other over the landscape. There is an entire
absence of picturesque scenery. A single broad
river, unbroken within the limits of Egypt even by
a rapid, two flat strips of green plain at its side,
two low lines of straight-topped hills beyond them,
and a boundless open space where the river divides
itself into half a dozen sluggish branches before
reaching the sea, constitute Egypt, which is by nature
a southern Holland—–“weary,
stale, flat and unprofitable.” The monotony
is relieved, however, in two ways, and by two causes.
Nature herself does something to relieve it Twice a
day, in the morning and in the evening, the sky and
the landscape are lit up by hues so bright yet so
delicate, that the homely features of the prospect
are at once transformed as by magic, and wear an aspect
of exquisite beauty. At dawn long streaks of
rosy light stretch themselves across the eastern sky,
the haze above the western horizon blushes a deep red;
a ruddy light diffuses itself around, and makes walls
and towers and minarets and cupolas to glow like fire;
the long shadows thrown by each tree and building
are purple or violet. A glamour is over the scene,
which seems transfigured by an enchanter’s wand;
but the enchanter is Nature, and the wand she wields
is composed of sun-rays. Again, at eve, nearly
the same effects are produced as in the morning, only
with a heightened effect; “the redness of flames”
passes into “the redness of roses”—the
wavy cloud that fled in the morning comes into sight
once more—comes blushing, yet still comes
on—comes burning with blushes, and clings
to the Sun-god’s side.[3]
Night brings a fresh transfiguration. The olive
after-glow gives place to a deep blue-grey. The
yellow moon rises into the vast expanse. A softened
light diffuses itself over earth and sky. The
orb of night walks in brightness through a firmament
of sapphire; or, if the moon is below the horizon,
then the purple vault is lit up with many-coloured
stars. Silence profound reigns around. A
phase of beauty wholly different from that of the
day-time smites the sense; and the monotony of feature
is forgiven to the changefulness of expression, and
to the experience of a new delight.
Man has also done his part to overcome the dulness
and sameness that brood over the “land of Mizraim.”
Where nature is most tame and commonplace, man is
tempted to his highest flights of audacity. As
in the level Babylonia he aspired to build a tower
that should “reach to heaven” (Gen. xi.
4), so in Egypt he strove to startle and surprise by
gigantic works, enormous undertakings, enterprises
that might have seemed wholly beyond his powers.
And these have constituted in all ages, except the
very earliest, the great attractiveness of Egypt.
Men are drawn there, not by the mysteriousness of
the Nile, or the mild beauties of orchards and palm-groves,
of well-cultivated fields and gardens—no,
nor by the loveliness of sunrises and sunsets, of moonlit
skies and stars shining with many hues, but by the