 Fascinating lands beckon us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors, come with us as we head for ports of call. Northward across the cold blue waters of the North Sea, our majestic turbine steamer plows its way. Northward to a green and fertile land, a land of peace and plenty that stretches like a long tongue into the blue balding. Denmark is our destination, a little country territorially, but with a mighty meaning, a proud and storied past. To think of Denmark is to think of the sea, for the Danes with their Viking ancestry have been going down to the sea in ships for more than a thousand years. And the land itself, a long peninsula called Jutland, together with more than 500 islands, is essentially of the sea. It is to the largest of these Danish Isles, Seiland, that our ship carries us. Here lies Copenhagen, which translated means Merchants Harbor. Truly, this is a fascinating port of call. For into its broad harbor, lined for miles with jutting wharves, come each year more than 23,000 vessels. And from the port of Copenhagen, Denmark sends daily its own merchant men to North and South America, to Asia, Africa, and all the ports of Europe. As we proceed to our hotel, we see that Copenhagen is the finest type of modern continental city, one of the loveliest and liveliest in Northern Europe, with wide streets, spacious squares, canals and waterways reaching inward from the bittering harbor, tall spires and gabled red group houses, parks, museums, and a great and justly famed university. So, this is where all the bicycles disappeared to. I always wondered... Would you ever see so many? Well, you're going to see me on one before we leave. I haven't ridden for ages. These certainly must be the cleanest streets in the world. Yes, except those in Holland. And don't the people all look cheerful and prosperous. Not a sign of poverty and no beggars. Oh, I know I'm going to like Copenhagen. Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark, is the largest city in Scandinavia, with more than a half a million population. It was founded during the reign of Baldemar in Storik. Baldemar the Great. Its builder was the warrior Archbishop Absalon, who in 1169 erected a fortress here as a protection against the Venns, a threatening band of Baltic pirates. Baldemar was a wise, far-seeing ruler, an almost invincible conqueror, and a passionate crusader. For in the year 826, the Danes had forsaken Tor to follow the White Christ. But like Alexander, King Baldemar ever sought new worlds to conquer. He swept the foraging Venns from the sea and forced them into submission. Then turned eastward, where the wild Estonian tribes were committing even worse outrages. It is the twilight of a June evening. With Baldemar at their head, the Danes all day have driven back their savage foes with sword and battle axe. Vitter and fierce has been the struggle, and the Danish knights have fought with the fervor of their religious zeal. Yet ten heathens sprang out for each one felled. At nightfall, the Christians are fighting for their very lives. The king has fallen back to take counsel and stands upon a hillock surrounded by his knights and retainers. Nearby, Bishop Absalon has his arms lifted in prayer. God save us. I grow too old. I cannot longer hold my arms or march in prayer. Yet it is prayer which strengthens the hearts of our men. I pray thee, support me a little. Look, look ye, our lights fall back. See how the heathen Estonians press upon them. Our enemies ever gain in numbers. Oh, Absalon, my bishop, fail us not in Denmark's most breathless hour. Lift up your arms again to God. You, priests, there, support his arms. He's useless, sire. He's swooned. Oh, oh, oh, oh, then he's lost. God hath indeed deserted us. I go now to die in the van, God of my warriors. For nay, sir, I beseech thee. It is not me that thou should die, for who shall rally those who escape hath our dawn? In sooth leads this true. Let us seek the ships and flee across the waters. See, our banners have fallen. My knives cannot longer find. On this day and on this soil shall my heart blood be spilled. Valdemar, my son must reign. And you, my followers, save yourselves that you may aid your prince and protect Denmark against its enemies. Oh, sire, if you are lost, all Denmark shall be ravaged. Our castles burned, our wives and children snatched into hideous slavery. These heathen know not the word, mercy. Still they gain. The time has come. Are we then cravings? Shall we forget our nightly oath that Absalom hath given us? Pray and fight. Forward to die with your king. Honor at least remain. We will not avail us in our extremity. Mark how the troops are being slain. Bishops rise out opening, Lord Valdemar. Help us in our need, O God above. Do not forsake thy children. Send us a sign. Look, look. Lift up your eyes. There in the sky. The banner. The banner. A miracle. God hath answered our prayers. He sends us his banner of right. See, see, it floats downward from the heavens, bearing his great white cross on a blood-red field. It falls among the troops. They have seized it. There, this high, and victory shall be yours. For God and the king. Forward for Denmark. Try it back, the heathen. God is with our cause. Victory shall be ours. Forward with your king. God's banner goes before us. The terror-stricken Estonians aghast at this miracle broke and fell before the inspired Danes. The battle became a massacre. King Valdemar knelt with his men at the conclusion of the battle. Beneath the gods sent banners. And thirty-five of his bravest men he knighted with the order of Danabord. Thus, according to legend, was born the Danabord, which has been the Danish flag for seven hundred years. Its gleaming, snowy cross against a scarlet background is both symbolic and appropriate. And today, the world salutes it with respect. Valdemar the First's reign began a new and brilliant era for Denmark, culminating in the reign of Margaret, a glorious queen who has been likened to England's Elizabeth. She ruled not only over Denmark, but over Norway and Sweden, and her influence dominated all the countries of the north. But Denmark's fortunes have risen and fallen many times throughout the centuries. Perhaps her bitterest blow came when she was forced to cede the provinces of Schleswig-Folstein to Prussia and Austria after long wars in 1864. Following the World War, Denmark recovered a part of this territory through a plebiscite demanded by the Allies. There is much to see in Copenhagen, the Torvaltsen Museum, fashioned after the manner of a detruscan tomb, with its fruit and flower market, where jolly-looking women in quaint headdress guard the stalls. The famous royal Danish pottery, the Furi Kierke, but the Danish kings have been crowned for centuries. The Royal Theater, the Concert Palace, the Rajusplaten, or Town Hall Place, the Princess Palace with its collection of northern antiquities, Rosenborg Castle, the marble church topped by a vast copper dome. Copenhagen is loveliest in summer when life centers in the beautiful and famed Tivoli Gardens, illuminated by night with thousands of fairy-like lamps. There is a concert hall, a quaint little pantomime theater, broad galleries for gala suppers, where that king of all sandwiches, smart-root, colorful, tempting, and offered in infinite variety, is on every table and plate. Time the present. Place the fireside of any real home in any civilized land. The hour, twilight. Time for bed now, Sonny. Oh, Mama, not yet, please. I'm not one bit sleepy. Won't you read me a story? Just one. Then I'll go to bed. Well, perhaps just one. Please, here's a book. Let me climb up on your lap beside the fire. Now, Mom, see, I'm all ready. Which shall it be? You know, the one about the little duck. What, again? But, darling, Hans Christian Andersen wrote lots of other nice stories. Oh, the ducks are very nice. All right, then. The ugly duckling it is. It was perfectly lovely out in the country. It was summer. And right in the sunshine lay an old manor house surrounded by deep canals. Here sat a duck on her nest, hatching out her little ducklings. It does take a long time for that largest egg, said the mother. It just won't crack. But at last it did. It said the little one and rolled out. It was so large and ugly, the big duck was there. What a big ugly duckling it was. Time, the year 1819 in early September. Place, or denser, capital of the Danish island of Finan, a 24-hour coach and sailing vessel journey from Copenhagen. There was the male coach coming down the road now, Hans. The postillian has promised to pay up for you till you reach the ship. You have those 13 rigs down there safe? Yes, Mutter, tied securely in my handkerchief. Never fear, I shan't lose those. Oh, man, poor, poor Hans. You're so frail and just turned 14. Whatever will happen to you in that distant Copenhagen? Why could you not have been a cobbler like your father? Or a cabinet maker as his excellency the Duke advised? No, Mutter, I shall be a singer and a very great actor. I shall make the world a plug, Hans Christian Anderson. Don't you remember what the fortune teller told you? You shall be proud of your son and I shall send you much money soon. Then you'll not have to wash clothes and you'll have no rheumatism then. Oh, old man, oh, oh. Goodbye, my own darling, Mama Sheen. Do not fear, I shall write to you all I see and of all the great folk I meet here. Goodbye, my tall little son. Goodbye, my own Hans. Do not forget your prayers. God will be with you. Many and bitter indeed were the disappointments awaiting Hans Christian Anderson in the city of Copenhagen. His sensitive nature was wounded often and deeply. Ambition after ambition came to naught. He tried in turn to become a singer, an actor, a member of the ballet. But his tall, ungainly figure, his thin frame kept him from success behind the footlights. Yet he persisted, for he possessed that self-confidence of true genius. His winning manner made friends easily, and even in his early years, many of the intellectuals of the Athens of the North saw the sparks that foretold the mounting flames. He was not to be denied nor dissuaded. He believed implicitly in his destiny. Eventually, his first slender volume of verse appeared to be followed by another and another. One wintry afternoon, he appeared at the ridiculously small room of the Londoners, a great Danish critic. So, my dear Hans, you are disappointed that they notice your tragedy received. Why shouldn't I be? But what may one do with this stupid critics? However, it was not of the play I came to talk. Have you read the tales? They are charming, exquisite. I read big claws and little claws thrice over. It is delicious, I tell you. Fairy tales. Still, what is life except a fairy tale? Perhaps it would be better to have the children remember Hans Christian Andersen than not to be remembered at all. Have no fears, my friend. To be remembered by children is to achieve immortality. For when they grow up, they never forget the blessed memories of childhood. Then the ugly duckling raised its wings. They beat the air and bore it away. And soon it was in a large garden where the apple tree stood in blossom. Right from a thicket came three lovely white swans to float so lightly on the winding canal. The duckling felt a strange sadness. I will fly over to them, the royal birds, it said. And they will kill me because I, that I'm so ugly, dare to come near them. And it flew into the water and swam toward the splendid swans. These looked at it and swam toward it. Yes, kill me, said the poor creature, and bent its head down in the water and waited for death. But what was this it saw? Below it, it saw its own image, but it was no longer a clumsy dark gray bird. It was itself a swan. To be born in a duck yard doesn't make any difference if one has only been in a swan's egg. Then it fluffed its feathers and from its heart came a cry of joy. I didn't dream of so much happiness when I was an ugly duckling. Hans Christian Anderson was in truth himself the ugly duckling. At first derided, rebuffed, laughed at, later achieving a world fame without parallel. His name is known and loved by high and low, by the greatest minds and the humblest. It has become a household word throughout the world. Like his contemporary artist and friend, the prolific sculptor Bertel Torbalzen, best known for his Lion of Lucerne and whose works fill a special museum in Copenhagen, The Dreaming Teller of Tales Anderson is one of the great immortal glories of Denmark. It was a tragic day for the Danes when Schleswig-Holstein passed into German control. It left only Jutland as the Danish mainland and the whole center of this province was little better than Wasteland. A vast grim moor covered with heather and supporting only a few poor shepherds and peat farmers. It is March 1866 in Jutland and a group of landowners have been called together by the young engineer who is addressing them. Some of you know me, some do not. My name is Enrico Delgas and it is true that I was born in Italy where my father was Danish consul. But I am a true Dane, not only by descent but by choice and training. My two brothers died fighting against Germany in the war of 1848 and I too served. I have suffered as we all have in the loss of our Schleswig-Holstein and now it is my proposal that we reclaim as much Danish land as Denmark lost. Surely you are not suggesting that we renew this? You do not understand me. I mean to reclaim this Jutland heat. This heat can never be reclaimed. You think you are foolish dreamer, impractical. But I do not address you without thought. For months now I have investigated, studied. Once in 1851 I was charged with building military roads across the heat and the soil beneath this grey heather has told me its secrets. Formerly this land supported great forests of beach. What flourished here once can be made to thrive again. We must aid the soil, bring back its lost fertility. I have approached the government, written the newspapers, but I have been rebuffed and ridiculed. Now I come to you, the people for you are men of the soil. I tell you that water and marl will make the heat blossom anew. These are what are needed and both can be obtained. And remember this, we shall not work for the dead soil but for the living men of the heat. Therefore, I propose gentlemen that here and now we band ourselves together for this patriotic purpose that we form the Danish Heat Society. Enrico Delgast's dream became a reality. He found the marl. He saw the canals that brought the needed water for irrigation, Doug. He saw the trees for forest planted that was as if a magic wand had been waved over the youthland heat. His pick and shovel brigade won greater victories for Denmark than her armies in two wars. The name of Enrico Delgast shall never be forgotten among the Danish peoples. Denmark has her immortal warriors, her poets, painters, engineers, her statesmen and scholars and she has her great scientists. Among these is one to whom all humanity owes a priceless debt. He is Niels Reiberg Finnsen, founder of the Finnsen Institute of Light. In the year 1891, Finnsen, who knew he had an incurable disease and was doomed to an early death, was talking to a fellow worker in the university laboratory. Come here to the window, Ludwig. I want to show you something. Do you see that cap? Of course I see it. I'm not blind, am I? What's wrong with the cap? It's always just moved over into the sunlight. Looks comfortable, doesn't it? I'm like that, Cap, Ludwig. So are you. So is everybody, in fact. We like sunlight instinctively because we know it's good for us. I've been making some experiments with insects to prove it. What a profound scholarly discovery. I'll get you the Nobel Prize from them and now, if you don't mind, I'll just get on with my work. It might not be a bad idea for you, Idof. Have you ever hoped to raise that miserable salary we both made? No, I'm serious, Ludwig. I'm always thinking about light and its possible therapeutic value. I can't help believing science, medical science, hasn't paid enough attention to the curative effects of light. Neil Svinsen? A great public benefactor. Like Dr. Blackover in London, who keeps his smallpox patients in a dark room to cure them, claims it prevents the scar. Exactly. I was reading his reports just the other day and it's my theory that if you exclude the violet, the chemically active rays in the spectrum, light would help in just such diseases. Neil Svinsen had the courage of his convictions and in 1893, he published his famous pamphlet explaining his method of placing smallpox sufferers in a red screen room. From this, developed the great institute now designated by his name. One popular appellation of Neil Svinsen is the wolf killer, which came from his successful treatment of malignant European disease called plupus, or wolf, a terrible skin malady from which thousands suffered horrible tortures and ultimate death. Svinsen began his experiments to defeat this supposedly incurable disease in the modest group of shacks which housed his clinic at the university. One day he returned to his little flat where his wife, loyal beyond-average standards, often helped him in his work. It's done. I've proved it. I convinced the wolf is sane at last. I knew you'd do it. I never doubted it. Now you'll be truly famous, wealthy, and you can rest and get wealth. Wealth? Fame? I wonder if that's what we really want. But what do you mean? You have seen the pitiable lupus sufferers. They are among the poorest, largely. It is to them they like cure must be made available. The disease must be stamped out. How can I let personal desires intrude upon that vital issue? Wealth means that is important, too. Is it? The health of one against so many? But think what rest and complete leisure might mean to you. You've always worked so hard with so little reward. The things you need cost money. I have been thinking of that all that on the way home from the university. But this thing is too large for personal considerations. It belongs to the world. I know, dear Svinsen. I know. You are always right. Whatever you decide. Remember that I am always with you. Half and soul. Svinsen's discovery brought thousands of suddenly hopeful lupus sufferers to Copenhagen. Three years later, Svinsen was awarded the coveted Nobel Prize, a comparative fortune to the poor young scientist. All the world applauded. But Svinsen only observed with his sad little smile. They gave it to me this year because they knew next year it would be too late. Those were prophetic words. Nine months later, he laid dying. When a carriage with scarlet trappings and footmen stopped at his modest door, it was the Empress of Russia come to pay her respects to the dying benefactor of humanity. All I ask is to slip into his room and sit his side for a little time. You do us honor, Majesty. He was my friend. The doctors have forbidden visitors. But I know they can do nothing for me. He has known it always. So great an honor as this will bring him all the joy that is left to him. You may well be proud to have had the love of your own noble husband. Life is difficult for all of us. But we who are happily wed are fortunate indeed. Proceed me. We are but two sad women here together. The King of Denmark, his daughters, and it seemed the whole world followed Niels Vincent to his grave. And the Empress of Russia and her sister Alexandra of England carried on his work in their own countries. Denmark is rich in historic cities, in lovely pastoral landscapes, both on the islands and on the mainland. Once visited, we forget our popular ideas of this country, of Danish butter, Danish pastry and great dame dogs. Instead, we remember a modern, up-to-date people, rich in good humor and in hospitality. To this charming country, America has dispatched one of her most distinguished daughters, Ruth Brian Owen, first woman ambassador from the United States. And so, as we leave, we say in their own expressive words, score. Good fortune to you, Denmark. May we visit your beautiful shores again. 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.