Daddy Jupiter was an old man when I first knew him. In the capacity of a body servant he had accompanied his master during the campaign of 1812-15; and this fact, apart from his excellent character, elevated him in the esteem of all. For many years prior to his death he was practically “off duty,” keeping in-doors whenever he did not feel entirely well, and in pleasant weather working in the vegetable garden. He was fond of his chickens and pigs, and cultivated on his own account a small patch where arrowroot, long collards, sugar-cane, tanniers, ground-nuts, benne, gourds, and watermelons grew in commingled luxuriance. A widower and without children, he led, in the main, a retired life; seldom visiting at the houses of the other negroes on the plantation, but always chatting pleasantly with all who came to see him. At the “Praise-House” his seat was never vacant when his health permitted him to be present, and he filled the office of a “watchman” upon the plantation. It was the duty of one occupying that station to advise in spiritual matters, to lead in the semi-weekly prayer-meetings, to set an example which others might well follow, and to counsel in all religious difficulties. Although somewhat quick-tempered, and jealous of that respect which he deemed his due from others, he was upright, honest, full of Christian sentiment, and pronounced in his condemnation of everything savoring of evil. In a word, he was a man of good reputation, enjoyed the confidence of his fellows, stood high in his church, and was supposed to be in special favor with the Lord.
During the winter preceding his death Jupiter suffered much from rheumatism. For weeks together he ventured no further than the door of his cabin, where he would sit and sun himself and smoke his clay pipe. A negro lad, Cæsar by name, had been deputed to cook for him, to wait upon him, and to minister to his needs.
I called one morning to see the old man, to inquire after his health, and to ascertain whether his wants were properly supplied. For an hour and more he entertained me, as was his wont, with tales of the olden time, and was evidently in excellent spirits. As I was about to depart, Cæsar said: “Mossa, Uncle Jupter bin hab er wision las night. Leh him tell you bout um.” My curiosity being excited, I resumed my seat, and inquired: “Daddy, is that true? Have you had a vision?” “Yes, me chile,” he answered, “me suttenly did hab er wision, an er berry good one too.” “Tell me about it,” I rejoined. “Well, yeddy me,” replied the old man, and he spoke as follows:—
“Las night, dis befo fus fowl crow, me bin er leddown een me bed. De moon done set. Cæsar, him bin ter sleep by de fire een de tarruh room. Eberyting on de plantation gone bed. Me bin study bout de time wen ole Jupter hab ter meet him Lord and Master, an me berry happy een me bussum. Den me drap ter sleep. How long me bin ter sleep me dunno, but all ob er sutten pear like ebry shingle an boad hab er crack, an de light stream tru, an de room bin bright es day. Wile me duh wonder wudduh dat, four leely angel, wuh dress een wite an hab wing on eh back, fly een de room. Two light topper de foot er de bed, an one on arur side er me. My! but dem bin pooty! Me see heap er pooty wite chillun een me time, but me nebber bin see nuttne teh come up ter dem, nur ter ketch nigh um. Dem look pon topper me so kind, an dey open an shet dem wing, an mek sich a cool breeze een de house. Bimeby me retch out me han fuh tell de one huddy wuh bin tan close me bed on de right side, but eh draw back, an eh say: ‘Jupter, we come fuh leh you know de blessed Jesus duh commin fuh cahr you up ter Hebben an show you de seat wuh eh hab ready fur you.’ Me dat glad me yent hab bref fuh mek ansur. Me hard fuh bleebe me own yez. Me harte rise up een me troat, an me yent duh say nuttne, but me duh watch fur de Lord. Soon de blessed Jesus, wid de print er de nail een eh han an eh foot, an wid de star on eh head, drap right down tru de top er de house dout crack er shingle, an eh call me name, an eh tell me fuh rise, an eh pit eh han onder me shoulder, an eh liff me up light es er fedder. Me ole cloze an me ole body leff behine, an somehow narruh me sperit, him keep de shape er de body. Den eh pit eh han onder me arm, an eh cahr me way up eenter de element, beyant de sun an de moon an de star, an de leely angel duh foller we. We gone an we gone way up tel we git ter er big alablaster house, wid high piazza all roun an roun, wuh shine same luk de sun, buil in de middle er a beautiful gaden wid flower, an fruit, an hummin-bud, an butterfly, an angel wid harp duh sing an duh joy ehself onder de tree. Dis es we git ter de big gate, wuh mek wid pearl, eh swing open dout tetch um, an de blessed Jesus lead dis poor ole nigger up de shinin pate to de big house way de Lord lib.
“We gone up de step an enter de pahler, way de great God bin er set on eh golden trone. Den de blessed Jesus mek de good Lord sensible dat dis duh Jupter wuh him hab sabe, an dat eh fetch um fuh show um eh seat wuh eh done prepare fur um. Wid dat de Lord, him call teh one angel, an eh tell um fuh bring one chair an set um down befo eh trone. Soon es dis bin done eh say: ‘Jupter, yuh you chair; set een um. Eh blants ter you.’ Mossa, you nebber bin see sech chair een all you life. Eh hab gold rocker ter um. Eh hab welwit cushin een eh bottom. Eh hab high back, an eh arm stuff. Eh so soffe an easy. Eh look pootier den dat big rockin chair wuh ole Mossa bin gib Missy wen eh marry you farruh. Me shame fuh set een de chair, but de blessed Jesus, him courage me, an me tek me seat, an me so tankful dat me hab one chair een de mansion een de sky.
“Den de blessed Jesus tell anurruh angel fuh bring me some milk an honey fuh drink. Eh bring um een a nice glass tumbler, an eh gen me fuh drink. Me tase um, an eh sweet mone anyting me ebber drink een me life. Eh tell me fuh drink um down, an wen me drink all outer de glass, an me yeye ketch sight er de bottom er de tumbler, me see some speck. De ting trouble me, fuh me dunno wuh mek speck day een de bottom er dat clean tumbler. Den de blessed Master notus me, an eh say: ‘Dont fret, Jupter; dem speck duh you sin, but now dem all leff behine.’
“All dis time me bin er set wid me face tun way from de Lord an eh trone, cause eh so great an bright me couldnt look pon topper um. Mossa, me cant scribe wuh me see an yeddy een dat Hebben. Eh yent fuh tell. De blessed Jesus tek me tru de gaden, down by de ribber, an een de orchud way de bigges peach, an fig, an orange, an pomegranate, an watermillion, an all kin der fruit der grow. Me see heap er good people wuh me bin know befo eh dead. Ole Mossa, Cappne Maxwell, ole Mr. Ashmore, Buh Jack, Sister Masha, me own Dinah, an mo bin day, an dem all hab harp, an bin der sing, an walk bout, an der pledjur ehself. Dem glad fuh see me too, an gen me de right han er fellership.
“Arter me bin in Hebben good wile, de blessed Master, him say: ‘Come, Jupter, I gwine show you way de bad people go.’ Den eh lead me down to one bottom wuh dark an kibber wid cloud. In de fur een me see smoke duh rise, an me yeddy people duh cry an duh holler so bad. Wen we git ter dat spot, lo an behole! day was de mouf er Hell. Satan, him bin day wid eh pitchfork, an eh black head wid screech-owl yez, an eh red yeye, an eh claw-han, an eh forky tail. Eh tan right at de mouf er de big hole way de smoke an de fire duh bile out. Fas as de tarruh debble bring sinner ter um, eh push um wid eh pitchfork an eh trow um een de fire. Lord Amighty! Mossa, how dem sinner did kick an holler an try fuh pull way! But twant no use. De minnit ole Satan graff eh claw on um eh gone, an you could yeddy um duh fry een de fire same luk fat een me pan yuh. Me bin rale skade. De ting mek me sick. Me hole on ter me Jesus, an him tell me not teh fade, dat nuttne shill trouble me.
“Dis at dat time me wake. Me hair bin a rise on me head, an wen me come fuh fine out me bin een me own bed, an fowl bin a crow fuh day. Oh, Mossa! dat ting wuh dem call Hell duh a bad place. Me no wan shum no mo, an me yent gwine day nurrer. Enty de blessed Jesus done show me de chair wuh eh done sabe fuh me een Hebben? Yes, Mossa, me seat eh fix, an ole Jupter ready fur go wenebber de Lord call.”
He was indeed prepared, and early in the spring we laid him to rest beneath the venerable live-oaks which, with their solemn arms, guarded the plantation burying-ground. Then, not in a vision, but in reality, as we believe, the good old man claimed and was accorded his seat in the “mansion not made with hands, eternal in the Heavens.”