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 Philæ 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 Philæ, the name of Shelley comes to me. I scarcely could tell why. I have no special reason to connect Shelley with Philæ. But when I see that almost airy loveliness of stone, so simply elegant, so, somehow, spring-like in its pale-colored beauty, its happy, daffodil charm, with its touch of the Greek,--the sensitive hand from Attica stretched out over Nubia,--I always think of Shelley. I think of Shelley the youth who dived down into the pool so deep that it seemed he was lost forever to the sun. I think of Shelley the poet, full of a lyric ecstasy, who was himself like an embodied Longing for something afar From the sphere of our sorrow. Lyrical Philæ is like a temple of dreams, and of all poets Shelley might have dreamed the dream, and have told it to the world in a song. For all its solidity, there are a strange lightness and grace in the temple of Philæ; there is an elegance you will not find in the other temples of Egypt. But it is an elegance quite undefiled by weakness, by any sentimentality. (Even a building, like a love-lorn maid, can be sentimental.) Edward Fitzgerald once defined taste as the feminine of genius. Taste prevails in Philæ, a certain delicious femininity that seduces the eyes and the heart of man. Shall we call it the spirit of Isis? I have heard a clever critic and antiquarian declare that he is not very fond of Philæ; that he feels a [Illustration: “PHARAOH’S BED,” ISLAND OF PHILÆ] certain “spuriousness” in the temple due to the mingling of Greek with Egyptian influences. He may be right. I am no antiquarian, and, as a mere lover of beauty, I do not feel this “spuriousness.” I can see neither two quarreling strengths nor any weakness caused by division. I suppose I see only the beauty, as I might see only the beauty of a woman bred of a handsome father and mother of different races, and who, not typical of either, combined in her features and figure distinguishing merits of both. It is true that there is a particular pleasure which is roused in us only by the absolutely typical--the completely thoroughbred person or thing. It may be a pleasure not caused by beauty, and it may be very keen, nevertheless. When it is combined with the joy roused in us by all beauty, it is a very pure emotion of exceptional delight. Philæ does not, perhaps, give this emotion. But it certainly has a lovableness that attaches the heart in a quite singular degree. The Philæ-lover is the most faithful of lovers. The hold of his mistress upon him, once it has been felt, is never relaxed. And in his affection for Philæ there is, I think, nearly always a rainbow strain of romance.