By RUTH McENERY STUART
The Reverend Jordan White, of Cold Spring Baptist Church, was so utterly destitute of color in his midnight blackness of hue as to be considered the most thoroughly “colored” person on Claybank plantation, Arkansas.
That so black a man should have borne the name of White was one of the few of such familiar misfits to which the world never becomes insensible from familiarity. From the time when Jordan, a half-naked urchin of six, tremblingly pronounced his name before the principal’s desk in the summer free Claybank school to the memorable occasion of his registration as an Afro-American voter, the announcement had never failed to evoke a smile, accompanied many times by good-humored pleasantry.
“Well, sir,” so he had often laughed, “I reck’n dey must o’ gimme de name o’ White fur a joke. But de Jordan—I don’ know, less’n dey named me Jordan ‘caze ev’ybody was afeerd ter cross me.”
From which it seems that the surname was not an inheritance.
In his clerical suit of black, with standing collar and shirt-front matched in fairness only by his marvellously white teeth and eyeballs, Jordan was a most interesting study in black and white.
There were no intermediate shades about him. Even his lips were black, or of so dark a purple as to fail to maintain an outline of color. They looked black, too.
Jordan was essentially ugly, too, with that peculiar genius for ugliness which must have inspired the familiar saying current among plantation folk, “He’s so ogly tell he’s purty.”
There is a certain homeliness of person, a combined result of type and degree, which undeniably possesses a peculiar charm, fascinating the eye more than confessed beauty of a lesser degree or more conventional form.
Jordan was ugly in this fashion, and he who glanced casually upon his ebony countenance rarely failed to look again.
He was a genius, too, in more ways than one.
If nature gave him two startling eyes that moved independently of each other, Jordan made the most of the fact, as will be seen by the following confession made on the occasion of my questioning him as to the secret of his success as a preacher.
“Well, sir,” he replied, “yer see, to begin wid: I got three glances, an’ dat gimme three shots wid ev’y argimint.
“When I’m a preachin’ I looks straight at one man an’ lays his case out so clair he can’t miss it, but, you see, all de time I’m a-layin’ him out, my side glances is takin’ in two mo’.”
“But,” I protested, “I should think he whom you are looking at and describing in so personal a manner would get angry, and—”
“So he would, sir, if he knowed I was lookin’ at him. But he don’t know it. You know, dat’s my third glance an’ hit’s my secret glance. You see, if my reel glance went straight, I’d have ter do like de rest o’ you preachers, look at one man while yer hittin’ de man behin’ ‘im, an’ dat’s de way dey think I is doin’, whiles all de time I’m a watchin’ ‘im wriggle.
“Of cose, sometimes I uses my glances diff’ent ways. Sometimes I des lets ‘em loose p’omiskyus fur a while tell ev’ybody see blue lightnin’ in de air, an’ de mo’ner’s bench is full, an’ when I see ev’ybody is ready ter run fur ‘is life, of co’se I eases up an’ settles down on whatever sinner seem like he’s de leastest skeered tell I nails ‘im fast.”
He hesitated here a moment.
“De onies’ trouble,” he resumed, presently. “De onies’ trouble wid havin’ mixed glances is ‘dat seem like hit confines a man ter preach wrath.
“So long as I tried preachin’ Heaven, wid golden streets an’ harp music, I nuver fe’ched in a soul, but ‘cep’n’ sech as was dis a-waitin’ fur de open do’ to come in. Dat’s my onies’ drawback, Brer Jones. Sometimes seem like when Heaven comes inter my heart I does crave ter preach it in a song. Of cose, I does preach Heaven yit, but I bleege ter preach it f’om de Hell side, an’ shoo ‘em in!”
There was, I thought, the suspicion of a twinkle lurking in the corners of his eyes throughout his talk, but it was too obscure for me to venture to interpret it by a responsive smile, and so the question was put with entire seriousness when I said:
“And yet, Jordan, didn’t I hear something of your going to an oculist last summer?”
“Yas, sir. So I did. Dat’s true.” He laughed foolishly now.
“I did talk about goin’ ter one o’ deze heah occular-eye doctors las’ summer, and I went once-t, but I ain’t nuver tol’ nobody, an’ you mustn’t say nothin’ ‘bout it, please, sir.
“But yer see, sir.” He lowered his voice here to a confidential whisper. “Yer see dat was on account o’ de ladies. I was a widder-man den, an’, tell de trufe, my mixed glances was gettin’ me in trouble. Yer know in dealin’ wid de ladies, yer don’ keer how many glances you got, yer wants ter use ‘em one at a time. Why dey was a yaller lady up heah at de crossroads wha’ ‘blongs ter my church who come purty nigh ter suein’ me in de co’t-house, all on account o’ one o’ my side glances, an’ all de time, yer see, my reel glance, hit was settled on Mis’ White, wha’ sot in de middle pew—but in cose she warn’t Mis’ White den; she was de Widder Simpson.”
“And so you have been recently married,” I asked; “and how does your wife feel about the matter?
“Well, yer see, sir,” he answered, laughing, “she can’t say nothin’, ‘caze she’s cross-eyed ‘erse’f.
“An’ lemme tell you some’h’n’, boss.” He lowered his tone again, implying a fresh burst of confidence, while his whole visage seemed twinkling with merriment.
“Lemme tell yer some’h’n’, boss. You ain’t a ma’ied man, is yer?”
I assured him that I was not married.
“Well, sir, I gwine gi’e you my advice. An’ I’m a man o’ ‘spe’unce. I been ma’ied three times, an’ of cose I done consider’ble co’tin’ off’n an’ on wid all three, not countin’ sech p’omiskyus co’tin’ roun’ as any widder gemman is li’ble ter do, an’ I gwine gi’e you some good advice.
“Ef ever you falls in love wid air cross-eyed lady, an’ craves ter co’t’er, you des turn down de lamp low ‘fo’ yer comes ter de fatal p’int, ur else set out on de po’ch in de fainty moonlight, whar yer can’t see ‘er eyes, caze dey’s nothin’ puts a co’tin’ man out, and meek ‘im lose ‘is pronouns wuss ‘n a cross-eye. An’ ef it hadn’t o’ been dat I knowed what a cook she was, tell de trufe, de Widder Simpson’s cross-eye would o’ discour’ged me off enti’ely.
“But now,” he continued, chuckling; “but now I done got usen ter it; it’s purty ter me—seem like hit’s got a searchin’ glance dat goes out’n its way ter fin’ me.”
Needless to say, I found the old man amusing, and when we parted at the cross-roads I was quite willing to promise to drop in some time to hear one of his sermons.
Although somewhat famed as a preacher, Jordan had made his record in the pulpit not so much on account of any powers of oratory, per se, as through a series of financial achievements.
During the two years of his ministry he had built a new church edifice, added the imposing parsonage which he occupied, and he rode about the country on his pastoral missions, mounted on a fine bay horse—all the result of “volunteer” contributions.
And Jordan stood well with his people; the most pious of his fold according him their indorsement as heartily as they who hung about the outskirts of his congregation, and who indeed were unconsciously supplying the glamour of his distinguished career; for the secret of Jordan’s success lay especially in his power of collecting money from sinners. So it came about that, without adding a farthing to their usual donations, the saints reclined in cushioned pews and listened to the words of life from a prosperous, well-fed preacher, who was manifestly an acceptable sower of vital seed—seed which took root in brick and mortar, branched out in turret and gable, and flowered before their very eyes in crimson upholstery.
The truth was that Cold Spring was the only colored church known to its congregation that boasted anything approaching in gorgeousness its pulpit furnishings of red cotton velvet, and never a curious sinner dropped in during any of its services for a peep at its grandeur without leaving a sufficient quota of his substance to endow him with a comfortable sense of proprietorship in it all.
The man who has given a brick to the building of the walls of a sanctuary has always a feeling of interest in the edifice, whether he be of its fold or not, and if he return to it an old man, it will seem to yield him a sort of welcoming recognition. The brick he gave is somewhere doing its part in sustaining the whole, and the uncertainty of its whereabouts seems to bestow it everywhere.
I was not long in finding my way to Jordan’s church. It was in summer time, and a large part of his congregation was composed of young girls and their escorts on the afternoon when I slipped into the pew near the door.
The church was crowded within, while the usual contingent of idlers hung about the front door and open windows.
I searched Jordan’s face for a few moments, in the hope of discovering whether he recognized me or not, but for the life of me I could not decide. If his “secret glance” ever discerned me in my shadowed corner, neither of the other two betrayed it.
I soon discovered that there was to be no sermon on this occasion, for which I was sorry, as I supposed that his most ambitious effort would naturally take shape in this form. Of this, however, I now have my doubts.
After the conventional opening of service with prayer, Scripture reading, and song, he passed with apparent naturalness to the collection, the ceremony to which everything seemed to tend.
The opening of this subject was again conventional, the only deviation from the ordinary manner of procedure being that, instead of the hat’s passing round it was inverted upon the table beside the pulpit, while contributors, passing up the aisles, deposited their contributions and returned to their seats.
This in itself, it will be seen, elevated the collection somewhat in the scale of ceremonial importance.
For some time the house was quite astir with the procession which moved up one side and down the other, many singing fervently as they went, and dramatically holding their coins aloft as they swayed in step with the music, while above all rose the exhortations of the preacher which waxed in fervor as the first generous impulse began to wane.
“Drap in yo’ dollar!” he was shouting. “Drap in yo’ half dollar! Drap in yo’ dime! Drap in yo’ nickel. Drap in yo’ nickel, I say, an’ ef yer ain’t got a nickel, come up an’ let’s pray fur yer!
“Ef yer ain’t got a nickel,” he repeated, encouraged by the titter that greeted this; “ef yer ain’t got a nickel, come up an’ let de whole congergation pray fur yer! We’ll teck up a collection fur any man dat ‘l stan’ up an’ confess he ain’t wuth a nickel.”
A half dozen grinning young fellows stepped up now with coins concealed in the palms of their hands.
“Come on! Come on, all you nickel boys! Come on.
“Ev’y nickel is a wheel ter keep salvation’s train a-movin’! Come on, I say; bring yo’ wheels!
“Ef you ain’t got a big wheel fur de ingine fetch a little wheel fur de freight train! We needs a-plenty o’ freight kyars on dis salvation train. ‘Caze hit’s loaded up heavy wid Bibles fur de heathen, an’ brick an’ lumber to buil’ churches, an’ medicine fur de sick, an’ ole clo’es fur de po’—heap ob ‘em wid de buttons cut off’n ‘em, but dat ain’t our fault, we bleeged ter sen’ ‘em on! Fetch on yo’ little wheels, I say, fur de freight train.”
There had been quite a respectable response to this appeal thus far, but again it spent itself and there was a lull when Jordan, folding his arms, and looking intently before him, in several directions apparently, exclaimed in a most tragic tone:
“My Gord! Is de salvation train done stallded right in front o’ Claybank chu’ch, an’ we can’t raise wheels ter sen’ it on?
“Lord have mussy, I say! I tell yer, my brers an’ sisters, you’s a-treatin’ de kyar o’ glory wuss’n you’d treat a ole cotton mule wagon! You is, fur a fac’!
“Ef air ole mule wagon ur a donkey-kyart was stallded out in de road in front o’ dis chu’ch—don’ keer ef it was loaded up wid pippy chickens, much less’n de Lord’s own freight—dey ain’t one o’ yer but ‘d raise a wheel ter sen’ it on! You know yer would! An’ heah de salvation train is stuck deep in de mud, an’ yer know Arkansas mud hit’s mud; hit ain’t b’iled custard; no, it ain’t, an’ hit sticks like glue! Heah de glory kyar is stallded in dis tar-colored Arkansas glue-mud, I say, an’ I can’t raise wheels enough out’n dis congergation ter sen’ it on! An’ dis is de Holy Sabbath day, too, de day de Lord done special set apart fur h’istin’ a oxes out’n a ditch, es much less’n salvation’s train.
“Now, who gwine fetch in de nex’ wheel, my brothers, my sisters, my sinner-frien’s? Who gwine fetch a wheel? Dat’s it! Heah come a wheel—two wheels—three wheels; fetch one mo’; heah, a odd wheel; de train’s a-saggin’ down lop-sided fur one mo’ wheel! Heah it come—f’om a ole ‘oman, too! Shame on you, boys, ter let po’ ole Aunt Charity Pettigrew, wha’ nussed yo’ mammies, an’ is half-blin’ an’ deef at dat—shame on yer ter let ‘er lif’ dis train out’n de mud! An’ yer know she kyant heah me nuther. She des brung a wheel ‘caze she felt de yearth trimble, an’ knowed de train was stallded!
“Oh, my brers, de yearth gwine trimble wuss’n dat one o’ deze days, an’ look out de rocks don’t kiver you over! Don’t hol’ back dis train ef you c’n he’p it on! I ain’t axin’ yer fur no paper greenbacks to-day to light de ingine fire!
“I ain’t a-beggin’ yer fur no gol’ an’ silver wheels fur de passenger trains for de saints, ‘caze yer know de passenger kyars wha’ ride inter de city o’ de King, dey ‘bleege ter have gol’ and silver wheels ter match de golden streets; but, I say, I ain’t axin’ yer fur no gol’ an’ silver wheels to-day, nur no kindlin’! De train is all made up an’ de ingine is a steamin’, an’ de b’ilers is full. I say de b’ilers is full, my dear frien’s.
“Full o’ what? Whar do dey git water ter run dis gorspil train? Dis heah’s been a mighty dry season, an’ de cotton-fiel’s is a-beggin’ now fur water, an’ I say whar do de salvation train git water fur de ingine?
“Oh, my po’ sinner-frien’s, does you want me ter tell yer?
“De cisterns long de track is bustin’ full o’ water, an’ so long as a sinner got o’ tear ter shed de water ain’t gwine run out!”
“Yas, Lord!” “Glory!” “Amen!” and “Amen!” with loud groans came from various parts of the house now, and many wheels were added to Glory’s train by the men about the door, while Jordan continued:
“Don’t be afeerd ter weep! De ingine o’ Glory’s kyar would o’ gi’en out o’ water long ‘fo’ now in deze heah summer dry-drouths if ‘twarn’t fur de tears o’ sinners, an’ de grief-stricken an’ de heavy-hearted! I tell yer Glory’s train stops ter teck in water at de mo’ner’s bench eve’y day! So don’t be afeerd to weep. But bring on de wheels!”
He paused here and looked searchingly about him.
There was no response. Stepping backward now and running both hands deep into his pockets, he dropped his oratorical tone, and, falling easily into the conversational, continued:
“Well, maybe you right! Maybe you right, my frien’s settin’ down by de do’, an’ my frien’s leanin’ ‘gins’ de choir banisters, an’ I ain’ gwine say no mo’. I was lookin’ fur you ter come up wid some sort o’ wheel, an’ maybe a silver wheel ter match dat watch-chain hangin’ out’n yo’ waistcoat-pocket; but maybe you right!
“When a man set still an’ say nothin’ while de voice is a callin’ I reck’n he knows what he’s a-doin’.
“He knows whether de wheels in his pocket is fitt’n fur de gorspil kyar ur not! An’ I say ter you to-day dat ef dat money in yo’ pocket ain’t clean money, don’t you dare ter fetch it up heah!
“Ef you made dat money sneakin’ roun’ henrooses in de dark o’ de moon—I don’t say you is, but ef you is—you set right still in yo’ seat an’ don’t dare ter offer it ter de Lord, I say!
“Ef you backed yo’ wagon inter somebody else’s watermillion patch by de roadside an’ loaded up on yo’ way ter town ‘fo’ sunup—I don’t say you is, mind yer, but ef you is—set right whar you is, an’ do des like you been doin’, ‘caze de money you made on dat early mornin’ wagon load ain’t fitt’n fur wheels fur de gorspil train!
“An’ deze yo’ng men at de winders, I say, ef de wheels in yo’ pockets come f’om matchin’ nickels on de roadside, or kyard-playin’, or maybe drivin’ home de wrong pig. (You nee’n’t ter laugh. De feller dat spo’ts de shinies’ stovepipe hat of a Sunday sometimes cuts de ears off’n de shoat he kills of a Sa’day, ‘caze de ears got a tell-tale mark on ‘em.) An’, I say, ef you got yo’ money dat a-way, won’t you des move back from de winders, please, an’ meck room fur some o’ dem standin’ behin’ yer dat got good hones’ wheels ter pass in!”
This secured the window crowds intact, and now Jordan turned to the congregation within.
“An’ now, dear beloved.” He lowered his voice. “For sech as I done specified, let us pray!”
He had raised his hands and was closing his eyes in prayer, when a man rose in the centre of the church.
“Brer Jordan,” he began, laughing with embarrassment. “Ef some o’ de brers ur sisters’ll change a dime fur me—”
Jordan opened his eyes and his hands fell.
“Bless de Lord!” he exclaimed, with feeling.
“Bless de Lord, one man done claired ‘isse’f! Glory, I say! Come on up, Brer Smiff, ‘n’ I’ll gi’e you yo’ change!”
“Ef—Brer Smiff’ll loan me dat nickel?” said a timid voice near the window.
Smith hesitated, grinning broadly.
“Ef—ef I could o’ spared de dime, Mr. Small, I’d a put it in myse’f, but—but—”
“But nothin’! Put de dime in de hat!”
The voice came from near the front now. “Put it all in de hat, Brer Smiff. You owes me a nickel an’ I’ll loan’d it to Mr. Small.”
And so, amid much laughter, Smith reluctantly deposited his dime.
Others followed so fast that when Jordan exclaimed, “Who gwine be de nex’?” his words were almost lost in the commotion. Still his voice had its effect.
“Heah one mo’—two mo’—fo’ mo’—eight mo’! Glory, I say! An’ heah dey come in de winder! Oh, I’m proud ter see it, yo’ng men! I’m proud ter see it!”
Borrowing or making change was now the order of the moment, as every individual present who had not already contributed felt called upon thus to exonerate himself from so grave a charge.
Amid the fresh stir a tremulous female voice raised a hymn, another caught it up, and another—voices strong and beautiful; alto voices soft as flute notes blended with the rich bass notes and triumphant tenors that welled from the choir, and floated in from the windows, until the body of the church itself seemed almost to sway with the rhythmic movement of the stirring hymn
“Salvation’s kyar is movin’.”
Still, above all, Jordan’s voice could be distinguished—as a fine musical instrument, and whether breaking through the tune in a volley of exhortations, or rising superior to it all in a rich tenor—his words thrown in snatches, or drawn out to suit his purpose—never once did it mar the wonderful harmony of the whole.
It was a scene one could not easily forget.
The shaft of low sunlight that now filled the church, revealing a bouquet of brilliant color in gay feathers and furbelows, with a generous sprinkling of white heads, lit up a set of faces at once so serious and so happy, so utterly forgetful of life’s frettings and cares, that I felt as I looked upon them, that their perfect vocal agreement was surely but a faint reflection of a sweet spiritual harmony, which even if it did not survive the moment, was worth a long journey thither, for in so hearty a confession of fellowship, in so complete a laying down of life’s burdens, there is certainly rest and a renewal of strength.
Feeling this to be a good time to slip out unobserved, I noiselessly secured my hat from beneath the pew before me, but I had hardly risen when I perceived a messenger hurrying towards me from the pulpit, with a request that I should remain a moment longer, and before I could take in the situation the singing was over and Jordan was speaking.
What he said, as nearly as I can recall it, was as follows:
“Befo’ I pernounces de benediction, I wants ter ‘spress de thanks o’ dis chu’ch ter de ‘oner’ble visitor wha’ set ‘isse’f so modes’ in de las’ pew dis evenin’, an’ den sen’ up de bigges’ conterbutiom, fulfillin’ de words o’ de Scripture, which say de las’ shill be fus’ an’ de fus’ shill be las’.
“Brer Chesterfiel’ Jones, please ter rise an’ receive de thanks o’ de congergation fur dat gen’rous five-dollar bill wha’ you sont up by Brer Phil Dolittle.”
He paused here, and feeling all eyes turned upon me, I was constrained to rise to my feet, and I think I can truly say that I have never been surprised by greater embarrassment than I felt as I hurriedly subsided to the depths of my corner. Addressing himself now to Dolittle, Jordan continued:
“I ‘ain’t see you walk so biggoty in a long time, Brer Dolittle, as you walked when you fetched up dat five dollars. Ef dis heah ‘d been a cake walk yo’d o’ tooken de prize, sho’.
“De nex’ time dy’ all gets up a cake walk on dis plantation, lemme advise you ter borry a five-dollar note f’om somebody dat don’t know yer, ter tote when yer walk. Hit’ll he’p yer ter keep yo’ chin up.
“An’ dat ain’t all. Hit’ll he’p me ter keep my chin up when I ca’ys dis greenback bill to de grocery to-morrer an’ I’ll turn it into a wheel, too—two wheels, wid a bulge between ‘em. Now guess wha’ dat is?”
The congregation were by this time convulsed with laughter, and some one answered aloud:
“A flour-bar’l!”
“Dat’s it, Joe, a flour-bar’l! You’s a good guesser.
“An’ so now, in de name o’ Col’ Spring Chu’ch, Brer Jones, I thanks you ag’in fur a bar’l o’ flour, an’ I tecks it mighty kin’ o’ you too, ‘caze I knows deys a heap o’ ‘Piscopalpalian preachers wha’ wouldn’t o’ done it! Dey’d be ‘feerd dat ef dey gi’e any o’ de high-risin’ ‘Piscopalpalian flour ter de Baptists dat dey’d ruin it wid col’ water!”
There was so much laughter here that Jordan had to desist for a moment, but he had not finished.
“But,” he resumed, with renewed seriousness—”But ef Christians on’y knowed it, dey kin put a little leaven o’ solid Christianity in all de charity flour dey gi’es away, an’ hit’ll leaven de whole lot so strong dat too much water can’t spile it, nur too much fire can’t scorch it, nur too much fore-sight (ur whatever dis heah is de P’esberteriums mixes in dey bread) can’t set it so stiff it can’t rise, ‘caze hit’s got de strong leaven o’ de spirit in it, an’ hit’s boun’ ter come up!
“I see de sun’s gitt’n low, an’ hit’s time ter let down de bars an’ turn de sheeps loose, an’ de goats too—not sayin’ deys any goats in dis flock, an’ not sayin’ dey ain’t—but ‘fo’ we goes out, I wants ter say one mo’ word ter Brer Dolittle.”
His whole face was atwinkle with merriment now.
“Dey does say, Brer Dolittle, dat riches is mighty ‘ceitful an’ mighty ap’ ter turn a man’s head, an’ I tookin’ notice dat arter you fetched up Brer Chesterfiel’ Jones’s five dollars to-day you nuver corndescended ter meck no secon’ trip to de hat on Brer Dolittle’s ‘count.
“I did think I’d turn a searchin’ glance on yer fur a minute an’ shame yer up heah, but you looked so happy an’ so full o’ biggoty I spared yer, but yer done had time ter cool off now, an’ I ‘bleeged ter bring yer ter de scratch.
“Now, ef you done teched de five-dollar notch an’ can’t git down, we’ll git somebody ter loan’d yer a greenback bill ter fetch up, an’ whils’ de congergation is meditatin’ on dey sins I’ll gi’e you back fo’ dollars an’ ninety-five cents.”
Amid screams of laughter poor little Dolittle, a comical, wizen-faced old man, nervously secured a nickel from the corner of his handkerchief, and, grinning broadly, walked up with it.
“De ve’y leastest a man kin do,” Jordan continued, as leaning forward he presented the hat—”de ve’y leastest he kin do is ter live up ter ‘is name, an’ ef my name was Dolittle I sho’ would try ter live up ter dat, ef I didn’t pass beyond it!”
And as he restored the hat to the table beside him, he added, with a quizzical lift of his brow:
“I does try ter live up ter my name even, an’ yer know, my feller-sinners, hit does look like a hard case fur a man o’ my color ter live up ter de name o’ White.”
He waited again for laughter to subside.
“At leas’,” he resumed, seriously, “hit did look like a hard case at fust, but by de grace o’ Gord I done ‘skivered de way ter do it!
“Ef we all had ter live up ter our skins, hit’d be purty hard on a heap of us; but, bless de Lord! he don’t look at de skins; he looks at de heart!
“I tries ter keep my heart white, an’ my soul white, an’ my sperit white! Dat’s how I tries ter live up ter my name wid a white cornscience, bless de Lord! An’ I looks fur my people ter he’p me all dey kin.”
And now, amid a hearty chorus of “Amens!” and “Glorys!” he raised his hands for a benediction, which in its all-embracing scope did not fail to invoke Divine favor upon “our good ‘Piscopalpalian brother, Riviren’ Chesterfiel’ Jones—Gord bless him.”
