he moving record of his great spiritual experience, I forget that
I have invaded a period in which English history had scarcely begun.
Francis has his affinities in every land and in every age. Francis died
four hundred years before John Bunyan was born; yet, as I read Bunyan's
description of Christian at the Cross, I seem to be perusing afresh the
story of the conversion of Francis. The language fits exactly. Strike
out the word 'Christian,' and substitute the word 'Francis,' and the
passage could be transferred bodily from the _Pilgrim's Progress_ to the
_Life of Francis d'Assisi_.

The conversion of Francis occurred five hundred years before Dr. Watts
wrote his noble hymn, '_When I survey the wondrous Cross_'; yet, without
knowing the words, Francis sang that song in his heart over and over and
over again.

The conversion of Francis was effected six hundred years before the
conversion of Mr. Spurgeon. Yet that conversion in the ruined church of
St. Damian's in Italy is the very counterpart of that later conversion
in the little chapel at Artillery Street, Colchester.

'Look!' cried the preacher at Colchester, 'look to Jesus! Look to
Jesus!' 'I looked,' says Mr. Spurgeon; 'I looked and was saved!'

'Francis looked to the Crucified,' says his biographer. 'It was a look
of faith; a look of love; a look that had all his soul in it; a look
which did not attempt to analyze, but which was content to receive. He
looked, and, looking, entered into life.'

You can take the sentences from the _Life of Francis_ and transfer them
to the _Life of Spurgeon_, or vice versa, and they will fit their new
environment with the most perfect historical accuracy.

IV

As, with your face towards Spello, you follow the windings of the Via
Francesca, you will find the little church of St. Damian's on the slope
of the hill outside the city walls. It is reached by a few minutes' walk
over a stony path, shaded with olive-trees, amid odors of lavender and
rosemary. 'Standing on the top of a hillock, the entire plain is visible
through a curtain of cypresses and pines which seem to be trying to hide
the humble hermitage and set up an ideal barrier between it and the
world.' Francis was particularly fond of this wooded walk and of the
sanctuary to which it led. In pensive moments, when it was more than
usually evident to him that, with all his merriment, he had not yet
discovered the fountain of true gladness, he turned his face this way.