A Blast From The Past: Literature of Ocean Grove

 Welcome back to the book of Historical Secrets. Lately, I have been reading numerous volumes of historical fiction that are set in Ocean Grove, the work of Gayle Aanensen in particular. Gayle's books have inspired me to share with you a serial story which was written in 1875 and is entitled, “Jesus by the Sea”. This serial story spans seven issues of the Ocean Grove Record, from the July 17th 1875 issue to the August 18th issue of the same year. I have consolidated the story into one post and have added pictures from the time period to enhance your reading experience. In connection with this story, in the July 17th 1875 issue of the Ocean Grove Record, the following appears

“—Greatly to our surprise and pleasure. We found on looking over that excellent Christian and family paper, The Baptist Union, a serial story descriptive of life and experience at Ocean Grove, written by one whose hand appears to be familiar with pen or pencil—Miss M. E. Winslow. It is entitled “Jesus by the Sea. ” We take the liberty to reproduce it in the Record and give chapter one in this number with “more and more to follow.” - Our readers, we think, will give it their most appreciative attention.”

This story, written as ordinary fiction in its day, has overtime become historical fiction. It gives insight on summer life in Ocean Grove in the early 1870’s, as well as teaching you the basics of “The doctrine of entire sanctification” or Doctrine of Christian Holiness in a interesting way. The Doctrine of Christian Holiness played a significant role in Ocean Grove’s early years and the promotion of this doctrine was one of the reasons for its founding. Hence, the signs that adorn the interior of Ocean Grove’s 1894 Great Auditorium, which read “HOLINESS TO THE LORD” “SO BE YE HOLY”. Without any further introduction I give you this Intriguing story of life in 1870’s Ocean Grove. 

CHAPTER 1.

A DIARY!   I never kept one before. Can I do it now? I always despised diaries and the people who kept them. Those I have read always seem so stiff and pharisaical-confessions of sin which the writers never could have felt, clothed, in words copied from some one else, and looked upon as the proper way in which to express such highly proper emotions; aspirations after an intangible something which, if reached, would utterly unfit one for life and its duties, and to me would seem like a dreary state of waiting to die. These seem to be the chief things with which people fill up the diary parts of those memoirs which my Sunday-school teacher used to urge me to read, and which, to please her, I sometimes endeavored to get through. I never could feel that way if I tried, and I don’t think I want to try. Life is very fresh at twenty, the sun shines as brightly over all the coming years as it does this morning across the blue waters and foaming breakers of this broad Atlantic which I am looking at for the first time. It is scarcely more than sunrise. Shall I sit down on the sand and spend all the golden day hours in longing for the night? Yonder rushes a steamer followed by its long trail-of gray smoke; if I were one of its passengers would I do well to waste the passage days in lamentations and fears concerning the actual and possible dangers of the way, or in rhetorically-expressed anticipations of the end of the journey? “God has given us-all things richly to enjoy." I must stop by the way and enjoy them. He has given me so much, I could not begin to “count up my mercies.” Such a nice home and kind friends, such a healthy body, such a gay, glad heart; I ought to be the embodiment of sunshine, if I but reflect back half that falls upon my path. No! I could never feel as the people who keep the diaries do. Then, too, I don’t think they can be true; for how can one write down one’s innermost' feelings, leaving them for the chance perusal of other people’s eyes? I should get to be as self-conscious and self-righteous as a Pharisee; I should always be thinking how such and such a sentence would look in print after I was dead, and how people would judge of my saintship by the humility of my expression. No! I cannot keep a spiritual diary; and yet, when I kissed my poor, pale mother’s gentle face, and she begged me “Keep a record of all you see and learn at Ocean Grove, Gracie, to chore some of my lonely hours when you come back,” I resolved to do it for her sake. Poor mother, how patient she is! Just to think of lying ten long years on a sofa, or bed, at times unable either to read or work, susceptible to the slightest noise, and often suffering the most excruciating pain. And yet, I never remember to have heard her murmur; I cannot recall the slightest expression of impatience that ever crossed her lips. I wonder what her secret is? I have sometimes thought I would like to ask her, but one is somehow always, afraid to speak of these inner things to one’s nearest and most familiar friends, and least of all, is it possible to do so to one’s own mother. I never found it difficult to speak of Jesus to my Sunday-school class, but my tongue would cleave to the roof of my mouth if I tried to say the same things to my brothers and sisters. Well, for mother’s sake I will try and keep a little account of all that occurs in the daily life of this strange place to which she urged me to come. I wonder why, and I wonder what she meant by saying, “Keep your heart wide open, daughter, to the influences of that blessed place; and may the good Spirit of the Lord enable you indeed to find Jesus by the Sea,” Find Jesus! Was not that the way we worded it years ago when I attended those “children’s meetings,” and, as I humbly hoped, gave my heart to my Savior? Have I not been a member of the church ever since I Was- twelve years old, taught in the Sunday-school, visited the poor, and, as they say, been a “shining light” to the young people generally? I wonder what mother meant? I wonder if her secret lies hidden in her meaning? How many “wonders” there are every day and hour of our lives? 

CHAPTER 2.
THE CITY BY THE SEA.

   It is almost sunset, and I have had time to walk all about and view this fairy “city by the sea,” and to get settled, so that I feel at home in my unaccustomed quarters. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, and I, have taken possession of one of these snowy-white tents, a large one with two rooms, the innermost of which is sacred to me. I have a pretty white bed, and a dressing-table whose mirror is draped in a bridal veil of fleecy lace. A barrel draped in the same way serves for a wash-stand, and a Writing table, on which lies my portfolio, portable inkstand, Bible, and a small vase of flowers, with a bright camp-chair, completes my furniture, except, indeed, my big Saratoga trunk which, covered with a large blanket shawl, serves for a bureau, wardrobe, sofa, or side table, as the case my be. That silver vase has a history attached to it. Last Christmas I had a Philopena with Edgar Lawton I won, of course, and New Year’s morning he brought this vase to me, saying, ‘‘ If I could put into it all my good wishes for your coming year, Miss Grace, it would be full and running over, even with such intangible contents.” He has generally kept it filled with flowers ever since, and the bouquet, which is half withered in it now, he handed me just as I was leaving the wharf yesterday afternoon. Aunt Prudence said that I must not take expensive presents from gentlemen, and I promised her that I never would do so again, flowers of course, are offerings which any one may receive. Why did I bring the vase down here? I don’t exactly know only it is so pleasant to have in sight some reminder of those whom one esteems and I do esteem Edgar Lawton very much. He is so uncommonly truthful and honorable, even in little things and so gentlemanly, and so careful of every one’s feelings, so thoughtful of their interests, always taking the care and responsibility of everything upon himself; I think I like him the best of all my brother’s friends. But this it not describing Ocean Grove for mother’s benefit, as I promised to do. The drive last night from Long Branch station, where we left the cars, was very interesting, because quite new. First, there was the crowded city of hotels, with gay carriages dashing about, or rolling lazily along, in order to display the shining trappings of the horses and the rich dresses of the lady inside. The hotels are very grand, and the smoothly shaven lawns, with the beautiful hanging baskets which decorate all the piazzas, give a summer-like aspect even to that barren, sandy spot. And then, the surf rolling grandly up in front—but I will have to devote a whole chapter of my jottings to describe that some day, and then I cannot write half of what is in my mind. There is said to be a great deal of drinking, gambling, and other wickedness carried on at these hotels, and a gentleman in the stage with us said, “Ocean Grove might be like heaven but one had to go through the world, the flesh, and the devil,’ in order to reach it." What a pity that the beautiful things always have evil folded up in them somewhere. For myself, I don’t see why the people make such a fuss about the “world;” I like to see, and would like to have all the pretty things which seem to make up all what is called “the world.”

Tent Life

    After leaving the hotels, we drove past long rows of villas, tastefully and fancifully built, including General Grant’s summer residence, where, we had a glimpse of the President himself, seated on his veranda. Then, after a long drive of several miles, we entered rather a desolate wood, called Asbury Park, and just at sunset we emerged from that into fairy land. A sudden turn brought us on to a bridge which crosses the upper end of Wesley Lake, half a mile long, with several little green islets dotting its clear surface, on which many boats, some of them rowed by young girls, glided up and down, crossed and recrossed to the velvet-turfed shores.

General Grant’s summer residence

President Grant & family

    The scene impressed me strangely. It, was all different from every-day life. I thought of the description of Venice at twilight. But there are no palaces along these shores; a hard, macademized boulevard runs close to the water, and upon it are built fairy-like cottages of every conceivable form. We drove through the Grove of Which, so near nightfall, I could form no very clear idea, and were landed “bag and baggage,” no, the bag without the baggage, for my trunk, confided to the care of some careless expressman, did not reach me for two days, and left my young lady toilet in a very forlorn condition. At the entrance to our snowy tent, where, after a beautiful supper, provided for us by Mrs. Read, who lives in a cottage across the way, and with whom we are to take all our meals, we retired for our first night’s experience of tent life. I dreamed that I was a nomad, wandering with Abraham over the as yet, unpossessed plains of Canaan, following the cloudy pillar by day and the fiery glory by night, with the Israelites; or tabernacling with the chosen nation, which held its chief festival of rejoicing beneath the shadows of leafy bowers. As I awoke, from time to time, the regular booming of the ocean swell seemed an awful and yet soothing lullaby, and spoke of those who are "rocked in the cradle of the deep.”

Wesley Lake

CHAPTER 3.
THE VOICE OF MANY WATERS.

   Ocean Grove is a tract comprising about half a square mile, bounded by Fletcher and Wesley lakes on two sides, and by the ocean on the third. Part of it is, as its name indicates, a grove of oaks and pines of a sturdy nature and diminutive size which such trees usually exhibit close to the salt water. Under these cluster the hundreds of tents around the preaching place, or “stand,” which is merely a wooden platform, with a shelter and seats for about fifty speakers in front of long rows of seats where an audience of five thousand may be accommodated and sheltered from the sun’s rays by a roof of interlaced hemlock branches, which are renewed from time to time. There is also a great circular tent for extra meetings, and for holding services in rainy weather, said to seat at least a thousand people. The space between the grove and the ocean is laid out in regular streets and squares, and already thickly built up with tiny cottages, differing very much in style, but all pretty, and all resembling each other in the folding-doors which stand open most of the time, and show the tastefully-arranged interiors, and the occupants at their various occupations. There are stores, and telegraph, and post offices, stages enter the settlement three and four times a day, blowing their post-horns after the fashion of the now almost forgotten days of staging, butchers’, bakers’, ice-carts, milk and ice-cream men, and fruit boys circulate constantly around the encampment, and all is bustle and activity in this city by the sea. But the sea itself is a great charm for me, and I can sit for hours watching, with fascinated gaze, the constantly recurring and yet ever new play of the waves. They say wonderful things to me, and if I were a poet I might possibly express some of the deep thoughts that now almost suffocate me with their crowding. In the morning the sun dances on the waves, and suggests the many barks that float lightly upon its waters. I seem to see coral islands, in the sunny southern seas, and to feel the breath of spicy breezes upon my cheek; anchors are lifted, cordage unloosed, freight packed into holds of vessels—all outward bound, like my life. At noon, when the sands are burning, and one longs for shelter, thoughts come of the hard work of life, of men toiling in rowing, of tedious watches, doubtful results, and anxious cares. When the afternoon shadows slant across the waves, I seem to see rolling coasts, velvet with turf, where, under the shadow of overhanging trees, silver-haired men and placid women wait for the ships to come in, which are bringing back the returns of all the precious ventures of their lives. I wonder what freight my inward-bound vessels will contain! But sometimes we have a stormy day, even at Ocean Grove, and then, with water-proof tightly wrapped about me, I stand watching with straining eyes while one wave devours another, and the sand and pebbles of the beach are scooped out and carried with a mighty roar far into the bosom of the terrible sea. Then I hear, mingled with the roar of the tempest, the shrieks of the despairing and the lost, as they sink in the darkness and the black waters close above their doomed heads, and such a shuddering horror seizes me, that I could wish the treacherous monster were annihilated, and the day come when “there shall be no more sea,” did not I remember that the Bible says, “He holdeth the waters in the hollow of his hand, and he saith to the destroying element, Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.”

The View at Ocean Grove Beach

Preaching Place

    But I like best to sit on the shore by moonlight, especially when the ocean is as still as it was last night. I cannot but think then of Jesus by the shore and on the waters of Gennesaret, and sometimes I wish that I knew more of his personal presence and love. I think I would like to see him and talk with him—but he seems so far off and unreal, that I only think of him as sleeping in that grave where they laid him so long ago. I wonder if mother would call the realization of these aspirations, Finding Jesus by the Sea! 

   They say that when the gentleman who originated the idea of Ocean Grove rowed along the shore in search of a suitable location, they landed just where I am sitting, and, falling upon their knees, consecrated the spot to the service of God by faith, when as yet, they had not a foot of land in their possession, and that the first erection Was that of the flag-pole, from which now floats above my head the glorious stars and stripes, and above them, as if to show God’s dominion above all earthly nationalities, a milk white pennon on which is inscribed in golden letters, “Holiness to the Lord.” 

Ocean Pathway Looking East

1873 Plan of the Ocean Grove Camp Ground

CHAPTER 4.
THE SOLEMN WARNING.

   We had a terrible experience of the power of the sea this morning. Bathing in the surf is the chief amusement of the place, and, at proper times of the tide, the beach is a gay sight, with the motley crowd in their parti-colored bathing dresses, and the other crowd of idle lookers-on. I was among the bathers, and although the surf was uncommonly high, and the undertow proportionally strong, secure in the protection of the rope and the care of the bathing-master, I was enjoying it immensely when a sudden shriek met my ear, echoed by cries of horror from all both in and out of water. Some one had sunk, and in a few moments the strong arm of a brave swimmer laid an apparently lifeless body upon the shore. Such a sweet pale face; a boy of perhaps seventeen, about the height and general size of our home Willie. His father and mother both stood beside him, in awful agony, and yet still. “Can nothing be done to save him?” “Nothing,” said a doctor present, “he is dead already.” “ Let me try,” said a tall, pleasant-faced lady, “ I am a regular physician, perhaps I may be of some use.” The crowd silently parted and, as the doctor turned contemptuously away, still in her wet bathing suit, over which some one had hastily thrown a waterproof, the noble lady worked upon the prostrate form of the young man till, by the judicious application of an electric battery which she had the wisdom to apply, at the close of two hours some returning consciousness gave rise to a glad shout of “Thank God," and the mother fainted on the spot. 

Ocean Grove Beach

   The whole encampment is ringing to-night with the heroism and skill of the lady physician, who is quite ill in consequence of her exposure, and With rejoicings at the saved life. How I would like to be the heroine of such a story; how proud I would be to have my friends hear of it. But that is not the thought that is pressing upon me now. If it had been really death, and if it had been I—am I ready? I so full of plans for this life, so little interested in the realities of another! Am I pure in heart as those must be who shall see God? Could I say, “Thy will be done,” if He should call me thus suddenly away from life, home, and friends? No; I could not, I am not fit to die, I do not want to; and yet, yet—it might have been. It may be tomorrow. I am a Christian, too, at least I hope so; how can any one know? If I were a Christian, would I not take more interest in prayer, in reading the Bible, in meetings?

   There is a sort of convention in progress here, “for the promotion of holiness,” and there is a prayer-meeting to-night; suppose I go. I feel more like it than to sit and listen to that terrible surf. My brothers would laugh at me, and say these people were all fanatics, and that the churches provided sufficient means of grace for all who would use them aright; but they need not know about it, and I think mother would be pleased. Could it be to meetings like this she had reference to when she bade me keep my heart open to all the good influence of the sacred spot?

   I went to the prayer-meeting. I have retired to my tent, but I cannot sleep. If what those people say is true, I have never known anything of the power of religion at all. They pray as if they stood face to face with the Lord; they speak of personal revelations of his presence, they tell of constantly flowing joy which is unspeakable and full of glory, and days, months, and years in which they receive the fulfilment of the petition in the Te Deurn, “ Vouchsafe to keep us this day without sin.” If I could feel as they say they do I would not care if the waves closed over me tomorrow, for what would it be to leave the brightest earthly prospect, if a certain heaven and a personally known and loved Christ awaited a cleansed heart on the other side of death’s river? But I don’t feel so, and I can’t. O Lord! to whom I have so often prayed formally, I come to thee in earnest now. Show me the way. If there be more in religion than I have yet known, give it to me, at any risk, at any sacrifice I ask to be brought “ nearer to thee,” I tremble as I read over that prayer, for it may mean so much, but it is written, and I dare not recall it if I would,

CHAPTER 5.
FLEEING TO HIS ALTARS.

   OCEAN GROVE is rapidly filling up. The hotels of which there are a number, are overflowing, and every cottage which has a spare bed, or half a one, has opened its hospitable doors to accommodate the crowd. It is surprising how Contented people are with such small accommodations; how they will crowd into rooms in which they can scarcely turn round, and dress where the temperature keeps them in a steam-bath during the process. But then, everybody here is good-natured; I have not heard an oath since I have been on the ground; the store-keepers carry on the trade as if it was benevolence; the waiters smile as they hand you plates and cups of coffee; the stage-drivers help you up into their elevated vehicles with an expression which seems to assure you that you are conferring upon them a personal favor; in fact peace and good will are the reigning law of the land. Harry Haven came down Friday and stayed two days. We had a grand time together, going in the woods for ferns, and rowing on the lake. Harry is a very nice fellow; I have known him all my life, and feel as much at home with him as I do with my own brothers. It is astonishing how I can rattle on with him by the hour, whereas with Edgar I can scarcely find anything to say. With Harry I am perfectly at home, and it was very pleasant to have some one to whom you could talk of home, and old times and associations. Harry and Edgar Lawton are great friends, and Herry told me of many noble traits and generous, actions which had come under his own observation. It is generous in Harry, for he has been through deep waters. I know all about it, for his aunt who lives here told me the other day; but his troubles do not seem to have embittered him, and his smile is as peaceful as mothers own. I think he must have learned her secret.

Lawrence House 1870's

   We went together to the beach-meeting at sunset, on Sunday. It was a grand sight to see so many people together, seven or eight thousand, grouped in various attitudes upon the shelving shore, which is almost a sand cliff at this particular spot. The singing was particularly grand, arising from such, a body of voices, and accompanied by the organ swell of the surf. Harry and I stood near to the water, and Suddenly we saw a whole school of fish cast up by the waves upon the shore. It was the most beautiful sight I ever saw. Their bodies were rainbow-colored, and looked as if they were transparent. There were millions of them, as they rose on the crest of a foaming breaker and then fell in a curving line upon the beach, the effect was indescribable. "What makes them come so close to the shore? I whispered to Harry. ‘‘They were trying to escape from some larger fishes, possibly sharks,” answered he, “and, as all the persecuted things of earth should do, fleeing to the church of God for shelter.”

Beach Meeting Looking West

Beach Meeting Looking Northeast

    Harry has gone this morning, and I feel lonely and restless—not lonely for Harry, but he seems somehow to be a link with home and those whom I love there. I don’t know exactly what it is that makes me feel so restless; perhaps it is the meetings, for I can’t keep away; though I resolve again and again that I will do so. There is something very soothing in sitting under the trees, with cool breezes playing around you, listening to the sweet hymns, and to the wonderfully beautiful things which are said. And yet, I am more and more dissatisfied. For I see that God commands us to be holy, and I know that I am not. It seems to be but a half salvation which offers us forgiveness of sins and a future entrance into heaven, but leaves us to struggle with temptation and be overcome by it day after day in the meantime, and this when the word of God expressly states that Jesus is “able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him.” Why do we not have Complete victory, then? I do not, for I am overcome by the same temptation again and again. I cannot keep my thoughts where I know they ought to be; I cannot make spiritual things seem real. They say the way to reach this state of “full salvation” is by consecrating one’s whole self—body, soul, and spirit—to the Lord, to be, to do, or to have according to his sovereign will, and then to believe that he does supply all our needs, and will keep us moment by moment unto the end. According to this, no one need sin, no one be anxious, but, casting all our care upon him be kept “in perfect peace.” It is a beautiful theory, but I cannot find it true, and I would be glad to disbelieve it; but how Can I, when the Word of God itself says, “Faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness?”

CHAPTER 6.
DESOLATION.

   I am sitting on the broad platform which surrounds the post-office, and where it is the fashion to come and wait for the mail. The sea breeze sweeps refreshingly up the broad Ocean Avenue, and while I wait I will write a few words in my diary. I wish I could talk over my perplexities with my friend Edgar. I wonder how he would feel about this view of the Christian life, and if he should repudiate it, as I am afraid he would, should I be strong enough to press onward in the face of his disapprobation? No; I am sure I would not, and I could not give up the things he likes, the theatres and parties to which he has so often taken me. I suppose, then, I am not consecrated, entirely consecrated, as they say here, and if not, then I can claim nothing of the Lord, for he asks for my heart, all or nothing, and I cannot give it. And yet, I am not as wretched as I ought so be. Why not? I am waiting for the mail; what do I expect? Ah! there are possibilities of joy in life after all; does the Lord call upon me to renounce them? Can he, and yet be love, as they say he is? No, I cannot give my whole heart, and yet I dare to say, for something within constrains, I cannot help it. Lord take, take what thou wilt since thou hast a right to all.

Post Office

   Two letters! Only two little sheets of paper, and yet, what desolation they have wrought in my life. Darkness has settled upon me, darkness which no sunshine can ever again penetrate. Life is over for me, and like the people who keep the diaries, I shall spend the rest of my years waiting to die. The years, how many will they be, for I am only twenty. Think of forty or fifty years, each with 365 days in it, to be lived over and over, with no object and no interest. It all came about through those two hateful letters. I took them from the post-office and, giving a little dissapointed glance at the hand-writings in which they were directed, carried them down to the beach to read. It was well I did so, for I would not have been in human society when I opened those letters, for the world. The first was from my girl friend Elsie. What should she write to me for; what could she have to say? I never liked her very much, though I wanted to be kind to her, but after what I saw of her during our journey, I never want to be intimate again. I read but a few words of her letter, but they were more than enough. "Rejoice with me, I am engaged to be married to Mr. Lawton!” Mr. Lawton! My Edgar, for whom but now I would have sacrificed my convictions of duty, my peace of mind. It could not be. I was sure it must be some ghastly joke, and with trembling fingers I tore open the other enclosure which contained many closely-written pages in my brother’s familiar hand. The first sentence was full confirmation of the terrible news. “Mr. Lawton desires me to inform you of his engagement!” and then he broke down into expressions of regret and disappointment, telling me of how he had spoken to his friend of the hope he had so long cherished of calling him a brother. And it seems it is all a mistake—or a conspiracy—Edgar was informed by an intimate friend of mine, one who had every means of knowing—who could it be but Elsie?—of my engagement with some one else. He had cared, had hoped differently, but his honor is pledged now, he must forget me now as soon as he can.

The Beach

   And I! can I forget? Can life be anything to me again? That girl! My “intimate friend.” I hate her, I hate life, I hate everybody, I have—dare I say I hate God? No, but I do not love him. He could have arranged it all so differently. Talk of overruling providence —there is nothing but blind law, like that which bids the tides rise and fall in regular succession, which sweeps the tempest onward with no reference to the human hopes that are destroyed in its path. Yes! this great ocean is the true type of God—awful, stern, resistless, without pity or remorse, rolling over the engulfed  wrecks of life, the same yesterday, the same to-day, and forever, and bearing no traces of the desolation below. I wonder if I might lie down on this smooth sand, and let the coming tide wash me away from my misery forever. No! I dare not. There is something beyond, and for that something I am not ready.   

CHAPTER 7.
A MINISTERING ANGEL.

   The summer wears on slowly, oh, so slowly. There is nothing to mark its progress to me, save my own hopeless wretchedness. I dare not go home, for then I should meet I cannot bear to name them. To think of Edgar tied for life to that girl; I could bear it if only myself were to suffer, but he! I cannot, I will not be resigned. Then, too, if I were to go home I should have to tell mother all about it. Dear mother! I think, sometimes, it would be some comfort if I could feel the pressure of her arms, and have her say, “Daughter, I am sorry for you;" but I ought not to add one shadow to her suffering life, at least not yet, not till I am able to bear it better. So I linger at Ocean Grove, and Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence are very kind in putting up with all my moodiness, and never asking what is the matter. The Convention closed long ago, but many people still remain—happy, careless people, girls boating, and bathing, and playing croquet in their broad, fantastic hats, young lovers walking by moonlight on the beach, happy mothers watching their children’s play among the sea weeds or the pines. It is all life; but what have I to do with it, I who am dead, heart-dead already? Is there not a verse like that in the Bible which I used to read in the days when I believed anything? “Ye are dead, and,” yes but the rest does not apply to me, ‘‘your life is hid with Christ in God.” I have no life to be hid anywhere. There are meetings held, too, five o'clock morning prayer-meetings, when the hymns float sweetly into the door of my tent as I lie there broad awake, thinking of desolation. A flourishing Sunday-school is held in the great tent every Sunday afternoon, and if I were the living Gracie I used to be, it would be a great pleasure to teach some of the bright-eyed little ones gathered there. There are also regular Sunday services conducted by different ministers who happen to be here. I wonder if I shall ever listen to a sermon without remembering how Mr. Lawton and I used to go to church together. Sometimes the memory of that prayer of mine, just before I received the letters, comes up to me, “Take what thou wilt, for I cannot give,” and that other, “At any risk, at any sacrifice, I ask to be brought nearer to thee!” Does God ever take us at our word, when we know not what we ask for? Can it be that he has taken my happiness, my life? Is this the sacrifice demanded? or does he answer prayer at all? Has he any concern with human affairs? 

Boats on Wesley Lake

   I was wandering listlessly about this afternoon, when I came by a smaller tent which was used during the Convention for prayer-meetings. It was full of people who seemed to be carrying on a sort of Bible-class. I entered without any very definite motive, and took a seat near the door, just as a very elegant, cheerful-looking man of perhaps forty arose, and told how he was kept by the power of God in constant peace, how his temper was held in complete control, and how he lived in perpetual sunshine. There was such an absence of cant, such a seeming reality in what he said, that, for one moment, I seemed to catch a glimpse of what I needed to bring back the brightness into my colorless life, and by an irresistible impulse, which I could not account for, I said, as we were leaving the tent, “ I would give the world to feel as you do.” “Have you tried,” said he, “ do you know anything of Jesus?” “ Yes,” I whispered. “And found him fail? that is impossible.”

   Then he walked along with me, and invited me to sit down on the empty stand; and there, during two hours which I shall never forget he drew from me my sad story and told me his, not egotistically, but in a way that was calculated to help me. He is judge of the supreme court of one of the Western States, but gave up his prospects of election to the United States Senate because, as he said, "a consecrated man could not be a successful politician.” He had, during the past two years, been called to lay two bright-haired little ones in the grave. That strange disease called "writer’s paralysis” had rendered his hands powerless, and was beginning to invade the muscles of his throat, so that his one great talent for music could never, henceforth, be put into execution; and yet, for the four years which have passed since he gave up everything into the hands of the Lord, and entered into the “ rest of faith,” by full trust in Christ, he had never known an anxious or unhappy hour. I asked him many questions, and we talked over many points connected with the application of these principles to my position and to daily life, and the result was a firm conviction in my mind that there is a state where the will of God is so identified with our will, that in every dispensation, bright or dark, there can only be joyful acquiescence on our part, and so the continual abiding of “perfect peace.” “My little sister,” said the judge, rising at length, “ I can do nothing more for you, except to pray; but think, if your sad story has so won upon my sympathies and interest that I, a stranger to you till to-day, would gladly do anything in my power to help you, how must the dear Lord Jesus, who has watched you from infancy, who died to save you, who has fulfilled his covenanted promises to you ever since you first gave yourself to him, feel toward you as he now stands looking down upon you, knocking for re-admittance to your heart! Will you let him in? If I had lost sight of my Savior, I would never rise from my knees till I found him again.” 

   The judge was gone, but in his place there stood, or seemed to stand, a pale, thorn-crowned face gazing at me with such eyes of reproachful yearning that I could not bear it, and exclaimed almost against my will: “I solemnly resolve to seek and find Jesus by the sea!"

Behold The Man

CHAPTER 8.
THE REST OF FAITH.

   It is one thing to resolve, it is another to carry out one’s resolution; it is one thing to know how we ought to feel spiritually, and quite a different one to feel so; for here we lie helpless before the sovereign will and grace of God. Yet since, as I humbly hope, the dear compassionate, and all-powerful Lord has been pleased to bring even my wayward spirit into complete submission, my torn, desolate heart into. “perfect peace,” I think, as a witness for his glory. I ought to record the way by which “he led me and I followed on.”

   The night after that conversation with Judge Bond, was a sleepless one for me. It is weeks since I have really prayed. That hour of desolation found me unconsecrated to God, and sorrow but drove me farther and farther from him till, had any one asked me if I believed in a God, I should have said “No, except as a resistless force, which had ground me, with many another poor victim beneath its despotic heel.” But the vision of that reproachful face melted me, and I yearned to know the Saviour whom once I knew, again. But through those long, dark hours, there went up to heaven as accompaniment to the ceaseless roar of the troubled ocean, the cry of my heart, “Lord send upon me an outpouring of thy Holy Spirit.” The next day I could do nothing else, even my own sorrow faded out of my mind, as I seemed to be held face to face with my own sinful heart and life. I saw what I might now have been if from the first moment of my conversion I had lived up to all the privileges which God had strewed around my path. I saw that self had been in everything my first object, even the religion of which I had thought I had so much was merely a more subtle way of gratifying myself. I had never looked forward to life as a means of glorifying God, but solely of being personally and selfishly happy. I had yielded to the tempter wherever he had chosen to attack me. I had made friends with the Lord’s enemies, and now stood opposed in every respect to that Divine image which it should be my life-work to reproduce. Even my occasional spasmodic struggles against sin, and efforts after holiness had always resulted in failure, and this in the very face of such abundant provision for success as only the mind of omnipotence could originate. And, worst of all, my will was not in any sense identical with God’s will. I could not, I did not think I ever should be able to say concerning Edgar’s engagement, “ Not my will but thine.” It was a terrible picture which I was forced to gaze upon so steadily during the hours of that summer day, till all of its black lines and shadows were stereotyped upon my memory. What must it be in sight of a holy God, “of purer eyes than to behold iniquity.” The thought would have been overpowering, had not the other thought of that loving Savior looking at it with me in pity and compassion, lightened its weight.

   At night there was a prayer-meeting, a Methodist prayer-meeting in the great tent, and I went, though, the August storm was upon us, almost submerging the Grove, and beating against the tents in terrible fury. An invitation was given for all who were “not satisfied with their experience” to come forward and kneel before the front bench for prayer; I was not satisfied, but could I do that? I, belonging to the proper aristocratic church of—,  I kneel at a Methodist altar? And yet, an inner voice seemed to be calling me, and I had solemnly pledged myself to obedience to any leadings which might end in finding Jesus. It was a great struggle; what would my friends, what would elegant, polished, fastidious Edgar Lawton say? No! there was where I had failed before; this bond must be broken, all must be given up to a God who will have all or nothing. So I rose, as it seemed to me, the focus of all eyes, walked up the aisle and, falling upon my knees, buried my face in my hands.

The Great Tent

   When I returned to my tent, I threw myself in utter prostration of spirit at the foot of the cross, resolved never to rise till I had found the living Christ. I poured out there all my sins and all my sorrows, deliberately consecrated my whole self to be his forever, for position for service, or for suffering, and accepted his will as henceforth my sole authority, my only rule of conduct and life. Then I as deliberately took Jesus to be my “wisdom, sanctification, and redemption,” my comforter, my guide, my friend, my husband, my “all in all;" and my heart swelled to overflowing as memory brought up the multitudes of aspects fitted to every human need, in which the Lord is presented in his holy Word. And then, with an emptied heart, I quietly waited for him to come and fill it. All at once there came to me the familiar words, “Whatsoever things ye ask in prayer believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them;" and I believed that I had the all for which I had been praying. 

   It was dawn when I arose, but I wanted neither sleep nor breakfast. There are times when, like our Master, we have "'meat to eat that the world knows not of.” I am sitting on the beach, waiting for the golden sunrise which already begins to redden the waters: They are glassy and still now, hushed after yesterday's storm, and over my soul, also, there has come a great calm. Thank God for the storm, thank him for discipline, thank him for the thorny path that led to this shelter of rest, and thank him most of all that I am wholly his, and he is all mine, forevermore. 

CHAPTER 9.
JOY UNSPEAKABLE.

   This is the last hour of my stay in the city of the saints, the tented city by the sea. What mingled memories of these six weeks shall I carry into all my future life! I did not mean that mother should see this record of desolation, strife, and sin, but I think she will be glad to read of the dawn of the perfect day, and how I have learned her secret; and so I will add one more chapter, while waiting for the stage to bear me away, and then submit the whole to her dear eyes of wise and pitying-love.

   It is two weeks since I first sat, in the possession of the perfect peace which passeth all understanding, that morning by the sea. Two weeks of such hours as I never knew before, as I supposed could not be passed upon earth. The sun, which was then dawning, has arisen upon me in unclouded splendor; what was then naked faith is now realized manifestation, love and joy from the atmosphere which I perpetually breathe, and mother would be quite satisfied could she understand how gloriously I have found and walked with Jesus by the sea. He, himself has comforted my sorrowful heart, has filled my loneliness with his blessed presence, and has turned the bitter waters of bereavement and disappointment into constantly-flowing streams of love and good will. I have quite forgiven Elsie; what have I to forgive? She was but the unconscious instrument of leading me to that fountain whose waters are inexhaustible. I only pray that one day she may know such happiness as mine, and may make Edgar infinitely happier than in my selfishness I could have done. Some day, perhaps not till we get to the land where misunderstandings are no more, I shall tell him how I once loved, no! how I still love him, and how I thank God for giving me so costly an offering to lay at those self-sacrificed feet. My heart is full of glad thanksgivings and joy like a child in the sunrises and sunsets, the ocean surges, and the evening breezes. I fear not the future, for, though I must face temptation as I go down from this mount of transfiguration, I see “ Jesus only,” and trusting fully in him, I am perfectly safe. The years do not look long now, for he has promised never to leave nor forsake me, and they will be all too short for the work which I am burning to do for him. I have learned to work during these two weeks. There has been a camp-meeting held in the Grove, and God has strengthened me wonderfully to speak and testify for him. Children, and those longing and seeking for rest as I once was, have come to me, and I have been enabled to speak words in season which, by his blessing,  have filled hearts with joy, to sow precious seed which, I hope, will one day bring forth fruit thirty, sixty, a hundred fold.

   When the camp was quiet last night, I Went out in the Grove and knelt alone in the moonlight beneath the canopy of trees, and there, where every leaf rustled the echo of a prayer, where the Spirit's influences seemed ever hovering like a Shekinah cloud of glory. I once more gave myself away to Christ whom I so passionately adore, to be his loving child and obedient servant forevermore. What he whispered to me in those still hours I might not, if I could, translate into human language, but I go forth to-day indissolubly bound to him in a union which neither life nor death, things present nor things to come, shall ever be able to break. 

   The last picture of Ocean Grove which I shall retain is the sweetest. We gathered once more upon the beach for a surf-meeting, at sunset, last night. The Sabbath hush was upon everything and the  crimson light was reflected upon the sea. But not now as an artistic observer was I there among the worshipers. I, too, was one of them this God was my God and I no more "a stranger and foreigner, but a fellow citizen of the household of faith.’’ My friend the judge, my angel l call him—for "are they not all ministering spirits sent to minister to them who shall be heirs of salvation?"—led the meeting reading passage after passage which told of what Jesus did when in human form, he walked by the sea. At that moment a steamer passed so close to the shore that we could see the passengers on her deck. She saluted our gathering with her steam whistle, and we, in return, sent up a glorious volume of sound in the strains of old "Coronation.” I looked at the ensign of the Lord Jehovah floating above my head, the great congregation it overshadows, and the steamer passing swiftly along, and thought: So will it be when the homeward-bound ships bear us one after another, across the ocean to the great assembly and church of the first-born which are awaiting, us on its shores. We shall salute it with glad acclamations, but its answer will be not so much, “Hail brother, welcome, sister, ”but.“ Crown him Lord of all.’’ There Will be one great difference, however, for those ships will not pass by. 

THE END.

Ocean Grove The City By The Sea

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did. Please leave a comment telling what you thought of this story, as well as share this post if you enjoyed reading it.
 Until next time, Justin Truth.