IN 1876, circumstances, partly accidental and partly sentimental, led
me to revisit Crooked Creek Church, near the little village of
Rockville, in Middle Georgia. I was amazed at the changes which a few
brief years had wrought. The ancient oaks ranged roundabout remained
the same, but upon everything else time had laid its hand right
heavily. Even the building seemed to have shrunk: the pulpit was less
massive and imposing, the darkness beyond the rafters less mysterious.
The preacher had grown grey, and feebleness had taken the place of that
physical vigour which was the distinguishing feature of his
interpretations of the larger problems of theology. People I had never
seen sat in the places of those I had known so well. There were only
traces here and there of the old congregation, whose austere simplicity
had made so deep an impression upon my youthful mind The blooming girls
of 1860 had grown into careworn matrons, and the young men had
developed in their features the strenuous uncertainty and misery of the
period of desolation and disaster through which they had passed.
Anxiety had so ground itself into their lives that a stranger to the
manner might well have been pardoned for giving a sinister
interpretation to these pitiable manifestations of hopelessness and
unsuccess.
I had known the venerable preacher intimately in the past; but his
eyes, wandering vaguely over the congregation, and resting curiously
upon me, betrayed no recognition. Age, which had whitened his hair and
enfeebled his voice, seemed also to have given him the privilege of
ignoring everything but the grave and the mysteries beyond.
These swift processes of change and decay were calculated to make a
profound impression, but my attention was called away from all such
reflections. Upon a bench near the pulpit, in the section reserved for
the coloured members, sat an old negro man whose face was perfectly
familiar. I had known him in my boyhood as Mingo, the carriage-driver
and body-servant of Judge Junius Wornum. He had changed but little. His
head was whiter than when I saw him last, but his attitude was as firm
and as erect, and the evidences of his wonderful physical strength as
apparent, as ever. He sat with his right hand to his chin, his strong
serious face turned contemplatively toward the rafters. When his eye
chanced to meet mine, a smile of recognition lit up his features, his
head and body drooped forward, and his hand fell away from his face,
completing a salutation at once graceful, picturesque, and imposing.
I have said that few evidences of change manifested themselves in
Mingo; and so it seemed at first, but a closer inspection showed one
remarkable change. I had known him when his chief purpose in life
seemed to be to enjoy himself. He was a slave, to be sure, but his
condition was no restraint upon his spirits. He was known far and wide
as "Laughing Mingo," and upon hundreds of occasions he was the boon
companion of the young men about Rockville in their wild escapades.
Many who read this will remember the "'possum suppers" which it was
Mingo's delight to prepare for these young men, and he counted among
his friends and patrons many who afterward became distinguished both in
war and in the civil professions. At these gatherings, Mingo, bustling
around and serving his guests, would keep the table in a roar with his
quaint sayings, and his local satires in the shape of impromptu
doggerel; and he would also repeat snatches of orations which he had
heard in Washington when Judge Wornum was a member of Congress. But his
chief accomplishments lay in the wonderful ease and fluency with which
he imitated the eloquent appeals of certain ambitious members of the
Kockville bar, and in his travesties of the bombastic flights of the
stump-speakers of that day.
It appeared, however, as he sat in the church, gazing thoughtfully and
earnestly at the preacher, that the old-time spirit of fun and humour
had been utterly washed out of his face. There was no sign of grief, no
mark of distress, but he had the air of settled anxiety belonging to
those who are tortured by an overpowering responsibility. Apparently
here was an interesting study. If the responsibilities of life are
problems to those who have been trained to solve them, how much more
formidable must they be to this poor negro but lately lifted to his
feet! Thus my reflections took note of the pathetic associations and
suggestions clustering around this dignified representative of an
unfortunate race.
Upon this particular occasion church services were to extend into the
afternoon, and there was an interval of rest after the morning sermon,
covering the hour of noon. This interval was devoted by both old and
young to the discussion of matters seriously practical. The members of
the congregation had brought their dinner baskets, and the contents
thereof were spread around under the trees in true pastoral style.
Those who came unprovided were, in pursuance of an immemorial custom of
the section and the occasion, taken in charge by the simple and hearty
hospitality of the members.
Somehow I was interested in watching Mingo. As he passed from the
church with the congregation, and moved slowly along under the trees,
he presented quite a contrast to the other negroes who were present.
These, with the results of their rural surroundings superadded to the
natural shyness of their race, hung upon the outskirts of the assembly,
as though their presence was merely casual, while Mingo passed along
from group to group of his white friends and acquaintances with that
familiar and confident air of meritorious humility and unpretentious
dignity which is associated with good-breeding and gentility the world
over. When he lifted his hat in salutation, there was no servility in
the gesture; when he bent his head, and dropped his eyes upon the
ground, his dignity was strengthened and fortified rather than
compromised. Both his manners and his dress retained the flavour of a
social system the exceptional features of which were too often by both
friend and foe made to stand for the system itself. His tall beaver,
with its curled brim, and his blue broadcloth dress-coat, faded and
frayed, with its brass buttons, bore unmistakable evidence of their age
and origin, but they seemed to be a reasonable and necessary
contribution to his individuality.
Passing slowly through the crowd, Mingo made his way to a double-seated
buggy shielded from all contingencies of sun and rain by an immense
umbrella. Prom beneath the seat he drew forth a large hamper, and
proceeded to arrange its contents upon a wide bench which stood near.
While this was going on I observed a tall angular woman, accompanied by
a bright-looking little girl, making her way toward Mingo's buggy. The
woman was plainly, oven shabbily, dressed, so that the gay ribbons and
flowers worn by the child were gaudy by contrast. The woman pressed
forward with decision, her movements betraying a total absence of that
undulatory grace characteristic of the gentler sex, while the little
girl dancing about her showed not only the grace and beauty of youth,
but a certain refinement of pose and gesture calculated to attract
attention.
Mingo made way for these with ready deference, and after a little I saw
him coming toward me. He came forward, shook hands, and remarked that
he had brought me an invitation to dine with Mrs. Feratia Bivins.
"Miss F'raishy 'members you, boss," he said, bowing and smiling, "en
she up'n say she be mighty glad er yo' comp'ny ef you kin put up wid
cole vittles an' po' far'; en ef you come," he added on his own
account, "we like it mighty well."