ts our
English meadows; so that I have always called the prettiest pine-glade
in Chamouni, "Fairies' Hollow." It is in the glen beneath the steep
ascent above Pont Pelissier, and may be reached by a little winding
path which goes down from the top of the hill[27]--being indeed not
truly a glen, but a broad ledge of moss and turf, leaning in a
formidable precipice (which, however, the gentle branches hide) over
the Arve. An almost isolated rock promontory, many coloured, rises at
the end of it. On the other sides it is bordered by cliffs, from which
a little cascade falls, literally, down among the pines, for it is so
light, shaking itself into mere showers of seed pearl in the sun, that
the pines don't know it from mist, and grow through it without
minding. Underneath, there is only the mossy silence; and above, for
ever, the snow of the nameless Aiguille.

[27] The new road to Chamouni has been carried right through it. A
cascade on the right, as you ascend, marks the place spoken of in the
text,--once as lonely as Corrie-nan-shian.

Other trees rise against the sky in dots and knots, but this, in
fringes. You never see the edges of it, so subtle are they; and for
this reason,--it alone of trees, so far as I know, is capable of the
fiery change which has been noticed by Shakespeare. When the sun rises
behind a ridge crested with pine, provided the ridge be at a distance
of about two miles, and seen clear, all the trees, for about three or
four degrees on each side of the sun, become trees of light, seen in
clear flame against the darker sky, and dazzling as the sun itself. I
thought at first this was owing to the actual lustre of the leaves;
but I believe now it is caused by the cloud-dew upon them--every
minutest leaf carrying its diamond. It seems as if these trees, living
always among the clouds, had caught part of their glory from them; and
themselves, the darkest of vegetation, could yet add splendour to the
sun itself.

48. The Swiss have certainly no feelings respecting their mountains in
anywise correspondent with ours. It was rather as fortresses of
defence, than as spectacles of splendour, that the cliffs of the
Rothslock bare rule over the destinies of those who dwelt at their
feet; and the training for which the mountain children had to thank
the slopes of the Muotta-Thal, was in soundness of breath, and
steadiness of limb, far more than in elevation of idea. But the point
which I desire the reader to