A few days after Hagar’s flight Dr. Taine died suddenly in his study at
the Tabernacle from heart disease. He had been overcome with grief when
the news first reached him that she was gone, but as the truth became
more clear and he realized that in spite of his apprehensions he had
permitted her to fall a victim to a scoundrel, the wound sank deeper,
and reached a fatal spot when he learned that her betrayer was a rebel
spy and that he had taken her to Canada. Mrs. Taine clung to her faith
in her “dear Benjamin” up to this crisis. Then she repented her error in
sackcloth and ashes, had the paper she had drawn up in favor of “Smiles”
destroyed, and made a deed conveying the bulk of her property to James
Taine if he survived the war. In case of his death it was to be devoted
to the Union cause.
The dismissal of the charge against Adam Joyce was a natural result of
current events. Knowing that all the prosecuting witnesses were out of
reach, Mr. Amicus Fish pompously moved a nonsuit, and the court
sustained the motion. The bloodless victory thus gained by circumstances
for this shyster of the legal slums brought him many another such
client, and from that day both he and Joyce became powers in local
politics. The latter had long been distinguished as an effective
“heeler” at the polls and now swore that Fish should go to Congress if
he and the ‘boys’ had to ‘clean out’ the district to put him there. The
‘rise’ of Mr. Amicus Fish dated from this period, and was so rapid that,
although he was still ignored by respectable members of the bar, he was
soon very busy before the courts and made political capital by some of
his achievements that promised to raise him to those golden advantages
which so often fall to gentlemen of his stripe, under our glorious
system of grog-shop politics.
On a bleak and dreary night in February a few days after the dismissal
of Joyce, Charles Spencer, the apostle of Mormonism, arrived at
Cincinnati. He had left Cleveland about the end of December, and had
come the entire distance through snow and mire on foot, preaching the
‘new and everlasting covenant’ at every town and village by the way in
which he could obtain a hearing.
Most people regarded him with curiosity or disgust and treated him with
indifference; some thought him insane and pitied him. The fanatics of
other sects, and the idle ruffians of country villages who were on the
lookout for diversion, thought him an excellent target for ridicule and
snowballs, and on a few occasions talked of amusing themselves by
dressing him in tar and feathers. The very few persons who were fair
enough to observe him without undue prejudice, were convinced that he
was an intelligent and earnest young man who had, unfortunately, gone
clean astray from truth and common sense. He was doubtless sincere, they
said, else why did he tramp through the country at that inclement season
to teach his doctrines, existing upon the charity of chance
acquaintances to whom his missionary character was his only
introduction.
To him that wintry tour through Ohio had proved a great hardship, and
the simple fact that he had accomplished it argued well for the fervency
of his faith and the strength of his resolution. In winter time Ohio is
a dismal land for a man without money, home or friends. Long stretches
of prairie and wood-lands had to be traversed where there was no broken
track to mark the road through the deep snow, and the towns were often
so far apart that the distance from one to another could not be covered
between daylight and dark if the traveller faltered, or deviated from
his path. On one occasion he went astray on a by-road in a heavy belt of
timber just as night was coming on, and was obliged to pass the night,
hungry, weary and enfeebled as he was, there in the leafless forest
where all around wore the aspect of death.
Several times during his journey he had been nearly famished, when,
failing to find a stranger who would offer him shelter and food, he had
crawled into a hayloft or a cow-shed with fodder for his bed and a
handful of corn his only fare. But these exigencies neither surprised
nor discouraged him, for he had assumed at the commencement of his
mendicant career, that he must face everything, even martyrdom itself,
if need be, in defense of the great truths he was sent to teach.
Therefore, through all his trials he hugged himself serenely, drawing
vast comfort from the conviction that never failed him, that he was a
man apart, who was doing all this for the Gospel, the real and only
divine religion, and for heaven’s own great latter day prophet. He even
succeeded in converting and baptizing a few persons in the course of his
dreary pilgrimage and they subsequently sold their homes and moved to
“Zion in the mountains” in fulfillment of the behests of the new
religion.
And at last, weary and footsore, much emaciated by want, and hardened by
exposure, he had arrived at the metropolis of southern Ohio where he
proposed laboring during the remainder of his mission. For the past
month he had been without news or advice from either friends or
superiors, but hoped to find letters awaiting him at the post-office.
Meanwhile, however, he was penniless and had nothing of value on which a
dollar or the fractional part of one could be raised. It was nearly nine
o’clock and a pitchy darkness hung over the suburbs of the city through
which he was making his way more dead than alive. His clothing had been
wet through by a rainy sleet which poured down upon him some hours
previously, and the frosty night wind had turned his jacket into ice and
chilled him to the marrow. His boots, which were the worse for wear,
were as hard as wood, and his pantaloons to a point above his knees were
frozen to his legs; the mud and sleet being matted upon them in icy
cakes. He had not eaten what might be called a meal since the morning of
the preceding day since when he had walked some thirty miles on a diet
of crusts and a few ears of dried corn.
In the hope of finding a hospitable door he had approached two or three
houses during the afternoon; but from each the men were evidently
absent, and the women, taking alarm at his desperate appearance, shut
the door in his face without waiting to hear his errand. Though these
good people could not have had the slightest idea of his real calling,
he resignedly bore their treatment as another affront to his religion,
and stalked forward with grim determination sustained by the hope of
meeting with better luck in the town. The slights which had nearly
brought him to the last stage of his endurance, he sneeringly designated
in the mental colloquy that he kept up as he went along, as examples of
‘christian charity.’ It did not occur to him that the country was
infested with deserters and stragglers from both armies, and by spies,
renegades and nondescripts of various kinds who had committed many
depredations, and that he, good saint though he undoubtedly was, greatly
resembled one of these vagabonds, who was likely to cut a throat or a
purse as occasion might demand.
His situation was desperate. He knew nothing about the city in which he
was wandering like a lost sheep, and yet it was essential that he should
find shelter at once. All around him were the mansions of the rich, and
he still had presence of mind enough to realize how fruitless would be
an application for help at one of their doors. On the contrary, he knew
that the place for a man in his condition to seek relief was in some
squalid quarter where the people had nothing to lose and were, in
consequence, not afraid of doubtful looking intruders. He pressed on as
well as he could, but his steps became slower and he was falling into a
reverie: How quickly the rich man’s door is bolted against the angel in
disguise on the pretext of shutting out a robber; but his punishment is
that his pride of gold effectually prevents him from discerning an angel
no matter in what guise it might appear. His musing was interrupted by a
passer by jostling rudely against him. The Mormon turned and tried to
ask the way to the river front, feeling instinctively that there among
the sons of toil he would find at least a warm shelter and a crust of
bread. But the man hurried on as if afraid of him. The next one he met
did the same, and as he stood waiting at a corner with the wind
whistling through his frozen garments, a strange indifference took
possession of him; he walked on a few paces, looking up at the cheerful
lights that gleamed through richly curtained bay-windows, and listening
to strains of music or the notes of happy voices that spoke in melody of
the comforts and delights of home. He felt his blood grow warm under
these cheering influences, and crouched nearer to the iron railings to
catch the tones of a sweet voice that seemed familiar.
Yes, it was the very song his little Mormon sweetheart had sung for him
the day he left “Zion” and with this belief a dreamy sensation stole
over him and he thought he was near her home on a balmy summer night. He
could smell the fragrant locust blossoms, and see the pretty night-hawks
floating in the moonlight above the trees! He sank down in the snow near
the carriage steps wrapped in seraphic peace. He was freezing to death.
He had lain there nearly a quarter of an hour, when a Brougham drew up
at the same steps. The horses snorted and pranced restlessly, and
refused to approach. A footman jumped down from beside the driver, and
taking them by the bits with a gentle but firm “whoa!” tried to lead
them up to the landing. Still they plunged and snorted as if afraid. One
of the carriage windows was now lowered and a handsome woman looked out,
calling to the coachman:
“Are you blind, Tom? Don’t you see there’s a man lying by the steps? The
horses are frightened to death. Stop at the next steps and we will get
out there.”
The driver obeyed, and the two ladies alighted at a neighbor’s landing
and hurried back to their own to see if they knew the man in the snow.
“Strike a match, Tom,” said the one who had spoken from the carriage,
“and see if you know his face. We must send word to the police, for the
poor devil will freeze if he stays here.”
The young negro did as directed and started back as if he had seen a
ghost.
“Oh! Lord, Missus Clare,” he exclaimed, springing to his feet, “he’s
done frozen stone dead already!”
“A man dead at my gate! Is he white?”
“Yes ’um—black an’ white—skin like chalk, ha’r an’ beard like tar.”
The missionary was lying in the deep snow near the curbstone, and the
women stood on the cleared walk several feet from him.
“What shall we do, Ida?” asked the same woman of her companion who
seemed to regard the circumstance with utter indifference, and to be
thinking only of getting inside the warm house.
“Why, let him alone of course,” she answered. “We don’t keep a coroner’s
office or the city dead house. I’m nearly froze to death, myself; so
come in. Send Tom to tell the police if you like, but don’t worry
yourself about an unknown sot—he don’t belong to our set.”
“What does he look like, Tom?” insisted the other woman.
“Looks a poor man ’bout de clo’s—but ’bout de face he ’pars to me like a
gemman.”
The woman plunged through the snow and stooped over the prostrate form
while Tom struck matches to light up the features.
“Why, Ida!” she exclaimed, “he is positively handsome—and a stranger
too, who has come from a long tramp. Poor fellow! we must carry him
inside. I expect he is a deserter who has escaped from battle to meet
this horrid fate.” With the matches still burning, she turned his head
to one side to see if there was any mark of foul play, and as she did so
the frozen man sighed distinctly. Tom was frightened: the woman was not.
“He’s not dead, and there’s no smell of liquor on his breath, so he
can’t be drunk. There’s been foul play, that’s certain. Quick, Tom—run
to the house and fetch Jerry to help you carry him in—and tell one of
the girls to bring a brandy flask. Hurry or we’ll be too late!”
Tom bounded away, and the woman knelt by the stranger and began chafing
his hands and temples. Ida grew impatient and would have gone into the
house only that she feared it would not be good policy. But she had not
long to wait: The two stalwart young negros raised the man to their
shoulders as if he had been a sack of shavings, and bore him into the
house.
As this unexpected procession entered, several persons crowded to the
door.
“Oh! Dr. Cavin, I’m so glad you are here to-night; there will be a
chance for you to try your skill at saving life,” cried Mme. Clare
Adamanti in a tone of raillery, with an emphasis on the verb.
“If I succeed it will be my second case, at least,” replied a small
gray-bearded man with eye-glasses, “for you must admit that I once saved
the life of my dear Lady Clare.”
“Yes, Soppy my boy, that’s so; and if you save this young fellow I’ll
forgive you for it—there now!”
“I shall do my best, for your sake, Lady Clare, but if you have brought
me a dead patient to experiment upon, I shall send you the bill.”
Dr. Cavin hastened up to the room where Tom and Jerry had carried the
stranger, and shortly afterward sent word to Lady Clare that he believed
the man might be restored by careful treatment.
The other persons flocked into the drawing room to hear Lady Clare’s
account of her windfall.
“Who is he?” asked several voices in chorus.
“Likely a case of small-pox,” said Ida, ill-humoredly, and in a voice so
low that her superior did not notice her.
“He is the son of a rich old Yankee, who, having grown weary of camp
life at this time of year, was on his way home to his mother, (probably
without leave) when he took an overdose of frost and laid him down to
die at my gate. It is solely because I know him to be so rich a prize
that I have taken him in. If Soppy brings him to—and he says it’s merely
a case of suspended animation induced by too much cold externally
applied—why, we shall get at least ten thousand dollars for salvage;
don’t you see? Ha! ha! ha!”
They all knew that she was mocking them, and continued to make merry
over the affair until she wheeled around abruptly and left the room.
This conduct seemed to excite no surprise, for it had been understood
for some time among the frequenters of “Castle Adamant,” (as her house
was called) that she was becoming more peculiar every day.
“I did n’t approve of Aunt Clare bringing the man into the house,” said
Ida. “But all that about prize-money is sheer rubbish; she knows no more
about the man than you do, but she is a very kind hearted woman, and
that accounts for what she has done. I think it’s foolish; but the house
is hers, you know.”
Thanks to a sound constitution Spencer mended rapidly. The first two or
three days he suffered intensely; but thenceforward he was free from
pain except what he experienced from his left foot, which was badly
frozen.
Each day Lady Clare paid him a visit, and her orders were strict that he
was to have every comfort and attention which her house and servants
could supply. When the doctor said he was well enough to talk, she asked
him if he wished to send word to any of his friends, or if there was
anything he would like procured from outside. This was probably meant as
a delicate hint that he would be none the worse for slight additions to
his wardrobe; but he only replied that he would thank her to send to the
post office for his mail.
Jerry was immediately despatched with a note to the postmaster, and
returned with quite a budget of letters and parcels, among the latter
being two Wells Fargo express packages containing money. Here was
conclusive evidence that the young man had somebody who cared for him,
and various members of the household, including Ida, took considerably
more stock in him after Jerry’s flourishing account of the big bundle of
letters and money he had brought from the post office.
Spencer was delighted to receive news from home, and good counsel and
approval from the President of the mission. He was also pleased to get
the cash; though its amount was meagre enough, it seemed a small fortune
to him. He found Jerry discreet, intelligent, and obliging, and
entrusted him with a large part of his capital to invest in a suit of
ready-made clothes, and other apparel; and when the boy returned with
his purchases, Spencer was obliged to admit that he had managed much
better than he could have done himself.
During his stay of nearly two weeks under her roof nothing transpired to
give his hostess any real clue to his identity or his profession, and
the only information he had gained concerning her was what the negro
boys had casually given out—that she was a wealthy Southern lady from
New Orleans who had moved to Cincinnati on account of her health only a
few months before the breaking out of the war. The postmark “Chicago” on
his letters had been taken as indicating his place of residence; but the
fact was that they received that mark by being forwarded from the Mormon
agency there. As he improved in health and began to think once more of
launching forth in pursuit of candidates for the only true religion, a
lively curiosity to know more about him was awakened in the breasts of
certain members of the household. But he was resolved to keep his secret
until the hour of his departure, when he would tell Madame Adamanti all
that it was necessary for her to know.
He had been introduced to Ida, who was presented as “Miss Benner, my
niece,” by his hostess, early in his convalescence; and more recently to
Miss Alice Benner, Ida’s younger sister, Miss Belle Ross, a dear friend
and school-fellow of the nieces, and several other young ladies, as well
as a number of rakish looking young men who were regular visitors. He
was at first puzzled and then astounded by the motley gatherings he
encountered there; but he asked no questions and determined to get away
as soon as possible.
The graceful but ignorant Ida had been remarkably assiduous in her
attentions to the Elder ever since the arrival of the money parcels, and
one evening told him flatly that she had taken a decided fancy to him
the very first time she saw him. His teeth were regular and good and his
breath free from tobacco or other disagreeable taint—things which the
coquette had carefully noted. He seemed merry too in this company;
shared the card-table and the wine with cheerful cordiality, justly
priding himself on his science as well as his exceptional good luck at
seven-up, euchre, and poker, and halting at the first glass of wine with
consistent firmness. He was truly the apostle of a “new dispensation.”
One evening shortly before his intended departure from “Castle Adamant”
he was sitting alone in the snug little parlor adjoining his bedroom
reading a Mormon paper and nursing his frozen foot, when he heard a
gentle tap at the door. It was Ida. She partly opened the door and with
affected shyness, said:
“May I come in, Mr. Spencer?” By the time she had finished the words,
she was standing beside him.
“I knew you was alone,” she continued gayly, “so I thought I’d come and
see if you wouldn’t like me to play for you.”
It would have been awkward even for a saint to say no to such a
proposition, and Spencer was too fond of music of any kind to miss a
chance of hearing it. He therefore assured her of his gratitude for her
thoughtfulness, and promised to listen attentively as long as she cared
to play. But it was evident even to him that this arrangement did not
meet her expectation. She seated herself at the piano, however, and
dashed off a light operatic melody. The Elder lolled back in his easy
chair and dreamily closed his eyes, as if to detract nothing by the
exercise of the other senses from the divine sensation. Miss Benner
continued to play, though greatly exasperated by his insensibility. She
said afterwards that she had never seen a man so nearly resembling a
clam. The more rapturous she endeavored to make the music the deeper
seemed to grow his lethargy; so she stopped short in the middle of one
of her most ravishing selections, and exclaimed in a tone of disgust:
“Good lord, Mr. Spencer! have you gone to sleep!”
The Elder was startled by this explosion, and protested most earnestly
that he was listening with the greatest attention, and had only closed
his eyes to enjoy the music the more—to render the illusion more
complete. His thoughts had been far away among the Rocky Mountains—but
she had no idea what he meant. He waked up sufficiently to offer a well-
turned compliment on her performance, and asked her if she sang, adding
that he heard a superb voice singing in that house on the night of his
arrival at Cincinnati, and before he fell unconscious at Madame
Adamanti’s gate.
“I sing?” cried Ida dubiously. “Well, not much, my voice might do for
singing “water-cresses!” But it couldn’t ’a been me, anyhow, for I was
at the theatre with Aunt Clare. And, do you know, it was a good thing
for you it was a poor play that night?—by a Yankee, of course, a Boston
Yankee, so we left after the second act. And if we hadn’t, you’d ’a been
under the sod two whole weeks ago. What do you think of that? You can
ask Aunt Clare if it ain’t so.”
This was Spencer’s first real tete-a-tete with Miss Benner, and the
opinion he had formed from meeting her casually in other company was not
enhanced by her language and manner on this occasion. To tell the truth
she was rather too much for his comprehension and he was beginning to
study out a suitable plan for getting rid of her. But what was his
surprise when she suddenly came up to him, gave him a sharp slap on the
shoulder, and demanded:
“Who and what are you, anyhow?”
The Elder did not wish to appear angry with the pretty little vixen, so
he replied in a mild voice:
“I think I have already told you, Miss Benner, that I, and all my
friends, are in sympathy with the South.”
“Oh, you know very well I don’t mean that!” she replied, stamping her
foot impatiently. “You have fooled us all, even to Aunt Clare, and I’ve
made up my mind to find you out: I want to know what you do, and where
you’re from.”
“Excuse me, Miss Benner. You will admit that I am not responsible for my
presence in your aunt’s house?”
“Well, does that prevent you from being kind to a poor girl who is dying
of curiosity,” she asked, catching a corner of her handkerchief in her
teeth, and eying him pettishly.
“I should be glad to oblige you, Miss Benner, but I think I am not at
liberty to state any further details about myself until I leave here
(which will be in a day or two), when I shall explain my case fully to
your aunt.”
“Oh, do tell me, Mr. Spencer; I won’t say a word to anybody,” she cried,
and at the same moment threw her arms around his neck, and added in
impressive tones—“Won’t you trust me—won’t you trust Ida!”
The astonished saint made a highly commendable effort to disengage
himself from the tender embrace of the would-be enchantress, but the
state of his frost-bitten foot would not admit of a vigorous physical
demonstration, and she clung so tightly that he gave up the struggle,
saying, quietly:
“You are exceedingly friendly, Miss Benner, and I appreciate your
kindness, but as I am already engaged I really must not permit myself—”
He could say no more. Miss Benner uttered two or three shrill yells and
almost gave him lock-jaw by coming down in a heap on his lap. The
healing of his poor foot was indefinitely delayed by that young lady’s
bad manners; but at this moment he was relieved by the timely appearance
of Dr. Esop Cavin and Miss Ross.
“What’s the matter, Ida dear?” demanded Miss Ross with well feigned
anxiety.
Miss Benner made no reply, but seemed to be sobbing and pressed her face
against the Elder’s shoulder. Spencer, though greatly embarrassed, half
suspected that this was a preconcerted trick, and begged them to take
Miss Benner away as she was crushing his foot. The intruders laughed
covertly at the mirth-provoking tableau, and Miss Ross drew Ida away,
saying scornfully,
“Come, my dear, we will leave Dr. Cavin to deal with this young man.”
Spencer stammered something by way of protest, but the ladies withdrew,
and the doctor was left to deal with him.
“Well, Spencer, I’m waiting. What have you to say for yourself?” asked
Dr. Cavin, sitting down with his hands in his pockets, his legs
extended, and glancing curiously at the Elder.
“Nothing,” he replied, briefly.
“Oh! oh! Nothing, eh? And you are soon to leave us, I understand?”
“That is my intention, unless one of these young ladies crushes the life
out of me before I get started.”
“I should like to ask you in what light you view your conduct towards
Miss Benner, compromising her as you have done?”
“Perhaps you would like to ask what I think of her conduct towards me,
compromising me as she has done!” retorted the Mormon with a touch of
his native vim.
“That’s very good indeed! Excellent, ha! ha!” said the Dr. with a dry,
forced laugh. “I see you are a wag, Spencer a natural born wag, a fellow
who wasn’t would never have put it that way. But it won’t do, you know,
there are proprieties which—which we must all observe—”
“I would advise you to try your lecturing powers on Miss Benner. I never
met with a better subject for a professor of propriety to practice
upon!”
“A touch of the old Adam in him too! Still blaming the woman,” observed
the doctor wisely. “But there’s not a bit of use of our getting out of
temper, not the least in the world. I’m your friend: I have saved your
life, with the aid, of course,—the very efficient aid—of the ladies
here, who have evinced towards you the most extraordinary devotion. But,
I may say, must say, in fact, that we are all considerably surprised,
astounded, in short, at your conduct on the eve of your departure. There
must, of course, be some reason, best known to yourself, why you have
been so careful to conceal all particulars about your calling and your
family. Your education and intelligence denote that you are well-
connected, and have enjoyed good social advantages. The extent of your
mail, and the reception by you of money parcels at various times, all
point to the conclusion that your people are rich and high-toned, as
well as very fond of you. But further than this meagre outline, we are
wholly in the dark, and we consider that this silence on your part is
hardly a proper return to people who have been so pre-eminently your
benefactors, and specially in view of—of the—the familiar attitude you
have assumed towards a certain member of—of the family.”
Spencer smiled and looked so interested that the doctor continued
talking with renewed vigor until he had nearly exhausted his stock of
cheap moral precepts.
“No,” said he, at last, “there is nothing so essential for a young man
as to avoid even the appearance of equivocation in word or action.” He
paused and began to fumble in his coat pockets. “I certainly had that
little account in one of my pockets! Ah! that’s it—there it is—my little
bill for medical attendance to yourself,” said he, holding the slip of
paper towards the Mormon, “you will observe that my charges are
extremely moderate.”
Spencer took the bill, and it almost took away his breath to perceive
that it was for $50.
The impecunious Elder had seen from the first that he was the subject of
a good deal of speculation, and had been inwardly amused in
contemplating the probable effect when he should make his confession. He
now realized that he had not lost anything by postponing the denouement.
He assured the doctor that the matter should have his attention, and the
latter withdrew, saying he would come back to have a further
conversation with his patient, after he had dressed for the theatre.
Spencer was still suffering with his foot, but his new dilemma now
filled the chief place in his thoughts. That bill for $50 floored him
altogether. The total sum he had received in the parcels that had
produced so much comment, was exactly $65, which had come in three
separate instalments, and the first of which containing $20 had been
mailed at Salt Lake in November, about three months before it reached
him. Nobody but himself could realize the sacrifice and self-denial that
had enabled his poor mother to send him even that small sum! She had
earned it by doing the washing of officers at Camp Douglas, and had
stinted herself in every way that her boy might have it to help him to
‘spread the gospel.’ How keenly and vividly this fact occurred to him
that night. And now more than two thirds of the treasure earned by her
dear toil was demanded by this quack—and for what?
He had never had any experience with doctors nor seen one of their bills
before. In “Zion” he was accustomed to see a combination of faith,
poultices, castor oil, and catnip-tea, as applied gratis by some old
woman, work miracles of healing; or, when these failed, and the patient
died of a simple malady for want of proper treatment, it was “the will
of the Lord,” and “Zion” prospered as usual.
He probably could not fully realize the narrowness of his late escape
from death, and he felt a vague sense of jealousy for the Lord that a
doctor had stepped in to share with Him the honor of having restored His
servant! There was something out of joint with a doctor in the case,
anyhow; but what was he to do about that $50?
It was in truth a serious matter. The young man had no means of his own
to draw upon; in those days the church allowed nothing to its
missionaries, and his father was only a clerk in the tithing office at
Salt Lake drawing a salary of one thousand dollars a year in potatoes,
carrots and other farm products, and having three wives and their
numerous progeny to whose support he felt in duty bound to contribute.
Nevertheless, the Elder did not despair of coming out of his difficulty
without being badly damaged. He had been “dragged up” in a hard school,
was accustomed to scaling obstacles, and above all he was at all times
inspired by a firm conviction that “the Lord would see him through.”*
---
[Footnote *: Let not the reader suppose that any disrespect, either to
the Deity or to the Mormon Elder, is intended by the apparently trivial
use made above of a sacred name. Whatever the merit, or otherwise, of
this peculiarity of the Mormon character, it is a genuine
characteristic. At the period of which I am writing, it was so common a
habit among them to talk in this way that it had ceased to be cant and
became a household word. Boys of twelve or fourteen would talk about the
number of fish the Lord would enable them to catch. The younger copied
from the elder, and the Deity became to the average Saint—as has been
the case among many other sects—a sort of superior kind of familiar
spirit, who possessed great power either to help or harm, according to
His caprice. As late as the period at which the Union Pacific Railroad
was completed—1869—there was a common belief among a large portion of
the rising generation of Salt Lake City, which they had, of course,
imbibed from their seniors, that Brigham Young would continue to preach
and to lead the people until he attained the age of one hundred years,
when the Lord would restore him to a young and vigorous manhood, and he
would become, by the Lord’s direct help, ruler over the entire United
States. It was an unwonted freak of modesty that caused them to stop
short of the whole world.]