The most interesting part of the journey to Cortona is the view of Lake Thrasymene, with its reedy shores and islands, near the picturesque little town of Passignano.

As one leaves the station below Cortona, and mounts the hill to the grandly placed town, Thrasymene comes in sight again, and adds much to the beauty of the landscape. It is almost worth while to go to Cortona for the sake of the drive up from the station, and the exquisite view from the city walls, ponderous marvels of stone-work. But Cortona is not a desirable place to sleep in. The inn, when we stayed there, was not at all comfortable, and although the town is placed at such a height, the moss growing outside the houses tells how damp is the atmosphere.

If Perugia had seemed ancient, Cortona appeared antediluvian. According to the old historians, Perugia sent soldiers to fight against Troy, but Cortona boasts of having given birth to Dardanus, the founder of Assisi.

It was late afternoon when we reached the top of the hill, and when we took our way from the inn through the hilly, twisting streets to the Porta Colonia, the sun had already set, although the sky still glowed.

Lake Thrasymene looked pale and weird against the olive landscape. Before us was a deep valley backed by a warm, purple mountain ridge; behind us was the stupendous Etruscan wall. We followed the course of this down the steep descent, for Cortona is built on the side of a rocky hill which yet towers above it. The blocks of travertine in the wall are even larger than those at Perugia. Nestling between them, we found a wealth of ferns; ceterach and several delicate aspleniums growing freely among these grim records of past ages.

Suddenly, while we were stooping to look closely at the ferns in the fading light, there came to us, as if from the clouds, a full-voiced chant; deep organ notes swelled above the sweet tones of treble voices.

We looked up and saw that a convent is built above the walls. We stood for some time on this side of the hill listening to the aerial music. Behind us was the deep purple of the valley,—the vast plain below was changing into a brown olive, a wild, desolate-looking expanse; but there was overhead a peculiar clearness of atmosphere.

The young moon hung high above the convent towers; its light helped us to find our way over the rough ground, till at last we reached one of the city gates, and went back through the dark streets to our inn.

There was not a deserted or sleepy look about the place. People were gossiping and trafficking in the streets, and there were plenty of customers in the shop we went into.

Our bedroom at the inn looked alarmingly dismal; large and lofty, it contained an enormous four-poster with a heavy, dark green canopy and curtains. Everything looked and smelt damp; but when we asked to have the bed aired, our host said, "Such a thing is impossible at this time of year."

Next morning we found a busy market on the hilly Piazza. The town hall is here, and some women spreading out orange and scarlet handkerchiefs in the loggia above gave colour to the scene; but the people looked somewhat squalid and dirty after our bright Perugians; moreover, Cortona folk are indifferent and sometimes uncourteous to strangers.

We turned into a side street to see a fine palazzo; then, crossing the market-place, went on to the Palazzo Pretoria. The walls of this building, both in the street and those round the inner quadrangle, are curiously decorated with small shields bearing the arms of ancient magistrates; they reminded us of the Bargello walls in Florence.

We went upstairs, and were told that the custode of the museum was not in, but if we waited he would be sure to come soon. We had, however, to send more than one messenger in search of him before he appeared. There are many Etruscan and some Roman antiquities in this museum, but its chief treasure is the famous candelabrum. This holds sixteen lamps; between each lamp is a head of Bacchus, while eight satyrs and eight sirens, placed alternately, form a marvellously rich border. Within this circle is represented a fight with wild animals, then waves and fish, with a Medusa's head as centre. The colour of the candelabrum, an exquisite mingling of blue and bronze, is beautiful. Near it is a painting on stone—a female—said to be very ancient.

After the museum we went into the cathedral; the pictures painted by Luca Signorelli for his native town are here. Luca was born at Cortona, and was a pupil of Piero della Francesca. Near the choir is a beautifully carved marble tomb, in which the people believe the Consul Flaminius was buried after the battle of Thrasymene.

We had not time to visit the baptistery opposite, which also contains pictures by Luca and by Fra Angelico. We were anxious to see the view from the church of Santa Margherita, above the town. Her statue stands just outside the cathedral; a little dog crouches at her feet.

Margherita was not a native of Cortona; she lived for pleasure only; on her repentance she entered a Franciscan convent here, and passed a life of charity and holy penitence for her sins. Her conversion is said to have taken place on the sudden death of one of her lovers.

As he left her house, accompanied by his little dog, he was assassinated. The little dog came back to Margherita's house, and by its cries attracted her notice; it then pulled at her gown, till it induced her to follow to where her lover lay dead. For this reason Santa Margherita is always represented with a little dog beside her.

We went along the road past the platform, where there is a fine view over the Chiana valley, and turned in to old San Domenico to see the pictures. The campanile of this church is a picturesque feature of Cortona. We could only see two of the pictures, neither of them very remarkable. Another was being restored, the custode said. The walk from this point up to Santa Margherita was delightful. The sunshine was brilliant, and the air had a delicious touch of autumn crispness. The way beside the wall is steep, but there are constant views over the country, and gradually, as we mounted, Lake Thrasymene revealed itself in pale blue-green loveliness; a projecting hill, however, partly blocks the view, and only allows about half of the lake's grand expanse to be seen. The yellow turf was gay with wild flowers, some of them rare specimens. When we at last reached the church, we were rewarded for our climb.

Santa Margherita was designed and probably built by Niccolo and Giovanni Pisano, but it has been very much restored; the view from its platform is magnificent. In front is a screen of tall cypresses, between which the purple hills show exquisitely. The spacious church originally designed by Niccolo Pisano has been re-modelled, but there is a beautiful monument to Santa Margherita by Giovanni Pisano. Santa Margherita's tomb reminded us of Pope Benedict's at Perugia. The saint lies sleeping with her little dog at her feet; in a bas-relief she yields her soul to angels, who bear it to Heaven.

The Fortezza behind the church is said to command a still finer view, but we were quite satisfied to sit on the flowery turf enjoying the surpassing loveliness below us. Hills and valleys, far-reaching plains, the still lake, and the sky overhead, seemed to vie with one another in beauty, yet to blend into such perfect harmony that the sensation of gazing was one of complete repose.

Down a long, long flight of irregular steps we found our way to the quaint little church of St. Nicholas. While we sat gazing we had watched a woman go down these steps, so we felt sure they would lead us somewhere; they took us to the queerest little up-and-down village imaginable, a village of mendicants; every one begged of us, the children being very pertinacious.

One bright-eyed monkey of a boy, with bare brown legs and feet, and a red cap stuck over one eye, followed us down the broken way, dancing and chattering as he came. All at once he stopped and pointed to three younger children, sitting in a mud pool outside a cottage door, even more ragged and dirty, but quite as bright-looking as he was.

I asked him if he had a father or a mother, but he shook his head.

"OimÈ, Signora!—io son padre di famiglia," he said, with a merry laugh, and he pointed again to the black-eyed urchins.

We joined in his laugh; his face and his tiny outstretched hand were irresistible. He shouted for joy when we dropped a coin into it; after this, at the end of every turning we passed, there was our bright-eyed, dirty little beggar, with outstretched brown hand and the sauciest of smiles. When we shook our heads at him he capered away, the soles of his slender brown feet almost as high as his head.

The little church of San Nicola is hidden away among the houses, with a quaint little grassed cloister court in front of it, and a row of ancient cypresses. On one side is a little cloister walk; a vine-covered pergola supported itself by filling up the small space inclosed. In the church is an altar picture, painted on both sides, this is said to be one of the last works of Luca Signorelli. The fresco, said also to be his, has been much restored. This little church belonged to a confraternity, and the seats still remain along the sides of the front court in which the Brethren have sat in council, or from which they have enjoyed the view over the wall that borders this quiet cloister.

As we drove rapidly downhill to the station, we looked at the country through a silver veil, for the olive-trees are larger here than at Perugia, and they literally cover the first part of the steep descent,—so steep that the road has to descend by terraces zig-zagged along the side of the hill.

We had told our red-haired, blue-eyed driver to take us to the Etruscan grotto, and he presently stopped at a rough break, with large stones placed so as to form irregular steps.

The man was in fear lest the horse should run away, and was greatly excited. He went on chattering patois to that effect; but though I told him I was quite able to climb up by myself, he would stand at the top of the steps hauling me up with one hand and flourishing his whip with the other, as if he were performing a circus feat.

We left him there, and presently entered a solemn grassed avenue of gigantic cypresses, their pale grey stems gleaming in the sunlight. This avenue slopes upward, and at the end the ruined grotto shows between the lines of tall dark trees; it is very curious, circular in form, with neatly finished compartments in it for the urns. These have all been taken away; only part of the circular top of the sepulchre remains, lying near the ruined stone; but even in its fractured state it is very impressive; alone on the hillside, screened from the immense prospect before it by a surrounding of olive-trees. As we drove down to the railway, far below us, it seemed to us it had been quite worth while to stay at Cortona for the sake of this wonderful drive down the steep hillside; but the town is probably safer from damp in August than we found it in October.