One cone of dazzling white
towered over all. It resembled a bright stepping-stone between heaven and
earth, the heat of the hot sun falling innocuously against its sides, like
the cold and pure breast of a virgin repelling those treacherous
sentiments which prove the ruin of a shining and glorious innocence.
Across the summit of this brilliant and cloud-like peak, which formed the
most distant object in the view, ran the imaginary line that divided Italy
from the regions of the north. Drawing nearer, and holding its course on
the opposite shore, the eye embraced the range of rampart-like rocks that
beetle over Villeneuve and Chillon, the latter a snow-white pile that
seemed to rest partly on the land and partly, on the water. On the vast
debris of the mountains clustered the hamlets of Clarens, Montreux,
Chatelard, and all those other places, since rendered so familiar to the
reader of fiction by the vivid pen of Rousseau. Above the latter village
the whole of the savage and rocky range receded, leaving the lake-shore to
vine-clad cotes that stretch away far to the west.
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