Not all this literature is written, however, on papyrus. The greater proportion of it is carved in stone. Some is painted on wood, written on linen, leather, potsherds and other substances. So the old mystery of Egypt, which was her literature, has vanished. The key to the hieroglyphs is the master-key that opens every door. Each year that now passes over our heads sees some old problem solved. Each day brings some long-buried truth to light. Some thirteen years ago,[2] a distinguished American artist painted a very beautiful picture called “The Secret of the Sphinx.” In its widest sense the secret of the sphinx would mean, I suppose, the whole uninterpreted and undiscovered past of Egypt. In its narrower sense, the secret of the sphinx was, till quite lately, the hidden significance of the human-headed lion which is one of the typical subjects of Egyptian art. Thirteen years is a short time to look back upon; yet great things have been done in Egypt and in Egyptology, since then. Edfu, with its extraordinary wealth of inscriptions, has been laid bare. The whole contents of the Boulak Museum have been recovered from the darkness of the tombs. The very mystery of the sphinx has been disclosed; and even within the last eighteen months, M. Chabas announces that he has discovered the date of the pyramid of Mycerinus; so for the first time establishing the chronology of ancient Egypt upon an ascertained foundation. Thus the work goes on; students in their libraries, excavators under Egyptian skies, toiling along different paths toward a common goal. The picture means more to-day than it meant thirteen years ago--means more, even, than the artist intended. The sphinx has no secret now, save for the ignorant. In the picture we see a brown, half-naked, toil-worn fellâh laying his ear to the stone lips of a colossal sphinx, buried to the neck in sand. Some instinct of the old Egyptian blood tells him that the creature is godlike. He is conscious of a great mystery lying far back in the past. He has, perhaps, a dim, confused notion that the Big Head knows it all, whatever it may be. He has never heard of the morning-song of Memnon; but he fancies, somehow, that those closed lips might speak if questioned. Fellâh and sphinx are alone together in the desert. It is night and the stars are shining. Has he chosen the right hour? What does he seek to know? What does he hope to hear? Mr. Vedder has permitted me to enrich this book with an engraving from his picture. It tells its own tale; or rather it tells as much of its own tale as the artist chooses. [Illustration: Each must interpret for himself The secret of the sphinx. ] AMELIA B. EDWARDS. WESTBURY-ON-TRYM, GLOUCESTERSHIRE, December, 1877. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.