Mingo
J >> Joel Chandler Harris >> MingoMINGO
AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND WHITE
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
"UNCLE REMUS"
_Author's Edition_
EDINBURGH
DAVID DOUGLAS, CASTLE STREET
1899
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY T. AND A. CONSTABLE FOR DAVID DOUGLAS
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO.
CONTENTS.
MINGO: A SKETCH OF LIFE IN MIDDLE GEORGIA
AT TEAGUE POTEET'S: A SKETCH OF THE HOG MOUNTAIN RANGE
A PIECE OF LAND
BLUE DAVE
MINGO: A SKETCH OF LIFE IN MIDDLE GEORGIA
I.
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."
II.
ACCEPTING the invitation, I presently found myself dining with Mrs.
Bivins, and listening to her remarkable flow of small-talk, while Mingo
hovered around, the embodiment of active hospitality.
"Mingo 'lowed he'd ast you up," said Mrs. Bivins, "an' I says, says I,
'Don't you be a-pesterin' the gentulmun, when you know thar's plenty er
the new-issue quality ready an' a-waitin' to pull an' haul at 'im,'
says I. Not that I begrudge the vittles--not by no means; I hope I
hain't got to that yit. But somehow er 'nother folks what hain't got no
great shakes to brag 'bout gener'ly feels sorter skittish when strange
folks draps in on 'em. Goodness knows I hain't come to that pass wher'
I begrudges the vittles that folks eats, bekaze anybody betweenst this
an' Clinton, Jones County, Georgy, 'll tell you the Sanderses wa'n't
the set to stint the'r stomachs. I was a Sanders 'fore I married, an'
when I come 'way frum pa's house hit was thes like turnin' my back on a
barbecue. Not by no means was I begrudgin' of the vittles. Says I,
'Mingo,' says I, 'ef the gentulmun is a teetotal stranger, an' nobody
else hain't got the common perliteness to ast 'im, shorely you mus' ast
'im,' says I; 'but don't go an' make no great to-do,' says I; 'bekaze
the little we got mightent be satisfactual to the gentulmun,' says I.
What we got may be little enough, an' it may be too much, but hit's
welcome."
It would be impossible to convey an idea of the emphasis which Mrs.
Bivins imposed upon her conversation. She talked rapidly, but with a
certain deliberation of manner which gave a quaint interest to
everything she said. She had thin grey hair, a prominent nose, firm
thin lips, and eyes that gave a keen and sparkling individuality to
sharp and homely features. She had evidently seen sorrow and defied it.
There was no suggestion of compromise in manner or expression. Even her
hospitality was uncompromising. I endeavoured to murmur my thanks to
Mrs. Bivins for Mingo's thoughtfulness, but her persistent conversation
drowned out such poor phrases as I could hastily frame.
"Come 'ere, Pud Hon," continued Mrs. Bivins, calling the child, and
trimming the demonstrative terms of "Pudding" and "Honey" to suit all
exigencies of affection--"come 'ere, Pud Hon, an' tell the gentulmun
howdy. Gracious me! don't be so _countrified_. He ain't a-gwine to
_bite_ you. No, sir, you won't fine no begrudgers mixed up with the
_Sanderses_. Hit useter be a _common_ sayin' in Jones, an' cle'r 'cross
into Jasper, that pa would 'a bin a rich man an' 'a owned _niggers_ if
it hadn't but 'a bin bekase he sot his head agin stintin' of his
stomach. That's what they useter say--usen't they, Mingo?"
"Dat w'at I year tell, Miss F'raishy--sho'," Mingo assented, with great
heartiness. But Mrs. Bivins's volubility would hardly wait for this
perfunctory indorsement. She talked as she arranged the dishes, and
occasionally she would hold a piece of crockery suspended in the air as
she emphasised her words. She dropped into a mortuary strain--"Poor
pa! I don't never have nuthin' extry an' I don't never see a dish er
fried chicken but what pa pops in my mind. A better man hain't never
draw'd the breath of life--that they hain't. An' he was thes as gayly
as a kitten. When we gals'd have comp'ny to dinner, pore pa he'd cut
his eye at me, an' up an' say, says he, 'Gals, this 'ere turkey's
mighty nice, yit I'm reely afeared you put too much inguns in the
stuffin. Maybe the young men don't like 'em as good as you all does;'
an' then pore pa'd drap his knife an' fork, an' laugh tell the tears
come in his eyes. Sister Prue she useter run off an' have a cry, but I
was one er the kind what wa'n't easy sot back.
"I'd 'a bin mighty glad if Pud yer had er took airter pa's famerly, but
frum the tip eend er her toe nails to the toppermust ha'r of her head
she's a Wornum. Hit ain't on'y thes a streak yer an' a stripe thar--
hit's the whole bolt. I reckon maybe you know'd ole Jedge June Wornum;
well, Jedge June he was Pud's gran'pa, an' Deely Wornum was her ma.
Maybe you might 'a seed Deely when she was a school-gal."
Cordelia Wornum! No doubt my astonishment made itself apparent, for
Mrs. Bivins bridled up promptly, and there was a clearly perceptible
note of defiance in her tone as she proceeded.
"Yes, sir-ree! _An' make no mistake!_ Deely Wornum married my son, an'
Henry Clay Bivina made 'er a good husbun', if I do have to give it out
myse'f. Yes, 'ndeed! An' yit if you'd 'a heern the rippit them Wornums
kicked up, you'd 'a thought the pore chile'd done took'n run off 'long
of a whole passel er high pirates frum somewheres er 'nother. In about
that time the ole Jedge he got sorter fibbled up, some say in his feet,
an' some say in his head; but his wife, that Em'ly Wornum, she taken on
awful. I never seen her a-gwine on myse'f; not that they was any hidin'
out 'mongst the Bivinses er the Sanderses--bless you, no! bekaze here's
what wa'n't afeared er all the Wornums in the continental State er
Georgy, not if they'd 'a mustered out under the lead er ole Nick
hisse'f, which I have my doubta if he wa'n't somewheres aroun'. I never
seen 'er, but I heern tell er how she was a-cuttin' up. You mayn't
think it, but that 'oman taken it on herse'f to call up all the niggers
on the place an' give 'em her forbiddance to go an' see the'r young
mistiss."
"Yit I lay dey tuck 'n sneak 'roun' en come anyhow, ain't dey, Miss
F'raishy?" inquired Mingo, rubbing his hands together and smiling
blandly.
"_That_ they did--_that_ they did!" was Mrs. Bivins's emphatic
response. "Niggers is niggers, but them Wornum niggers was a cut er two
'bove the common run. I'll say that, an' I'll say it on the witness
stan'. Freedom might a turned the'r heads when it come to t'other
folks, but hit didn't never turn the'r heads 'bout the'r young mistiss.
An' if Mingo here hain't done his juty 'cordin' to his lights, then I
dunner what juty is. I'll say that open an' above-board, high an' low."
The curious air of condescension which Mrs. Bivins assumed as she said
this, the tone of apology which she employed in paying this tribute to
Mingo and the Wornum negroes, formed a remarkable study. Evidently she
desired me distinctly to understand that in applauding these worthy
coloured people she was in no wise compromising her own dignity.
Thus Mrs. Bivins rattled away, pausing only long enough now and then to
deplore my lack of appetite. Meanwhile Mingo officiated around the
improvised board with gentle affability; and the little girl, bearing
strong traces of her lineage in her features--a resemblance which was
confirmed by a pretty little petulance of temper--made it convenient
now and again to convey a number of tea cakes into Mingo's hat, which
happened to be sitting near, the conveyance taking place in spite of
laughable pantomimic protests on the part of the old man, ranging from
appealing nods and grimaces to indignant frowns and gestures.
"When Deely died," Mrs. Bivins went on, waving a towel over a tempting
jar of preserves, "they wa'n't nobody but what was afeared to break it
to Emily Wornum, an' the pore chile'd done been buried too long to talk
about before her ma heern tell of it, an' then she drapped like a clap
er thunder had hit 'er. Airter so long a time, Mingo thar he taken it
'pun hisse'f to tell 'er, an' she flopped right down in 'er tracks, an'
Mingo he holp 'er into the house, an', bless your life, when he come to
he'p 'er out'n it, she was a changed 'oman. 'Twa'n't long 'fore she
taken a notion to come to my house, an' one mornin' when I was
a-washin' up dishes, I heern some un holler at the gate, an' thar sot
Mingo peerched up on the Wornum carry-all, an' of all livin' flesh, who
should be in thar but ole Emily Wornum!
"Hit's a sin to say it," continued Mrs. Bivins, smiling a dubious
little smile that was not without its serious suggestions, "but I
tightened up my apern strings, an' flung my glance aroun' tell hit
drapped on the battlin'-stick, bekaze I flared up the minnit I seen
'er, an' I says to myse'f, says I: 'If hit's a fracas youer huntin', my
lady, I lay you won't hafter put on your specs to fine it.' An' then I
says to Pud, says I--
"'Pud Hon, go in the shed-room thar, chile, an' if you hear anybody
a-hollerin' an' a-squallin', thes shet your eyeleds an' grit your teeth,
bekaze hit'll be your pore ole granny a-tryin' to git even with some er
your kin.'
"An' then I taken a cheer an' sot down by the winder. D'reckly in come
Emily Wornum, an' I wish I may die if I'd 'a know'd 'er if I'd saw 'er
anywheres else on the face er the yeth. She had this 'ere kinder
dazzled look what wimmen has airter they bin baptized in the water. I
helt my head high, but I kep' my eye on the battlin'-stick, an' if
she'd 'a made fight, I'll be boun' they'd 'a bin some ole sco'es
settled then an' thar if ole sco'es ken be settled by a frailin'. But,
bless your heart, they wa'n't never no cammer 'oman than what Emily
Wornum was; an' if you'd 'a know'd 'er, an' Mingo wa'n't here to b'ar
me out, I wish I may die if I wouldn't be afeared to tell you how ca'm
an' supjued that 'oman was, which in her young days she was a
tarrifier. She up an' says, says she--
"'Is Mizzers Bivins in?'
"'Yessum,' says I, 'she is that-away. An more 'n that, nobody don't
hafter come on this hill an' holler more 'n twicet 'thout gittin'some
kinder answer back. _Yessum!_ An' what's more, Mizzers Bivins is come
to that time er life when she's mighty proud to git calls from the
big-bugs. If I had as much perliteness, ma'am, as I is cheers, I'd ast you
to set down,' says I.
"She stood thar, she did, thes as cool as a cowcumber; but d'reckly she
ups an' says, says she--
"'Might I see my little gran'chile?' says she.
"'Oho, ma'am!' says I; 'things is come to a mighty purty pass when
quality folks has to go frum house to house a-huntin' up pore white
trash, an' a-astin' airter the'r kin. Tooby shore! tooby shore! Yessum,
a mighty purty pass,' says I."
I cannot hope to give even a faint intimation of the remarkable
dramatic fervour and earnestness of this recital, nor shall I attempt
to describe the rude eloquence of attitude and expression; but they
seemed to represent the real or fancied wrongs of a class, and to
spring from the pent-up rage of a century.
"I wa'n't lookin' fer no compermise, nuther," Mrs. Bivins continued. "I
fully spected 'er to flar' up an' fly at me; but 'stedder that, she
kep' a-stan'in' thar lookin' thes like folks does when theyer runnin'
over sump'n in the'r min'. Then her eye lit on some 'er the pictur's
what Deely had hung up on the side er the house, an' in pertic'lar one
what some 'er the Woruum niggers had fetched 'er, whar a great big dog
was a-watehin' by a little bit er baby. When she seen that, bless your
soul, she thes sunk right down on the floor, an' clincht 'er han's, an'
brung a gasp what looked like it might er bin the last, an' d'reckly
she ast, in a whisper, says she--
"'Was this my dear daughter's room?'
"Maybe you think," said Mrs. Bivins, regarding me coldly and
critically, and pressing her thin lips more firmly together, if that
could be--"maybe you think I oughter wrung my han's, an' pitied that
'oman kneelin' thar in that room whar all my trouble was born an' bred.
Some folks would 'a flopped down by 'er, an' I won't deny but what hit
come over me; but the nex' minnit hit flashed acrost me as quick an'
hot as powder how she'd 'a bin a-houndin' airter me an' my son, an'
a-treatin' us like as we'd 'a bin the offscourin's er creation, an' how
she cast off her own daughter, which Deely was as good a gal as ever
draw'd the breath er life--when all this come over me, hit seem like to
me that I couldn't keep my paws off'n 'er. I hope the Lord'll forgive
me--that I do--but if hit hadn't but 'a bin for my raisin', I'd 'a
jumped at Emily Wornum an' 'a spit in 'er face an' 'a clawed 'er eyes
out'n 'er. An' yit, with ole Nick a-tuggin' at me, I was a Christun
'nuff to thank the Lord that they was a tender place in that pore
miserbul creetur's soul-case.
"When I seen her a-kneelin' thar, with 'er year-rings a-danglin' an'
'er fine feathers a-tossin' an' a-trimblin', leetle more an' my
thoughts would 'a sot me afire. I riz an' I stood over her, an' I says,
says I--
"'Emily Wornum, whar you er huntin' the dead you oughter hunted the
livin'. What's betwix' you an' your Maker _I_ can't tell,' says I, 'but
if you git down on your face an' lick the dirt what Deely Bivins walked
on, still you won't be humble enough for to go whar _she's_ gone, nor
good enough nuther. She died right yer while you was a-traipsin' an'
a-trollopin' roun' frum pos' to pillar a-upholdin' your quality idees.
These arms helt 'er,' says I, 'an' ef hit hadn't but 'a bin for _her_,
Emily Wornum,' says I, 'I'd 'a strangled the life out'n you time your
shadder darkened my door. An' what's more,' says I, 'ef youer come to
bother airter Pud, _the make the trail of it. Thes so much as lay the
weight er your little finger on 'er,_' says I, '_an' I'll grab you by
the goozle an' t'ar your haslet out_,' says I."
O mystery of humanity! It was merely Mrs. Feratia Bivins who had been
speaking, but the voice was the voice of Tragedy. Its eyes shone; its
fangs glistened and gleamed; its hands clutched the air; its tone was
husky with suppressed fury; its rage would have stormed the barriers of
the grave. In another moment Mrs. Bivins was brushing the crumbs from
her lap, and exchanging salutations with her neighbours and
acquaintances; and a little later, leading her grandchild by the hand,
she was making her way back to the church, where the congregation had
begun to gather.
III.
FOR my own part, I preferred to remain under the trees, and I soon
found that this was the preference of Mingo. The old man had finished
his dinner, and sat at the foot of a gigantic oak, gazing dreamily at
the fleecy clouds that sailed across the sky. His hands were clasped
above his head, and his attitude was one of reflection. The hymn with
which the afternoon services were opened came through the woods with a
distinctness that was not without a remote and curious suggestion of
pathos. As it died away, Mingo raised himself slightly, and said, in a
tone that was intended to be explanatory, if not apologetic--
"Miss F'raishy, ef she ain't one sight, den I ain't never seed none. I
s'pec' it seem sorter funny ter you, boss, but dat w'ite 'oman done had
lots er trouble; she done had bunnunce er trouble--she sholy is! Look
mighty cu'us dat some folks can't git useter yuther folks w'at got
Fergiuny ways, but dat's Miss F'raishy up en down. Dat's her, sho! Ole
Miss en ole Marster dey had Ferginny ways, en Miss F'raishy she
wouldn't 'a staid in a ten-acre fiel' wid urn--dat she wouldn't. Folks
wa't got Ferginny ways, Miss F'raishy she call um big-bugs, en she git
hos_tile_ w'en she year der name call. Hit's de same way wid niggers.
Miss F'raishy she hate de common run er niggers like dey wuz pizen. Yit
I ain't makin' no complaints, kaze she mighty good ter me. I goes en I
suns myse'f in Miss F'raishy back peazzer all day Sundays, w'en dey
ain't no meetin's gwine on, en all endurin' er de week I hangs 'roun'
en ploughs a little yer, en hoes a little dar, en scratches a little
yander, en looks arter ole Miss' gran'chile. But des let 'n'er nigger
so much ez stick der chin 'cross de yard palin's, en, bless yo' soul,
you'll year Miss F'raishy blaze out like de woods done cotch afire."
Mingo paused here to chuckle over the discomfiture and alarm of the
imaginary negro who had had the temerity to stick his supposititious
chin over the fence. Then he went on--
"I dunner whar Miss F'raishy git do notion 'bout dat chile a-faverin'
er de Wornums, kaze she de ve'y spit en image er ole Miss, en ole Miss
wuz a full-blood Bushrod. De Bushrods is de fambly what I cum fum
myse'f, kaze w'en ole Miss marry Marster, my mammy fell ter her, en
w'en I got big 'nuff, dey tuck me in de house fer ter wait on de table
en do er'n's, en dar I bin twel freedom come out. She 'uz mighty
high-strung, ole Miss wuz, yit I sees folks dese days put on mo' a'rs dan
w'at ole Miss ever is. I ain't 'sputin' but w'at she hilt 'er head
high, en I year my mammy say dat all the Bushrods in Ferginny done
zactly dat a way.
"High-strung yer, headstrong yander," continued Mingo, closing one eye,
and gazing at the sun with a confidential air. "Ef it hadn't er bin fer
de high-strungity-head-strongityness er de Bushrod blood, Miss Deely
wouldn't 'a never runn'd off wid Clay Bivins in de roun' worril, dough
he 'uz des one er de nicest w'ite mens w'at you 'mos' ever laid yo'
eyes on. Soon ez she done dat, wud went 'roun' fum de big house dat de
nigger w'at call Miss Deely name on dat plantation would be clap on de
cote-house block, en ole Miss she shot 'erse'f up, she did, en arter
dat mighty few folks got a glimpse un 'er, 'ceppin' hit 'uz some er de
kin, en bless yo' soul, _dey_ hatter look mighty prim w'en dey come
whar she wuz. Ole Marster he ain't say nothin', but he tuck a fresh
grip on de jimmy-john, en it got so dat, go whar you would, dey want no
mo' lonesomer place on de face er de yeth dan dat Wornum plantation, en
hit look like ruination done sot in. En den, on top er dat, yer come de
war, en Clay Bivins he went off en got kilt, en den freedom come out,
en des 'bout dat time Miss Deely she tuck 'n' die.