him with a strong conviciion that his talents as an artist had been slightly exaggerated by Herodotus and his wonder-loving fellow historians. Near by sits his "big brother" equally herculean, equally storm-beaten, but not distinguished in the musical line.
But the greatest marvel of ancient Thebes is yet to be seen. Of all the ruined temples of Egypt—of all the ruined , wonders of the earth—Karnak on the east side of the river is the most impressive. No description, no plan, no diagram, can give expression to its vastness. It is approached from Luxor by an avenue of two hundred sphynxes, terminating at the outer gate-way of the temple. They are all headless now, but the pedestals remain to tell the glory of the past. There are three other approaches, all by similar lines of sphynxes, all with immense propylii, all terminated by vast courts and colonnades. The walls of the principal gate-way are twenty-seven feet thick, while the towers have almost the proportions of pyramids. A forest of towers and pillars and crumbling walls darken the heavens on every side. Entering the great hall the traveler is lost in wonder. This edifice measures one hundred and seventy-six by three hundred and twenty-nine feet, and is supported by a central avenue of twelve massive columns sixty-six feet high without the pedestal and abacus, and twelve feet in diameter. To this are added one hundred and twenty-two columns, each forty-one feet high and
twenty-seven and a-half feet in circumference. Beyond this are four lofty obelisks; then the sanctuary of polished granite, the walls richly sculptured and the ceiling studded with stars. Farther on another colonnade—another portico, another avenue of sphynxes—another magnificent propylon.
The body of the temple proper was twelve hundred feet long, and four hundred and twenty feet broad, while the entire field of ruins comprises a mile in diameter. Imagine a space equal to that occupied by one-third of the city of San Francisco, all devoted to a single temple and its approaches; imagine two lines of colossal sphynxes extending half a mile from each of its four sides; imagine each of these lines terminating in immense towers; imagine endless groupes of sculptured gods and godesses, lining every avenue and approach; imagine colossii of pure marble and polished granite, guarding every gateway—obelisks shooting upwards into the blue sky, towers rising in every direction; imagine the stately processions of priests, the myriads of devout worshipers that thronged its courts—the imposing pageants without, the darker mysteries within; imagine the great city in the days of its glory—its streets thronged with gay denizens—the river swarming with busy life—the whole world looking on with awe and wonder; imagine all this, and you will have some faint conception of Karnak—and of Thebes.
