belisks, and
sarcophagi, and statues. But away there across the bend of the river,
dominating the ugly rummage of this intrusive beehive of human bees,
sheer grace overcoming strength both of nature and human nature,
rose the fabled "Pharaoh's Bed"; gracious, tender, from Shellal
most delicately perfect, and glowing with pale gold against the grim
background of the hills on the western shore. It seemed to plead for
mercy, like something feminine threatened with outrage, to protest
through its mere beauty, as a woman might protest by an attitude,
against further desecration.

And in the distance the Nile roared through the many gates of the dam,
making answer to the protest.

What irony was in this scene! In the old days of Egypt Philae was sacred
ground, was the Nile-protected home of sacerdotal mysteries, was a
veritable Mecca to the believers in Osiris, to which it was forbidden
even to draw near without permission. The ancient Egyptians swore
solemnly "By him who sleeps in Philae." Now they sometimes swear angrily
at him who wakes in, or at least by, Philae, and keeps them steadily
going at their appointed tasks. And instead of it being forbidden to
draw near to a sacred spot, needy men from foreign countries flock
thither in eager crowds, not to worship in beauty, but to earn a living
wage.

And "Pharaoh's Bed" looks out over the water and seems to wonder what
will be the end.

I was glad to escape from Shellal, pursued by the shriek of an engine
announcing its departure from the station, glad to be on the quiet
water, to put it between me and that crowd of busy workers. Before me I
saw a vast lake, not unlovely, where once the Nile flowed swiftly, far
off a grey smudge--the very damnable dam. All around me was a grim
and cruel world of rocks, and of hills that look almost like heaps of
rubbish, some of them grey, some of them in color so dark that they
resemble the lava torrents petrified near Catania, or the "Black
Country" in England through which one rushes on one's way to the north.
Just here and there, sweetly almost as the pink blossoms of the wild
oleander, which I have seen from Sicilian seas lifting their heads from
the crevices of sea rocks, the amber and rosy sands of Nubia smiled down
over grit, stone, and granite.

The setting of Philae is severe. Even in bright sunshine it has an iron
look. On a grey or stormy day it would be forbidding or even terrible.
In the old winters and springs one loved