Part 7

The constructional system pursued by the Egyptians, which consisted in roofing over spaces with large horizontal blocks of stone, led of necessity to a columnar arrangement in the interiors, as it was impossible to cover large areas without frequent upright supports. Hence the column became the chief means of obtaining effect, and the varieties of form which it exhibits are very numerous. The sculptors appear to have imitated as closely as possible the forms of the plant-world around them. In one they represent a bundle of reeds or lotus stalks. The stalks are bound round with several belts, and the capital is formed by the slightly bulging unopened bud of the flower, above which is a small abacus with the architrave resting upon it: the base is nothing but a low circular plinth. The square piers also have frequently a lotus bud carved on them. At the bottom of the shaft is frequently found a decoration imitated from the sheath of leaves from which the plant springs. As a further development of this capital we have the opened lotus flower of a very graceful bell-like shape, ornamented with a similar sheath-like decoration to that at the base of the shaft. This decoration was originally painted only, not sculptured, but at a later period we find these sheaths and buds worked in stone. Even more graceful is the palm capital, which also had its leading lines of decoration painted on it at first, and afterward sculptured. At a later period of the style we find the plant forms abandoned, and capitals were formed of a fantastic combination of the head of Isis with a pylon resting upon it. In one part of the temple at Karnak is found a very curious capital resembling the open lotus flower inverted. The proportion which the height of Egyptian columns bears to their diameter differs so much in various cases that there was evidently no regular standard adhered to, but as a general rule they have a heavy and massive character. The wall-paintings of the Egyptian buildings show many curious forms of columns, but we have no reason for thinking that these fantastic shapes were really executed in stone.

Almost the only sculptured ornaments worked on the exteriors of buildings were the curious astragal or bead at all the angles, and the cornice, which consisted of a very large cavetto, or hollow moulding, surmounted by a fillet. These features are almost invariable from the earliest to the latest period of the style. This cavetto was generally enriched, over the doorways, with an ornament representing a circular boss with a wing at each side of it.

One other feature of Egyptian architecture which was peculiar to it must be mentioned, namely, the obelisk. Obelisks were nearly always erected in pairs in front of the pylons of the temples, and added to the dignity of the entrance. They were invariably monoliths, slightly tapering in outline, carved with the most perfect accuracy; they must have existed originally in very large numbers. Not a few of these have been transported to Europe, and at least twelve are standing in Rome, one is in Paris and one in London.

ANALYSIS OF BUILDINGS.

The early rock-cut tombs were, of course, only capable of producing internal effects; their floor presents a series of halls and galleries, varying in size and shape, leading one out of the other, and intended by their contrast or combination to produce architectural effect. To this was added in the latter rock-cut tombs a façade to be seen directly in front. Much the same account can be given of the disposition of the built temples. They possess one front, which the spectator approaches, and they are disposed so as to produce varied and impressive interiors, but not to give rise to external display. The supports, such as walls, columns, piers, are all very massive and very close together, so that the only wide open spaces are courtyards.

The circle, or octagon, or other polygonal forms do not appear in the plans of Egyptian buildings; but though all the lines are straight, there is a good deal of irregularity in spacing, walls which face one another are not always parallel, and angles which appear to be right angles very often are not so.

The later buildings extend over much space. The adjuncts to these buildings, especially the avenues of sphinxes, are planned so as to produce an air of stately grandeur, and in them some degree of external effect is aimed at.

The walls are uniformly thick, and often of granite or of stone, though brick is also met with; _e. g._, some of the smaller pyramids are built entirely of brick. In all probability the walls of domestic buildings were to a great extent of brick, and less thick than those of the temples; hence they have all disappeared.

The surface of walls, even when of granite, was usually plastered with a thin fine plaster, which was covered by the profuse decoration in color already alluded to.

The walls of the propylons tapered from the base toward the top, and the same thing sometimes occurred in other walls. In almost all cases the stone walls are built of very large blocks, and they show an unrivaled skill in masonry.

The roofing which remains is executed entirely in stone, but not arched or vaulted. The rock-cut tombs, however, contain ceilings of an arched shape, and in some cases forms which seem to be an imitation of timber roofing. The roofing of the hypostyle hall at Karnak provides an arrangement for admitting light very similar to the clerestory of gothic cathedrals.

The openings were all covered by a stone lintel, and consequently were uniformly square-headed. The interspaces between columns were similarly covered, and hence Egyptian architecture has been, and correctly, classed as the first among the styles of trabeated architecture. Window openings seldom occur.

The columns have been already described to some extent. They are almost always circular in plan, but the shaft is sometimes channeled. They are for the most part of sturdy proportions, but great grace and elegance are shown in the profile given to shafts and capitals. The design of the capitals especially is full of variety, and admirably adapts forms obtained from the vegetable kingdom. The general effect of the Egyptian column, wherever it is used, is that it appears to have, as it really has, a great deal more strength than is required. The fact that the abacus (the square block of stone introduced between the moulded part of the capital and what it carries) is often smaller in width than the diameter of the column aids very much to produce this effect.

Mouldings are very rarely employed; in fact, the large bead running up the angles of the pylons, etc., and a heavy hollow moulding doing duty as a cornice, are all that are usually met with. Sculpture and carving occur occasionally, and are freely introduced in later works, where we sometimes find statues incorporated into the design of the fronts of temples. Decoration in color, in the shape of hieroglyphic inscriptions and paintings of all sorts, was profusely employed, and is executed with a truth of drawing and a beauty of coloring that have never been surpassed. Almost every object drawn is partly conventionalized, in the most skillful manner, so as to make it fit its place as a piece of a decorative system.

The character is gloomy, and to a certain extent forbidding, owing to the heavy walls and piers and columns, and the great masses supported by them; but when in its freshness and quite uninjured by decay or violence, the exquisite coloring of the walls and ceilings and columns must have added a great deal of beauty: this must have very much diminished the oppressive effect inseparable from such massive construction and from the gloomy darkness of many portions of the buildings. It is also noteworthy that the expenditure of materials and labor is greater in proportion to the effect attained than in any other style. The pyramids are the most conspicuous example of this prodigality. Before condemning this as a defect in the style, it must be remembered that a stability which should defy enemies, earthquakes, and the tooth of time, was far more aimed at than architectural character; and that, had any mode of construction less lavish of material, and less perfect in workmanship, been adopted, the buildings of Egypt might have all disappeared ere this.

SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE.

FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

If one is not too critical there is a good deal of pleasure to be got out of Halleck’s volume.—_National Magazine_ (_1852_).

Dana, Halleck and Bryant rose together on steady wings and gave voices to the solitude; Dana with a broad, grave undertone like that of the sea; Bryant with a sound as of the wind in summer woods, and the fall of waters in mountain dells; and Halleck with strains blown from a silver trumpet, breathing manly fire and courage.—_Bayard Taylor._

To * * * *

The world is bright before thee, Its summer flowers are thine, Its calm, blue sky is o’er thee, Thy bosom pleasure’s shrine; And thine the sunbeam given, To nature’s morning hour, Pure, warm, as when from heaven It burst on Eden’s bower.

There is a song of sorrow, The death-dirge of the gay, That tells, ere dawn of morrow, These charms may melt away, That sun’s bright beam be shaded, That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded, And youth’s warm promise o’er.

Believe it not, though lonely Thy evening home may be; Though beauty’s bark can only Float on a summer sea; Though time thy bloom is stealing, There’s still beyond his art The wild-flower wreath of feeling, The sunbeam of the heart.

In Memory of Joseph Rodman Drake.

Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine,—

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I’ve in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee.

There are some happy moments in this lone And desolate world of ours, that well repay The toil of struggling through it, and atone For many a long, sad night and weary day. They come upon the mind like some wild air Of distant music, when we know not where, Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power, Though brief, is boundless.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

Among the first to make a creditable appearance in the field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana, the last of the writers of his generation who achieved success both in prose and verse, and won the right to be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first half of the present century.—_James Grant Wilson._

From “THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.”

Turn with me from pining thought And all the inward ills that sin has wrought; Come, send abroad a love for all who live, And feel the deep content in turn they give. Kind wishes and good deeds—they make not poor; They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door. The streams of love flow back where they begin; For springs of outward joys lie deep within.

E’en let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-men, shouldst thou be sad, And earth seems bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters running near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam, That now upon the water dances. Now, Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell? In thine own bosom, brother? Then, as thine, Guard with a reverent fear this power divine, And if, indeed, ’tis not the outward state, But temper of the soul, by which we rate Sadness or joy, e’en let thy bosom move With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love; And let each feeling in thy breast be given An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven, And springing into act, new life imparts, Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.

The earth is full of life; the living hand Touched it with life; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit Man’s varied powers, and raise from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full,— Earth which thou tread’st,—and thy poor mind be dull, Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!

Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow Thro’ thy soul’s shut-up mansion. Wouldst thou know Something of what is life, shake off this death; Have thy soul feel the universal breath With which all nature’s quick, and learn to be Sharer in all thou dost touch or see; Break from thy body’s grasp, thy spirit’s trance; Give to thy soul air, thy faculties expanse; Love, joy, e’en sorrow—yield thyself to all! They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall, Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind To dust and sense, and set at large the mind; Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole; And be, like man at first, A Living Soul!

A Clump of Daisies.

Ye daisies gay, This fresh spring day Closed gathered here together, To play in the light, To sleep all the night, To abide through the sullen weather;

Ye creatures bland, A simple band, Ye free ones, linked in pleasure, And linked when your forms Stoop low in the storms, And the rain comes down without measure;

When the wild clouds fly Athwart the sky, And ghostly shadows, glancing, Are darkening the gleam Of the hurrying stream, And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;

Though dull awhile, Again ye smile; For, see, the warm sun breaking; The stream’s going glad, There’s nothing now sad, And the small bird his song is waking.

The dew-drop sip With dainty lip! The sun is low descended, And moon, softly fall On troops true and small; Sky and earth in one kindly blended.

And, morning! spread Their jewelled bed With lights in the east sky springing; And, brook! breathe around Thy low murmured sound! May they move, ye birds, to your singing;

For in their play I hear them say, Here, man, thy wisdom borrow; In heart be a child, In words, true and mild; Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Bryant’s writings transport us into the depths of the solemn, primeval forest, to the shores of the lonely lakes, the banks of the wild, nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a promontory from amidst a wild ocean of foliage; while they shed around us the glory of a climate fierce in its extremes, but splendid in its vicissitudes.—_Washington Irving._

His soul is charity itself—in all respects generous and noble.—_Edgar A. Poe._

We may have had elsewhere as faithful citizens; as industrious journalists; as ripe scholars, and poets, it may be, equally gifted and inspired, but where have we had another who has combined in his own person all these? In him a rare combination of extraordinary qualities was united; strength and gentleness, elevation of thought and childlike simplicity, genius, common-sense, and practical wisdom. Where there were controverted questions, whether men agreed with him or not, they never for an instant doubted his nobleness of purpose.—_Rev. R. C. Waterston._

To the Fringed Gentian.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven’s own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,—

Thou comest not when violets lean O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple drest, Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, When woods are bare, and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near its end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

Extract from Bryant’s Translation of the Iliad. Book I.

(620-774.)

* * * But when now, at length, The twelfth day came, the ever-living gods Returned together to the Olympian mount With Jove, their leader. Thetis kept in mind Her son’s desire, and, with the early morn, Emerging from the depths of ocean, climbed To the great heaven and the high mount, and found All-seeing Jove, who, from the rest apart, Was seated on the loftiest pinnacle Of many-peaked Olympus. She sat down Before the son of Saturn, clasped his knees With her left arm, and lifted up her right In supplication to the Sovereign One: “O Jupiter, my father, if among The immortals I have ever given thee aid By word or act, deny not my request. Honor my son, whose life is doomed to end So soon; for Agamemnon, king of men, Hath done him shameful wrong: he takes from him And keeps the prize he won in war. But thou, Olympian Jupiter, supremely wise, Honor him now, and give the Trojan host The victory, until the humbled Greeks Heap large increase of honors on my son.” She spake, but cloud-compelling Jupiter Answered her not; in silence long he sat. But Thetis, who had clasped his knees at first, Clung to them still, and prayed him yet again:— “O promise me, and grant my suit; or else Deny it,—for thou need’st not fear,—and I Shall know how far below the other gods Thou holdest me in honor.” As she spake, The cloud-compeller, sighing heavily, Answered her thus: “Hard things dost thou require, And thou wilt force me into new disputes With Juno, who will anger me again With contumelious words; for ever thus, In presence of the immortals, doth she seek Cause of contention, charging that I aid The Trojans in their battles. Now depart, And let her not perceive thee. Leave the rest To be by me accomplished; and that thou Mayst be assured, behold, I give the nod; For this, with me, the immortals know, portends The highest certainty: no word of mine Which once my nod confirms can be revoked, Or prove untrue, or fail to be fulfilled.” As thus he spake, the son of Saturn gave The nod with his dark brows. The ambrosial curls Upon the Sovereign One’s immortal head Were shaken, and with them the mighty mount Olympus trembled. Then they parted, she Plunging from bright Olympus to the deep, And Jove returning to his palace home; Where all the gods, uprising from their thrones, At sight of the Great Father, waited not For his approach, but met him as he came. And now upon his throne the Godhead took His seat, but Juno knew—for she had seen— That Thetis of the silver feet, and child Of the gray Ancient of the Deep, had held Close counsel with her consort. Therefore she Bespake the son of Saturn harshly, thus:— “O crafty one, with whom, among the gods, Plottest thou now? Thus hath it ever been Thy pleasure to devise, apart from me, Thy plans in secret; never willingly Dost thou reveal to me thy purposes.” Then thus replied the Father of the gods And mortals: “Juno, do not think to know All my designs, for thou wilt find the task Too hard for thee, although thou be my spouse. What fitting is to be revealed, no one Of all the immortals or of men shall know Sooner than thou; but when I form designs Apart from all the gods, presume thou not To question me or pry into my plans.” Juno, the large-eyed and august, rejoined:— “What words, stern son of Saturn, hast thou said! It never was my wont to question thee Or pry into thy plans, and thou art left To form them as thou wilt; yet now I fear The silver-footed Thetis has contrived— That daughter of the Ancient of the Deep— To o’erpersuade thee, for, at early prime, She sat before thee and embraced thy knees; And thou hast promised her, I can not doubt, To give Achilles honor and to cause Myriads of Greeks to perish by their fleet.” Then Jove, the cloud-compeller, spake again:— “Harsh-tongued! thou ever dost suspect me thus, Nor can I act unwatched; and yet all this Profits thee nothing, for it only serves To breed dislike, and is the worse for thee. But were it as thou deemest, ’tis enough That such has been my pleasure. Sit thou down In silence, and obey, lest all the gods Upon Olympus, when I come and lay These potent hands on thee, protect thee not.” He spake, and Juno, large-eyed and august, O’erawed, and curbing her high spirit, sat In silence; meanwhile all the gods of heaven Within the halls of Jove were inly grieved.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

A man of true genius.—_Edgar A. Poe._

A man’s heart beats in his every line.—_George Gilfillan._

Of all our poets Longfellow best deserves the title of artist.—_Griswold._

They (Longfellow’s poems) appear to me more beautiful than on former readings, much as I then admired them. The exquisite music of your verses dwells more agreeably than ever on my ear, and more than ever am I affected by their depth of feeling and their spirituality, and the creative power with which they set before us passages from the great drama of life.—_William Cullen Bryant in letter to Longfellow._

Santa Filomena.

Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,—

The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.