Nor did they want visitors. An old gentleman, of singular
stolidity, and called Breedlove--I think he had crossed the plains
in the same caravan with Rufe--housed with them for awhile during
our stay; and they had besides a permanent lodger, in the form of
Mrs. Hanson's brother, Irvine Lovelands. I spell Irvine by guess;
for I could get no information on the subject, just as I could
never find out, in spite of many inquiries, whether or not Rufe was
a contraction for Rufus. They were all cheerfully at sea about
their names in that generation. And this is surely the more
notable where the names are all so strange, and even the family
names appear to have been coined. At one time, at least, the
ancestors of all these Alvins and Alvas, Loveinas, Lovelands, and
Breedloves, must have taken serious council and found a certain
poetry in these denominations; that must have been, then, their
form of literature. But still times change; and their next
descendants, the George Washingtons and Daniel Websters, will at
least be clear upon the point. And anyway, and however his name
should be spelt, this Irvine Lovelands was the most unmitigated
Caliban I ever knew.
Our very first morning at Silverado, when we were full of business,
patching up doors and windows, making beds and seats, and getting
our rough lodging into shape, Irvine and his sister made their
appearance together, she for neighbourliness and general curiosity;
he, because he was working for me, to my sorrow, cutting firewood
at I forget how much a day.
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