Will you be kind enough to explain,’ I said, ‘what you mean by “purposely so embalmed”?’

‘With great pleasure,’ answered the Mummy, after surveying me leisurely through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had ventured to address him a direct question.

‘With great pleasure,’ he said. ‘The usual duration of man’s life, in my time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most extraordinary accident, before the age of six hundred; few lived longer than a decade of centuries; but eight were considered the natural term. After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable curiosity might be gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of science much advanced, by living this natural term in instalments. In the case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age of five hundred, would write a book with great labour and then get himself carefully embalmed; leaving instructions to his executors pro tem., that they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period—say five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of hap-hazard note-book— that is to say, into a kind of literary arena for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, &c., which passed under the name of annotations, or emendations, were found so completely to have enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the text, that the author had to go about with a lantern