with cedar, and painting it with vermilion; though they doubtless would have thought that it would have been ill, even for an Egyptian Pharaoh, to build his house by unrighteousness, and his chambers by wrong, to use his neighbour’s service without wages, and to give him not for his work. But how any question of unrighteousness and wrong could arise between Pharaoh and strangers, people who were not Egyptians, would have been something new and incomprehensible to Pharaoh. I once asked a fisherman’s boy who was unconcernedly breaking up a basketful of live crabs to bait his father’s dab-nets, if it was not cruel work that he was about? ‘No,’ he replied, ‘because it is their business to find us a living.’ Somewhat in the same way did Pharaoh think of the outside world; and in much the same way, too, did he treat it, when he wished to build himself a temple-palace. In these temple-palaces one hears the groans, and sees the blood, of those who were broken up alive to build them. There are no buildings in the old world so full of actually written and pictured history as these three temple-palaces, for each of them contains records of the achievements and life of the builder, as they were regarded by himself, and of his religion, as it was understood by himself. The grandest of the three is the Memnonium, or, as it ought to be called, the Rameseum. Here lived the great Rameses. He designed it, built it, and made it his home. He built it after his great Asiatic campaigns. How often here must he have fought his battles o’er again.