Next we came to the dungeon where
"There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,"
and there are the pillars to which the prisoners were chained, and there is the stone floor, worn by the pacing of the prisoner, as his footsteps, again and again as the weary years went by, described the circuit of his chain. Bonivard's pillar, to which he was chained for six weary years, hearing no sound but the plashing of the waters of the lake without, or the clanking of his own chain, is thickly covered with autographs, carved and cut into it. Conspicuous among them is that of Byron, which looks so fresh and new as to excite suspicion that it has been occasionally deepened, "Old Mortality" like, in order that the record may not be lost.
Here we were, then,
"In Chillon's dungeons, deep and old."
Now every word of Byron's poem, that we had read and heard recited at school, and which made such an impression on our mind when a boy, came back to us.
Which was the pillar the younger brother was chained to?
There was "the crevice in the wall," where the slanting sunbeam came in.
Here was the very iron ring at the base of the huge pillar; there were the barred windows—narrow slits, through which the setting sun streamed, and to which the prisoner climbed to look upon the scene without,—
"to bend