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.”
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