Of course you listen to anything people have to say on a subject about which you are at the moment interested. Here are some specimens of what I heard about the Pyramids, when I was on the point of visiting them. A gentleman, who had that day returned from making the ascent, was, as he sat at the table d’hôte, overflowing with his impressions. His complexion and voice were somewhat womanly. As might have been expected, he strongly advised that everyone should attempt what he had himself just accomplished. There was, however, some novelty in the advantage, he thought, would result from the ascent, as well as in the logical process by which it was to be attained. ‘Go up,’ his words were, ‘go up by all means. The religious effects are very good. Elevated to so enormous a height above the earth, on so vast and imperishable a structure, you feel deeply and profitably the littleness, the feebleness of man.’
I asked the owner of a New York dry-goods store, who was rushing over the world for the purpose of adding to the stock of his ideas—a very creditable effort in a man of his antecedents and occupation, and who was now half-gray—what he thought of the Pyramids? ‘Well,’ was his reply, ‘they are a matter biggish. But I don’t think them much, for we can have just as good Pyramids in Central Park, New York, if we choose to spend the money to have them. A Pyramid is nothing but dollars. How many dollars do you say one would cost? Well, we have got all these, and many more, to spare. We have got the Pyramids in our pockets, and can set them up any day we please.’
These are specimens (and additional instances might be given) of the ideas of people who are eminently estimable, and perfectly contented with themselves and with the world. Indeed, in holding and expressing them, they must think that their eyes are not quite as other men’s; that they can penetrate a little further beyond the surface of things. Yet one meets with many a man quite as estimable, though perhaps not quite so contented with himself and with the world, who would be disposed to ask what good would his life do him, if told that he must swop ideas with them. The prospect would be as little attractive to him as that of the exchange of his religion for the creed of an ancient Briton, or Cherokee Indian. But variety is pleasant; and the world is a big place with plenty of room for honest folk of all sorts.
An acquaintance (I trust he will allow me to quote him here), in whose mind at the moment artistic must have preponderated over historical associations, standing unawed, and even unmoved, in front of the Great Pyramid, relieved his mind to me, by giving utterance to the following piece of honest profanity:—
‘I can’t bring myself to take the slightest interest in these Pyramids. They don’t possess one principle, one element, one feature of architecture. They are nothing at all but heaps of stones.’
On my first visit to the Pyramids of Gizeh it was too windy for anyone but an Arab to think of making the ascent. On my second visit the day was all one could wish, and so four of our party went up to the top of the Great Pyramid. It was my fifty-fourth birthday. This seemed to myself rather a reason for not making the effort. My climbing-days were done. But my young friend, late from Harrow, and great in athletics, thought differently. ‘You mustn’t give in yet,’ he urged. ‘You must go up. It is what everyone ought to do. What is the use of having come all this way if you don’t go up? You will be sorry afterwards if you don’t. One would come a long way to have a chance of doing it.’ As this was very much like what one used to think oneself some thirty, or so, years since, the exhortation seemed reasonable and good. We ought to endeavour to keep ourselves young in body as well as in mind. We ought not to give in by anticipation. It will be time enough when we can’t help ourselves. And so I went to the top.
By the way a party for travel in Egypt, if pleasure, not work, is the first object, may be a large one, and need not be composed entirely of historians and philosophers. All liberal pursuits and reasonable ways of looking at things may be represented advantageously. A naturalist and a geologist are almost indispensable. A member of the Ethnological Society might, at times, turn up worth his salt. A Liverpool, or Manchester, man whose ideas are of commerce, manufactures, and machinery; of the value of things, and how to do things, would often serviceably recall speculation to the standard of present utility. But by all means have a young fellow late from Harrow, and still great in athletics. He is always to the front, like a cork to the surface of the water. He is never afraid of work, or of roughing it. He is always good-tempered and merry. Always glad to hear what has anything in it; is impatient of twaddle, and can’t stand assumption. Some day he will himself be an Egyptologer, or geologist, or something of the kind. At present he is tolerant, and allows these things to those who like them. What he likes is a rousing gallop on the Sheik’s horse, a girl that has no nonsense in her, a champagne luncheon, a good cigar. Some things, and some chaps he thinks slow, but the general rule is ‘all right.’ A Nile party is the better for this ingredient. We mediævalists must not be over-reasonable. He will help us a little to keep this tendency in check. Besides, we were once young ourselves, while our friend was never, though we all hope he may live to be, an old fogie.
Four of us went to the top together. But place aux dames, and no young lady, from the days of Cheops, better deserved the first place than she who, on an early day in January, 1871, ascended his Pyramid with eye as bright, and foot as sure, as a gazelle’s. If he still haunts the mighty monument in which he was laid, after having bent his people to its erection for fifty years, he must have thought, as the Lily of the North stood on its summit, that he was well repaid.
For ne’er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace