Each side of the Pyramid of Cheops is about as long as the Capitol at Washington, or the Sultan’s new palace on the Bosporus, and is longer than the greatest depth of St. Peter’s at Rome—­which is to say that each side of Cheops extends seven hundred and some odd feet.  It is about seventy-five feet higher than the cross on St. Peter’s.  The first time I ever went down the Mississippi, I thought the highest bluff on the river between St. Louis and New Orleans—­it was near Selma, Missouri—­was probably the highest mountain in the world.  It is four hundred and thirteen feet high.  It still looms in my memory with undiminished grandeur.  I can still see the trees and bushes growing smaller and smaller as I followed them up its huge slant with my eye, till they became a feathery fringe on the distant summit.  This symmetrical Pyramid of Cheops—­this solid mountain of stone reared by the patient hands of men—­this mighty tomb of a forgotten monarch—­dwarfs my cherished mountain.  For it is four hundred and eighty feet high.  In still earlier years than those I have been recalling, Holliday’s Hill, in our town, was to me the noblest work of God.  It appeared to pierce the skies.  It was nearly three hundred feet high.  In those days I pondered the subject much, but I never could understand why it did not swathe its summit with never-failing clouds, and crown its majestic brow with everlasting snows.  I had heard that such was the custom of great mountains in other parts of the world.  I remembered how I worked with another boy, at odd afternoons stolen from study and paid for with stripes, to undermine and start from its bed an immense boulder that rested upon the edge of that hilltop; I remembered how, one Saturday afternoon, we gave three hours of honest effort to the task, and saw at last that our reward was at hand; I remembered how we sat down, then, and wiped the perspiration away, and waited to let a picnic party get out of the way in the road below—­and then we started the boulder.  It was splendid.  It went crashing down the hillside, tearing up saplings, mowing bushes down like grass, ripping and crushing and smashing every thing in its path—­eternally splintered and scattered a wood pile at the foot of the hill, and then sprang from the high bank clear over a dray in the road—­the negro glanced up once and dodged—­and the next second it made infinitesimal mince-meat of a frame cooper-shop, and the coopers swarmed out like bees.  Then we said it was perfectly magnificent, and left.  Because the coopers were starting up the hill to inquire.

Still, that mountain, prodigious as it was, was nothing to the Pyramid of Cheops.  I could conjure up no comparison that would convey to my mind a satisfactory comprehension of the magnitude of a pile of monstrous stones that covered thirteen acres of ground and stretched upward four hundred and eighty tiresome feet, and so I gave it up and walked down to the Sphynx.