of a beautiful tapestry, rich and ornate, yet always quiet, are the brown reliefs upon the stone.  What are they?  Does it matter?  They soften the walls, make them more personal, more tender.  That surely is their mission.  This temple holds for me a spell.  As soon as I enter it, I feel the touch of the lotus, as if an invisible and kindly hand swept a blossom lightly across my face and downward to my heart.  This courtyard, these small chambers beyond it, that last doorway framing a lovely darkness, soothe me even more than the terra-cotta hermitages of the Certosa of Pavia.  And all the statues here are calm with an irrevocable calmness, faithful through passing years with a very sober faithfulness to the temple they adorn.  In no other place, one feels it, could they be thus at peace, with hands crossed for ever upon their breasts, which are torn by no anxieties, thrilled by no joys.  As one stands among them or sitting on the base of a column in the chamber that lies beyond them, looks on them from a little distance, their attitude is like a summons to men to contend no more, to be still, to enter into rest.

Come to this temple when you leave the hall of Seti.  There you are in a place of triumph.  Scarlet, some say, is the color of a great note sounded on a bugle.  This hall is like a bugle-call of the past, thrilling even now down all the ages with a triumph that is surely greater than any other triumphs.  It suggests blaze—­blaze of scarlet, blaze of bugle, blaze of glory, blaze of life and time, of ambition and achievement.  In these columns, in the putting up of them, dead men sought to climb to sun and stars, limitless in desire, limitless in industry, limitless in will.  And at the tops of the columns blooms the lotus, the symbol of rising.  What a triumph in stone this hall was once, what a triumph in stone its ruin is to-day!  Perhaps, among temples, it is the most wondrous thing in all Egypt, as it was, no doubt, the most wondrous temple in the world; among temples I say, for the Sphinx is of all the marvels of Egypt by far the most marvellous.  The grandeur of this hall almost moves one to tears, like the marching past of conquerors, stirs the heart with leaping thrills at the capacities of men.  Through the thicket of columns, tall as forest trees, the intense blue of the African sky stares down, and their great shadows lie along the warm and sunlit ground.  Listen!  There are voices chanting.  Men are working here—­working as men worked how many thousands of years ago.  But these are calling upon the Mohammedan’s god as they slowly drag to the appointed places the mighty blocks of stone.  And it is to-day a Frenchman who oversees them.

     “Help!  Help!  Allah give us help! 
     Help!  Help!  Allah give us help!”

The dust flies up about their naked feet.  Triumph and work; work succeeded by the triumph all can see.  I like to hear the workmen’s voices within the hall of Seti.  I like to see the dust stirred by their tramping feet.