He Belongs To The Straitest Sect Of Reformed Presbyterians
("Psalm-Singers"), But Exaggerates Anything Of Bigotry And
Intolerance Which May Characterize Them, And Rejoices In Truly
Merciless Fashion Over The Excision Of The Philanthropic Mr.
Stuart, Of Philadelphia, For Worshipping With Congregations Which
Sing Hymns.
His great boast is that his ancestors were Scottish
Covenanters.
He considers himself a profound theologian, and by
the pine logs at night discourses to me on the mysteries of the
eternal counsels and the divine decrees. Colorado, with its
progress and its future, is also a constant theme. He hates
England with a bitter, personal hatred, and regards any allusions
which I make to the progress of Victoria as a personal insult.
He trusts to live to see the downfall of the British monarchy and
the disintegration of the empire. He is very fond of talking,
and asks me a great deal about my travels, but if I speak
favorably of the climate or resources of any other country, he
regards it as a slur on Colorado.
They have one hundred and sixty acres of land, a "Squatter's
claim," and an invaluable water power. He is a lumberer, and has
a saw-mill of a very primitive kind. I notice that every day
something goes wrong with it, and this is the case throughout.
If he wants to haul timber down, one or other of the oxen cannot
be found; or if the timber is actually under way, a wheel or a
part of the harness gives way, and the whole affair is at a
standstill for days. The cabin is hardly a shelter, but is
allowed to remain in ruins because the foundation of a frame
house was once dug. A horse is always sure to be lame for want
of a shoe nail, or a saddle to be useless from a broken buckle,
and the wagon and harness are a marvel of temporary shifts,
patchings, and insecure linkings with strands of rope. Nothing
is ever ready or whole when it is wanted. Yet Chalmers is a
frugal, sober, hard-working man, and he, his eldest son, and a
"hired man" "Rise early," "going forth to their work and labor
till the evening"; and if they do not "late take rest," they
truly "eat the bread of carefulness." It is hardly surprising
that nine years of persevering shiftlessness should have resulted
in nothing but the ability to procure the bare necessaries of
life.
Of Mrs. C. I can say less. She looks like one of the English
poor women of our childhood - lean, clean, toothless, and speaks,
like some of them, in a piping, discontented voice, which seems
to convey a personal reproach. All her waking hours are spent in
a large sun-bonnet. She is never idle for one minute, is severe
and hard, and despises everything but work. I think she suffers
from her husband's shiftlessness. She always speaks of me as
"This" or "that woman." The family consists of a grown-up son, a
shiftless, melancholy-looking youth, who possibly pines for a
wider life; a girl of sixteen, a sour, repellent-looking
creature, with as much manners as a pig; and three hard, un-
child-like younger children. By the whole family all courtesy
and gentleness of act or speech seem regarded as "works of the
flesh," if not of "the devil." They knock over all one's things
without apologizing or picking them up, and when I thank them for
anything they look grimly amazed. I feel that they think it
sinful that I do not work as hard as they do. I wish I could
show them "a more excellent way." This hard greed, and the
exclusive pursuit of gain, with the indifference to all which
does not aid in its acquisition, are eating up family love and
life throughout the West. I write this reluctantly, and after a
total experience of nearly two years in the United States. They
seem to have no "Sunday clothes," and few of any kind. The
sewing machine, like most other things, is out of order. One
comb serves the whole family. Mrs. C. is cleanly in her person
and dress, and the food, though poor, is clean. Work, work,
work, is their day and their life. They are thoroughly ungenial,
and have that air of suspicion in speaking of every one which is
not unusual in the land of their ancestors. Thomas Chalmers
is the man's ecclesiastical hero, in spite of his own severe
Puritanism. Their live stock consists of two wretched horses, a
fairly good bronco mare, a mule, four badly-bred cows, four gaunt
and famished-looking oxen, some swine of singularly active
habits, and plenty of poultry. The old saddles are tied on with
twine; one side of the bridle is a worn-out strap and the other a
rope. They wear boots, but never two of one pair, and never
blacked, of course, but no stockings. They think it quite
effeminate to sleep under a roof, except during the severest
months of the year. There is a married daughter across the
river, just the same hard, loveless, moral, hard-working being as
her mother. Each morning, soon after seven, when I have swept
the cabin, the family come in for "worship." Chalmers "wales" a
psalm, in every sense of the word wail, to the most doleful of
dismal tunes; they read a chapter round, and he prays. If his
prayer has something of the tone of the imprecatory psalms, he
has high authority in his favor; and if there be a tinge of the
Pharisaic thanksgiving, it is hardly surprising that he is
grateful that he is not as other men are when he contemplates the
general godlessness of the region.
Sunday was a dreadful day. The family kept the Commandment
literally, and did no work. Worship was conducted twice, and was
rather longer than usual. Chalmers does not allow of any books
in his house but theological works, and two or three volumes of
dull travels, so the mother and children slept nearly all day.
The man attempted to read a well-worn copy of Boston's Fourfold
State, but shortly fell asleep, and they only woke up for their
meals.
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