Then, more silent in the mind through their influence, I went down
past the speech and companionship of the springs of the Serchio, and
the chestnut trees were redolent of evening all round.
Down the bank
to where the streams met in one, down the river, across its gaping,
ruinous bridge (which some one, generations ago, had built for the
rare travellers - there were then no main roads across the Apennine,
and perhaps this rude pass was in favour); down still more gently
through the narrow upper valley I went between the chestnut trees, and
calm went with me for a companion: and the love of men and the
expectation of good seemed natural to all that had been made in this
blessed place. Of Borda, where the peasants directed me, there is no
need to speak, till crossing the Serchio once more, this time on a
trestle bridge of wood, I passed by a wider path through the groves,
and entered the dear village of Sillano, which looks right into the
pure west. And the peaks are guardians all about it: the elder
brothers of this remote and secluded valley.
An inn received me: a great kitchen full of men and women talking, a
supper preparing, a great fire, meat smoking and drying in the
ingle-nook, a vast timbered roof going up into darkness: there I was
courteously received, but no one understood my language. Seeing there
a young priest, I said to him -
_'Pater, habeo linguam latinam, sed non habeo linguam Italicam.
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