rain 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.

Yes, one can forget even now in the hall of the temple of Isis, where
the capricious graces of color, where, like old and delicious music in
the golden strings of a harp, dwells a something--what is it? A murmur,
or a perfume, or a breathing?--of old and vanished years when forsaken
gods were worshipped. And one can forget in the chapel of Hathor, on
whose wall little Horus is born, and in the grey hounds' chapel beside
it. One can forget, for one walks in beauty.

Lovely are the doorways in Philae, enticing are the shallow steps that
lead one onward and upward; gracious the yellow towers that seem to
smile a quiet welcome. And there is one chamber that is simply a place
of magic--the hall of the flowers.

It is this chamber which always makes