'It was in 1830,' he says, in a letter to his brother, written in his
eighty-third year, 'it was in 1830 that I found the Saviour, or rather,
that He found me, and laid me on His shoulders rejoicing.' And how did
it all come about? It was a tranquil evening in the early autumn, and a
Sabbath. There is always something conducive to contemplation about an
autumn evening. When, one of these days, one of our philosophers gives
us a _Psychology of the Seasons_, I shall confidently expect to find
that the great majority of conversions take place in the autumn. At any
rate, Andrew Bonar's did. As he looked out upon the world in the early
morning, he saw the shrubs in the garden below him, and the furze on the
moorland beyond, twinkling with the dew-drenched webs of innumerable
spiders. In his walk to the church, and in a stroll across the fields in
the afternoon, the hush of the earth, broken only by the lowing of
cattle, the bleating of sheep and the rustle of the leaves that had
already fallen, saturated his spirit. The world, he thought, had never
looked so beautiful. The forest was a riot of russet and gold. The
hedge-rows were bronze and purple and saffron. The soft and misty
sunlight only accentuated the amber tints that marked the dying fern. In
the evening, unable to shake off the pensive mood into which the day had
thrown him, he reached down Guthrie's _Trial of a Saving Interest in
Christ_, and gave himself to serious thought. Was it in the pages of
Guthrie's searching volume that he came upon the text, or did he, later
on, lay down the book and take up his New Testament instead? I do not
know. But, however that may have been, one great and glowing thought
took complete possession of his soul. As the tide will sometimes rush
suddenly up the sands, filling up every hollow and bearing away all the
seaweed and driftwood that has been lying there so long, so one surging
and overmastering word poured itself suddenly in upon his mind, bearing
away with it the doubts and apprehensions that had tormented him for
years. '_Of His fullness have we all received, and grace for grace._'
Then and there, he says, he began to have a secret joyful hope that he
did really believe on the Lord Jesus. 'The fullness and freeness of the
divine grace filled my heart; I did nothing but receive!'
'_Of His fullness have all we received!_'
'_His fullness filled my heart!_'
'_I did nothing but receive!_'
Forty-two years afterwards, at the age of sixty-two, he revisited that
room and tried to recapture the holy ecstasy with which, so many years
earlier, he had 'first realized a found Saviour.'
'_Grace for grace!_'
V
'_Of His fullness have all we received, and grace for grace!_'
I know a fair Australian city that nestles serenely at the foot of a
tall and massive mountain. Half way up the slopes is the city's
reservoir. In a glorious and evergreen valley it has been hollowed out
of the rugged mountain-side. The virgin bush surrounds it on every hand;
at its western extremity a graceful waterfall comes pouring down from
the heights, mingling its silvery music with the songs of the birds
around. It is the favorite haunt of gaily-colored kingfishers. Swallows
skim hither and thither over its crystalline and placid surface; and, as
if kissing their own reflections in the glass, they just touch the water
as they flit across, creating circles that grow and grow until they
reach the utmost edge. Like a giant who, conscious of his grandeur,
loves to see his image in the mirror, the scarped and weather-beaten
summit gazes sternly down from above and sees his splendors reproduced,
and even enhanced, in the limpid depths below. Often, on a hot day, have
I resorted to this sylvan retreat. At this altitude, how deliciously
cool is the air; how icy cold the water! It has come pouring down the
cataract from the melting snows above! For, strangely enough, the winter
rains and the summer suns conspire to keep it always full. Far down the
mountain-side I see the city, shimmering in the noonday heat. I think of
its population, hot, tired and thirsty. And then it pleases me to
reflect that every house down there at the mountain's foot is in direct
communication with this vast basin of shining water. The people have but
to stretch forth their hands and replenish their vessels again and
again. This crystal reservoir far up the slopes is really a part of the
furniture of each of those homes. Have not I myself been down there in
the dust and heat on such a day as this? Have not I myself been parched
and thirsty? And have I not thought wistfully of the reservoir far up
the slopes? And have I not taken my glass and filled it and quaffed with
relish the sweet and sparkling water? And have I not said to myself, as
I thought of the familiar scene among the hills: 'Of its fullness have
all we received, and water for water.'
'_His fullness filled my heart!_'
'_I did nothing but receive!_'
'_Of His fullness have all we received, and grace for grace!_'