and this, when gained, was nothing but the lake and its Alpine heights. A wide horizon is not to be found, and without that I never feel myself happy.
The little town of Montreux lies like an eagle's nest upon its mountain summit, and a rich fringe of golden stonecrop shines along the ridge of the house-roofs. In the house, you not unfrequently find comfort; and the view from the windows is great in height and depth, but the streets are winding and dark. Heaps of manure meet one everywhere. “The country-people,” remarked an amiable Swiss lady, apologetically, “see in them the gold which makes the fields rich and the grapes juicy!”
I lamented that my eyes and my nose were too prosaic to take in this practical point of view.
The castle of Chillon rises out of the waves of Leman, on the shore of Montreux,—massive and gloomy, but infinitively picturesque. I visited it one gray, cold November day; visited its tower, its state-room, torture-chamber, oubliettes, and its deep, large dungeon-vault, resting upon the rock-foundations. Byron has inscribed his name at the foot of one of the massive pillars, his “Prisoner of Chillon” has inscribed it on the heart of mankind. But there is a more beautiful poem than that of Byron on the last political prisoner of Chillon, Bonivard; namely, the history of its first prisoner, the Count of Wala, which the Chronicler has preserved, and the noble historian, L. Vulleimin, has lately given to the reading world. Between the two prisoners lies the period of five hundred years.
One of the towers of Chillon elevates itself above
