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.
XV JASPER’S PICTURE OF HEAVEN
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.”