You couldn’t hear Jasper say that and doubt. He seemed to assert a mastery over me from the start as to his sincerity. It was impossible, moreover, to question the honesty of anything he said. He made another remark at the outset which made everybody smile, but it was not a frivolous smile by a long shot. He said he was so ignorant when he first felt he must preach that he thought maybe God wouldn’t want a man to preach who could not read, and that maybe the devil had put that notion into him. Then he stopped, and with a decided smile he said, “I got a notion dat ef de debbul put dis thing in me, den he wuz a bigger fool dan I ever thought he cud be. I don’t think he hav made much by settin’ me out ter preach ef he did fer I done knocked his kingdom hard blows many a day, but arter more dan forty years servin’ my Gord I know who I hev b’lieved. I feel dat wenever I stan’ up in His name, de Lord is wid me.”
After these remarks he gave out his text and started in.
“Ef I don’t prove ter you by de word uv my Gord ter day dat de sun do move, den I ergree never ter preach agin es long es my head is ’bove de clods. I spek ebbry lady an’ gentl’man presunt dis evenin’ ter say wedder wat I say is so or not, arter dey hear wat I hav ter say. I’ll speak out’n de Bibul, an’ I want evrybody ter mark de words dat I giv ’em.”
I found that Jasper had a keen eye for business. He did things according to the book. He had ferreted out of the Bible every passage that bore upon the motions of the sun, and he had them all printed in a sort of tract. A copy of these passages he placed in the hands of every one who could read and wished to follow him. He stumbled considerably over the big words, but he skipped none, and kept along, and when he would read a passage he would ask to be corrected if, in any small degree, he had not read it as it ought to be. He was greatly set on doing clean work, and not seeming to be willing to fool anybody.
After reading a passage, then “the fun” would begin. He would pluck out of it the part that helped his argument, and it was a sight to see him with this passage as if it were a broad sword. He would charge upon his antagonists, shouting and laughing, and whacking them as he went until he would close that part of his work in a storm of eloquence. How he did move the people! He moved with the stride of the conqueror.
I am not skilled in religious reporting and cannot undertake to follow Jasper in that fusillade of comment and criticism with which, for a full hour and a half, he bore down upon his adversaries, crashing and scattering them as he went. A few of his sayings, however, stuck. He drove them into my flesh like fangs, and possibly a concrete show of them may help outsiders towards a conclusion as to what Jasper is after.
His text, so far as I could see, was not within ninety-five millions of miles of the question as to the movement of the sun. It did however suit exactly for that part of his sermon which had to do with the Lord as the defender of His ancient people. He grew vivid in picturing ancient Israel travelling through the great wilderness, and in showing how God delivered them from all their foes.
His wonder as an orator broke out in unmeasured splendour as he portrayed the power of God at the crossing of the Red Sea. A pathetic spectacle were the Hebrew slaves, as they fled out of Egypt pursued by the embattled legions of Pharaoh. As the Lord’s people, as he called them, got hemmed up with the sea in front of them and the great armies charging in the rear, he actually made the people cry in dread and terror lest these refugees should be totally extinguished. The scene was so lifelike and overmastering that shudders swept through the crowd, and women were wild with actual fright. Then when Moses came; when the rod was stretched over the sea and the waters, as if appalled by the presence of the Lord God, began to part and roll back until they left a clear passage between;—why everybody could see it. It was as plain as a great road in the broad daylight, and as the Hebrews, with revived hope, in solid columns, moved across, his people took fire; they literally shouted the children of Israel over. Jasper himself was leading the host, cheering, shouting to them not to be afraid, and telling them that God would bring them safely through. It looked to me as if half of the women were clapping their hands or dancing, and the other half were rolling off the benches in the excess of their rapture, as the last of the children of Israel came trudging out upon the banks.
But instantaneously Jasper brought a revulsion of feeling. He discovered the vast host of Pharaoh marching with music and with banners through the parted walls of the Red Sea. They were coming too! After all, the people had shouted too soon. The triumphant Egyptians would soon be upon them, and the chosen of the Lord, after all, must be destroyed.
Why, look! The host is half-across; three-fourths now, getting nearer and nearer. “Oh, my God,” Jasper cried, with a shriek of despair. “Help! help! or Thy people will be blotted out.”
All over the house there were sobs and groans and cries of fright. Once more the hand of the master was upon them, and he swayed them as he would. Then with a shout he cried: “De walls of de Red Sea are fallin’! De partid waturs rush inter each udder’s imbrace. Oh, ye heavens, shout an’ let de earth be glad. Let hell ter its mos’ remotes’ dep’s quake and cry: ‘De Lord Gord is a man uv war. De Lord is His name!’ Tell de tidin’s. Shout it everywhar dat Gord hav’ delivured His people.”
I have always liked fine speaking. Oratory has a resistless charm for me. I bow to the man who thrills me. If Jasper wasn’t the soul of eloquence that day, then I know not what eloquence is. He painted scene after scene. He lifted the people to the sun and sank them down to despair. He plucked them out of hard places and filled them with shouting. As long as I live all that Red Sea business, with Egypt and the fleeing Hebrews and Pharaoh and his great legions and the sea and the ruin and the great deliverance, are mine to keep as long as my mental powers can act. True, Jasper made me ridiculous three or four times by so convulsing me with laughter that I wanted to roll on the floor, but it didn’t make me frivolous a bit. I never knew that wit was such a deep and serious thing before.
The old orator had to stop “to blow” awhile, and it was a strictly original noise he made, as he refilled his exhausted lungs with a fresh supply of oxygen. The rush of air fairly shook the glass in the windows and could have been heard perhaps for a square off. All at once his face began to brighten with a smile, which almost amounted to an illumination. He said it “kinder ’mused him ter ubsurv Gord’s keen way uv wurryin’ Pharo’ inter lettin’ His people go.”
I am a failure on dialect, but this part of the afternoon’s entertainment came with such surprise that it was photographed on my memory in a way it can never be blotted out. Jasper took up the several plagues which he asserted that God sent upon the Egyptian monarch, declaring that as Pharo’ was too much of a brute to hear reason, or to feel afraid, the Lord decided to tease and torment him with reptiles and insects, and then he added: “I tell yer, my brudderin, dis skeme did de buzniss fer Pharo’. He kum frum ridin’ one day an’ wen he git in de pallis de hole hall is full uv frogs. Dey iz scamperrin’ and hoppin’ roun’ tel dey farly kivur de groun’ an’ Pharo’ put his big foot an’ squash’d ’em on de marbul flo’. He run inter his parler tryin’ ter git away frum ’em. Dey wuz all erroun’; on de fine chars, on de lounges, in de pianner. It shocked de king til’ he git sick. Jes’ den de dinner bell ring, an’ in he go ter git his dinner. Ha, ha, ha! It’s frogs, frogs, frogs all erroun’! Wen he sot down he felt de frogs squirmin’ in de char; de frogs on de plates, squattin’ up on de meat, playin’ ovur de bred, an’ wen he pick up his glas ter drink de watur de little frogs iz swimmin’ in de tum’ler. Wen he tried ter stick up a pickul his fork stuck in a frog; he felt him runnin’ down his back. De queen she cried, and mos’ faintid an’ tol’ Pharo’ dat she wud quit de pallis befo’ sundown ef he didn’t do somthin’ ter cler dem frogs out’n de house. She say she know wat iz de mattur; twuz de Gord uv dem low-down Hebrews, an’ she wantid him ter git ’em out uv de country. Pharo’ say he wud, but he wuz an awful liar; jes’ es dey tel me dat mos’ uv de pollitishuns iz.”
Just then my vagrant eye caught the string of legislators who had high seats in the synagogue and it looked to me as if every Senegambian in that seething herd was sampling those rustic statesmen while they took on an awfully silly look; or rather I think it was on most of them before. “I can’t pikshur up all dem plagues, but I mus’ giv you more ’sperunce uv dem brutish people in de pallis dat wuz so cruel ter de Hebrew folk. One mornin’ de king wake up an’ he wuz ackin’ from bed ter foot. He farly scratch’d his skin off his body, an’ out he jumps, an’ as I liv’ he finds hisse’f farly civured ovur wid vermin. ’Bout dat time de queen, she springs up, an’ sich scratchin’ an’ hollerrin’ Pharo’ nevur herd frum her befo’, an’ when he look at her dey is crawlin’ all over her an’ she, fergitten her queenship, iz dashin’ erroun’ de room shakin’ her rappurs an’ scratchin’ and screamin’ tel presn’tly she brek loose on de king agin. ’Bout dat time dar wuz a yell in de nussery, an’ in kums de little Pharoes an’ dey runs scratchin’ and hollerin’ an’ kickin’ ter der mudder. Der heds wuz full wid ’em; dere hands wuz all bit an’ swell’d, an’ wen der mudder jerk’d off der nite gowns jes’ thousans uv ’em iz runnin’ over ’em frum hed ter foot. Pharo’ wuz rich, but riches don’t kill fleas. Pharo’ had big armis, but soljeers can’t conquer an army of lice. Pharo’ had servunts by de thousans, but all uv ’em put togedder cudn’t pertek’ dem little Pharoes an’ princesses frum dat plague dat an angry Gord sent ter skurge Pharo’ an’ mek ’im willin’ ter let His chil’n go.”
This is a sample. Jasper’s imagination was like a prairie on fire. The excitement in the congregation was of a new order; he was tickling them in a new spot, or rather in forty spots at once, and the noise in the house was almost like the roar of a tempest. I never was in such a conglomerate mood. His picture of the plagues convulsed me with laughter,—would have killed me dead, I verily believe, but for the counteracting effect of the horror excited in me. And more than that, the trials of the Hebrew slaves loomed up before me all the time. I was subconsciously pitying them, and anxious to get my fingers on the damnable throat of the tyrant. I never knew what it was, until that day, to have all sorts of feelings at the same time. It seemed to me that the strain would have to be ended without going further.
But Jasper wasn’t done, and things were coming on which it was impossible to foresee. Suddenly I found Jasper on a new trail. This time it was what he called the assassination of Isaac. I discovered that Jasper could talk quite grammatically when he was on his dignity; but, when he struck the abandon and lawlessness of his imagination, he dropped back into his dialect and then he was at his greatest. I found also that he delighted in ponderous and sesquipedalian words. He rolled them under his tongue,—save when the words themselves sometimes rolled his tongue up,—and when he hit assassination, the pronunciation would have made a thoughtful mule smile. But the word was simply a bit of dynamite to blow up his crowd and to kindle new flames in his fancy.
Jasper’s picture of Abraham had the flavour of a poem. He stood him up on a lofty pedestal, painted him as a man without a vice;—the pink of a gentleman, the prince of his tribe, the companion of the Lord God, the faithful father and the Father of the Faithful. Since that day, whenever I get tired or feel that I have done something mean, and want to give my moral nature a set up, I recall Jasper’s poem on Abraham.
The incident upon which he fastened was the tragical story of the sacrifice of Isaac. He told how the Lord waked Abraham up at night and tickled the old gentleman with the thought that there were some new honours coming on for Isaac, and then in a flash, commanded him to take the boy and go on a three days’ run to a mountain and kill and burn him up. The way he portrayed the mental and emotional conflicts of Abraham during those days was like a steel pointed plow in the soil of the soul. Then when they got in sight of the mountain and Abraham halted the cavalcade, and he and the boy, parting from the rest, set out to climb the mountain alone I got mad and felt like ripping the whole schedule into fragments. There was a deadly hush on the crowd. The air was tense, and all who were capable of it turned pale. Just then Jasper gave a slight jerk to the turn of things and came to my relief.
“Why yer reckin Gord try dis thing on Abraham?” Jasper asked in a singularly cool manner. “I tell yer why. Gord not only wants ter know His people iz all rite, but He wants de wurl’ ter know dat dey iz all rite, an’ more dan dat, He wants His people ter hev de comfut dat dey is all rite too. Over in de Hebrews, most near de en’ uv de Bibul, we iz inform’d dat by faith Aberham, wen he wuz tried, offur’d up Isuk. God know’d dat Aberham lov’ Isuk better dan anything on de earth, an’ dat he got mity big hopes ’bout his son’s futur. So de Lord broke on ’im onexpectid an’ order’d ’im ter git out ter Mount Morier an’ put his son ter death. It look mity hard an’ strange ter Aberham, but he wuk’d it out. He say ef Gord es gwine ter carry out de plan ’bout Isuk raisin’ a gret nashun an’ he kill Isuk, den de Lord hay ter rais’ ’im up agin, an’ so he say I’ll do wat de Lord tel me an’ ax no questions.
“By de way, yonder dey iz, on de top uv de mountin. Aberham put up thar a big altur an’ he done tuk dat wood dat Isuk kerried an’ put it under de altur to start de fire. He also got de knife laid out dar shinin’ in de sun, sharp es a razer. He call Isuk an’ Isuk walk up pert an’ willin’ an’ mity intristid in wat’s gwine on, an’ wonderrin’ whar his father gwine to git an offrin’, whar de lam’ fer de slaughter wuz. Den Aberham ondress Aisuk an’ tie his feet an’ han’s an’ lay ’im up on dat altur. Solem time, I tell yer. Den he turn roun’ an’ pick up dat blade an’ he turn roun’ ter de altur an’ up he lif’ his gret arm high over his hed wid de knife in his han’. It stay up dar a sekkun’, an’ den wid a suddin flash down it starts.
“Oh, my Gord! Aberham’s han’ ’s parrerlized; fer de earth farly shuk wid de mity vois uv de Lord Gord: ‘Aberham, Aberham, hol’ on! Lay not thy han’ erpon de chile uv de Promis’. I jes’ wan’ ter try yer!’ Wat dat out dar in de brush erblatin’ and erscramblin’? Gord had prepar’d de sacrerfice, an’ Aberham, undoin’ de boy’s han’s an’ feet, hugs ’im ter his hart and cries and shouts tell it look lik de pillers uv de heavens trimbul’d wid de joy.”
Now this is the way I remember it, but Jasper was never put on paper. If you were not there, you don’t understand. Of course, it was foolish in me, but that great crowd was in such a tumult, and John Jasper seemed in some way so transfigured, and, without knowing why, I was greatly tempted to let out one tremendous yell. There was something in me that needed to be let off, and I cannot tell what I really did, and no matter any way. The strain was so pitiless that I wanted fresh air and would probably have gone out, except that it was the one thing that was physically impossible.
Yet another scene comes back to me. Jasper had paraded his Scriptures in long array in support of his view, that the sun do move, and he had such a tempestuous sense of victory that he turned loose all of his legions upon his scientific antagonists. He called them his “Ferloserfers” and talked hotly about the books which they were all the time sending him. He said that he would like to “huddle all dese books in a pile an’ cornsine ’em ter de flames. Dat’s wat ought ter be done. Dey ar weppuns wid wich Satun wud ’stroy de Word uv Gord.”
The approval of this radical proceeding was accentuated with groans, and shouts, and scornful laughter, which surged through the house like a maddened river. As a fact, I am not much ahead of Jasper in scientific knowledge, but I am not one of those flabby sort who jumped up to say that Jasper was simply voicing what they had believed all the time. Through it all, I kept on believing in the rotation of the earth, just as I had before, and I really thought before I got there that I would get enough fun out of the occasion to supply me for scores of Sundays. The curious result of it all was that Jasper didn’t convert me to his theory, nor did he convert me to his religion, but he did convert me to himself. I found myself turning to him with a respect and kindliness of feeling that greatly surprised me. I felt his greatness. I believed in his sincerity, and to me he was a philosopher, sound in his logic, mighty in his convictions, though he might be wrong in his premises.
Now in plain contradiction of what I have said I must make an admission. In the triumph of his ending Jasper polled his crowd to see how his theory was prospering. He bade everybody who really endorsed his theory that the sun moved to show the hand. I stretched up my arm about four feet, and would have punched the ceiling with my fingers if it could have been done. Yes, I voted that the earth was flat and had four corners, and that the sun drove his steeds from the gates of the morning over to the barns in the West, and I never asked the question for a moment as to how the team was got back during the night. Call me a hypocrite, if it will comfort you to do it; that’s a very gentle way to speak to a reporter, but I was dead sincere. My vote was in favour of Jasper’s logic, his genuineness, his originality, his philosophic honesty, and his religion. If it was hypocrisy to hold up the hand on that occasion, then there was a mammoth pile of hypocrites; for it seemed to me that there were forty hundred of the Brirareus family present and that the last one of them tried to hold up each one of his hands higher than all of his other hands and higher than anybody else’s hands.
I got full wages for my vote. To look at old Jasper with his parted lips, his smile, which belied every sign of his oratorical ferocity and vengefulness, and his unspeakable aspect of conquest and glory as the people wrung his hand and poured their happy benedictions upon him.
After the sermon the old brother, with the snow-capped head and the shaking voice, struck up one of the prayer-meeting choral songs. He spun it out rather thin, but reinforcements came in, and by the time they struck the chorus the tramp of the feet all in unison seemed to me strong enough to crash down the bridge over Niagara, and as for the singing, its appeal was to the imagination,—at least to mine,—and I actually fancied that I could hear the invisible choirs in which armies of angels and nations of the ransomed were joining with full voice.
I had Jasper for breakfast, dinner, and supper that week. Down at the office they called me “Jasper,” and up at the boarding-house the landlady’s boy, who stayed in bed next day from his bruises, was constantly singing, and making me help him, the choral song with which the meeting broke up and the old Yankee preacher and the inevitable boy had me telling all the time of the multitudinous things that happened at Jasper’s church.
Months and months have since gone. The Jasperian uproar has ebbed, and I am still the bad reporter, and latterly have changed my desk and work on Sunday, but often and often I dream about Jasper, and every time I dream I fancy that I have joined his church and that he and I shouted when he baptized me. No, I have never been back. I do not wish to build on to my experience, and I do not want it marred by finding Jasper less commanding and kinglike than he was on that spring time Sabbath that afternoon of ’78.
I never heard Jasper preach a sermon on heaven, nor did I ever hear of his doing so. So far as my observation goes, sermons on heaven have failed to edify the thoughtful—sometimes proving distinctly disappointing. It was not to Jasper’s taste to argue on heaven as a doctrine. With him it was as if he were camping outside of a beautiful city, knowing much of its history and inhabitants, and in joyous expectation of soon moving into it. The immediate things of the kingdom chiefly occupied his attention; but when his sermons took him into the neighbourhood of heaven, he took fire at once and the glory of the celestial city lit his face and cheered his soul. This chapter deals only with one of his sermons which, while not on heaven, reveals his heart-belief in it, and its vital effect upon his character.
Imagine a Sunday afternoon at his church—a fair, inspiring day. His house was thronged to overflowing. It was the funeral of two persons—William Ellyson and Mary Barnes. The text is forgotten, but the sermon is vividly recalled. From the start Jasper showed a burden and a boldness that promised rich things for his people. At the beginning he betrayed some hesitation—unusual for him. “Lemme say,” he said, “a word about dis William Ellersin. I say it de fust an’ git it orf mer min’. William Ellersin was no good man—he didn’t say he wus; he didn’t try to be good, an’ de tell me he die as he live, ’out Gord an’ ’out hope in de worl’. It’s a bad tale to tell on ’im, but he fix de story hissef. As de tree falls dar mus it lay. Ef you wants folks who live wrong to be preached and sung to glory, don’ bring ’em to Jasper. Gord comfut de monur and warn de onruly.
“But, my bruthrin,” he brightened as he spoke, “Mary Barnes wus difrunt. She wer wash’d in de blood of de Lam’ and walk’d in white; her r’ligion was of Gord. Yer could trust Mary anywhar; nuv’r cotch ’er in dem playhouses ner friskin’ in dem dances; she wan’ no street-walk’r trapsin’ roun’ at night. She love de house of de Lord; her feet clung to de straight and narrer path; I know’d her. I seen her at de prarmeetin’—seed her at de supper—seed her at de preachin’, an’ seed her tendin’ de sick an’ helpin’ de mounin’ sinn’rs. Our Sister Mary, good-bye. Yer race is run, but yer crown is shure.”
From this Jasper shot quite apart. He was full of fire, humour gleamed in his eye, and freedom was the bread of his soul. By degrees he approached the realm of death, and he went as an invader. A note of defiant challenge rang in his voice and almost blazed on his lips. He escorted the Christian to the court of death, and demanded of the monster king to exhibit his power to hurt. It was wonderful to see how he pictured the high courage of the child of God, marching up to the very face of the king of terrors and demanding that he come forth and do his worst. Death, on the other hand, was subdued, slow of speech, admitted his defeat, and proclaimed his readiness to serve the children of Immanuel. Then he affected to put his mouth to the grave and cried aloud: “Grave! Grave! Er Grave!” he cried as if addressing a real person, “Whar’s yer vict’ry? I hur you got a mighty banner down dar, an’ you turrurizes ev’rybody wat comes long dis way. Bring out your armies an’ furl fo’th your bann’rs of vict’ry. Show your han’ an’ let ’em see wat you kin do.” Then he made the grave reply: “Ain’t got no vict’ry now; had vict’ry, but King Jesus pars’d through dis country an’ tord my banners down. He says His peopl’ shan’t be troubled no mo’ forev’r; an’ He tell me ter op’n de gates an’ let ’um pass on dar way to glory.”
“Oh, my Gord,” Jasper exclaimed in thrilling voice, “did yer hur dat? My Master Jesus done jerk’d de sting of death, done broke de scept’r of de king of tur’rs, an’ He dun gone inter de grave an’ rob it uv its victorous banners, an’ fix’d nice an’ smooth for His people ter pass through. Mo’ en dat, He has writ a song, a shoutin’ anthim for us to sing when we go thur, passin’ suns an’ stars, an’ singin’ dat song, ‘Thanks be onter Gord—be onter Gord who give us de vict’ry thru de Lord Jesus Christ.’” Too well I know that I do scant justice to the greatness of Jasper by this outline of his transcendent eloquence. The whole scene, distinct in every detail, was before the audience, and his responsive hearers were stirred into uncontrollable excitement.
“My bruthrin,” Jasper resumed very soberly, “I oft’n ax myself how I’d behave merself ef I was ter git to heav’n. I tell you I would tremble fo’ de consequinces. Eben now when I gits er glimpse—jist a peep into de palis of de King, it farly runs me ravin’ ’stracted. What will I do ef I gits thar? I ’spec I’ll make er fool of myself, ’cause I ain’t got de pritty ways an’ nice manners my ole Mars’ Sam Hargrove used to have, but ef I git thar they ain’t goin’ to put me out. Mars’ Sam’ll speak fur me an’ tell ’em to teach me how to do. I sometimes thinks if I’s ’lowed to go free—I ’specs to be free dar, I tell you, b’leve I’ll jest do de town—walkin’ an’ runnin’ all roun’ to see de home which Jesus dun built for His people.
“Fust of all, I’d go down an’ see de river of life. I lov’s to go down to de ole muddy Jemes—mighty red an’ muddy, but it goes ’long so gran’ an’ quiet like ’twas ’tendin’ to business—but dat ain’t nothin’ to the river which flows by de throne. I longs fer its chrystal waves, an’ de trees on de banks, an’ de all mann’rs of fruits. Dis old head of mine oft’n gits hot with fever, aches all night an’ rolls on de piller, an’ I has many times desired to cool it in that blessed stream as it kisses de banks of dat upper Canaan. Bl’ssed be de Lord! De thought of seein’ dat river, drinkin’ its water an’ restin’ un’r dose trees——” Then suddenly Jasper began to intone a chorus in a most affecting way, no part of which I can recall except the last line: “Oh, what mus’ it be to be thar?” “Aft’r dat,” Jasper continued with quickened note, “I’d turn out an’ view de beauties of de city—de home of my Father. I’d stroll up dem abenuse whar de children of Gord dwell an’ view dar mansions. Father Abraham, I’m sure he got a grate pallis, an’ Moses, what ’scorted de children of Israel out of bondige thru’ de wilderness an’ to de aidge of de promised lan’, he must be pow’rful set up being sich er man as he is; an’ David, de king dat made pritty songs, I’d like to see ’is home, an’ Paul, de mighty scholar who got struck down out in de ’Mascus road, I want to see his mansion, an’ all of ’em. Den I would cut roun’ to de back streets an’ look for de little home whar my Saviour set my mother up to housekeepin’ when she got thar. I ’spec to know de house by de roses in de yard an’ de vine on de poch.” As Jasper was moving at feeling pace along the path of his thoughts, he stopped and cried: “Look dar; mighty sweet house, ain’t it lovely?” Suddenly he sprang back and began to shout with joyous clapping of hands. “Look dar; see dat on de do; hallelujah, it’s John Jasper. Said He was gwine to prepar a place for me; dar it is. Too good for a po’ sinner like me, but He built it for me, a turn-key job, an’ mine forev’r.” Instantly he was singing his mellow chorus ending as before with: “Oh, what mus’ it be to be thar!”
From that scene he moved off to see the angelic host. There were the white plains of the heavenly Canaan—a vast army of angels with their bands of music, their different ranks and grades, their worship before the throne and their pealing shouts as they broke around the throne of God. The charm of the scene was irresistible; it lifted everybody to a sight of heaven, and it was all real to Jasper. He seemed entranced. As the picture began to fade up rose his inimitable chorus, closing as always: “Oh, what mus’ it be to be thar!”
Then there was a long wait. But for the subdued and unworldly air of the old preacher—full seventy years old then—the delay would have dissolved the spell. “An’ now, frenz,” he said, still panting and seeking to be calm, “ef yer’ll ’scuse me, I’ll take er trip to de throne an’ see de King in ’is roy’l garmints.” It was an event to study him at this point. His earnestness and reverence passed all speech, and grew as he went. The light from the throne dazzled him from afar. There was the great white throne—there, the elders bowing in adoring wonder—there, the archangels waiting in silence for the commands of the King—there the King in His resplendent glory—there in hosts innumerable were the ransomed. In point of vivid description it surpassed all I had heard or read. By this time the old negro orator seemed glorified. Earth could hardly hold him. He sprang about the platform with a boy’s alertness; he was unconsciously waving his handkerchief as if greeting a conqueror; his face was streaming with tears; he was bowing before the Redeemer; he was clapping his hands, laughing, shouting and wiping the blinding tears out of his eyes. It was a moment of transport and unmatched wonder to every one, and I felt as if it could never cease, when suddenly in a new note he broke into his chorus, ending with the soul-melting words: “Oh, what mus’ it be to be thar!”
It was a climax of climaxes. I supposed nothing else could follow. We had been up so often and so high we could not be carried up again. But there stood Jasper, fully seeing the situation. He had seen it in advance and was ready. “My bruthrin,” said he as if in apology, “I dun fergot somethin’. I got ter tek anuth’r trip. I ain’t visit’d de ransum of de Lord. I can’t slight dem. I knows heap ov ’em, an’ I’m boun’ to see ’em.” In a moment he had us out on the celestial plains with the saints in line. There they were—countless and glorious! We walked the whole line and had a sort of universal handshake in which no note of time was taken. “Here’s Brer Abul, de fust man whar got here; here’s Brer Enoch whar took er stroll and straggled inter glory; here’s ole Ligie, whar had er carriage sent fur ’im an’ comed a nigher way to de city.” Thus he went on greeting patriarchs, prophets, apostles, martyrs, his brethren and loved ones gone before until suddenly he sprang back and raised a shout that fairly shook the roof. “Here she is; I know’d sh’d git here; why, Mary Barnes, you got home, did yer?” A great handshake he gave her and for a moment it looked as if the newly-glorified Mary Barnes was the centre of Jasper’s thoughts; but, as if by magic, things again changed and he was singing at the top of his voice the chorus which died away amid the shrieks and shouts of his crowd with his plaintive note: “Oh, what mus’ it be to be thar!”
Jasper dropped exhausted into a chair and some chief singer of the old-time sort, in noble scorn of all choirs, struck that wondrous old song, “When Death Shall Shake My Frame,” and in a moment the great building throbbed and trembled with the mighty old melody. It was sung only as Jasper’s race can sing, and especially as only Jasper’s emotional and impassioned church could sing it. This was Jasper’s greatest sermon. In length it was not short of an hour and a half—maybe it was longer than that. He lifted things far above all thought of time, and not one sign of impatience was seen. The above sketch is all unworthy of the man or the sermon. As for the venerable old orator himself he was in his loftiest mood—free in soul, alert as a boy, his imagination rioting, his action far outwent his words, and his pictures of celestial scenes glowed with unworldly lustre. He was in heaven that day, and took us around in his excursion wagon, and turning on the lights showed us the City of the Glorified.
What is reported here very dimly hints at what he made us see. Not a few of Richmond’s most thoughtful people, though some of them laid no claim to piety, were present and not one of them escaped the profound spiritual eloquence of this simple-hearted old soldier of the cross.
Valiant, heroic old man! He stood in his place and was not afraid. He gave his message in no uncertain words—scourged error wherever it exposed its front stood sentinel over the word of God and was never caught sleeping at his post.
When his work ended, he was ready to go up and see his Master face to face.
The stern old orator, brave as a lion, rich in humour, grim, and a dreamer whose dreams were full of heaven, has uttered his last message and gone within the veil to see the wonders of the unseen. If the grapes of Eschol were so luscious to him here, “Oh, what must it be for him to be there.”
Printed in the United States of America