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sexton. Oh, that we might have in Atlanta a great
Rght wth One Another.
We have got also to prepare the way by getting
right with one another. Forgiveness is a condi
tion of the spiritual life. It cannot be entered upon ■
without it. No soul can ever step into the king
dom which has not received the forgiveness of God,
and no soul can enjoy the privileges and blessings
of the spiritual life that does not maintain the
condition of forgiveness.
Forgiveness also is the condition of Heaven. No
soul will ever enter heaven harboring unforgive
ness. I care not what the church relation may be,
how well one prays and talks and sings; unless he
forgives, he will be damned.
Jesus Christ said: “If ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your
trespasses.” These are strong words, but they
were spoken by Jesus Christ, the author of salvation.
Whenever you show me that one can enter heaven
with unforeiven sin, then I am prepared to say that
it is possible for him to enter heaven with unfor
giveness toward his brother, but not until then.
Sin cannot enter heaven. It has got to be forgiven
on this side. It has got to be forgiven durng life.
Many people act as if there is to be some sort of
sub-station between death and the judgment where
one will stop and fix up all the rents that he had
in his garment when he died. There is no such
thing taght in the Bible. “As the tree falleth, so
shall it lie.” If a man dies with unforgiveness in
his heart he will go up to the judgment that way,
and if he goes up that way, he will be sent down
to hell. There is no other place for him to go.
Heaven is a place of fellowship; it is a place of
love, brotherly love.
The man who refuses to forgive challenges God
not to forgive him. Listen at the pattern prayer
which the Lord gave His people: “Forgive us
our trespasses even as we forgive those that tres
pass against us.” Think of it: “Forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against
us.” Have you thought of that prayer as limiting
God’s forgiveness of us? Think of a soul praying
to God for forgiveness of sin and at the same time
carrying unforgiveness in his heart toward some
one else. It is equivalent to a prayer for the dam
nation of God. I tell you, it is time we were wak
ing up on this line. Either let us pitch the Lord’s
prayer overboard or quit our childish whining about
the unjust treatment of others and our unwilling
ness to forgive. If it is argued that the offense is
too great, and that it is impossible to forgive, then
make up your mind to spend eternity in hell. We
must forgive, if we are to be forgiven; we must
forgive, if we are to have power.
Restitution for Wrong Doing.
Our preparation must also be of the nature of
restitution for wrong doing. I have no sympathy
or patience with that religion that does not lead
one to restore that which has been wrongfully taken.
The other day I heard Dr. Chadwick relate one
of the most remarkable stories of this character
that I ever heard. It occurred in one of the great
meetings of Gypsy Smith in Scotland. A beautiful
young woman of high social life had gone to the
bad. The whole country was ablaze with it and
she, in order to escape some of the blame, impli
cated a bright, popular and useful young preacher
in that country. This, of course, made the sensa
tion greater. It got into the courts. It was aired
through the newspapers and talked by the wayside.
The young preacher was found guilty, and to some
extent her crime was mitigated.
Years elapsed, and while Gypsy Smith’s meeting
was in progress this woman got under conviction
of sin. She went to Gypsy for counsel. He saw
that there was something in the way of her salva
tion. He asked her what about it. He did not
know her and knew nothing, of course, about her
life. “Oh, said she in reply to this question,
“There is nothing the matter.” Said he, “Have
you any grudge against anybody?” “No,” she
said, “I have had, but I have forgiven all.” She
came back to him again and again. Every time her
The Golden Age for May 10, 1906.
burden seemed to be greater. Finally he said, “Now,
woman, there is something that you are not willing
to do. You may just as well own it up. I am no
priest, but I will help you through it if I can.”
She then told him her story and wound up by
saying, “Sir, that young minister had no more to
do with my shame than you have. It was every
whit a made up job to help me out of my disgrace.
I have wronged him. Oh, I can never restore him,
for I have robbed him of his good name and useful
ness.” Os course it was a fearful condition. Then
Gypsy Smith said, “You must confess the way in
which you wronged him and make it just as public
as you made the original charge.” Said she, “It.
will never do, I will be disgraced worse than ever.”
“Then,” said he, “it is hell.”
The next day she went to the judge of the court
and told him her story and asked the privilege of
getting up before the court and making the state
ment. The judge granted the request and she sat
in the same box where she had once made the
charge and told her story. It is said the like of it
has never been experienced in that country. The
judge and the court with all the people wept and
cried like children.
As she told her story God spoke peace to her,
which was the first peace she had ever known, and
her face was so transfigured as to throw a pall over
the entire house.
Oh, Christian friends, let us reflect upon our
lives. What is our relation to our brother? Have
we robbed him of his money? Then we have got
to go to him and pay it back. If there is no
chance for us to do it, then we have got to go to
him and make an honest confession. Have we
robbed him of his good name? Then we must
do our best to restore him.
Soul Burden and Prayer.
Also there must be the preparation of soul bur
den, and this comes alone by prayer.
The other day a woman came to me greatly dis
turbed about a relative living in San Francisco.
She had not been able to get communication with
her since the earthquake and fire. At last account
she was living in the section of the city where the
conflagration has been most destructive.
f could not censure her for being alarmed. She
had something to be alarmed over. But I could not
help thinking, why is it so that God’s people are
not, alarmed about the condition of the souls of
their loved ones? Here we are with friends and
loved ones out of Christ. If we believe the Bible,
we are bound to believe they are lost, lost not only
for life with all that is best, but lost for eternity,
lost from God, lost from heaven, lost from the fam
ily reunion that will take place up there. How
can we be content! How can we trifle with the
little things that mar our spiritual life and ser
vice, while around us are those that are near and
dear to us that are forever lost?
Let this burden settle upon us. Let us open our
eyes and get a vision of the lost world. Let us
see our loved ones and friends hanging over it
by the brittle thread of life, and we cannot help
giving ourselves to their salvation.
The Prepaid Manuscript.
By MRS. J. F. MILLER.
It happened in the Tennessee mountains, among
a happy-hearted people, who seemingly have no
memory of yesterday, and no thought of to-morrow,
an unlettered people, yet so original and natural,
that it’s delightful to be among them.
My husband and I were there for a few months,
and it was my first experience among the authors
of “We’uns and You’ens, ” and makers of moon
One afternoon I started out to make a milk and
butter engagement for our small family. Seeing
two long-horned, healthy-looking cows lazily brow
sing on a grass lot fronting a mountain home, I
stepped up on the rude front porch and knocked, at
what I guessed to be the family room door. A
robust-looking middle-aged woman invited me in.
After taking my seat, she remarked: “You’ens
must be a stranger in these parts.”
“Yes, madam, I am. My name is Ellis—Mrs.
Ellis. I was raised in the lowlands about two
hundred miles from here, in Middle Tennessee, near
the Kentucky line.”
“You’ens sho’ is fur from home. My name, hit
used ter be Smiley—Jemimah Smiley—but I’ve
been married ter Bill Looney seventeen year this
After making a satisfactory milk and butter en-,
gagement, she proposed to give her oldest daughter
to me, to do housework, by saying: “You’ens might
start out an’ travel all day, an’ not find a nayger
ter werk. fer we’uns don’t ’low fer ’em ter stay
heah, an’ they done larnt long ago that mountain
air is not good fur naygers. ”
1 told her to send her daughter over Monday
morning, and I’d give her a trial. She came, ac
cording to agreement, and took up her work, as
though she did not mind it. She was as pretty as
a‘picture, and had such a merry-hearted way of
singing while she worked. Her father’s home was
in sight of ours, and every Sunday afternoon we
noticed a young sorrel horse hitched to a scrub oak
near his front gate, and one Monday morning the
pretty mountain girl failed to come. Next day I
went over to inquire the cause. A death-like still
ness reigned about the premises. Even the old
watch dog looked lonesome and sad eyed and Mrs.
Looney looked as though a great family grief had
suddenly been hers to bear.
“I came over, Mrs. Looney, to see why your
daughter has not returned to her work, we were
afraid she was sick.”
“Why Miss Ellis,” (the mountaineers invariably
use Miss for Mrs.) “that good fer nothin’ Bob
Ridley, what lives down in Turkey Cove, tuk an
stole Mandy las’ Sunday.
“Ever since this las’ gone Christmas he’s been
cornin’ up here ter Sunday school at the Metho
dis’ church, and some time he’d come home with
her ter dinner.
“Me an her pap didn’t think nothin of it, fur
weuns lowed in reason, he knowed twas our on
liest gal, an she in dresses above her shoe tops.
But bless yer life, Miss Ellis, he got some young
sters to go with him fur the license, and they wuz
married an gone, so we’uns heerd a breath of it.
The cheeky rascal wuz jist that shore of gittin the
po chile, that he even brung along his mammy’s
old nag, with a side saddle on her, and hitched her
way out yonder in the skirt o’ the woods, kind
o’ hidin out, fur ter take her back home on. Hits
er plum sight, the way he managed his meanness,
I talked as consolingly as I could, bade her
good-bye, and started home, thinking as I walked
“Thus it is, our daughters leave us,
Those we love, and those who love us,” etc.
Scarce a week had passed, when early one morn
ing I heard some one “gently tapping at my cham
ber door,” and opening same, I found standing in
the hall, a ten-year-old boy, who handed me a
pitcher full of something, and a note.
The latter read as follows:
“deer Miss ellis, i heerd you’uns rit fer the pa
pers, Mandy an’ Bob, theys bin home, pleze rite
a purty peece an’ sen it to ther paper ’bout them
giftin’ married las Sunday, tel erbout his pap
er givin him too pigs an a cow, an her pap’ll giv
’em sumpin after he gits thru sulkin’ bout him
steelin mandy, put in ther paper thet bobs mamy
is ded, an cant giv em nothin’, but her mammy wil
give ernuff fer bofe of ’em. som quiltz, a fether
bed, a chist an som chikens. i sen’ a pitcher ov
swete milk ter pay you’ens fer ritin ther peece.
I must confess it required unusual effort, to har
ness the muses, and start them off on an errand
like this, but for three reasons, I could not resist
First, her earnestness, simple faith, and original
ity. impressed me.
Second, a mother’s love through early for
giveness to the youthful offenders, was to be ad
mired, and thirdly—it was pre-paid!