Spirit of Jefferson. [volume] (Charles Town, Va. [W. Va.]) 1844-1948, 1886-06-01
The Rev. Samuel p. Jones.
IFrem our baltimore corresp0ndsnt.l

From our Baltimore Correspondent
/ do not know what p stands for.
Prodigious, perhaps.
For he is clerical giant.
A mighty man of the Lord.
a Samson who has escaped from
DeIilah and is Staying the Philistines
by wholesale.
Nine o'clock Friday morning, May
%, finds your correspondent perched
on the altar rail at Epworth Church.
He has been there since eight o'clock,
and he was very lucky to get there.
Far down the long aisles, up in the
galleries, in the windows, out in the
vestibule, down the stone steps, out
on the pavement to the curb, men and
women are fretting, pushing, patient
ly waiting to catch the words of life
as they fall from the lips of the man
who delights to call himself Sam
Jones.
Nine O'Clock of busy day, yet one
half of the great congregation are
men.
Mr.. Jones has ceased to be nov
city in Baltimore, he has been here a
month, it is not curiosity that has
brought the crowd.
Nine O'Clock, there is flutter of
expectancy aud as the door to the
RIGHT of the pulpit opens all bend for
ward to take good. square look at
Mr.. Jones and Mr.. Excel as they en-
ter.
For moment Mr.. Jones stands
silently looking at the people.
A tall, thin, angular, awkward,
loose-jointed frame.
A complexion like an old tallow
candle.
Coarse, black hair, cut a la stubhle.
Only one long lock falls down over
the low forehead.
A scattered, thin, pinched and we'll
pulled mouStachc struggles for an eX-
istence on his upper lip.
Small, bright, piercing eyes. too
far back in his head TO show their
color.
Great seams in his face, cut deep
and giving an aged look.
No teeth to speak of.
Thin bloodless lips, a square shaped
mouth.
A nose which comes to a very sud-
den, abrupt and pointed end
Long, swinging arms, restless as
pendulum, ending in big, bony hands
full of power.
He cares little for personal appear
ance, his shoes need half soling, his
pants bag at the knees, his long,
black coat sleeves cover his cuffless
wrists, and white and black necktie
sticks out from his standing collar.
He is study in black and yellow.
Whittier mil ht paint his picture.
OF course 1 shall not try to give a
report of his sermon, for every report
I have read of his sermons was sig
nal failure.
You cannot photograph a flash of
lightning.
You cannot write Jonesism.
But he holds the multitude in his
grasp.
He gathers all the sensibilities OF
the people, all of their emotions in his
hands and they obey his commands.
Laughter waits on him like his
shadow.
But tears follow in the footsteps of
his words.
He thunders out the law in broad,
plain English, and calls drunkard a
drunkard.
He is no mincer of words, he reads
men like an open book.
He takes clear, sweet, plain truth,
cncloses it in q chestnut burr and
cracks it open for you.
To-day he is preaching on Love.
He has a dozen texts all with Love
for the central word.
He does not open the big Bible on
the pulpit.
He does not need it.
He has Bible bound up in him.
He leans forward over the desk.
He pulls nervously, hesitatingly at
his poor moustachee.
His pauses are powerful.
He opens his mouth and says in a
thin, colorless nasal tone, Love-
And a smile slips out the corners
of his mouth, climbs up through the
ravincs in his checks, and his face
becomes a face illumined.
Then he straightens up, pushes his
hair out of his eyes, walks to the side
of the platform, takes his right elbow
in his left hand, and gets off Jones'
ism.
A low ripple of laughter goes over
the mass of upturned faces, and he
echoes it.
He has said good thing.
He knows it.
He enjoys it.
He laughs at it.
In his manner he is the Mark Twain
of the pulpit.
But beneath his cool, calm exterior
the great love of the man for his race
is the urging and compelling power
of his life.
Take him for all and all, he is the
greatest preacher I have ever listened
to.
He has q word for every man,
woman or child in that church.
Preacher and people hear from him
alike.
He will shake hands with two thou
sand people handwriting. and give