Fifteen Days: An Extract from Edward Colvil's Journal

by Mary Lowell Putnam

Last Sunday was one of those days that are remembered for their own perfection, apart from the associations that may have gathered about them; and it seems to be one of the properties of these transcendent seasons to come attended by all harmonious circumstances. Nothing was wanting to last Sunday. It stands cloudless and faultless in my memory.

Harry proposed that we should hold our services in the open air. My mother approved. We took up her couch and carried it out to your favorite dreaming-ground, setting it down near the old tree that goes, for your sake, by the name of Keith's Pine. The place is not rough as when you were here. I have had the stumps cleared away, and your pine no longer looks so lonely, now that it seems to have been always alone.

We brought out a bench and all the chairs in the house. We placed the bench opposite my mother's couch, about thirty feet off. We set the great arm-chair for the Doctor, near the head of the couch, which we considered the place of honor. My straight-backed oak chair was put near the foot, with my mother's little table before it for the books. The other chairs were arranged in a semicircle on each side, with liberal spaces. Tabitha assisted at these dispositions, and chose a place for her own favorite willow chair close to the trunk of the pine-tree, between it and the couch, where, as she said, she had a full view of the congregation. I understood very well that the poor soul had another motive, and was guarding her dignity by selecting a distinguished and at the same time a secluded station. When she saw that all was in order, she went back to the house to stay until the last moment, in order to direct late comers.

Harry, at first, sat down on the grass near me; but when Karl and Fritz came, they looked toward him, evidently divided between their desire to be near him and their fear of presuming. Discretion prevailed, and they took their seats on the ground at a little distance from the bench. Harry perceived their hesitation, and saw Hans consulting me with his eyes. He was up in a moment, brought a chair and put it beside mine for the old man, who is getting a little deaf, and then exchanging a smiling recognition with the boys, took his own place near them.

Barton, the landlord of the Rapid Run, at Quickster, came that morning. You cannot have forgotten Quickster, the pretty village with a water-fall, which charmed you so much,—about five miles from Tenpinville, to the north. And I hope you remember Barton, the landlord of the inn that takes its name and its sign from the swift little river that courses by his door. He never sees me without inquiring after you. He shows the delights of his neighborhood always with the same zeal. He guided the Doctor and Harry about it for an hour or two the day they passed through Quickster, coming from Omocqua. It was to him the Doctor had recourse, when he went back to hire a wagon for poor Orphy. I thought at first that Barton had forgotten the custom of our Sunday morning, and had only meant to pay me a visit. But it was not so. He had his son with him,—Isaac Davis Barton,—who is now ten years old, and in whom, he says, he wants to keep a little of the New-Englander, if he can, and so shall bring him over to our reading every fair Sunday. I did not know whether I ought to feel pleased or not. There is no church at Quickster yet; but there is one at Tenpinville,—two, I think. I have no doubt at all that I have done well to invite our few neighbors, who have no chance of hearing a good word in any other way, to listen to a chapter in the Bible and a sermon here on Sunday. I have had evidence that some of them have been made happier, and I almost dare to think better, by coming. But it is another thing when there is an opportunity of attending regular religious services. I did not think it well to discourage Barton by telling him my scruples on this first occasion. It would have been rather ungracious after his ten miles' ride. I like the little boy very much, and hope we shall be good friends. I shall feel a better right to advise by and by. Barton had a chair near Dr. Borrow's; his son sat in front of him on the grass.

Next to Barton came an old man and his wife, who have established themselves in one of the empty houses on the Shaler plantation,—whether by permission or as squatters I do not know, and nobody about here does. But as the man has a smattering of two or three trades through which he makes himself acceptable, and the woman some secrets in cookery and other household arts which she imparts very readily, no umbrage is taken at them. Their name is Franket. They have simple, honest faces, and bring nothing discordant with them.

The next place in this semicircle was filled by a man who has not a very good name in the neighborhood. Meeting him one day, I asked him to join us on Sundays, only because I ask all who live near enough to come easily. I did it with a little trouble, expecting to see a sneer on his face; but he thanked me quite civilly, and, though several weeks passed without his taking any further notice of my invitation, it seems he had not forgotten it. He is not an ill-looking man, when you see him fairly. His expression is melancholy rather than morose, as I used to think it. After this, I shall never take refusal for granted, when I have anything to offer which I believe worth accepting. This man's name is Winford. I assigned to him, as a stranger, one of two remaining chairs; but he declined it, taking his seat on the ground. The chairs were immediately after occupied by the wife and daughter of Rufe Hantham, a man tolerated for abilities convenient rather than useful. He is one of the class of parasites that spring up about every large plantation. He is a hanger-on of the Westlake estate, which lies just beyond Shaler's, between that and Tenpinville. The wife is a poor little woman, whose face wears an habitual expression of entreaty. It is the daughter who brings her, I think. This young girl, of fifteen or less, has a look of thought and determination, as if she held in her mind some clearly formed plan which she will carry out to the end, towards which her coming here is possibly one of the first steps. She keeps her eyes fixed on the ground, but evidently is listening intently,—committing, as it seems, everything she hears to a memory that never lets go what it has once taken hold of. They have been twice before. When the reading is over, the mother looks as if she would like to have a little chat with somebody; but the daughter holds her in check with hand and eye,—not unkindly, but effectually. They wait until some one sets the example of going, and then follow quickly and silently. We have made no attempt to invade a reserve which seems deliberate.

Harvey's plantation is on the other side of Tenpinville, more than eighteen miles from us; but it had a representative here, in young Lenox, one of the sons of the overseer. He came for the first time. He sat in the opposite semicircle, next to Harry, with whom he was already acquainted. The chairs on that side were occupied by the Segrufs and Blantys, respectable neighbors, whom you may remember.

Another new-comer was a little boy whom we met in our morning walk, and who joined himself to us at once with a confidence which was very pleasant. Harry took a great fancy to him. I asked him to come to us at ten, hardly hoping he would accept; but he did, eagerly. He does not belong to our part of the world. He is the son of a carpenter who has work here for a few months. I was glad to see him come in, and another little fellow whose father has brought him once or twice, but who has not been alone before. The father is not often well enough to come.

There are one or two persons whom I am always glad not to see; and that morning my wishes were answered in those who came and in those who stayed away. Of these last is Phil Phinn, who thinks to make up for the time of mine he uses in the adjustment of his neighborly differences by devoting an hour of his own, once in two or three weeks, to the penance of listening to me. I could well spare his vacant solemnity that day. His absence was of good augury, too, for he is strict in attendance when an occasion for mediation is imminent.