HOTEL BYRON.
MY DEAR: -
Here I am, sitting at my window, overlooking Lake Leman. Castle
Chillon, with its old conical towers, is silently pictured in the
still waters. It has been a day of a thousand. We took a boat, with
two oarsmen, and passed leisurely along the shores, under the cool,
drooping branches of trees, to the castle, which is scarce a stone's
throw from the hotel. We rowed along, close under the walls, to the
ancient moat and drawbridge. There I picked a bunch of blue bells,
"les clochettes," which were hanging their aerial pendants from every
crevice - some blue, some white.
[Illustration: _of blue bell flowers with sharp-bladed leaves._]
I know not why the old buildings and walls in Europe have this
vivacious habit of shooting out little flowery ejaculations and
soliloquies at every turn. One sees it along through France and
Switzerland, every where; but never, that I remember, in America.
On the side of the castle wall, in a large white heart, is painted the
inscription, _Liberte et Patrie_!
We rowed along, almost touching the castle rock, where the wall
ascends perpendicularly, and the water is said to be a thousand feet
deep. We passed the loopholes that illuminate the dungeon vaults, and
an old arch, now walled up, where prisoners, after having been
strangled, were thrown into the lake.
