On we go, past pretty little villages, any one of which would be a most delightful place to spend the Summer; past vineyards, with their luscious fruit ripening in the sun, until, just above Chillon, we come to the Castle of Chillon, made famous by Byron.
“Chillon, thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar, for ’twas trod—
Until his very steps have left a trace,
Worn, as if the cold pavement were a sod—
By Bonivard! May none those marks efface,
For they appeal from tyranny to God.”
This ancient castle, built as far back as A.D. 830, stands in a picturesque position on a barren rock some twenty yards from the shore, with which it is connected by a wooden bridge. Its history is full of romance, from the time Louis le Debonnaire incarcerated within its gloomy walls—from which but the sky, the Alps, and Lake Leman, could be seen—the Abbot Wala of Corvey, for instigating his sons to rebellion, down to the reigns of the Counts of Savoy, who used it as a military prison. The walls of its dingy dungeons are literally covered with names of persons who have visited them, among others being those of Byron, Victor Hugo, George Sands, and Eugene Sue.
Here in Republican Switzerland the traces only of monarchy remain, for which the Swiss should perpetually thank heaven. Everywhere else in Europe the monster actually lives—here only its ghost survives. It is here a remembrance to be shuddered at, not a living reality. But they had it here once. There was a time, and the Castle of Chillon is a silent testimony to it, when a duke or a king, who claimed to be of better clay than ordinary mortals, could seize a man and immure him within its gloomy walls, just as Victoria, by the accident of birth, Mistress of Britain, may order the arrest of an Irishman who opens his mouth the wrong way. Kilmainham is the Irish Chillon, and there are within its walls men whose hair is turning gray, not in a single night, but turning gray just as surely.
The ancient tyrants who lorded it over Switzerland were not one whit worse than the tyrants who now lord it over Europe. Royalty is royalty, the same in all ages, because based upon the same infernal heresy. It is the absolute rule of a class, backed by organized force.
Switzerland, America and France have repudiated it, and the rest of the civilized world will. But what oceans of blood must flow before all this is accomplished.
In order to be a complete and very radical Republican one needs to visit a few just such places as the Castle of Chillon, that the true inwardness of monarchy may be realized.
As the castle, so full of historical interest, fades away, the boat rounds the head of the lake, where the river Rhone pours its gray glacial waters into the brilliant blue of the lake, making a clearly defined mark of gray and blue at least a quarter of a mile from the shore. Then Vernayaz is reached and we disembark for our trip across the Alps.
As the boat glides up to the dock, the ancient castle, built in the twelfth century, is pointed out. Its walls and towers are very massive, and bid fair to stand as long as the city endures. Near the castle is a chateau, where, at one time, Joseph Bonaparte lived. It is now the property of the Moravians, and all its former grandeur is sunk in the abysses of a boys’ school.
Just opposite the town the Jura mountains have entirely changed in appearance, and are full of strange, fantastic peaks and crags, while Mt. Blanc, always visible, presents different faces as the boat changes its course, always, however, grand and fascinating.