 Ports of call! On Blue Horizons far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands back enough, bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Call. No lashing storms of a mighty ocean ravage the shores of the nation, which is to be our port of call this time. No broad, white-sanded beaches sweep the boundaries of this land. For we are going inland on this journey to a country entirely surrounded by land, a country people by men and women in whose hearts has burned the unextinguishable fire of liberty for more than five centuries, a land of beautyous awe-inspiring mountain crags, of crystalline glaciers, burdened forests, lustrous lakes of burnish silver, a nation situated in the middle of the European continent. Come with us as we journey to this enticing port of call, Switzerland. We have crossed Placid Lake Maggiore from the Italian side and now we're in Locarno, the niece of Switzerland. We board the continental train and prepare to view for the first time the glory of the Swiss Alps. On to Belenzona, the ancient town of the canton of Tequino. Here it was that a Roman army was met and vanquished by Hannibal, the Carthaginian, with his host of infantry, cavalry and the 40 war elephants which he had led across the Alps. Up, ever up, we crossed the Tequino Mountains. So far we have heard only Italian-spoken, mingled with the garlic-scented English of our conductor, porter and guides. Now we arrive at a straggling little village and we meet for the first time another language, one of Switzerland's three tongues, French, Italian and German. Here, German is spoken and the town bears the teutonic name of Altdorf. Why have we come here? What a possible interest can we find in this sleepy little hamlet? You see that big bronze statue of Wilhelm Tell? You say he is only a legend? Perhaps. But this struggle for Swiss liberty is no legend. It is true. There you are standing, the germ of that liberty was born, born of the Union of Oppression and Greed more than five centuries ago. November 16th, 1307. In the fine stone house of Wernersdorf-Hacher, his wife watches him as he gazes moodily into the fading embers of the fire. Then, yes? Why do you sit like that by the hour without speech, without motion? In my heart burns a rancor, which by the hour grows more painful. Soon I can bear it no longer. Soon it will drive me to madness, to a fury which will destroy us all. The overseer of the king, Gessler? Yes. If this canter eats your heart, then why do you not pluck it out? Pluck it out? You speaker's door will butt a moat in my eye. How can I pluck it out? Time was when our fathers allowed the Hapsburgs to give us protection, rule over us. An old king, Rudolph was kind and noble. But this son of his, this all-breed, he has soldiers everywhere. His overseers, taxes to penuries, steal our lands, our horses, our cattle. They can ill-treat our women and beat our sons. What can we do about it? Pluck it out? I will tell you how to pluck it out. I do not like the look in your eye, it holds ill. Ill? Not for you, Werner. Not for your friends, not the Swiss people. But ill, perhaps, for the overseers and for the House of Hapsburg. That is in your mind. If you and all the other landholders were to ban yourselves to gather into a leave, what could prevent you from driving the Hapsburgs and their swine from the country? No, no, no. Could not be done. Is it but the idle talk of a rash woman? Werner, look at me. When you married me I was young. My eyes were bright. In my face bloom the blush of maidenhood. Now look at me. I'm old beyond my years. My eyes are dim from long hours of work so that you can pay your unjust taxes. My face is worn and haggard so you'll like it, Werner. Am I a pretty sight? Now let me tell you, if you and your friends do not take action soon, the women of Uri and Wunderwald in a fright, the women will rise against these monsters. They'll sicken to death of these oppressions and can bear it no longer. Someone has heard you. They have exposed my heart to quicker action. I shall see what you've told me, please. We have come to talk with Werner. Yeah, come in. Welcome, Walter. And Arnold, welcome. Perhaps when you hear our tales, you shall not be so welcome. Oh, Lord. Oh, what has happened, Walter? I shall tell you. The town, both of you. And what is it, Walter? This afternoon, the King's overseer at Sonnen, London, Bergen, came to the farm of Arnold and his old father. The overseer saw the fine pair of oxen which Arnold's father owns. He sent his man over for them to take them. And while he was unyoking them, Arnold's fury became justly aroused and he hit the hand of Hapsburg dog, biting his finger. Cut! Of course, Arnold became at once fearful of the consequences and fled. His father, who had been in the field some distance away, did not return for dinner this evening. Arnold and his good mother became anxious and Arnold went in search of his father. Yes, Arnold found his father, staggering down the road from the Lendenberg's castle with his eyes gone. What? Burned from their sockets. I have made my decision. I need no further proof of our duty. Listen to me, you two. Tomorrow night in the Ridley, each of us shall bring ten trusted friends. We shall meet in secret. And there, with only God's stars as our witnesses, we shall lay our plans. And so, my friends, hear me. Our fathers before us were freemen, but they unwittingly sold us into bondage. We are met here on the Ridley tonight to right their wrong. We are Swiss. We were not born to be slaves to the Hapsburg dogs. Let us here and now each swear a note before God that henceforth our life shall be dedicated to freedom and that from this night forth our every effort shall be strained to the achieving that freedom and that we shall die if need be for our fatherland. Do you swear it? So be it. Look, Verne, the first rays of the sun are touching the mountain tops. This is an omen. It is a sign from God that our cause is just. By thirteen hundred and fifteen, eight years later, the Austrian king realized that if he were to guard his gains in the three forest cantons, he must act without delay. Duke Leopold, his younger brother, eager for combat, undertook command of the campaign. Gathering a large army on short notice, he prepared for the siege of Swipes, the canton which was particularly obnoxious to him. Probably from ignorance, he chose the route which was the more difficult and, strategically, the less promising. Reaching the hamlet of Hasselmott, the troops began the slow and teaches assent of the steep and frozen slopes of Morgarten. Soon they were hemmed in by lakes and mountains. Down the road! I do not like this. You do not like what, your grace? This infernal, deadly silence. Oh, silence, your grace? Yes, you dullard. Silence. We should have seen evidence of the Swiss fools before this. What was that? What, your grace? Oh, doc. Nothing but some loose snow and ice falling from the mountainside. Are you sure? Certainly, your grace. You see? Ah! No! Oh, warning. There came down upon the dense masses of the Hubsburg horsemen and their mercenaries, huge boulders, strong surprise, sharp, crushing blocks of ice, hurled down upon them by the waiting handful of Swiss patriots, utterly demolishing the Austrian instruments of war, scattering men and horses into a terrorized maelstrom and halting with swift penalty the offending Hubsburg aggressor. Gradually the contagion of freedom reached other parts of Switzerland and one by one other cantons joined their brothers at the Balzenstaden. With the three original forest cantons, Uri, Unterbalten, Schweitz, others were soon added. Lucerne, Zurich, Zug, Glarus, Bern. Thus was formed the nucleus of the modern Swiss Republic, the historic confederation of the eight cantons. Through the world the name Switzerland suggests the Alps, 40 stalwart fortresses of nature, bowarts of eternal snow, battlements of ageless rock and ice, impressive temples of beauty to those who gazed from afar and perilous towering monuments of danger to those who scale their precipitous walls or cross their precarious passes. Time was when an attempt to conquer the unyielding austerity of the Alps was a necessity, not the play of pleasure seekers of a filling sport of mountaineers as today. The most noteworthy of all the passes leading from one part of Switzerland to another is the Great St. Bernard Pass, where the keen blade of savage Saracens outraged the pious monks of St. Bernard of Montaint in the 11th and 12th centuries, when Napoleon quartered pre-regiments on his way to his great triumph over the Austrians at Marengo, where hundreds of Italian emigrants have felt the stinging bite of alpine winds. And down through the ages, rising above the bleak blanket of snow, there has stood a massive stone building surrounded by others. This is the hospice of St. Bernard, the highest in the world, more than 8,000 feet above sea level, since the year 1215, for the storm-beaten wayfarer. Let us join two travelers as they approach the hospice of St. Bernard to the quickly-gathering dusk of early winter. Wait a minute. Yes, sir, sir. I am so tired. It's so sleepy. I cannot keep my eyes open. Sleepy? No, no, sir, sir. Let us stop here just a moment or so. Let me lie down in the snow. I have heard you do. Oh, Giuseppe. Giuseppe, answer me. It's an sickness. They wake up. What is this? Oh, only imagine. I'm crazy, my ears here are right. Yes. It is one of the dogs of St. Bernard. Giuseppe, wake up. We're... Now, you're feeling better, eh? More like yourself. Yes, sir. Thank you much better. Brother Giuliani, oh, it is very kind of you. We're not very rich, but, uh, well, we can pay you a little, maybe for one of your cheaper rooms. Eh, cheaper rooms? Ah, sister, when our good brother St. Bernard founded this hospice more than nine centuries ago, he decreed that no traveler should pay for the meager hospitality we can afford. You see that little box over there? Some of our guests leave gifts in that box, but it is never a pay, as you call it, always simply a gift. Oh, what is happening? That is Francesco, one of our older brothers, although not very old in years. He's only 36. He's leaving us today. Leaving? Why? Because his health is broken. No longer can he bear the rigors of the hospice. Oh. He has stayed longer than most of us, 15 years. He came when he was 20, as most of us do, and now he will go and live in peace the rest of his life, which will not be over long. If you will excuse me, I will go and bid him farewell. Of course, Brother Giuliani. Maria. Yes, Giuseppe? I hear what the brothers said about the gifts. Take three lira from Amartus. Put them in the little box. We cannot spare that. Yes, Giuseppe. We can not spare that. God bless the brothers of Santa Bernard. There is still another district of Switzerland we have not visited. Now we follow the railroad along Lake Neuchâtel de Boudry, birthplace of the French revolutionist Marat, then on to historicole Grasseau, the spot where Charles of Burgundy, one of the innumerable invaders to meet the intrepidity of the Swiss, lost in quick succession his wealth, his morale, and his life. We change coaches at Iberdon, riding on until we come to the rugged shores of another alpine lake. At the southernmost end, we enter one of the most picturesque cities in the world, and we hear the soft liquid tones of Switzerland's third language, French. We're in the golden city of Switzerland, where beauty is queen and liberty is king. Welcome to Geneva. Shall we enter this faint little shop on this narrow cobblestone side street? Geneva is noted for its many fine modern stores and its smaller shops. There are many things of interest here. Ah, bez amis! May I be of assistance? You were looking for a clock perhaps? One of our fine Swiss clocks? See, here is one. Or perhaps a music box? Ah, look at this one. The finest in Geneva. Now listen. Or perhaps, well, a book. Here, Chronique de Genève, written many, many years ago by Francois Bonivar. One of our noble patriots. You remember him, no? The great English poet, Lord Byron, wrote about him we. He called his poem, The Prisoner of Chilon. Ah, Bonivar, he was a martyr. You do not know his story? Well, I will tell him. One day, as he and his two brothers were traveling in those mountains. Not tired yet, Louis? Eh, Francois? And gentle Jean? Well, no, not tired. Oh, do not frown. My legs are strong to carry me wherever you lead. Wherever you might wish us go. Ah, yes, Francois. Where do we go? You have not told us where you lead? This day of days we meet with friends all men who stand high in our cause. Whose heart beat time to freedom's drum. Whose eyes burn bright with freedom's fire. The suboyards hold forth below. We cannot meet within the town. We must to secret mountains run like scuttling rats from Hamlin's paper. Ah, Francois, we follow. Wait. Is Artemis? Why, how do we hear? It seems I heard a foreign sound. Take one more step on pain of death. The name is Bonivar, my friend. It is. And these your brothers are? We three are blessed with that proud name. All sons of Louis Bonivar. Signor DeLune, a hearty man who raided his sons for liberty. What will you of us? We are free men. Eh, you are no longer free. My men and I have been dispatched to share your coats of liberty. You have to say what? I should have known his well-paid spies would tattle to his grave. Enough. The shackles. Chain each to the other. Waste no time. It's an even job. Where are we now? Ceylon's dank dungeon. There to rot. To hope and pray for quite another kind of freedom. A deathless freedom. Born of death. Francois, how many moons have chained since Louis died? Oh, Jean, think not of death. We too must yet live on in hope our friends have not forgot. Jean, look. Our little friend, the bird returns to cheer us in our cage. The pillar where my chains hold me quite hides him. What hue is his breast? Not gray like dungeon walls, nor black like our eternal night. Gay, nay. His breast is red. His red is plain. His head is capped by precious gold like God's own radiant sun. I see but vermin, drab and dull and crawling ever closer toward my feet. I hear them scratching. Oh, Francois, how long how long can we hold forth against this torture? Jean, my brother. Mr. Dimming, both of my eyes. Has fog seeped in? Or has there dropped more potent night than we have known? Does twilight fall to blanket us from our poor world stone and iron? Is it dawn whose lustrous oils gilding blond's far-paragressed mists fog twilight dawn? Jean! Jean! Oh, God, in heaven. Jean! No answer. Not an answer. These chains were forged by hand of man and what man builds that man can break it. Oh, Jean. A favorite in the flower most cherished since your maple hour. The last. The soul the dearest meant between me and the eternal brink which bound me to my failing race. His brokenness. Fatal place. Oh, God. It is a fearful thing to see this human soul take wings. Come, Bonivar. Come, you are free. What word is this you bring to me? When's came you here? From Bern, my friend. Bold freedom lights Geneva town. Your bitter cup is at an end. Your chains are felled. The bars are down. Partake of day and taste the sun. The fight for liberty is won. Now when you appear at last and all my bonds inside are cast. These heavy walls to me have grown a hermitage and all my own. With spiders I had friendship made and watched them in their selling trade. Had seen their mice by moonlight life. And why should I feel less than they? My very chains and I grew friends so much along communion tends to make us what we are. Even I regain my freedom with a sigh. Ceylon, thy prison is a holy place and thy sad floor and altar what was trod until his very steps have left at trace worn as if thy cold pavement for a sod may none those marks a face for they appeal from tyranny to God. Down the years has marched the legion of valorous courageous men and women. Heroes and heroines marching smilingly and silently toward their goal. Tried in the tribunal of independence tempered in the flame of freedom. These are the people of united Switzerland. Whether in Alkdorf where each year has enacted the thrilling pageant of William Tell the legend which inspired Schiller to mobilize its hero in drama and Rossini to perpetuate his memory in opera. Whether in Lucerne? Where the lion of Lucerne reclines in permanent commemoration of the 24th Swiss guards who stood their ground before the onslaught of the French Revolutionary mob before the palace of Versailles. Or whether in Geneva. Where in 1859 Henri Duna founded the organization which has become such a vital power in war and peace the Red Cross. From the verdant slopes of the Walton-Staten to the snow-pested peak of the Matterhorn to the ice-encrusted scabrous surface of Glacier-de-Millage the citizen of the Swiss Republic today is free. Independent of all other nations liberated for all times from oppression. And so to you Switzerland playground of the world land of the hardy forester the industrious derriman the meticulous watchmaker we say farewell and in Switzerland's three tongues the echoes return to us. Arrivederci! 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.