It is, on
the contrary, a small, almost an airy, and a femininely perfect thing,
in which a singular loveliness of form was combined with a singular
loveliness of color. The spell it threw over you was not so much a spell
woven of details as a spell woven of divine uniformity. To put it in
very practical language, "Pharaoh's Bed" was "all of a piece." The form
was married to the color. The color seemed to melt into the form. It was
indeed a bed in which the soul that worships beauty could rest happily
entranced. Nothing jarred. Antiquaries say that apparently this building
was left unfinished. That may be so. But for all that it was one of the
most finished things in Egypt, essentially a thing to inspire within one
the "perfect calm that is Greek." The blighting touch of the Nile, which
has changed the beautiful pale yellow of the stone of the lower part
of the building to a hideous and dreary grey--which made me think of
a steel knife on which liquid has been spilt and allowed to run--has
destroyed the uniformity, the balance, the faultless melody lifted up by
form and color. And so it is with the temple. It is, as it were, cut in
two by the intrusion into it of this hideous, mottled complexion left by
the receded water. Everywhere one sees disease on the walls and columns,
almost blotting out bas-reliefs, giving to their active figures a
morbid, a sickly look. The effect is specially distressing in the open
court that precedes the temple dedicated to the Lady of Philae. In this
court, which is at the southern end of the island, the Nile at certain
seasons is now forced to rise very nearly as high as the capitals of
many of the columns. The consequence of this is that here the disease
seems making rapid strides. One feels it is drawing near to the heart,
and that the poor, doomed invalid may collapse at any moment.

Yes, there is much to make one sad at Philae. But how much of pure
beauty there is left--of beauty that merely protests against any further
outrage!

As there is something epic in the grandeur of the Lotus Hall at Karnak,
so there is something lyrical in the soft charm of the Philae temple.
Certain things or places, certain things in certain places, always
suggest to my mind certain people in whose genius I take delight--who
have won me, and moved me by their art. Whenever I go to Philae, the
name of Shelley comes to me. I scarcely could tell why. I have no
special reason to connect Shelley with Philae. Bu