I have heard a clever critic and antiquarian declare that he is not very fond of Philae; that he feels a 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 quarrelling strengths nor any weakness caused by division.  I suppose I see only the beauty, as I might see only the beauty of a women 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.  Philae does not, perhaps, give this emotion.  But it certainly has a lovableness that attaches the heart in a quite singular degree.  The Philae-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 Philae there is, I think, nearly always a rainbow strain of romance.

When we love anything, we love to be able to say of the object of our devotion, “There is nothing like it.”  Now, in all Egypt, and I suppose in all the world there is nothing just like Philae.  There are temples, yes; but where else is there a bouquet of gracious buildings such as these gathered in such a holder as this tiny, raft-like isle?  And where else are just such delicate and, as I have said, light and almost feminine elegance and charm set in the midst of such severe sterility?  Once, beyond Philae, the great Cataract roared down from the wastes of Nubia into the green fertility of Upper Egypt.  It roars no longer.  But still the masses of the rocks, and still the amber and the yellow sands, and still the iron-colored hills, keep guard round Philae.  And still, despite the vulgar desecration that has turned Shellal into a workmen’s suburb and dowered it with a railway-station, there is a mystery in Philae, and the sense of isolation that only an island gives.  Even now one can forget in Philae—­forget, after a while, and in certain parts of its buildings, the presence of the grey disease; forget the threatening of the altruists, who desire to benefit humanity by clearing as much beauty out of humanity’s abiding-place as possible; forget the fact of the railway, except when the shriek of the engine floats over the water to one’s ears; forget economic problems, and the destruction that their solving brings upon the silent world of things whose “use,” denied, unrecognized, or laughed at, to man is in their holy beauty, whose mission lies not upon the broad highways where tramps the hungry body, but upon the secret, shadowy byways where glides the hungry soul.