On this trip which Barfleur had recommended as offering a splendid view of cypresses I was not disappointed: about some villa there was an imposing architectural arrangement of them and an old Roman amphitheater nearby--the ruins of it--bespoke the prosperous Roman life which had long since disappeared. Spello, like Assisi, and beyond it Perugia, (all these towns in this central valley in fact) was set on top of a high ridge, and on some peak of it at that. As seen from the valley below it was most impressive. Close at hand, in its narrow winding streets it was simply strange, outre, almost bizarre, and yet a lovely little place after its kind. Like Assisi it was very poor--only more so. A little shrine to some old Greek divinity was preserved here and at the very top of all, on the extreme upper round of the hill was a Franciscan monastery which I invaded without a by your leave and walked in its idyllic garden. There and then I decided that if ever fortune should permit I would surely return to Spello and write a book, and that this garden and monastery should be my home. It was so eerie here--so sweet. The atmosphere was so wine-like. I wandered about under green trees and beside well-kept flower beds enjoying the spectacle until suddenly peering over a wall I beheld a small garden on a slightly lower terrace and a brown-cowled monk gathering vegetables. He had a basket on his arm, his hood back over his shoulders--a busy and silent anchorite. After a time as I gazed he looked and smiled, apparently not startled by my presence and then went on with his work. “When I come again,” I said, “I shall surely live here and I’ll get him to cook for me.” Lovely thought! I leaned over other walls and saw in the narrow, winding streets below natives bringing home bundles of fagots on the backs of long-eared donkeys, and women carrying water. Very soon, I suppose, a car line will be built and the uniformed Italian conductors will call “Assisi!” “Perugia!” and even “The Tomb of St. Francis!” * * * * *