St. Peter’s, Rome, Menephtah.
St. Maria Maggiore, Nectanebo II.
Piazza Quirinale, ditto.
Propylon of Philæ, Ptolemy Philadelphus.
Albani, Munich.
Alnwick Museum, sandstone.
Florence (two).
Arles, France.
The progress of our obelisk to England offers several points of
interest which we must leave to another pen than our own to develop.
Before its transport to London became the theme of discussion, there
were few probably who cared for it; but since the prospect of its
arrival has dawned, many have shown an interest in its disposal. Its
earliest friend was the Earl of Harrowby, who considered it worthy of
one of the noblest sites in London; and sees in that site a “moral
fitness.” Indeed, to ourselves, the question is not so much,—Where
it will look the best; as, Where it will best be preserved and
appreciated:—and we certainly know of no spot in the metropolis so
fitting in every respect as St. Stephen’s Green, otherwise Parliament
Square, with its noble and its venerable monuments and traditions. We
could point out many good spots for its erection, but none better; and
when the great weight of the monument is taken into consideration, and
the obstacles to moving it through a crowded city, we ought to be more
than content with the precincts of Westminster Abbey as its ultimate
resting-place.
To the son of one who has served his country—to a sailor’s son—the
Egyptian obelisk illustrates a brilliant bit of British history, of
“great events, deeds, and characters” of British bravery; of VICTORY
or WESTMINSTER ABBEY. And of the “moral fitness” of the Westminster
site, let us give ear to the gentle teachings of one whose words ought
ever to be received with the deepest veneration and respect—Dean
Stanley—who, preaching from the pulpit of Westminster itself, on
the text—“And who is my neighbour?” illustrating the parable of the
Good Samaritan, and the numerous occasions, at home and abroad,
on which Christian kindness might be rendered—remarked, the great
Egyptian obelisk, now on its way to England, might preach us an useful
lesson. “That obelisk,” he observes, “if ever it should be planted,
will be a lasting memorial of those lessons which are taught by the
Good Samaritan. * * * What will it tell us when it comes to stand,
a solitary heathen stranger, amidst the monuments of our English
Christian greatness—perchance amidst the statues of our statesmen,
under the shadow of our legislature, almost within the very precincts
of our abbey? It will speak to us of the wisdom and splendour which
was the parent of all past civilisation—the wisdom whereby Moses
made himself learned in all the learning of the Egyptians for the
deliverance and education of Israel—whence the earliest Grecian
philosophers and the earliest Christian fathers derived the insight
which enabled them to look into the deep things alike of Paganism and
Christianity. It will tell us, so often as we look at its strange form
and venerable characters, that ‘The light which lighteneth every man’
shone also on those who raised it as an emblem of the beneficial rays
of the sunlight of the world. It will tell us that as true goodness was
possible in the outcast Samaritan, so true wisdom was possible even in
the hard and superstitious Egyptians, even in that dim twilight of the
human race, before the first dawn of the Hebrew law or of the Christian
gospel.”