It lies high, exposed to
every blast of Heaven, and with noble views in all directions.
Rest awhile, on your homeward march, at the small bridge near Olevano
where the road takes a turn. A few hundred yards up the glen on your
left is a fountain whose waters are renowned for their purity; the
bridge itself is not a favourite spot after sunset; it is haunted by a
most malignant spectre. That adds considerably, in my eyes, to the charm
of the place. Besides, here stands an elder tree now in full flower.
What recollections does that scent evoke! What hints of summer, after
rain!
A venerable tree, old as the hills; that last syllable tells its
tale--you may read it in the Sanscrit. A man-loving tree; seldom one
sees an elder by itself, away from human habitations, in the jungle. I
have done so; but in that particular jungle, buried beneath the soil,
were the ruins of old houses. When did it begin to attach itself to the
works of man, to walls and buildings? And why? Does it derive peculiar
sustenance from the lime of the masonry? I think not, for it grows in
lands where lime is rare, and in the shadow of log-huts. It seeks
shelter from the wind for its frail stalks and leaves, that shrivel
wondrously when the plant is set in exposed situations.
The Sabine mountains are full of elders. They use the berries to colour
the wine. A German writer, R. Voss, wove their fragrance into a kind of
Leit-motif for one of his local novels. I met him once by accident, and
am not anxious to meet him again.
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