I visited the prison of Chillon. It is a gloomy old castle with five great towers, built upon a rock projecting some two hundred yards into Lake Geneva. Byron says of it:
“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 thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface,
“For they appeal from tyranny to God.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould
In Chillon’s dungeon deep and old,
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain.”
The description is perfect. The whole thing is there as of old.
I must stay my weary hand. I have already perhaps, written too much about Switzerland. But I have no apology to offer. I am in love with the country, that’s all. Love Switzerland?
“Who could help it that has a heart to love,
And in that heart courage to make its love known?”
SWISS MOUNTAINS.