Little Rivers [42]
railway and
at the beginning of the Dolomites.
Although I have a constitutional aversion to scientific information
given by unscientific persons, such as clergymen and men of
letters, I must go in that direction far enough to make it clear
that the word Dolomite does not describe a kind of fossil, nor a
sect of heretics, but a formation of mountains lying between the
Alps and the Adriatic. Draw a diamond on the map, with Brixen at
the northwest corner, Lienz at the northeast, Belluno at the
southeast, and Trent at the southwest, and you will have included
the region of the Dolomites, a country so picturesque, so
interesting, so full of sublime and beautiful scenery, that it is
equally a wonder and a blessing that it has not been long since
completely overrun by tourists and ruined with railways. It is
true, the glaciers and snowfields are limited; the waterfalls are
comparatively few and slender, and the rivers small; the loftiest
peaks are little more than ten thousand feet high. But, on the
other hand, the mountains are always near, and therefore always
imposing. Bold, steep, fantastic masses of naked rock, they rise
suddenly from the green and flowery valleys in amazing and endless
contrast; they mirror themselves in the tiny mountain lakes like
pictures in a dream.
I believe the guide-book says that they are formed of carbonate of
lime and carbonate of magnesia in chemical composition; but even if
this be true, it need not prejudice any candid observer against
them. For the simple and fortunate fact is that they are built of
such stone that wind and weather, keen frost and melting snow and
rushing water have worn and cut and carved them into a thousand
shapes of wonder and beauty. It needs but little fancy to see in
them walls and towers, cathedrals and campaniles, fortresses and
cities, tinged with many hues from pale gray to deep red, and
shining in an air so soft, so pure, so cool, so fragrant, under a
sky so deep and blue and a sunshine so genial, that it seems like
the happy union of Switzerland and Italy.
The great highway through this region from south to north is the
Ampezzo road, which was constructed in 1830, along the valleys of
the Piave, the Boite, and the Rienz--the ancient line of travel and
commerce between Venice and Innsbruck. The road is superbly built,
smooth and level. Our carriage rolled along so easily that we
forgot and forgave its venerable appearance and its lack of
accommodation for trunks. We had been persuaded to take four
horses, as our luggage seemed too formidable for a single pair.
But in effect our concession to apparent necessity turned out to be
a mere display of superfluous luxury, for the two white leaders did
little more than show their feeble paces, leaving the gray wheelers
to do the work. We had the elevating sense of traveling four-in-
hand, however--a satisfaction to which I do not believe any human
being is altogether insensible.
At Longarone we breakfasted for the second time, and entered the
narrow gorge of the Piave. The road was cut out of the face of the
rock. Below us the long lumber-rafts went shooting down the swift
river. Above, on the right, were the jagged crests of Monte Furlon
and Premaggiore, which seemed to us very wonderful, because we had
not yet learned how jagged the Dolomites can be. At Perarolo,
where the Boite joins the Piave, there is a lump of a mountain in
the angle between the rivers, and around this we crawled in long
curves until we had risen a thousand feet, and arrived at the same
Hotel Venezia, where we were to dine.
While dinner was preparing, the Deacon and I walked up to Pieve di
Cadore, the birthplace of Titian. The house in which the great
painter first saw the colours of the world is still standing, and
tradition points out the very room in which he began to paint. I
am not one of those who would inquire too closely into
at the beginning of the Dolomites.
Although I have a constitutional aversion to scientific information
given by unscientific persons, such as clergymen and men of
letters, I must go in that direction far enough to make it clear
that the word Dolomite does not describe a kind of fossil, nor a
sect of heretics, but a formation of mountains lying between the
Alps and the Adriatic. Draw a diamond on the map, with Brixen at
the northwest corner, Lienz at the northeast, Belluno at the
southeast, and Trent at the southwest, and you will have included
the region of the Dolomites, a country so picturesque, so
interesting, so full of sublime and beautiful scenery, that it is
equally a wonder and a blessing that it has not been long since
completely overrun by tourists and ruined with railways. It is
true, the glaciers and snowfields are limited; the waterfalls are
comparatively few and slender, and the rivers small; the loftiest
peaks are little more than ten thousand feet high. But, on the
other hand, the mountains are always near, and therefore always
imposing. Bold, steep, fantastic masses of naked rock, they rise
suddenly from the green and flowery valleys in amazing and endless
contrast; they mirror themselves in the tiny mountain lakes like
pictures in a dream.
I believe the guide-book says that they are formed of carbonate of
lime and carbonate of magnesia in chemical composition; but even if
this be true, it need not prejudice any candid observer against
them. For the simple and fortunate fact is that they are built of
such stone that wind and weather, keen frost and melting snow and
rushing water have worn and cut and carved them into a thousand
shapes of wonder and beauty. It needs but little fancy to see in
them walls and towers, cathedrals and campaniles, fortresses and
cities, tinged with many hues from pale gray to deep red, and
shining in an air so soft, so pure, so cool, so fragrant, under a
sky so deep and blue and a sunshine so genial, that it seems like
the happy union of Switzerland and Italy.
The great highway through this region from south to north is the
Ampezzo road, which was constructed in 1830, along the valleys of
the Piave, the Boite, and the Rienz--the ancient line of travel and
commerce between Venice and Innsbruck. The road is superbly built,
smooth and level. Our carriage rolled along so easily that we
forgot and forgave its venerable appearance and its lack of
accommodation for trunks. We had been persuaded to take four
horses, as our luggage seemed too formidable for a single pair.
But in effect our concession to apparent necessity turned out to be
a mere display of superfluous luxury, for the two white leaders did
little more than show their feeble paces, leaving the gray wheelers
to do the work. We had the elevating sense of traveling four-in-
hand, however--a satisfaction to which I do not believe any human
being is altogether insensible.
At Longarone we breakfasted for the second time, and entered the
narrow gorge of the Piave. The road was cut out of the face of the
rock. Below us the long lumber-rafts went shooting down the swift
river. Above, on the right, were the jagged crests of Monte Furlon
and Premaggiore, which seemed to us very wonderful, because we had
not yet learned how jagged the Dolomites can be. At Perarolo,
where the Boite joins the Piave, there is a lump of a mountain in
the angle between the rivers, and around this we crawled in long
curves until we had risen a thousand feet, and arrived at the same
Hotel Venezia, where we were to dine.
While dinner was preparing, the Deacon and I walked up to Pieve di
Cadore, the birthplace of Titian. The house in which the great
painter first saw the colours of the world is still standing, and
tradition points out the very room in which he began to paint. I
am not one of those who would inquire too closely into