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The Golden Age
(SUCCESSOR TO RELIGIOUS FORUN)
Published Ebery Thursday by the Golden 91 ge Publishing
Company (Inc.)
OFFICES: LOWNDES “BUILDING, ATLANTA, GA.
Price: $2.00 a Year
WILLIAM D. UPSHAW, - - - - Editor
A. E. RAMSAUR, . . . Associate Editor
E. UPSHA W, - - - - "Business Manager
H. R. "BERNARD, - - - Sec’y and Treas.
Application made at the Post Office in Atlanta, Ga., to be entered
as second-class matter.
To the Puhl.'c: The advertising columns of The
Golden Age will have an editorial conscience. No
advertisement will be accepted which we believe
would be hurtful to either the person or the purse of
our readers.
“An Army With Banners.”
It was the wonder of all assemblies! It was the
head, the heart and the hope of the student world!
More than four thousand students, professors and
presidents from all the leading colleges in the United
States and 'Canada, with many from across the seas
—all animated by one powerful purpose, all pulsing
with one sane, sacred passion—that was the Student
Volunteer Convention!
Nashville never saw such a gathering before—nor
the South, nor the nation! True, there have been
other quadrennial conventions of the Student Volun
teers, but ever since this holy flame was kindled on
the ready altar of the student heart of America,
about sixteen years ago, the fire has spread from
heart to heart, from institution to institution, widen
ing, deepening and transforming wherever it has
touched, until the Nashville Convention last week
was the golden fruitage of all these years, the crown
ing glory of all endeavor, and the loudest voice yet
spoken in the conquering charge of this wonderful
army of God. What does it all mean? It means the
highest form of consecrated sanity in spreading the
Light of the World. It means that the scholarship
of the Occident will meet the superstitions of the
Orient—but meet them in humble companionship
with the quickening Spirit of God. It means—if
one of the editor’s verses of last week may be in
corporated here—-
That “in this generation”
The Cross—the Cross shall stand
“From Greenland’s icy mountains
To India’s coral strand!”
We’ll “go” or send another—
Till idols fear and fall,
And every tribe and nation
Shall “Crown Him Lord of All!”
The personnel of this mammoth convention was
commanding in the extreme. Each delegation,
whether from the small college or the great univer
sity, was composed for the most part, of the brightest
minds and strongest characters in the institution
from which they came. They were in truth the
flower of the young manhood and womanhood of
America—and the world !—the consecration and the
scholarship, the purpose and the enthusiasm of the
makers and the molders of that Christian civiliza
tion toward which “the whole creation moves.”
If the good and great “rule us from their urns,”
they began their reign while life was wed to mighty
effort; and while standing there in the Ryman Audi
torium at Nashville, looking into the faces of that
wondrous mass of consecrated youth and culture,
every man with a grain of thought, a spark of de
votion and an inch of vision was gratefully con
scious that he was companying then with the real
rulers of the present, and the future.
Men were forgotten in the consuming thought of
what the Gospel of Christ has meant, is meaning
now, and will mean more and more wherever
preached amid the darkness of sin.
Os course, there were some inevitable ‘'mountain
peaks” whose consecrated leadership has lifted them
above the shining tableland around. Speakers there
The Golden Age for March 8, 1908.
were with trumpet calls of inspiration—speakers
from America, Europe, Africa, Asia and the Isles of
the sea, but where eloquence abounded “grace did
much more abound.” Pressed to give names the
mind yields to John R. Mott and Robert E. Speer,
leadeis from the inception of the Student Volunteer
Movement, each colossal in strength, but devout as
an apostle, modest as a woman, and humble as a
child.
The story of the Student Volunteers appearing
in this issue of The Golden Age will be followed
from time to time with an aftermath of “forget-me
nots,” from both the editor and our staff corre
spondent, who were present. For all who love His
coming, especially the student life of America, must
feel an ever-deepening inteiest in the conquests and
comradeship of this great company moving in glad
ness at Heaven’s command, and marching in tri
umph to the strains of Heaven’s music—“fair as
the moon, clear as the sun”—and, to the yielding
powers of darkness—“terrible as an army with
banners.”
Keep Your Name Untarnished.
What’s in a name? A rose by another name
would smell as sweet. But what’s in a name? A
letter came to The Golden Age last week—fortun
ately twpewritten, except the signature. That sig
nature spelled several names more nearly than its
author’s name; in fact, we never could have guessed
whose letter we had the honor to read had not the
writer’s name been printed on the letter head. Yet
that jumble of letters, or mixture of marks, is like
magic at the bottom of a cheque. It commands its
thousands at the bank. Many beautiful, faultless
signatures we have seen that could produce at the
teller’s window nothing more substantial than an
affable smile.
What’s in a name? Just what you put into it.
If it stands on the merchants’ ledgers with never
a credit balance, if it lingers on past-due notes, if
it affords a melancholy adornment to the execution
docket, or worse than these, if it appear on a peti
tion for relief in a bankruptcy court, it is never
again a talisman to conjure with; it is a by-word
on the street. If the bearer of a name faithfully
fulfill the obligations pertaining to it, the name
itself becomes an asset of priceless value. “A good
name is rather to be chosen than great riches”
was spoken long before the advent of our mod
en financial system, nevertheless it is today, and
will forever be the corner stone of the structure.
When cherished plans collapse and bright dreams
vanish into barren realities; when calamity be
falls, and the icy hand of adversity clutches at
the throat, the dishonest and the weak bend to
the storm, throw reputation to the winds, and worse
than nameless, pass like sheeted ghosts through life.
The true man, brave and strong, meets the issue
fairly, rallies his strength and his courage to the
rescue, dares to do the clean and manly part, and
tides his craft into smoother waters. Corrupt
fortune may not be his, but he bears his name
proudly, for he bears it untarnished.
Men die. Their substance is divided among others,
maybe squandered. But their names live on; in
famous or illustrious, as they have made them.
The ultimate of life is a name, how careful men
should be to keep it forever untarnished!
Joseph’s Reward.
In a recent talk before his Sunday School class,
young Mr. Rockefeller expressed great admiration
for Joseph and his business ability. Joseph has been
dead some time, and it is a question if this com
mendation of his acumen, however much it would
have delighted him some years ago, moults much
feather now. Mr. Rockefeller’s tribute was apro
pos of a discussion of Joseph’ great corner in Egyp
tian Corn. It may be recalled by readers of the his
tory of that transaction that Joseph, being given
warning of coming events through Pharaoh’s
dream, during the seven fat years bought all the
corn in sight and cached it. Corn was cheap. Dur
ing the seven lean years he sold the corn back to
the original growers thereof, kindly accepting first
mortgages on real estate. This was the very first
■corner. Corn was high. Through Joseph’s
management the people were saved from starvation,
he was reunited with his brethren, and Pharaoh
climbed into the list of multi-millionaires. Joseph
was elevated to the second place in the kingdom,
and received other emoluments which, no doubt,
were acceptable to him; but how pale and thin and
dyspeptic-locking were all these compared with
what he would feel to realize what young Mr. Rocke--
feller has said of him.
Young Mr. Rockefeller is not a dream reader like
Joseph was. Still he is doing fairly well, consid
ering his chances. He is the son of poor, but hon
est parents, and has carefully devoted some hours
each week to Sunday school work. Suppose that
he were gifted with ability to read dreams like
Joseph was!
But the probabilities are that Joseph is uncon
scious of the kind of opinion of Mr. Rockefeller.
It is ever thus. The neighbors think of many good
thines to say as they walk back from the cemetery,
and a kindly sentiment seems to be unanimous. How
much it would mean if the kind things were only
said while we are alive. That is one of the objec
tions to being dead. We can’t get the benefit of
the kind, forgiving words the neighbors speak. If
w r e could only get permission to return for a few
years after once we had been dead awhile, how
much better the neighbors would be to us! But
j"st think how much more deserving we would be
of it then! Let’s get together and organize a “Do
It Now” club. The rules and regulations would
require every member to be good and kind to his
fellows now, instead of waiting until you are dead.
A club can consist of only one member. Suppose
you organize one.
How Do They Know?
The Mayor of Springfield, Mass., has refused to
allow 'Sappho played in that city. His refusal is
based upon the ground that the play is immoral.
His informants were a Baptist minister, the prin
cipal of the high school and secretary of the Y. M.
C. A. These brethren had, no doubt, had an oppor
tunity to judge the play when it was presented in
some other town. The situation is similar to that
described in a story being related of Williams Jen
ning Bryan.
Recently Mr. Bryan was a guest of his friend, Dr.
Girdner, in New York. Grapefruits were served at
a breakfast given in Mr. Bryan’s honor, with a
spoonful of brandy in each one. Mr. Bryan, being
a teetotaler, did not touch the grapefruit. After
breakfast, Mrs. Girdner went to her Irish cook and
censured her for putting brandy in the fruit, tell
nig her that Mr. Bryan was a teetotaler and never
drank; that he didn’t know the taste of liquor.
“An’ he niver dhrinks, mum, an’ don’t know the
taste of it?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then, mum,” said Bridget, “plaze tell me how
he knew it was brandy, mum?”
It will occur to the fair-minded that Mr. Bryan’s
sense of smell warned him of the presence of
brandy, and he did not have to taste. But the
brethren in Springfield will have to explain how
they know before all will be as it once was be
tween us.
Before this issue of The Golden Age reaches its
readers, the Tabernacle Bible Conference, which
meets Thursday night, March Sth, will be in full
blast. Those who have never attended one of these
great conferences of Christian workers cannot un
derstand their richness and power. Thousands from
far and near will attend day and night, and drink
in the information and the inspiration from such
famous speakers as Samuel Chadwick of England;
A. T. Pierson, of Brooklyn; A. C. Dixon, of Boston,
and many others who are prophets in the kingdom
of God. Let all come who possibly can, but for the
“unfortunates” who cannot, The Golden Age will
seek to carry an extended echo of inspiration and
blessing.