question. Music Beyond blue horizons far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands beckon us. Bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for ports of call. Music Egypt. Seven thousand year old queen of the Nile. A land of sunlight and endless summer. While Europe still remained in a primitive state, when Greece did not yet exist and Rome was unheard of, the pharaohs of Egypt knew enough about architecture to build pyramid shaped tombs, which have stood in violet for six thousand years. It was Egypt who gave us the foundations for astronomy. Egypt that first perfected the art of sculpture and painting. Who taught us how to dye cloth, weave linen and cotton. Truly this land is a magnificent and lasting monument to the saying, there is nothing new under the sun. We enter Egypt by way of Alexandria at the mouth of the Nile. A gay modern city, swarming with people of every race and creed. Taking a side trip from Alexandria to the Rosetta mouth of the Nile, we pass a spot where in 1799, an event took place which was destined to open the magic portal of Egypt's past. On his ill fated adventure into Egypt, Napoleon prepares to give battle to the Turks and orders some trenches dug in the soft soil of the Nile Delta. Look Pierre, what can this be? Here let me help you. Ah, see, covered with markings like writing. It looks like Greek. And then there are some little pictures like we have seen on the pyramids. I think Napoleon would wish you to give it to him. Oh Francois, Napoleon is coming toward us now. What are you doing then? Find another's work? You stand either. General Bonaparte, we were digging even as the rest are doing. And I dug up this stone. Pierre here says I should give it to you. Let me look at it. You are right to give it to me. Soldiers, this stone has the wisdom of centuries written upon it. Indeed you did well, very well. Napoleon sent the Rosetta stone to Champollion, famous Egyptologist, who found it a record of honours bestowed on Cleopatra. They were written in Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphics. Champollion knew ancient Greek. By comparison he was able to decipher the mysterious hieroglyphics. Thus it is that the world today knows so much of the distant wonder and beauty of Egypt's past. We can go up the Nile to Cairo by railroad, or we can take one of the lazy native boats called phalukas, swan-shaped delicately built sailing vessels, which might have been used by Cleopatra herself. Slowly Alexandria passes from view. After many hours on the green turgid waters of the winding Nile, we reach Cairo. Cairo seems more Turkish than Egyptian, filled with mosques and tombs of the various Caliphs and Cades. We wander for hours through winding streets packed with every kind of oriental type, and native bazaars. If we prefer modern comforts, we go to Shepard's Hotel, where we dance to the latest tunes and eat the finest European food. Only a few miles away, at Giza, we are transported into the dim past, to 4,700 years before Christ, when Cleop's pharaoh of Egypt decided to immortalise his name. I, Cleop's King of Kings, make a proclamation. When Osiris, the father of the gods, takes me across the Black River of Death, I wish to be buried in a tomb befitting a king. I order all my slaves to go to the stone quarries and cut out blocks, each one the size of three elephants. Then I wish them to be dragged across the sands and built into the largest tomb in the world. After twenty years of labour, and with a loss of three million lives, the Great Pyramid was completed. Near the Great Pyramid, we can still see traces of the long, low barracks, where miserable slaves sank into exhaustion after the day of toil lifting the huge stone blocks, weighing over three tonnes apiece. Our native guide is anxious to take us through the Great Pyramid. First, we must climb about ten feet to the entrance. See, it is far off the ground to keep the floodwaters from entering. Careful now, the passage is very narrow, it slopes down. You must not bump your head. It's strange. Electric lights in here, it seems almost sacrilegious. Many say that, but no one would like to bump his head. Feel those huge stone blocks. I don't see how they ever got them in place without a derrick. About how many would you say there were in this pyramid? They say there are over two million of them in the Great Pyramid. It is fearfully hot in here, no air at all. The old kings did not wish to be disturbed. We are in the room where the king was laid to rest all those centuries ago. See, there is the great stone sarcophagus. Empty. I thought the mummy might still be in there. Alas, centuries ago thieves broke in and stole all the treasures. They even turned the sarcophagus upside down. The king's body turned to dust and ashes. We are standing in a room 7,000 years old. It doesn't seem possible. It looks ageless. Like Egypt herself, honorable sir. Yes, Egypt herself, ageless. Near the Great Pyramid, stretched full length on the burning sands, we see the Sphinx looking across the Nile with expressionless, unseeing eyes, endlessly meditating. Whose gigantic portrait is this weird creature with its lion body and its human head? 4600 BC, Khafre Pharaoh of Egypt speaks. I am Khafre who sits on the right hand of Osiris, god of the Nile. Who was chaos that he should have a greater monument than Khafre? I command you to build a statue of myself with the body of a lion cut in the solid rock. It should be the largest in the world so that even when my sons and their sons have gone, I will be known as Khafre the Mighty. Foolish Khafre, few know now that the Sphinx is your portrait. But hundreds of thousands of us have looked at the Sardonic subtle smile and have wondered what secrets it possesses. Going still farther up the Nile, we pass the Valley of the Kings, a magical name. Among the rocky cliffs that frown upon the Nile are narrow ravines up which we climb to see the rock-hewn tombs of other powerful pharaohs. Whose tomb is this? The final resting place of the most remarkable man that Egypt ever produced, Akhenaten, the heretic pharaoh, who actually worshipped but one god. Sacrilege, cried the Egyptian priests of Anubis, Set, Hubastis, Opet, Amon, and all the hundred other gods with grotesque animal heads who took their endless toll of bloody sacrifices. Finally in 1350 B.C., after a turbulent reign, the people demanded that something be done to curb the sacrilege of the gentle pharaoh Akhenaten. Opet, the high priest of Anubis, has an audience with Akhenaten. Verily I say to you, pharaoh Akhenaten, you have brought down the wrath of the gods on your head. Your empire is falling to pieces. Your people grumble because you have taken their gods away from them. You must give up this mad idea of yours to worship only the sun. Opet, most noble one, high priest of Anubis, this is my answer. No longer will my people offer blood sacrifices to gods with the head of jackals, cats, lions, and crocodiles. These creatures are animals without souls. Akhenaten, be silent lest the gods strike you dead. There is but one god, Aten, the sun, the giver of life. Be warned, O most noble Akhenaten, be warned of your people's hatred of you. Nefertiti, Nefertiti. Yes, my lord. You called me? How often must I tell you not to call me your lord? You are my wife. We are equals. Oh, it is hard to understand, Akhenaten. You are the pharaoh. You were allowed many wives, many gods. And yet, you worship but one god and have married but one wife. I need but one god. I want only one wife. But I have given you no son. It is the will of Aten that we have no son. Nefertiti, what will happen to the religion I've tried to give my people? Why was I not born strong like other men? I must die before my work is completed. Oh, do not say that, please. Oh, look. Here comes the husband of our daughter. Welcome to Akhenaten. Welcome. Akhenaten, sanctified one. Do not throw yourself at my feet. I am not a god. You are so strange, Akhenaten. We have been taught that pharaoh is sacred. And you say I am not a god. My boy, I have something important to tell you. Yes? When I die, you will be pharaoh of Egypt. Pharaoh of Egypt? Yes. You are my daughter's husband. I have no son. There is only one thing I demand of you. I shall do anything you wish. Promise me that you will worship only Aten, god of the sun. I swear that I will not forsake the sun. I promise you this, Akhenaten. Akhenaten dies, and Tutakhenaten becomes pharaoh. Hoteb, the high priest, comes once more. Pharaoh Tutakhenaten, I have come, as I said, to hear your decision. I do not know what to say, Hoteb. You must decide. I made a sacred promise to Akhenaten that I would keep alive the worship of the sun. Then what of your people, the barbarians from the east and west, are taking your empire from you? Everywhere there is unrest, hatred. The old pharaohs worshiped many gods, and then came Akhenaten with his blasphemous ideas. He was a gentle king. He never tortured his people, never sent them into slavery. Akhenaten's spirit will come back to torture me. Akhenaten's spirit cannot come back. The goddess said she has committed him to everlasting labor because he refused to recognize her. Be warned by his fate. Very well. I will give up, Aten. Noble Tutakhenaten, your people will rejoice. I am glad to make my people happy. One other thing you must do. What more do you want? I've betrayed the spirit of the dead. No longer can you be called Tutakhenaten in honor of the sun. You shall be called Tutakamun in honor of the earth god, Amun. It shall be as you wish. From now on, I shall be called Tutakamun. And such was the beginning of Tutakamun's reign. The young pharaoh who was destined 32 centuries later to be awakened from his eternal rest when his tomb was discovered by Lord Carnarvon and Howard Carter in 1922 in the Valley of the Kings at Luxor. Century after century flowed along the twisting Nile which wound past fertile valleys, barren rock swept deserts haunted by vultures and jackals, magnificent estates of the rich nobles, alabaster temples to hundreds of gods, all the splendor of ancient Egypt. But the empire fell to pieces and the long decadent period of degeneration began. Finally, a stronger nation, barbaric Persia swept over Egypt with its conquering hordes and she bowed her proud head to a new lord, Kambises the Persian. But not for long. Kambises died. Darius became king. Like a bolt of lightning, Alexander the Great, 20-year-old military genius from Macedonia, laid siege to the world and conquered it. 332 BC, Alexander speaks. People of Egypt, I have not set foot on your land as a conqueror, but as a deliverer. You have had the heavy yoke of Persia around your necks. Now you shall be free to worship as you please. I myself have come to the temple of Amon to receive his blessing. Amon, divine one, tell me that I am indeed your son, as my mother Olympias said. Tell me that I am divine and immortal. Give me a sign, O divine Amon. Alexander, you have spoken truth. You are my son. Then, I, Alexander, thy divine right king of Egypt, son of Amon, do found a city. It shall be named Alexandria. When I die, I will be buried here, and my descendant shall rule Egypt as long as she endures. And no sooner did ex-Alexander's fever-ridden body breathe its last, than his generals savagely divided his empire among themselves and murdered all his children. Only one wish came true. Ptolemy snatched Alexander's body from the grave and carried it to Egypt, where he buried it in the temple of Amon. There he founded the dynasty of the Ptolemies, and his last descendant was a woman destined to be even more famous than Alexander himself, Cleopatra, who betrayed her country to the Romans in 30 BC. But do not judge me too severely when you hear those harsh words. At seventeen, I saw my rightful throne snatched from me by my brother Ptolemy. I was a woman. I could not lead an army. But Julius Caesar, the great Roman, could lead an army. I made him fall in love with me. It was not hard. He was fifty-six. I was seventeen. He gave me back my throne. I went to Rome with him. Alas, that was my great tragedy. The beginning of my downfall. Rome was the greatest city in the world, and I was queen of one small, weak country. I might have been Caesar's wife had they not murdered him. I had to return to Egypt, alone, unhappy, disappointed. And then I met Mark Antony. I loved him for his bravery. I admired him for his power. Together we might have ruled the world. But Antony was weak, for I had thought him strong. And because of a little quarrel with me, he threw away our chances for the world. Octavius Caesar, that pale, thin fellow, won the Battle of Actium. I no longer wanted Egypt. I no longer wanted love. Antony killed himself rather than give me up. What was left for me but death. I had no country. I had no honor. And so I died as I had lived, a queen. The rule of Rome was Egypt's downfall. Governed by stern military leaders, taxed mercilessly to support the extravagances of the emperors, it was no wonder that Egypt fell in easy prey to the fanatical Mohammedans. In 639 AD, Omar conquered Egypt and made it part of his great Ottoman Empire. Under Turkish rule, the condition of the Egyptian people was indescribably wretched. Extravagant sultans and cadives taxed the very necessities of life in order to support their magnificent palaces. After the sultan Ismail in 1867 sold England a controlling interest in the Suez Canal in order to pay his debts, the British decided to step in. They deposed Ismail and took over the government. Lower Egypt accepted this humane rule with gratitude. But in Upper Egypt, the Sudan, it was a different matter. 1883, Gladstone, Prime Minister of England, has a conference with Queen Victoria. Is there nothing we can do to stop this religious fanatic from stirring up the Sudan? No, Your Majesty. This man calls himself a Mahdi, or Prophet of Islam. He has great personal magnetism. People will die for him. He hates England. He will do everything in his power to break our government. Surely we have shown the people of the Sudan that we think only of their good. When a downtrodden people come under the influence of a man like the Mahdi, they're like so many cattle, Your Majesty. He appeals to their emotions. We try to appeal to their good sense. Just last month, we sent 10,000 British soldiers out there in that hot, ungrateful country to teach the Sudanese good sense. What was the result? Utter annihilation. Colonel William Hicks murdered. I am afraid that your policy of good sense is the wrong one for Sudan, Mr. Gladstone. Our only way to overpower the Mahdi is to find an Englishman with the same personal charm, the same power over men, the same understanding. Well, Mr. Gladstone, since you have come to that conclusion at last, whom do you suggest that we send? I think that General Gordon would be the very man. Ah, yes. General Gordon has a brilliant record, I believe. They call him Chinese Gordon on account of his ability to understand the workings of the Chinese mind. Perhaps he might be equally successful with the Egyptians. Very likely, Mr. Gladstone. I think this Chinese Gordon is the man for the Sudan. You may give an order to have him dispatched to Khartoum immediately with all necessary soldiers and men for an extended campaign. The Mahdi must be defeated for good and all. And so magnetic, brilliant Chinese Gordon begins his last adventure. Arriving in the Sudan, he makes his headquarters at Khartoum and gives Muhammad Ali pacifying promises. Two months of precious time go by. Finally, from London comes the answer. You sent for me, Gordon Pasha? Yes, Muhammad Ali. I have news for my country. They will give us Zobair to rule over us, as you promise? No. You have broken your word, Gordon Pasha. They do not want Zobair, because he was once a notorious slave hunter. You have broken your word, Gordon Pasha. You believe I could do that? You are an Englishman, Gordon Pasha. Yes, and proud of it. I will not have one word said against my country. I can no longer promise you and your garrison any support. In fact, most of the tribes have already gone over to the Mahdi. Let them go. You wish, you may go too. Mark my words, Muhammad Ali. England will come to my aid, and you and your Mahdi will be wiped out forever. Gordon is left with a small garrison of men at Khartoum to hold the city against the rebel tribes of the Mahdi. Day by day, his fate grows worse. In vain, he telegraphs for help. London seems to have forgotten Gallant Chinese Gordon and his little band of heroes. Three months go by. Four. Five. March arrives with the Nile rising in its annual flood. The Mahdi lay siege to Khartoum. In London, action is finally taken, and a small armed force under Sir Charles Wilson is sent out to Egypt. After desperate fighting, they start up the Nile for Khartoum. Meanwhile, at the fort... The Nile is rising. The fort is gradually sinking into the mud. Safri! Safri! I cannot come to you, Gordon Pasha. I can no longer stand. We must strengthen the walls. They're crumbling to pieces. The Mahdi's troops will be able to enter. I cannot come. I cannot. Ah, he's finished. Poor wretch. I'm almost alone. Oh, England. England! Where are you? Mahdi. He's entered the fort at last. To arms! To arms! For God's sake, George! Soldiers, go up the stairs. Gordon Pasha will be there. Take him prisoner so that we can drag him before the Mahdi. Go! Up the stairs! They're coming for me, are they? Well, I'm not afraid to die. I'll go to them. I am here. You there, up the foot of the stairs. Take me alive if you can. Gordon Pasha, I take you prisoner. Take me prisoner, eh, Mehamed Ali? Here is my answer. Kill him. Kill him. Death to the Englishmen. Down with the Mahdi! Down with him! Gordon Pasha, you are hurt. Down with England! God, say, George. England! Thus was the end of Chinese Gordon. Sir Charles Wilson arrived at Khartoum two days late. Not until 1896, twelve years later, did Great Britain defeat Mahdiism and regain the Sudan which he lost with the fall of Khartoum. When Lord Kitchener finally raised the British flag over the residency in Cairo, Egypt was freed at last from religious persecution. But during those hundreds of years of oppression, something had happened to the land of the Nile. A certain spirit had been whipped out of her. The old striving for knowledge, the ambition to know the secrets of the universe, the long march toward complete perception of the power of thought, all had disappeared. Today, from their lofty heights, the pyramids look on as another civilization presses forward. The inscrutable image of Khafre, the Sphinx, stares down upon us as though to say in parting, Farewell. Remember. Men come and go. Civilizations rise and fall. Empires are made and destroyed. But no man knows my secret. Egypt is ageless. Let my heart act free. Let my heart act free. Let my heart act free. If my horses know my significance. If my horses knew my significance. Then why did they give me this little special job, If my horses knew my significance. If my horses knew my significance. If the We invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.
