Miramar light throughout the pale waters of the Adriatic, which lay like a dream on the foot of the hills the place Triest appeared sleeping, all its actions stilled on the summons of peace. Beneath its tower the orange-colored sail of a fishing-boat caught the daylight, and gleamed like some treasured material, then light, too, because the ship moved onward to the forgotten area of rocks and islands, of lengthy, grey mountains, of little cities and historical fortresses, of dim outdated church buildings, from whose campanile the medieval voices of bells ring out the angelus to a individuals nonetheless fortunately primitive, nonetheless unashamed to be picturesque. By the way in which of the ocean we journeyed to a capital the place no carriages roll by way of the slender streets, the place there’s not a railway-station, the place the residents are content material to go on foot about their enterprise, and the place three quarters of the blessings of civilization are blessedly unknown. We had nonetheless to the touch at Pola, in whose nice harbor the dull-green war-ships of Austria lay nearly within the shadow of the huge Roman amphitheater, which has lifted its white partitions, touched right here and there with gold, above the ocean for some sixteen hundred years, curiously swish regardless of its gigantic bulk, the house now of grasses and thistles, the place twenty thousand spectators used to assemble to take their pleasure.
However when Pola was left behind, the ship quickly en-tered the watery paradise. Miramar, Triest, have been forgotten. Dalmatia is a land of forgetting, appears fortunately distant, minimize off by the ocean from many banalities, many energetic annoyances of contemporary life.
Locations which are, or that appear to be, distant usually maintain a sure melancholy, a tristesse of “outdated, un-happy, far-off issues.” However Dalmatia has a serene ambiance, a cheerful purity, a clear and a comfortable gaiety which attain out fingers to the traveler, and take him directly into intimacy and the breast of a house. Earlier than coming into it the ship coasts alongside a unadorned area, wherein pale, nearly flesh-colored hills are backed by mountains of a ghastly grayness. Flesh-color and metal are nearly cruelly blended. No habitations have been seen. The ocean, protected on our proper by traces of islands, was waveless. No birds flew above it; no boats moved on it. We appeared to be creeping down into the last word desolation.
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The hills appeared
However presently the waters widened out. On the foot of the hills appeared right here and there white teams of homes. A better heat, like a breath of hope, stole into the air. White and yellow sails confirmed on the breast of the ocean. Two sturdy males, sporting purple caps, and standing to ply their oars, hailed us within the Slav dialect as they handed on their solution to the islands. The large, grey Velebit Mountains nonetheless bore us firm on our voyage to the South, however they have been dropping their nearly depraved look of dreariness. Within the golden gentle of afternoon romance was descending upon them. And now an extended spur of inexperienced land thrust itself far out, as if to bar our method onward. The islands closed in upon us once more. A white city smiled on us far off on the fringe of the completely satisfied, inexperienced land. It appeared stuffed with guarantees, a little bit metropolis to not be handed with out regretting. It was Zara, the capital and not using a railway-station of the forgotten nation.
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