{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7957/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7957","id":"gutenberg_7957","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7957","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Conversion"],"text":"Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen, Charles Franks\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOUT OF THE FOG\n\nA Story of the Sea\n\nC. K. OBER\n\nIntroduction By Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nSince I am permitted to consider myself in some way responsible for this\nnarrative's being put on record, it is with the very heartiest good will\nthat I accept the publishers' kind invitation to write a brief foreword\nto it.\n\nI have, during twenty years, been working against a problem that I\nrecognized called for all--yes, and more, than--I had to give it. For I\nhave been endeavoring, through my own imperfect attainments, to\ntranslate into undeniable language on the Labrador Coast, the message of\nGod's personal fatherhood over and love for the humblest of His\ncreatures. During these years, often of overwork, I have considered it\nworth while to lay aside time and energy and strength to improve the\ncharting and pilot directions of our devious and sometimes dangerous\nwaterways.\n\nHow much more gladly shall I naturally avail myself of any chance by\nwhich to contribute to the knowledge of that seemingly ever evasive\npathway leading to that which to me is the supreme motive power of human\nlife--faith in the divine Redeemer and Master. The best helps to reach\nthe haven we are in search of, over the unblazed trails of Labrador, are\never the tracks of those who have found the way before us. Just such to\nme is this simple and delightful story of Mr. Ober's. It has my most\nhearty prayers for its unprecedented circulation.\n\nWILFRED T. GRENFELL.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nOLD SALTS\n\n\nThe lure of the sea prevailed, and at nineteen I shipped for a\nfour-months' fishing trip on the Newfoundland Banks. These banks are not\nthe kind that slope toward some gentle stream where the weary fisherman\ncan rest between bites, protected from the sun by the shade of an\noverhanging tree; they are thirty to forty fathoms beneath the surface\nof the Atlantic Ocean, a thousand miles out from the Massachusetts\ncoast.\n\nThe life that had long appealed to my imagination now came in with a\nshock and a realism that was in part a disillusionment and in part an\nintense satisfaction of some of my primal instincts and cravings. Old\nsalts are more picturesque and companionable spinning yarns about the\nstove in a shoemaker's shop than they are when one is obliged to live,\neat and sleep with them for four months in the crowded forecastle of a\nfishing schooner. An ocean storm is a sublime spectacle, witnessed from\na position of safety on the land; but a storm on the ocean, experienced\nin its very vortex from the deck of a tiny fishing boat, is thrilling\nbeyond description. \"Ships that pass in the night\" make interesting\nreading; but if they pass near you, in a foggy night, on the Banks, they\nare better than the muezzin of the Moslem in reminding a man that it is\ntime to pray. I recall with vividness the scene on such a night, and\nstill feel the compelling power of the panic in the voice of the\nmild-mannered old sea dog on anchor watch, as he yelled down the\ncompanionway, \"All hands on deck.\" In six seconds we were all there; and\nthere was the great hulk of a two-thousand-ton ship looming up out of\nthe night. She had evidently sighted our little craft just in time to\nchange her course, and was passing us with not more than a hundred and\nfifty feet to spare. I can see them tonight, as they vanished into the\nfog--three men and a big Newfoundland dog, looking over the rail and\ndown on us who, a moment before, were about to die.\n\nStorm, fog, icebergs, cold, exposure, the alert and strenuous life, with\nhis own life the forfeit of failure, are a part of the normal experience\nof a deep sea fisherman. Two members of our crew were father and son,\nUncle Ike Patch and his son, Frank. The old man had been a fisherman in\nhis youth, but had been on shore for thirty years. When we were making\nup our crew, Frank caught the fishing fever and wanted to go, and his\nfather decided to go along with him. They were out in their dory, one\nfoggy day, and when the boats came back to the vessel from hauling their\ntrawls, Uncle Ike and Frank were missing. We rang the bell, fired our\nsmall cannon, shouted and sent boats out after them. As night came on,\nwe were huddled together in the forecastle, wondering about their fate,\nwhile the old fishermen told stories of the fog and its fearful toll of\nhuman life. It seemed a terrible thing for the old man and his boy to be\nout there, drifting no one knew where; and though we were accustomed to\ndanger, there was a gloomy crew and little sleep on our schooner that\nnight. In the morning the weather cleared and soon our missing boat came\nalongside; we received them as men alive from the dead. They had found\nshelter on another fishing vessel that happened to be lying at anchor\nnot more than two or three miles away.\n\nThere was reason for our solicitude, for we knew very well that a large\nproportion of the men who get adrift in the fog are never found alive.\nShortly before this experience we had spoken a Gloucester vessel and\nlearned that her crew had picked up, a short time before, one of the\nboats of a Provincetown schooner that had been adrift four days. One of\nthe two men was dead and the other insane. Each day brought its own\ndangers, which the fishermen met as part of the day's work, thinking\nlittle of them when they were past, and ready for whatever another day\nmight bring.\n\nBut four months is a long time to be out of sight of land, on a fresh\nfish and \"salt hoss\" diet, with molasses instead of sugar in your tea,\nand fresh water too much needed for drinking purposes to waste in\npersonal ablutions. We all swore that we would never go to sea again;\nand when, after gliding into harbor in the night, we looked, one clear\nSeptember morning, on the seemingly unnatural green of the grass and\ntrees of the old North Shore, I said to myself, \"This is God's country,\nif there ever was one, and I, for one, will never get out of sight of it\nagain.\"\n\nBut I had tasted fog and brine, and the \"landlubber's\" lot was too\nmonotonously tame for me. The next spring saw me on the deck of the same\nschooner headed for the Newfoundland Banks, the home of the codfish and\nthe fog.\n\nA seafaring ancestry and a boyhood spent within sound of the surf\ndoubtless had much to do with my love of the salt water. My grandfather\nwas one of six brothers who were sea captains, and our family had clung\nto the North Shore of Massachusetts Bay almost since the first white\nsettler had moored his bark in that vicinity, more than two hundred\nyears before.\n\nMy boyhood home was originally a fishing town, since changed to\nmanufacturing, and was fragrant with traditions of the sea. Many of the\nneighborhood homes in which I visited as a boy had souvenirs of the\nocean displayed on the mantelpiece or on the everlasting solitude of the\nparlor table. There were great conch shells that a boy could put to his\near and hear the surf roaring on the beaches from which they had been\ntaken; articles made of sandalwood; curiously wrought things under\nglass; miniature pagodas; silk scarfs; bow-legged idols; and a wonderful\nmodel of the good ship Dolphin, or of some other equally staunch craft,\nin which the breadwinner, father or son, had sailed on some eventful\nvoyage. These had all been \"brought from over sea,\" I was told, and this\ngave me the impression that \"over sea\" must be a very rich and\ninteresting place.\n\nBut the souvenirs of the sea were not as interesting to me as its\nsurvivors. We had in our town, and especially in our end of it, which\nwas called \"the Cove,\" a choice assortment of old sea dogs who had\nsailed every sea, in every clime--had seen the world, in fact, and were\nnot averse, under the stimulus of good listeners, to telling all they\nknew about it and sometimes a little more.\n\nScattered through the Cove were many little shoemakers' shops, into\nwhich, especially in the long winter evenings, these old salts would\ndrift. There around the little cylinder stove, with its leather-chip\nfire, leaking a fragrance the memory of which makes me homesick as I\nwrite about it, they would swap their stories of the sea, many of which\nhad originally been based on fact.\n\nThese old derelicts--and some of the younger seafaring men--were better\nthan dime novels to us boys, for we could always question them and draw\nout another story. Some of them were unconscious heroes who had often\nrisked their lives for their comrades and the vessel owners; and for the\nsupport and comfort of their families no dangers or hardships had seemed\ntoo great to be undertaken or endured. We boys held these old salts in\nhigh esteem, and never forgot to give to each his appropriate title of\n\"Captain\" or \"Skipper,\" as the case might be. We also occasionally had\nsome fun with them.\n\nWe never thought of any of them as bad men, though some of them, by\ntheir own testimony, had lived wild and reckless lives. One or two,\naccording to persistent rumor, had carried out cargoes of New England\nrum and brought back shiploads of \"black ivory\" from the West coast of\nAfrica. Not a few of them were picturesquely profane. Old Skipper Tom\nBowman had a very original oath, \"tender-eyed Satan!\" which he must have\nhad copyrighted, as he was the only one that I ever heard use it. We\nboys would sometimes bait him, provoking him to exasperation, that we\nmight hear it in all its original force and fervor.\n\n[Illustration: Old Salts Are More Picturesque and Companionable Spinning\nYarns about the Stove in a Shoemaker's Shop than when One Is Obliged to\nLive, Eat and Sleep with Them]\n\nWe knew his habits well. He eked out a scanty sustenance by fishing off\nthe shore and would frequently come in on the ebb tide and leave his\nboat half way up the beach, going home to dinner and returning when the\nflood tide had about reached his boat, to bring it up to its moorings.\n\nSo one day we dug a \"honey pot\" by the side of his boat, at the very\nspot where we knew he would approach it, covered it over with dry\nseaweed and about the time he was due we were lying out of sight, but\nwithin earshot, behind the rocks. He drifted down, at peace with all the\nworld, went in over the tops of his rubber boots, and then, for one\nblissful moment, we had our reward.\n\nSome of these old salts were so thoroughly salted, being drenched with\nthe brine of many stormy voyages, that they kept in good condition well\nbeyond their allotted time of three score years and ten. Some were of\nuncertain age, but were evidently well beyond the century mark, as\nproved by the aggregate time consumed on their many voyages, the stories\nof which they had reiterated with such convincing detail.\n\nOne of these, Captain Sam Morris, was patiently stalked by the boys\nthrough a long season of yarn spinning, careful tally being kept. When\nthe tale was complete, the boys closed in on him.\n\n\"How old are you, Captain Sam?\"\n\n\"Oh, I dunno, I ain't kep' count.\"\n\n\"Are you seventy?\"\n\n\"I swan! I dunno.\"\n\n\"Well, you were on the Old Dove with Skipper Jimmie Stone, weren't you?\"\n\n\"Sartin.\"\n\n\"You were on the Constitution, when she fought the Guerriere, weren't\nyou?\"\n\nHow could he deny it?\n\n\"Well, weren't you with Captain Lovett on four of his three-year trading\nvoyages to Australia and China?\"\n\n\"Course I was.\"\n\n\"How about those trips 'round the Horn, on the clipper ship 'Mary Jane'\nfrom '49 to '55?\"\n\n\"I was thar.\" They kept relentlessly on down the list, and then showed\nhim the tally. Allowing for infancy, an abbreviated boyhood on land, and\nthe time they had known him since he had quit the sea, he was one\nhundred and thirty-five years old. The showing did not disconcert him,\nhowever. He was interested, but he had told those stories so often and\nhad come to believe each of them so implicitly that he could not doubt\nthem in the aggregate. He simply exclaimed: \"Well, I'll be darned! I\nfeel like a young chap o' sixty.\"\n\nBut while some of these old sailors liked to \"spin yarns\" and some had\ntheir frailties, they were, as a rule, strong characters, rugged,\nhonest, courageous, unselfish--real men, in fact, whose sterling\nqualities stood out in strong contrast against the unreality of many\ntimid and non-effective lives about them. It was not their romancing,\nbut their reality, and the achieving power of their lives that appealed\nto me as a boy, and I was drawn to the kind of life that had helped to\nproduce such men.\n\nThen, too, the ocean itself, with its immensity, its mystery, its moods,\nthe danger in it, and the man's work in mastering it, was almost\nirresistibly attractive to me.\n\nOn graduating from high school I declined my father's offer to send me\nto college, thinking that the life I had in view did not require a\ncollege education. Then he made me a very attractive business\nproposition, but it looked to me like slavery, and what I wanted most\nwas freedom. My father and mother were both Christians, but I had become\nskeptical, profane and reckless of public opinion. I had left home for a\nboarding house in the same town at eighteen, and at nineteen I had\nslipped the moorings and was heading out to sea.\n\n\n\n\nADRIFT\n\n\nMy second trip to the Banks was made in response to the same kind of\nimpulse as that which drives the nomad out of his winter quarters in the\nspringtime or brings the wild geese back to their summer feeding\ngrounds. To one who really loves the ocean, the return to it after a\nperiod of exile on the land, is an indescribable satisfaction. There was\nat least one of our crew who experienced this emotion as our staunch\nlittle craft turned her nose to the blue water, and with all sail set\nand lee rail almost under water, leaped away from the petty restrictions\nof the shore into the practically limitless expanse of the Atlantic. In\na week we were on the fishing ground and sentiment gave way to business.\n\nOur schooner was a trawler, equipped with six dories and a crew of\nfifteen, including the skipper, the cook, the boy and two men for each\nboat. Each trawl had a thousand hooks, a strong ground line six thousand\nfeet long, with a smaller line two and a half feet in length, with hook\nattached, at every fathom. These hooks were baited and the trawl was set\neach night. The six trawls stretched away from the vessel like the\nspokes from the hub of a wheel, the buoy marking the outer anchor of\neach trawl being over a mile away. I was captain of a dory this year,\npassing as a seasoned fisherman with my experience of the year before.\nMy helper or \"bow-man\" was John Hogan, a young Irishman about my own\nage, red-headed, but green at the fishing business. John's mother kept a\nlittle oasis for thirsty neighbors, in a city adjacent to my home town,\nand his father was a man of unsteady habits. But John was a good fellow,\nactive and willing, and, though he had not inherited a rugged\nconstitution, he could pull a good steady stroke.\n\nSoon after we reached the Banks, a storm swept our decks and nearly\ncarried away our boats. As a result, the dories, particularly my own,\nwere severely strained and leaked badly. For two weeks, however, we had\nno fog, but on the morning of the second of June, just as we went over\nthe schooner's side and shaped our course for our outer buoy, a bank of\nfog with an edge as perpendicular as the side of a house moved down on\nus like a great glacier, though much more rapidly, shutting us in and\neverything else out from sight. It was ugly and thick, as if all the fog\nfactories from Grand Manan to Labrador had been working overtime for the\ntwo weeks before and had sent their whole output in one consignment. We\nhad just passed our inner buoy when the fog struck us, but we kept on\nfor the outer buoy, as was customary in foggy weather, since it was\nsafer to get that and pull in toward the vessel, rather than take the\ninner buoy, pull out, and find ourselves with a boatload of fish and\nugly weather over a mile from the vessel. We had our bearings, I had\noften found the buoy in the fog and believed that we could do it again.\nWe kept on rowing and knew when we had rowed far enough, though we had\nnot counted the strokes; but we found nothing.\n\n\"Guess we have drifted too far to leeward; pull up to windward a little.\nThat's strange, we must have passed it, this blamed fog is so thick.\nWhat's that over there?\" We zigzagged back and forth for some time and\nthen realized that we had missed it and must go back to the vessel and\nget our inner buoy. This seemed easy, but we found that it is as\nimportant to have a point of departure as it is to have a destination,\nand not knowing just where we were we could not head our boat to where\nthe vessel was. We shouted, and listened, rowed this way and that way\nbut not a sound came to us through the fog, although we knew that the\nboy must be at his post ringing the bell, so that the boats could hark\ntheir way back to the vessel. I learned afterward that the tide that\nmorning was exceptionally strong. I had noted its direction and made\nallowance for it, before leaving the schooner, but we were where the\nGulf Stream and the Arctic Current are not very far apart and the\nresulting tides are strong and changeable. We were in the grip of two\ngreat elemental and relentless forces, the impenetrable fog, cutting off\nall our communications, and the strong ocean current sweeping us away\ninto the uninhabited waste of waters. From my experience of the year\nbefore, I knew what it meant to be lost in the fog on the Banks,\npractically in mid-ocean; I understood that if the fog lasted for a week\nor ten days as it sometimes did, especially at that season of the year,\nit was a fight for our lives. I soon realized that we were lost and that\nthe fight was on.\n\nWe were certainly stripped for it, without impedimenta, no anchor,\ncompass, provisions, water, no means of catching fish or fowl, and with\nrather light clothing, as we were dressed for work and not for\nprotection against cold. But youth is optimistic and claims what is\ncoming to it, with a margin for luck, and we started on our new voyage\nof discovery with good courage and a cheerful disregard of the\nhardships, dangers and possible death in the fog, with which and into\nwhich we were drifting.\n\nIt would not be strictly accurate to say that we saw nothing during all\nthe time we were adrift, but the things we saw were of the same stuff\nthat the fog was made of. Early in the first day I saw a sail dimly\noutlined in the misty air. I called John's attention to it with a shout,\nand he saw it too, but, as we rowed toward it, the sail retreated and\nthen disappeared. We thought that this was strange, for the wind was not\nstrong enough to take a vessel away from us faster than we could row,\nand we were near enough to make ourselves heard. Soon, the sail appeared\nagain, and again we shouted and rowed toward it, and again it glided\naway from us and disappeared, and again, and again, through the\nseemingly endless procession of the slow-moving hours of that first day,\nwe chased the phantom ship.\n\nWhen night came on, there came with it a deepening sense of loneliness\nand isolation. The night was also very cold, the chill penetrated our\nthin clothing, and we were compelled to row the boat to keep ourselves,\nnot warm, but a little less cold. The icebergs coming down on the Arctic\nCurrent hold the season back, and early June on the Banks is much like\nApril on the Massachusetts coast. We tried to sleep lying down in the\nbottom of the boat with our heads in a trawl tub, but we were stiff with\ncold, the boat leaked badly, and it was necessary to get up frequently\nand bail out the water. The thought also that we might drift within\nsight or sound of a vessel, or within sight of a trawl buoy, made us\nafraid to sleep.\n\nThe night finally wore away, the second day and night were like the\nfirst, the third like the first and second and the fourth day like\nanother \"cycle of Cathay.\" These four days and nights were like solitary\nconfinement to the prisoner, the grim monotony and lack of incident\ncontributing to the cumulative effect and accentuating the sense of\nhelplessness and isolation. There was nothing to relieve the situation.\nWe were like an army lying in trenches in the face of the enemy, waiting\nfor the enemy's move.\n\nThe fourth night we were startled by the sound of the fog horn of a\nsailing vessel. The wind was blowing almost a gale. We listened to get\nthe direction, then sprang to the oars and rowed hard to intercept her,\nshouting, listening, rowing with all our strength, and willing, if need\nbe, to be run down, in the chance of being seen and rescued. The horn\nfinally sounded so near that it seemed that we could almost see the\nvessel, and we felt sure that they could hear our call. But our hearts\nsank as the sounds grew fainter and soon we were alone again with the\nwind and fog. The fifth day we heard the whistle of an ocean steamship.\n\"We can surely head this one off,\" we thought, but she quickly passed\nus, too far away to see or hear. It was a bitter disappointment as this\nfloating hotel, full of warmth, food, water, shelter and companionship,\nfor the lack of each and all of which we were perishing, rushed by, so\nnear, yet unconscious and unheeding, in too great a hurry to stop and\nlisten to our cry for help. I have thought of this since, as I have\nhurried along with the crowd in the street of a great city and wondered,\nif we stopped to listen, what cry might come to us out of the deep.\n\nThe fifth night the sea was running high. We were drifting with a trawl\ntub fastened to the \"painter\" as a drag to keep the boat headed to the\nwind, when it began to rain. I spread my oil jacket to catch the water,\nand we waited until we could collect enough for a drink, watching the\ndrops eagerly, as we had tasted neither food nor water since leaving the\nvessel five days before. Just as we were about to drink, however, our\nboat shipped a sea, filling the oil jacket with salt water, and there\nwas no more rain.\n\nEvery day we passed great flocks of sea fowl floating on the water,\ncoming frequently almost within an oar's length, but always just out of\nreach. We were in worse condition than the Ancient Mariner, with food as\nwell as water everywhere about us, and not a morsel or a drop to eat or\ndrink. Thirst is harder to endure than hunger, and yet hunger finally\nwakes up the wolf; and the time comes when even the thought of\ncannibalism can be entertained without horror. About this time John\nasked me, \"Well, what do you think?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, \"I think that one of us will come out of it all right.\"\n\nHe started, as if he thought that I had premature designs on him.\n\n\"You need not be afraid,\" I said, \"I'll not take advantage of you.\"\n\nHe knew that I was the stronger and perhaps thought that if I felt as he\ndid, his chances were very small.\n\nThe sixth day, John seemed like a man overwhelmed with the horror of a\nsituation that had gotten beyond his control. He cowered at the opposite\nend of the boat and had said nothing for a long time. Finally he opened\na conversation with a person of whose presence I had not been conscious.\n\n\"Jim,\" he said, \"come, give me a piece.\"\n\n\"Jim who?\" I asked. \"Piece of what? Where is he?\"\n\n\"Jim Woodbury,\" he answered, \"don't you see him? There he is, hiding\nunder that oil jacket. He's been there over half an hour, eating pie,\nand he won't give me any.\"\n\nI tried to laugh him out of his delusion, but the thing was real to him.\nSoon he jumped up and said: \"I'm going on board; I'm tired of staying\nout here.\"\n\n\"How will you get there?\" I asked.\n\n\"Walk,\" he answered, \"the water ain't deep,\" and he started to get\noverboard.\n\nI caught him and pulled him back into the boat, not any too soon, for if\nhe had gone overboard, the sharks would probably have gotten him, for\nthey were not very far away. Every now and then I had seen their fins\ncutting the surface of the water, as they patrolled back and forth,\nwaiting their time, or ours, as if they knew that it was only a question\nof time. Soon John started again to get overboard. This time I punished\nhim so severely that he did not try it again. After that, I had to keep\nmy eye on him constantly. His ravings about food were not particularly\nsoothing to my feelings, for I was as hungry as he, only not so\ndemonstrative about it.\n\nThe seventh day drifted slowly by and the fog still held us captive. For\na week we had had no food, no water, and scarcely any sleep; having our\nboots on continuously stopped the circulation in our feet with the same\neffect as if they had been frozen; we were chilled to the bone; my boat\nmate was insane. Since the whistle of the steamship had died away in the\ndistance, two days before, no sound had come to us out of the fog but\nthe voices of the wind and the swash of the waves. I knew the chart of\nthe Banks and had a general idea as to where we were. There is a great\nbarren tract on the Banks where few fish are found and fishermen seldom\ngo, and we had drifted into this man-forsaken place. I had almost said\n\"God-forsaken\" too, but something began to shape itself in my mind about\nthat time, that makes it difficult for me now to say this. Rather, as I\nlook back on our experience, I feel more like claiming fellowship with\nthe \"wanderer\" who called the place of his hardship \"Bethel\" because it\nwas there, at the end of self and of favoring conditions, that he found\nGod.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PILOT\n\n\nI was near \"the end of my rope\"--I was not frightened, or discouraged;\nmy mind was perfectly clear; I was not stampeded. Of course, I had\nthought of God and of prayer, but I was a skeptic, as I supposed, and\nconsidered both not proven. But the steady contemplation of the\nprobability of death, for seven successive days, under conditions that\ncompelled candor, raised questions that skepticism could not answer, and\ngave to my questions answers that skepticism could not refute. There\ncomes a time, under such conditions, when common sense asserts itself\nand sophistry fails to satisfy. Since I made this discovery in my\npersonal experience, I have learned that my case was not peculiar, but\nin keeping with a general law in human experience, long understood and\nadmirably stated in the 107th Psalm. Such words as these have come \"out\nof the depths\" and it is sometimes necessary to go down into the depths\nto prove them to be true.\n\n\"They wandered.... in a solitary way; they found no city to dwell in.\nHungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them. Then they cried unto the\nLord in their trouble, and he delivered them out of their distresses,\nand he led them forth by the right way, that they might go to a city of\nhabitation.... Such as sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, being\nbound in affliction and iron; because they rebelled against the words of\nGod, and contemned the counsel of the Most High: therefore he brought\ndown their heart with labor; they fell down and there was none to help.\nThen they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them out of\ntheir distresses. He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of\ndeath, and brake their bands in sunder..... They that go down to the sea\nin ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the\nLord, and his wonders in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the\nstormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the\nheaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because\nof trouble... they are at their wits' end. Then they cry unto the Lord\nin their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He\nmaketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are\nthey glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired\nhaven.\"\n\nI had drifted into the \"secret place,\" the door was shut, and it was the\nright time and place for me to pray. I saw that my life had been a\nfailure, that I was absolutely worthless, and that, if death came then,\nthere was not one good thing that I had ever done that would survive. In\nfact, I could think of nothing in my life that was worth remembering. I\nwas not so much concerned about my own salvation as for another chance\nto live and to do an unselfish work in the world. And so I did what I\nthought then (and think still) was the only sane thing to do, I signaled\nfor the Pilot.\n\nThat night the rain came. I spread my oil jacket and caught an abundance\nof water of which we drank deeply. With this refreshment came new hope\nand new courage for the final struggle, if safety could be gained that\nway. I reviewed the situation and considered one by one the possible\ncourses we might take. We seemed to be shut in to three things. The\nfirst possibility was to row to land; but the nearest land, the\nNewfoundland coast, was nearly three hundred miles away, and I decided\nthat we did not have the time or the strength to reach it. The second\npossibility was to be picked up by a passing vessel; but this did not\nlook encouraging, for two had already passed us. The third and last hope\nwas to find a fishing vessel at anchor, and within a reasonable\ndistance. This last possibility seemed almost probable. But _how_\nprobable? Possibly within ten miles, probably within twenty-five,\ncertainly within _fifty_, some fishermen were plying their trade,\nbut _where_? There are thirty-two points of the compass, and by\ndeviating one point at the center, a distance of fifty miles would bring\nus ten miles out of the way at the circumference. We could row fifty\nmiles, but we cannot take chances. Yet there is a snug little fishing\ncraft out there on the rim of the circle, waiting for us to find her!\nBut _which way_ shall we go? I finally decided that this was a\nproblem for the Pilot, and I left it with Him, satisfied that He\nunderstood His business and that if He had any orders for me, He knew\nhow to communicate them.\n\nThe eighth day came, and with it came an impulse to row the boat in a\ncertain direction. This impulse was not unlike the thousands that had\ncome to me before. There was nothing about it to indicate that its\nsource was any higher than my own imagination. If this was a voice from\nabove the fog, it was certainly a still, small one. It was unheeded at\nfirst, not unrecognized. Reason said that to conserve our strength we\nshould sit still and wait for the lifting of the fog. Fear whispered\nthat if I obeyed the impulse, we might be rowing directly away from\nsafety. But the impulse persisted and prevailed.\n\n\"Get up, John,\" I said, \"we have a day's work ahead of us. We are going\nto row off in this direction.\"\n\nJohn responded automatically, fear acting in place of reason, but he was\nsoon exhausted and lay down again. I kept on, however, resting now and\nthen, and returning to the oars with the thought that fifty miles was a\nlong distance and that we had a very small margin of time to our credit.\nOur course was with the wind, and nature worked with us all that eighth\nday and on into the night, as the pressure on me drove us toward our\ngoal.\n\nAbout the middle of the eighth night I realized that I had reached the\nlimit of my fighting strength. John was in worse condition than I, for I\nstill had hope, but my hope was not in myself. Then I talked the\nsituation over with the Pilot. We had nowhere else to go; we had come as\nfar as we could; our time was nearly up--what of the night? and what of\nthe morning? John was asleep; the world was a long way off: the sea and\nthe mist seemed to have rolled over us and to have buried us ten\nthousand fathoms deep. But \"out of the depths I cried,\" and I found the\ncommunication open.\n\nBetween midnight and dawn the fog lifted and from the overhanging clouds\nthe rain fell gently through the remainder of the night. John lay in his\nend of the boat, but I sat watching. Finally, as if in response to some\nsecret signal, the darkness began its inevitable retreat and, as the\nnight horizon receded, out of the gray of the morning, growing more and\nmore distinct as the shadows fell away, appeared a dark object less than\ntwo miles distant, nebulous at first, then unmistakable in its\ncharacter. It was a solitary fishing vessel lying at anchor, toward\nwhich we had been rowing and drifting unerringly all through the night\nand the day before.\n\nThere it was! only a clumsy old fisherman, but it was the best thing in\nall the world to us, and it was anchored and could not get away!\n\nI do not recall the experience of any tumultuous emotion as this\nmessenger of hope appeared on our horizon, but we knew that we were\nsafe. How easy it is to write this simple word of four letters! but, to\nrealize it, one must have a background of despair. Since that morning,\nthe words \"safe,\" \"safety,\" \"salvation,\" have always come to me\nfreighted with reality.\n\nIt is doubtful if any of the vessel's crew had seen our boat, as it was\nscarcely daylight and such a small object lying close to the water would\nnot be readily discernible. I had thought, a few hours before, that my\nstrength was entirely exhausted, but the sight of the vessel called out\na reserve sufficient for the final effort.\n\nAs I slowly brought our boat alongside, some of the crew were in\nevidence, getting ready for their day's work, and they seemed perplexed\nto account for our early morning call. But, when we came close to the\nvessel, our emaciated appearance evidently told the main outlines of our\nstory. They called to the others in a foreign tongue and the whole crew\ncrowded to the rail. One strong fellow jumped into our boat and lifted\nJohn up while others reached down to help. Then, with their assistance,\nI tumbled on board, stiff with cold and with feet like stone. They gave\nus brandy and took us to the warm cabin where breakfast was being\nprepared and it is difficult to say which was more grateful, the smell\nof food or the warmth of the fire. John was put into the captain's bunk.\nIt was a good exchange for he was not far from \"Davy Jones' locker.\" We\nhad been on board only a few hours when the fog rolled back again and\ncontinued for some time afterward.\n\nThe vessel was a French fishing brig from the island of St. Malo in the\nEnglish Channel. None of the crew understood English and neither of us\ncould speak French, but they understood the language of distress and\nkindness needs no interpreter. The captain showed me a calendar and\npointed to the tenth of June, and when I pointed to the second he\nevidently found it hard to believe me, but John's condition helped to\ncorroborate my statement. They let us eat as much as we wished, but\nnature protected us, for the process of eating was so painful at first\nthat I felt like a sword swallower who had partaken too freely of his\nfavorite dish. Fortunately, also, our hosts were living the simple life.\nTheir menu consisted chiefly of sliced bread over which had been poured\nthe broth of fish cooked in water and light wine, the same fish cooked\nin oil as a second course, bread and hardtack, and an occasional dish of\nbeans, which seemed to be regarded by them as a luxury. They had an\nabundance of beer and light wine and in the morning before going to haul\ntheir trawls, coffee was served with brandy. Cooking was done on a brick\nplatform, or fireplace, in the cabin, and the captain, the mate and all\nhands sat around one large dish placed on the cabin floor and each\nhelped himself with his own spoon. A loaf of bread was passed around,\neach cutting off a slice with his own sheath knife. But notwithstanding\nsimple food, frugal meals and primitive conditions, the hospitality was\ngenuine and against the background of our recent hunger, thirst and\ngeneral wretchedness, the place was heaven and our hosts were angels in\nthin disguise.\n\nIn about ten days we were brought into St. Pierre, the French fishing\ntown on the small rocky island of Miquelon, off the Newfoundland coast,\nthe depot of the French fishing fleet and the only remaining foothold\nfor the French of the vast empire once held by them between the North\nAtlantic and the Mississippi Valley. The American consul took us in\ncharge, sending us to a sailors' boarding house and giving each of us a\nchange of clothing. In another week we were sent on by steamer to\nHalifax, consigned to the American consul at that port. There John's\nfeet proved to be in such bad condition that it was necessary to send\nhim to the hospital, and, as gangrene had set in, a portion of each foot\nwas amputated. He was \"queer\" for several weeks, but, with returning\nphysical health, gradually recovered his mental equilibrium. After a few\ndays in Halifax, I was sent on by steamer to Boston, bringing the first\nnews of either our loss or our rescue.\n\nOn reaching my home town I did not go to a boarding house; there was\nplenty of room for me in the home and I was contented to stay there for\na while. The old salts received me as a long-lost brother, and while the\nofficial notice was never handed me, I was made to feel that somewhere\nin their inner consciousness I had been elected a regular member of the\nAmalgamated Society of Sea Dogs, and was entitled to an inside seat, if\nI could find one, about the stove of any shoemaker's shop in the Cove.\nThe Banks were revisited in memory, and all the old fog experiences were\nbrought out, amplified and elongated as far as possible, but it was\nconceded that we had established a new record in the nautical traditions\nof the Cove. It took several years for me to inch my way back to\nphysical solvency from the effects of my exposure, and this delayed the\ncarrying out of my plans, to which my fishing trips had been a prelude.\n\nThe strange thing that I now have to record is that I soon forgot, or\nwillfully ignored, my whole experience of God, prayer and deliverance,\nand became apparently more skeptical and indifferent than before. The\nonly way I can explain this is that I had not become a Christian, and my\ndominant mental attitude reasserted itself when danger was past. I\npractically never attended church. My position and influence, however,\nwere not merely negative; I was positively antagonistic to Christianity,\nand this attitude continued up to the April following.\n\n[Illustration: Dave Lived in a Beautiful Old Place Near the Shore and I\nHad Been in the Habit of Spending Many of My Sundays with Him]\n\nBut while I forgot, I was not forgotten. God had begun a work in me, the\ncontinuation and completion of which waited on my willingness to\ncooperate, and the most powerful force in the world, that of believing\nand persistent prayer, was being released in my behalf. My mother was a\nwoman of remarkable Christian character, with rare qualities of mind and\nheart, knowledge and love of the Scriptures, and a deep and genuine\nprayer life. Notwithstanding my lack of sympathy with her in the things\nmost fundamental, she had confidence that the tide would turn with me.\nHer confidence, however, was not based on me. She knew the Lord and\nunderstood that it was not the sheep that went out after the Shepherd\nwho was lost until it found Him. So she kept a well-worn path to the\nplace of prayer.\n\nShe was wise and said little to me on the subject, but I knew her life\nand what it was for which she was most deeply solicitous. She had taught\nme from the Bible as a boy, and many a cold winter night, though weary\nwith a day filled with household cares, she had come to my room and\n\"tucked me in\" with prayer.\n\nMy attitude toward Christianity in the winter following my second\nfishing trip on the Newfoundland Banks was different from that of the\nyear before. Then I had been a skeptic, as I assumed, and declined\nresponsibility for what to me was unknown and seemed to be unknowable.\nBut, in the meantime, something had happened that had lifted this whole\nquestion with me from the realm of speculation to that of experience.\nThe Pilot's response to my signal might, for the time, be ignored, but\nit could not be forgotten.\n\nBut, by deliberately putting aside my convictions of God, prayer and\ndeliverance, treating them as if they had no existence in fact, I had\nintroduced an element of distrust of my own mental processes. The will\nhad taken the place of judgment, and the result was confusion; I was in\nthe fog. I never attended prayer meeting, but one Sunday night I was\npassing the chapel where such a meeting was being held. I had been there\nwith my mother, as a boy, and while the meetings were \"slow,\" they were\npervaded with a true devotional spirit and a something real, though to\nme intangible and difficult to describe.\n\nWhether I was influenced by the memory of these boyhood glimpses into\nthe spiritual world, or by the spirit of the scoffer and the cynic\npossessing me at that time, or by the still small voice that had pointed\nthe way to safety only a few months before, I never fully knew, but I\nwent in.\n\nThe room was filled with people and a meeting was in progress, during\nwhich two men, old neighbors, whose lives I knew well, told the story of\ntheir recent conversion. One was Skipper Andrew Woodbury, a man of\nblameless life, but who had lived sixty-five years without religion. The\nother was my uncle by marriage, twenty years my senior, a close personal\nfriend and familiarly called \"Dave.\" I had been in the habit of spending\nmany of my Sundays with him, as he was a non-church goer, companionable,\ngenuine and open-hearted as the day. It was evident that he had found\nsomething that he wanted to share with his friends, and while I made\nlight of it at the time, his testimony made a profound impression on me.\n\nToward the close of the meeting the leader gave the invitation to those\n\"who want to become Christians\" to rise. No one stood up. Then he came\nwithin closer range and invited those \"who would like to become\nChristians,\" but still no one responded. I was becoming interested and\nwas almost disappointed when no one answered to this second invitation.\nThen he put up the proposition to those \"who _have no objections_\nto becoming Christians.\" \"He will get a lot of them on this call,\" I\nsaid to myself, but to my surprise, no one stirred. \"Well,\" I thought,\n\"this is too bad, but why couldn't I help him out? I have no objections\nto becoming a Christian,\" and I stood up. I slipped out of the meeting\nahead of the crowd, but in my room that night before I went to bed, I\nfound myself on my knees, trying to pray. I did not succeed very well.\n\"Oh, what's the use?\" I said, \"there's nothing in it.\" But I lay awake\nfar into the night, thinking, feeling the beating of my heart, wondering\nwhat kept it going and \"what if it should stop suddenly?\"\n\nBut in less than a day these impressions had passed. I laughed them off\nand kept on in my own way. For six weeks I steered clear of Dave, but I\ndid not want to lose his friendship, and then, too, I was rather curious\nto find out what, if anything, he had really discovered. So, one Sunday\nmorning in early April, I drifted down to his home, as I had done so\nmany times before. I stopped at my father's house on the way, and after\na short visit, went on to Dave's. It was a pleasant morning, and I left\nmy overcoat at home, as I had but a short distance to go.\n\nDave lived in a beautiful old farmhouse near the shore, overlooking the\nharbor, and our Sunday program had been walking along the beach, or\nsitting around the house smoking, eating apples, drinking cider and\nkilling time in the most unconventional way possible. \"It's too bad,\" I\nthought, \"that Dave has got religion, it spoils all our good times\"; but\nI was hoping to find him less strenuous on the subject than when I had\nheard him in the chapel six weeks before. But Dave's conversion was so\ngenuine and his enthusiasm so real that it was impossible for me\nentirely to resist and beat back the impact of his testimony.\n\nI concealed my impressions, however, and told him that no doubt he\nneeded it, it was probably a good thing for him, I wouldn't say a word\nto discourage him, but as for me, I did not need that kind of medicine.\nHe urged me to go to church with him, but I declined his invitation so\npositively that he did not renew it. \"I'll walk along with you as far as\nthe corner,\" I said, but when we came to the point of parting an impulse\ncame to me to go with him. \"Walk slow, Dave,\" I said, \"I'll go in and\nget my coat and go to church with you.\" We were both surprised, he,\nbecause he had given up all hope of my going with him, and I, because\nten seconds before I had no thought of going. I have often thought of it\nsince, and never without a sense of profound thankfulness for the\nimpulse that came to me that bright Sunday morning, at the parting of\nthe ways.\n\nI went with Dave to church that morning, came back and spent the\nafternoon with him and went with him again to the evening service, after\nwhich I remained for personal conversation. Dave had exhausted his\nammunition, but the man who talked with me had been practicing the\nChristian life for twenty-five years and was a man of fine personality,\nculture and business experience. He knew the Gospel and also knew human\nnature, and mine in particular, while I knew that he was genuine.\n\n\"Charlie,\" he said, \"don't you think it is time for you to be a\nChristian?\"\n\n\"No,\" I answered, \"I can't be a hypocrite; I can't pretend to believe\nwhat I don't believe.\"\n\n\"What is there that you can't believe?\"\n\n\"Well, there is the Bible, for instance.\"\n\n\"Don't you believe the Bible?\"\n\n\"About as I believe Robinson Crusoe.\"\n\n\"Do you think the trouble is with the Bible, or with yourself? Don't you\nthink that, if you had faith, as a Christian man, the Bible would be a\ndifferent book to you?\"\n\n\"That looks easy; of course, if I had faith I would be just as you are.\nBut how can a man believe what he does not believe?\"\n\n\"Did you ever hear about prayer?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have heard something about it.\"\n\n\"Don't you think that there is something in it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am inclined to think there is.\" (I could not honestly deny it in\nthe light of my experience.)\n\n\"Well, don't you think that if you were to pray to God for faith, God\nwould give it to you?\"\n\nThis question touched the spring of memory, and conscience showed me\nwhat it thought of me. I was ashamed of my littleness and of my\nunscientific attitude of mind in wilfully ignoring the greatest facts of\nmy experience, and I was also ashamed of my ingratitude. And so, in an\nunguarded moment, that is, in a moment when my will was off its guard\nand my judgment asserted its right to be heard, I gave my answer to the\nquestion and the answer was, \"Yes, I believe that He would.\"\n\nAnd then came the question, \"Won't you do it?\" This question\nprecipitated the fight of my life. I do not remember how long my friend\nwaited for my answer, but judging from the struggle in my mind, it must\nhave been a long time. What would it mean for me to answer this question\nin the affirmative? First, it would mean the sacrifice of my\nindependence; next, it would mean fellowship with a lot of so-called\nChristians, whose Christianity was not of a manly type; third, it would\nmean a step in the dark, and this seemed to me to be unreasonable. On\nthe other hand, it might mean the winning of something better than that\nwhich I called independence; it might also mean fellowship with the\nreally great characters of the Christian Church, and these men had\nalways appeared very attractive to me. With this last thought came the\nquestion, How did these men live the victorious life? and it was clear\nto me that they lived it by faith. Then came the thought, How did they\nbegin to have faith? and it seemed to me that this step in the dark,\nwhich I hesitated to take, was probably the very step by which these\ngreat men had passed from a life of unbelief to their victory of faith.\n\nThis last thought came as a revelation. It had always seemed to me that\nfaith was an experience of the emotions or a satisfying of the\nintellect, and that one might _obtain_ faith by the _initiative\nof the will_ was a new idea to me. If this was true, the step in the\ndark was not unreasonable but scientific and psychological. I was\ncertainly in the dark then. It could be no darker if I went forward in\nthe path to which my friend invited me. I decided therefore to take the\nstep and to pray for faith, hoping that in the process I should find a\nChristian experience. And so I answered, \"Yes, I'll do it.\"\n\nMy friend prayed with me and then I prayed, but all that I could say was\n\"Lord, show me the way.\" I was not conscious of any special interest, I\nhad simply willed to pray and wanted to believe. I had won the fight\nwith myself, however, to the extent of getting the consent of my will to\npray and to trust, but I realized that the battle with myself was only\nbegun and I knew also that I had another fight ahead of me, or a series\nof them, with the conditions that hemmed me in and seemed to make the\nChristian life impracticable.\n\nOne of these adverse conditions was my relations with the men in my\nboarding house. How could I go back and tell them that I had decided to\ndo the thing that I had ridiculed and scoffed at in their presence? Of\ncourse this was pure cowardice; I was afraid of their ridicule. But the\nbreak was made easier for me than I feared it would be. I found on\nentering the smoking room of the boarding house, that \"Uncle Dick Moss,\"\na rank spiritualist, had the floor. He was on his high horse and was\ncharging up and down the room in the midst of a bitter and blatant\nIngersollian tirade against Christianity and the Bible. The crowd was\ncheering him on. The day before, this probably would have amused me and\nI might have followed him, supporting his arguments, or rather\nassertions--there were no arguments.\n\nBut during the twelve hours that had just passed I had been facing\nrealities and Uncle Dick's exhibition disgusted me. So when he had\nquieted down, I decided that it was time for me to run up my colors. If\nthe break had to come, it had better come then. \"Uncle Dick,\" I said,\n\"you have been talking about something that you don't know anything\nabout. Here you are swallowing spiritualism, hook, bob and sinker, and\nhaving trouble with the Bible and the only religion that can do the\nbusiness that we need to have done. The trouble with you is that you are\nafraid that the Bible will upset your spiritualism, and you don't dare\nto investigate the Bible and stand by the result of your investigation.\nI'm tired of this whole business, and I have made up my mind to\ninvestigate the Bible and, if it is what I think it is, to try to live\nby it. I am going to be a Christian.\"\n\nA shout and a laugh went up. I was called \"Deacon,\" and it was suggested\nthat I lead in prayer or at least make a few remarks. But I had said\nenough to put myself on record and it was hardly to be expected that\nthey would take me seriously on such short notice. When it came time to\ngo to bed I felt that in order not to be misunderstood I must pray in\nthe presence of my roommate. He was a cynic and a nothingarian and I\nfelt sure that he would neither understand nor appreciate it. It was\nhard to bring it about, as he kept on talking in a way that seemed to\ngive me no opportunity to turn the subject naturally. I was tempted to\nlet it pass, but felt that, if I did, it would be fatal to my new-formed\npurpose. So finally, in almost an agony of awkwardness, I blurted out,\n\"Jim, I don't care what you think about it, I'm going to pray.\" Jim\nproved to be entirely mild and agreeable about it, however, and gave me\nhis blessing in a patronizing sort of a way. The next day I burned my\nbridges behind me by packing my trunk and going home.\n\nUp to this time I was conscious of nothing unusual. What things had\ntaken place I had done myself and it had been entirely within my own\noption and power to do or not to do them. I had received the testimony\nof at least four witnesses of the fact of conversion and the reality of\nthe Christian life; I had relaxed the opposition of my will and given my\njudgment a chance to act; I had taken advice from experience; I had\nprayed; I had turned my face toward the Christian life; I had cut loose\nfrom conditions unfriendly to Christian experience, and I was trying to\nbe a Christian. But I was still in the fog.\n\nFor the next three days I worked very hard trying to be a Christian. I\nattended a meeting each night, rose for prayer, prayed, did everything I\nwas told to do, and as much more as I could think of. The burden of my\nprayer and of my requests for prayer was that I might have faith. I\nwanted to get something that I thought every Christian had, or must have\nin order to be a Christian, and so far as I knew, I was willing to pay\nthe price. But nothing resulted, except the natural weariness from my\nown exertions. I was still in the fog.\n\nThe fifth day was \"Fast Day,\" a good old New England institution, with a\nprayer meeting in the morning, which I attended and at which I rose for\nprayer. In the afternoon was a union service, with a civic or\nsemi-religious topic, but I attended it, as I did not want anything to\nget by me that might contribute to the solution of my problem. There was\nscarcely anything about the service that was calculated to make a\nspiritual impression. The address was poor, as also was the music. I\ntried to follow the argument, but finally gave it up and began to think\nabout that which had been uppermost in my mind for the five days past.\nThe thing baffled me; the object of my quest had eluded my every effort\nto grasp it. The experience of the five days was new, but it contained\nnothing but that which could be accounted for by purely natural causes.\nI reviewed the whole period to see if I had left out any essential part\nof the formula. Was it possible that my skepticism had been well\nfounded, that there was nothing in the so-called \"Christian experience\"\nafter all? It was about four o'clock in the afternoon of the fifth day\nsince I had set my face toward the Christian life and I was still in the\nfog.\n\nBut I was weary with the effort, and as I thought it over, I said to\nmyself \"What are you trying to do?\" and the answer was, \"I am trying to\nbe a Christian.\" Then it dawned upon me that _trying_ was not\n_trusting_; that, if I succeeded in my effort, I should have only a\nself-made product and not the religion of the Bible and that it was\nunreasonable for me to expect the results of faith before exercising\nfaith itself. I was stumbling at the very simplicity of faith. I was\nworking to win what God was waiting to give, while my latent faculty of\nfaith, the greatest asset in personality, was lying worthless through\ndisuse. I thought of my experience on the ocean, when finally, helpless\nto help myself, I had left my whole problem with the Pilot and He had\ntaken command and brought us through to safety, and so I deliberately\ngave up the struggle and said to myself, \"It is right for me to serve\nGod and to live for Him, and I will do it whether I have what they call\nan 'experience' or not.\" And, having settled the question, I dismissed\nit and waited for instructions.\n\n[Illustration: It Came as Quietly as the Daylight Comes When the Night\nis Done]\n\nAnd then something happened, for, from without, surprising me with its\npresence, like the discovery of a welcome but unexpected guest, there\ncame into my life a deep, great, overflowing peace. I had never known it\nbefore, and therefore I could not by any possibility have imagined it;\nbut, I recognized it as something from God. It was not sensational, it\ncame quietly; as quietly \"as the daylight comes when the night is done.\"\nIt was not emotional, unless it was in itself an emotion. But emotions\nare transient and this had come to stay.\n\nWith the peace, there came also something that seemed to be a\nreinforcement of my life principle, an achieving power, a disposition to\ndare and an ability to do that which hitherto had seemed impossible; and\nthe petty pessimism of the past gave way before this new consciousness.\n\nWith this deep incoming tide of peace and power came a clearing of the\nmental atmosphere, and I saw that the fog had lifted. When I saw this, I\nsaid to myself quietly, \"I think I am a Christian,\" and almost\nimmediately added, \"I am a Christian!\"\n\nThe fog had passed, and the drifting was over; I had come within sight\nof land. What land it was I did not then know, but it proved to be a new\nworld. How great it is I do not yet fully understand, but I have been\nexploring it thirty years and I think it is a continent.","title":"Out of the Fog: A Story of the Sea","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":10457}