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Personal Sketch of Two Enterprising Lumbermen —Big-Hearted Brothers, Who Figured Prominently, One in the
Launching, and the Other in the Present Forward Movement of The Greater Golden Age
Story of “The Check that Turned the Tide,”
By WILLIAM D. UPSHAW, Editor.
HE world is always interested in
learning about the initial steps of
any great movement. Albeit, that
same old world may care little
about the deeper meaning of the
movement itself, and may have
done mighty little to make that
movement possible, and to push it
along after it was born—but if the
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movement moves, the world wants to see the
color of the eye of the man or men who made
the movement move!
All right, ladies and gentlemen, look at that
fascinating family group which we use as our
frontispiece this week, study their eyes and
feast on their faces, so Cummings’ have
come!
With the coming of one Cummings, The
Golden Age sprang into life seven years ago
this Autumn time, and with the coming of the
other Cummings the tide was turned after a
long, hard battle, and victory is now in sight—
the victory of the long dreamed-of Greater
Golden Age—going, pray God, into a hundred
thousand homes every week!
But come along and let me tell you how the
Cummings’ came to come!
“I must talk with pen, if not with tongue.”
It was seven years ago. I had lost my voice
from bronchial trouble —overspeaking, the doc
tors said, in the work of educating girls and
boys. Thinking I might never be able to speak
again with my tongue, and loving to talk so
well (no man ought to be allowed to talk who
does not love to talk) I determined to arrange
to talk the balance of my life with my pen, if
I could not talk with my tongue.
Under the special encouragement of Dr. Len
G. Broughton (who “touched the button”) and
dear old Sam Jones (who “sicked me on”) I
decided to launch an undenominational, inspi
rational weekly paper for the home and the
citizen—a paper whose purpose it would be
to fascinate youth, feed youth and build it
into vigorous Christian citizenship—a paper
to fight liquor every week and stand uncring
ingly, without apology for the verities of “Old
time religion”—the Book and the Blood!
Confidentially, I had practically no money
with which to launch such a big enterprise—a
paper of at least South-wide circulation —for
I had given myself for over seven years with
out salary to the endowment and equipment of
Mercer University, Bessie Tift College, and
some other smaller institutions, having then
no family demands upon me and believing I
could reach the pockets of people better if
they knew I was not going to toll that money
for my own pocket. Making my living and
traveling expenses by occasional lecture and
evangelistic work, I fought on for my treasured
boys and girls—fought with singing heart and
“enamored vision,” until, in the town of Doug
las, Ga., I “fell in my tracks” one hot July day
in ’95, and the doctor said “It is enough—stop,
or die!”
Stop? How could I stop? Bunn-Bell Insti
ture, at Waycross was then looking to me for
life, while half a hundred noble girls, through
the generous patience of Bessie Tift College,
were turning their eyes toward their “Brother
Willie” in part or in whole, for their educa
tion. My heart was nigh to breaking.
Away to Northfield for rest, with not bron
chial strength enough to call to a friend across
the street. I rested. I prayed. I planned. I
dreamed.
I Tried To “Behave.”
I tried hard to behave myself, and get ready
for the launching of th’e paper, of which I had
really dreamed ever since I lay on bed for those
seven years in Cobb county —dictated letters
THE CUMMINGS HAVE COME
The Golden Age for December 5, 1912.
to The Sunny South, and The Constitution,
wrote my book of poems and sketches, “Echoes
from a Recluse,” and thought of a time when
1 might be editor of a great Southern weekly
that should be like The Sunny South in its
fascinations for youth and the home, but more
vital and vigorous in its editorial stand for
fearless citizenship and the things of practical
Christianity and good government.
I Meet Henry Spurgeon Cummings.
It was while planning the organization of a
little stock company that an urgent invitation
came from Rev. W. C. Foster, to come and
help him in a meeting at Rodman, Fla., the
home of the Rodman Lumber Company, saying
that Mrs. Cummings, wife of the mill president,
had heard me at Fairfax, Ga., and insisted on
my coming.
Fortunately, my voice was growing stronger.
Turning aside from invitations to larger places,
1 felt impelled to go to Rodman. In a little
meeting house, not much larger than a living
room, the meeting began—conversational
preaching by a man who was “not a preacher.”
Then I saw a beautiful and unusual sight. 1
saw the big-hearted Christian owner of that
big saw-mill close down his plant every day at
eleven, and while the wages went on, the work
ers, white and colored, came to hear the gospel
story. No wonder a revival came. The few
faithful Christians were quickened, the back
slidden were “dug up” among the pines, God
less men and women were converted, a Bap
tist church was organized—a little later a
Methodist church was organized, and “the bot
tom of heaven fell out” on that little saw
mill town.
“Rodman Is a New Town.”
Old “Uncle John” Cummings, kinsman of
the Christian mill owner, walked up and down
the streets, and said what everybody rejoiced
to know: “We have a new Rodman —Rodman
is a new town ! ’ ’
Such liberality on the part of the people I
had never seen before. The morning I left I
told Henry Cummings about my proposed pa
per. Quick as a Hash he said: “If you have
any stock left, Mrs. Cummings and I will count
it a privilege—an honor—to take a thousand
dollars’ worth.”
That was my “springboard leap.” Hon.
W. S. West, the able and generous statesman
from Valdosta, said: “I’ll make my wife a
present of a thousand dollars’ worth.”
Other smaller amounts came readily and
heartily. Finally, a big-hearted, red-headed
man, capped the climax. Thos. U. Butts, of
Coldumbus said: “I think a man like you ought
to be endowed, anyhow. I’ll take a thousand
dollars’ worth of stock with the distinct un
derstanding, Upshaw, that if you ever sell out,
even at five cents a share, you will sell mine
at the same price, and send me the proceeds.
I’m doing this, my boy, because I believe in
you! ’ ’
Seven Years of Unwritten History.
Born thus in the unselfish faith of friends,
who wanted to have fellowship in building a
force for good, The Golden Age faced the very
first year, when it was too young to stand
alone, the panic of ’97. People predicted that
it would live six months —that it would go the
way of countless other efforts that had strewn
the past in the South with the wreckage in
daily and weekly journalism.
But through the blessing of God and the fi
delity of friends, the paper has lived “through
mist and film and clod.” It will be seven
years old February 22, 1913 —and I believe all
who have watched the battle will agree that
it has proven its right to live on and bless the
world with a larger life. I can only say that
the unwritten history of these seven years, if
told, would be far more thrilling than anything
yet said, and if I had had a Boswell to walk
by my side, as Samuel Johnson did, he could
have written a biography or a financial novel
that would amuse and fascinate and win the
world!
“This One Think I Do”—
And this one thing 1 knew —
The Golden Age must live, and grow, to fill
an unoccupied place and an unchallenged field
in the South.
Some day, I knew, men of means would catch
the vision that stirred and held me, and the
larger victory would come. I thought of Mun
sey, of The Youths’ Companion, of The Ladies’
Home Journal, of The Christian Herald, and
their early struggles, and I fought on toward
the light.
Dr. Len G. Broughton, the great Atlanta
preacher, proved his unselfish loyalty by stand
ing by me with his sermons when wealthy
publishers offered him big money. And when
he went away to London he knew he could sell
his American rights for a large price, but he
said: “I am going to stand by you, Will. I
know your brave fight. I was with you at the
beginning. I will make The Golden Age my ex
clusive mouthpiece in America—l’ll stand by
you through thick and thin.”
And yet some rascal says: “Preachers al
ways go where the biggest money is.”
May the Lord have mercy on his guilty lit
tle soul!
I Meet Peter S. Cummings.
Twenty-five thousand dollars for immediate
working capital to push The Greater Golden
Age everywhere—and then capital for a big
publishing house of our own—that is the slo
gan !
“Put me down for one thousand,” said
Charlie Hodges, my big-hearted Methodist
friend at Cyrene, and benefactor of* Gyrene
Institute. “And say,” went on Charlie Hodges,
“you must see Peter Cummings, of the Chat
tahoochee Lumber Co., at Leia. He has a. big
heart. The business side of your plan will ap
peal to him—and besides, he likes to put his
money where it will do good.”
Peter Cummings? Strange—but I had never
dreamed^that the Leia lumberman was a broth
er of my royal friend, Henry Cummings, who
helped me start The Golden Age. I learned it
just before I met him, and when I walked in
on him in his office I felt almost as if I were
at Rodman—and when he spoke I smiled to
hear again that fascinating Cummings “lisp”
which must be heard to be enjoyed.
Such a home —with that merry, .cheery wife,
and a round hall-dozen of ruddy, bounding
boys and girls, bright enough and fine enough
to do anything to make glad a parent’s heart.
In a few words I laid my plan for a great
Southern weekly before the “iron man” with
heart of gold and the vision of a seer.
“I can’t promise you how soon the stock
will bear a cash dividend, Mr. Cummings,” 1
said, “but it will give you something of an
nual satisfaction that some cotton factory
stock —and tobacco farm stock, does not do
at first. Every $lO share of stock will bear
in advance a dividend subscription to The
Golden Age each year until it yields a dividend
in actual cash. When we win it will be a fine
commercial property, but until it does, you
will have the satisfaction of knowing that you
have your arm around somthing with a warm
heart-beat in it —carrying inspiration and
blessing to thousands of hearts and homes.”
I looked at him. He looked at me. My
(Continued on Page 6.)
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