In Old Plantation Days
The Stanton Coachman
The morning sun touched the little old-fashioned Virginia church with glory, while in the shadow of its vine-covered porch an old negro alternately mumbled to himself and dozed.
It was not yet time for the service to begin, and as I stood watching the bees go in and out of the honeysuckle vines there came up the road and halted at the door a strange equipage. No one could have mistaken her for one of the country women coming in from any of the adjoining farms, for she was unmistakably a lady, from the white hair which crowned her high-bred face to the patched and shabby shoe that peeped from under her dress as she alighted. The black man had leaped down and, holding in one hand the ropes that did duty as reins, helped her tenderly to the ground.”
“The grace and deference of his manner were perfect, and she accepted his service with a certain genial dignity that bespoke custom. She went her feeble way into the church, and I was surprised to see the dozing old negro wake into sudden life, spring up and doff his cap as she passed. Meanwhile, at the heads of the lazy oxen stood the shabby servitor, erect and fine-looking, even in the tattered garments that covered his form.
The scene would have been ludicrous if there had not been about it an air of dignified earnestness that disarmed ridicule. You could almost have imagined that black tatterdemalion there a coachman in splendid livery, standing by the side of his restless chargers, and that ox-cart with its one seat and wheels awry might have been the most dashing of victorias. What had I stumbled upon—one of those romances of the old South that still shed their light among the shadows of slavery?
The old negro in the porch had settled himself again for a nap, but I disregarded his inclination and, the service forgotten, approached him: “Howdy, Uncle.”
“Howdy, son, howdy; how you come on?”
“Oh, I’m tol’able peart,” I answered, falling easily into his manner of speech. “I was just wondering who the old lady was that went in church just now.”
He looked up questioningly for a minute, and then being satisfied of my respect, replied, “Dat uz de Stanton lady—Ol’ Mis’ Stanton.”
“And the black man there?”
“Dat’s Ha’ison; dat’s de Stanton coachman. I reckon you ain’t f’om hyeah?”
“No, but I should like to know about them.”
“Oomph, hit’s a wonder you ain’t nevah hyeahed tell o’ de Stantons. I don’ know whah yo’ been at, man. Why, evahbody knowed de Stantons ‘roun’ ’bout hyeah. Dey wuz de riches’ folks any whah roun’.”
“Well to do, were they?”
“Well to do! Man, whut you talkin’ ’bout? Dey owned neahly all de dahkies in de county, an’ dey wasn’t no hi’in’ out people, neithah. I didn’t long to dem, but I allus wished I did, ‘case—”
“But about Harrison?”
“Ez I were goin’ to say, my ol’ mastah hi’ed out, an’ I wuz on de go mos’ all de time, ‘case I sholy wuz spry an’ handy dem days. Ha’ison, he wuz de coachman, an’ a proudah, finah- dressed dahky you nevah seed in all