ver 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 such a legend as this. The
cottage may have been rebuilt a