Well, as I was going on to say, we get an early start to the Pyramids. We meet hundreds of camels coming off of the great desert, and donkeys without number going into market, laden with hay and clover, fish, fuel and vegetables. Where we cross the Nile, both banks are lined with tall, majestic palm trees, the finest I have ever seen. The rising sun throws the palm shadows on the river’s broad bosom. The shadows sink into the blue depths below; we see two palm groves standing end to end—one above, and one below the water.
Now, leaving the Nile, and turning directly west, we travel along a road that was constructed a few years ago by the Khedive for the use of the Prince of Wales and party. Unfortunately, I am not informed whether the Prince made this trip on a donkey or not. I know this, however, whether he walked, rode an ass, or was driven in a carriage of state, he enjoyed the Pyramids not one whit more than I do. I can not help enjoying them. They are already looming up before me, clearly outlined against the sky. At first, they seem to swim in a sea of mirage that rises up from the surrounding country—they are composed of such stuff as dreams are made of. But, as I come nearer, that airy nothingness assumes definite shape, and takes on colossal proportions. At last I stand face to face with a Miracle in Stone, the only remaining one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. It is at once the most massive and mysterious, the most towering and majestic, the oldest, and yet the most enduring, of all the works of man. It bursts upon me, at once, in all the “flower of its highest perfection.” I go “back down the stream of time,” and breathe the atmosphere of five thousand years ago. I see, in my imagination, thousands and thousands of human slaves, deep down in the bowels of some far off mountain, blasting these stones. I see them piling the stones upon rough barges, and floating them a thousand miles down yonder Nile. I see them out here on the desert, clearing away a thirteen-acre base, on which to erect a hand-made mountain. On this thirteen-acre foundation, I see the Pyramid rise, block after block, course upon course, up, and still up, it goes. These blocks of rock, one of which it takes on an average two hundred men to raise the eighth of an inch from the ground, are lifted high up in the air and swung into their destined places with an exactness that varies not the fraction of an inch. Yes, here is the Pyramid, with its broad base, sloping sides, and cloud-piercing summit; but who were its builders? and where are they? Echo answers, “who? where?”
“Forty centuries look down upon us from the Pyramids,” and speak to us in trumpet tones of the folly of human ambition. Think of the straining, the suffering and the sorrowing, that those foolish Pyramid-builders caused, in order to have their bodies preserved, and their memories perpetuated. Their work still stands, but long ago their very bones have been ground into powder, and even their names are unknown to man.
The Great Pyramid is 730 feet square at the base, and is 460 feet high. “The usual process in Egyptian Pyramid building seems to have been to start with an upright column, or needle, of rock, and enclose it in a series of steps formed of huge blocks of stone. Fresh series of steps were added to the outside, till the requisite dimensions were obtained. Then the steps were filled up with smooth polished stones, covered with sculpture and inscriptions.” Deep down in the Pyramids were left open chambers and passages, as the burial places of the illustrious builder and his family. Of course, these interior chambers were closed and hermetically sealed. From the Great Pyramid, or the Pyramid of Cheops, the outer polished stones have been removed, so now there remains a series of colossal steps, up which some visitors climb to the top.
To ascend the Pyramid, one must pay a fee to the Sheik, who furnishes him with two strong Arabs—some travelers require four—to assist him up. It would be both difficult and dangerous to attempt the ascent alone. The steps are often five feet high. There is no chance to catch a hand hold, and you have only twelve, and sometimes six, inches to stand on while you struggle to get up. We had two assistants each, yet Johnson came very near falling. I was amused, and excited, too, when I heard him cry out to the Arabs, “Hold me! hold me!”
At the top of the Pyramid, there is a level platform, about thirty feet square, from which one gets a fine view of the surrounding country. Looking eastward, I can trace the majestic Nile, in its onward sweep toward the ocean, and its fertile valley, once the granary of the world. Turning toward the setting sun, I look out for miles and miles over the arid desert. Not a living thing do I see, but a caravan of camels, those ships of the desert, just starting out on their long journey. After descending almost to the ground, we have then to slide on our stomachs up an inclined plane, on the inside of the Pyramid in order to reach the interior chamber, which was long ago robbed of its mummied kings.
A few hundred yards from the Pyramid of Cheops stands the colossal Sphynx, which, if possible, is a greater wonder than the Pyramid itself. The Sphynx is a huge lion with a human head. It is therefore an emblematic sovereign, combining the greatest earthly wisdom with the greatest possible strength. I said the Sphynx is colossal. Look at it and see for yourself. Its paws are fifty feet, and its body one hundred and forty feet in length. Its massive head is of proportionate size. This image is hewn out of solid stone, and stands out before us in giant-like proportions. And yet it is so graceful and symmetrical, withal, that we half-way forget its size. We are wondering why it does not move and walk, why we can not see it breathe and roll its eyes. If God would only touch the Sphynx, it would instantly become a living creature! Its countenance has been described as wearing “an expression of the softest beauty and most winning grace.” This, however, must have been in the days of its youth. At present, it has a furrowed brow and wrinkled. Its eyes are deep back in its head, and its jaws are firmly set. It wears a pensive, thoughtful look.
I speak to the Sphynx, but, paying no attention, it stands “staring right on, with calm eternal eyes.” As an old man in his dotage, forgets all that took place during the days of his strength and manly glory, and thinks only of those things which occurred in early life, so this Sphynx stands, with memory stretching like rainbow from old age to childhood. It is thinking about the confusion of tongues that took place around the tower of Babel; about the morning when the city of Damascus was laid out by Uz, the great-grandson of Noah; about the day when God appeared to Abraham, and told him to leave the land of Ur and go into the land of Canaan. It is thinking about the time when Joseph ruled Egypt; when Moses was found in the ark of bulrushes, on the bosom of yonder Nile; when Pharaoh was swallowed up by the Red Sea. In middle life, this “eternal statue” saw Troy fall and Athens rise. In old age, it saw Rome flourish, fade and fall.
Standing side by side, are the Sphynx and the Pyramids, both huge in dimensions, both graceful in appearance, both impressive to behold, both “ancient as the sun,” and both I believe, will be among the last earthly objects to yield to the “wasting tooth of Time.”