whole it was, but every now and then we came upon beautiful oases in
the desert. Such was the valley of the Little Blue River, fringed with
emerald-green oak groves, cotton wood, and long-leaved willow. As we
got on to the tableland above this river, between that and the River
Platte, the evening approached, and a smile from above lit up into
perfect beauty the features of the world below. It was a glorious
sunset. Stratum upon stratum of cloud banks, burnished to golden red
in the vicinity of the setting sun, and polished to dazzling silvery
white above, lay piled half-way from the horizon to the zenith, with a
distinct strike towards a vanishing point to the west and dipping into
a gateway, through which the orb of day slowly retired. Overhead
floated, in a sea of amber and yellow, pink and green heavy purple
clouds, whilst in the east black and blue were so curiously blended
that the eye could not distinguish whether it rested upon a darkening
air or a lowering thunder-cloud. We enjoyed these beauties, I am glad
to say, in silence; not a soul said “Look there!” or “How pretty!”
When we came to the fork of the great River Platte we saw from time to
time a line of Indian removes. This meant that these wild people were
shifting their quarters for grass, and when it became a little colder
they sought some winter abode on the banks of a stream which supplied
fuel and where they could find meat, so that with warmth and food,
song and talk, and smoke and sleep, they could while away the dull and
dreary winter.
The remove of an Indian village presented an interesting sight. The
animated and shifting scene of bucks and braves, squaws and papooses,
ponies dwarfed by bad breeding and hard living, dogs and puppies――all
straggled over the plains westward. In front, singly or in pairs, rode
the men, as if born upon, and bred to become part of, the animal; some
went bare-backed, others rode upon a saddle tree. In some cases the
saddle was trimmed with bead hangings. Their long, lank, thick,
brownish-black hair, ruddy from the effects of the weather, was worn
parted in the middle. This parting in men, as well as in women, was
generally coloured with vermilion, and plates of brass or tin were
inserted into the front hair. They wore many ornaments, and the body
dress was a tight-sleeved waistcoat over an American cotton shirt,
scarlet and blue being the colours preferred. The garb ended with
buckskin leggings and moccasins. The braves were armed with small
tomahawks, or iron hatchets, which they carried with the powder horn
in the belt on the right side. Their nags were lean and ungroomed.
They treat them as cruelly as do the Somali, yet nothing――short of
whiskey――could persuade an Indian warrior to part with his favourite
steed. Behind the warriors and the braves followed the baggage of the
village. The rich squaws rode in litters, the poorer followed their
pack-horses on foot. Their garb did not a little resemble their lords,
and I saw no great beauty among them, young or old, rich or poor. _La
belle savage_ of the party had large and languishing eyes, dentists’
teeth that glittered, and silky, long, black hair like the ears of a
Blenheim spaniel. Her ears and neck were laden with tinsel ornaments,
and she was very finely dressed. There was with the cavalcade a great
company of boys and girls.
On the sixth day we crossed the Platte. We had spent most of the night
in the waggon, most uncomfortably. At 3.15 a.m., hungry and thirsty,
and by no means in the best of humours, we heard with joy the savage
“Yep, yep, yep,” with which the driver was wont to announce our
approach to a station. Presently the plank lodging appeared through
the darkness. We sprang out of the ambulance; but all was dark and
silent as the grave: the station was asleep. A heavy kick opened the
door of the restaurant, when a wheezy, drowsy voice from an inner room
asked us in German-English, “And how ze komen in?” Without waiting to
answer we pulled the owner of it out of bed, and ordered supper,
refreshment, and repose. But he raised all sorts of difficulties, and
it ended with our sitting down and staring at the fire and waiting for
the vile food which he provided for our breakfast. I should like here
to describe an ordinary prairie breakfast, the one which greeted us
nearly all through our journey. First, the coffee, three parts burnt
beans, which had been duly ground to a fine powder and exposed to the
air lest the aroma should prove too strong for us. It was placed on
the stove to simmer, till every noxious principle was duly extracted
from it. Then the rusty bacon, cut into thick slices, was thrust into
the frying-pan; here the gridiron was unknown. Thirdly, antelope
steak, cut off a carcase suspended for the benefit of flies outside
was placed to stew within influence of the bacon’s aroma. Lastly came
the bread, which, of course, should have been cooked first. The meal
was kneaded with water and a pinch of salt; the raising was done by
means of a little sour malt, or more generally by the deleterious
yeast powders of the trade. The dough, after having been sufficiently
manipulated, was divided into doughnuts, or biscuits, and finally it
was placed to be half-cooked under the immediate influence of the
rusty bacon and rancid antelope. Uncle Sam’s stove was a triumph of
convenience, cheapness, unwholesomeness, and nastiness. It made
everything taste like its neighbour; by virtue of it mutton borrowed
the flavour of fish, and tomatoes resolved themselves into the flavour
of greens.
One of the most notable points of our journey was Scott’s Bluffs, the
last of the great marl formations which break the dull uniformity of
the prairies. Before we came to them we passed the far-famed Chimney
Rock, which lies two and a half miles from the south bank of the
Platte. Viewed from the south-east, it was not unlike a gigantic
jack-boot poised on a high pyramidal mound; I took a sketch of it.
Scott’s Bluffs are far more striking and attractive objects; indeed,
they excel the Castle Craig of Drachenfels or any of the beauties of
the romantic Rhine. From the distance of a day’s march they appeared
in the shape of a large blue mound. As you approached within four or
five miles, a massive mediæval city gradually defined itself,
clustering with wonderful fulness of detail round a colossal fortress,
and crowned with a royal castle. It was indeed a beautiful castle on
the rock, and that nothing may be wanting to the resemblance, the
dashing rains and angry winds have cut the old line of road at its
base into a regular moat with a semicircular sweep, which the mirage
fills with a mimic river. Quaint figures develop themselves, guards
and sentinels in dark armour keep watch and ward upon the slopes, the
lion of Bastia crouched unmistakably overlooking the road, and, as the
shades of evening closed in, so weird was its aspect that one might
almost expect to see some spectral horseman go his rounds about the
broken walls. At a nearer aspect the quaint illusion vanished, the
lines of masonry became great layers of boulder, curtains and angles
changed to the gnashing rents of ages, and the warriors were
transformed into dwarf cedars and dense shrubs. Travellers have
compared Scott’s Bluffs to Gibraltar, to the Capitol at Washington,
and to Stirling Castle; I could think of nothing in its presence but
the Arabs’ “City of Brass,” that mysterious abode of bewitched
infidels, which often appears to the wayfarer toiling under the sun,
but which for ever eludes his nearer search.
On our last day in the Platte Valley, just before we entered the Sioux
territory, we came to Horseshoe station, which was impressed upon my
memory by one thing, which I shall presently explain. We were struck
by the aspect of the buildings, which were on an extensive scale; in
fact, got up regardless of expense. An immense silence, however,
reigned. At last, by hard knocking, we were admitted into a house with
a Floridan verandah. By the pretensions of the room we were at once
threatened with a “lady.” Our mishap was really worse than we
expected, for in reality we were exposed to two “ladies,” and one of
these was a Bloomer. This, it is fair to state, was the only
hermaphrodite of the kind that ever met my eyes in the States; the
great founder of the Bloomer order has long since subsided into her
original obscurity, and her acolytes have relapsed into petticoats.
The Bloomer was an uncouth being, her hair, cut level with her eyes,
depended with the graceful curl of a drake’s tail around a fat and
flabby countenance, whose only expression was sullen insolence. Her
body-dress, glazed brown calico, fitted her somewhat like a soldier’s
tunic, developing haunches which would be admired only in venison;
and――curious inconsequence of woman’s nature!――all this sacrifice of
appearance upon the shrine of comfort did not prevent her wearing that
kind of crinoline depicted by Mr. _Punch_ around “our Mary Hanne.” The
pantolettes of glazed brown calico, like the vest, tunic, blouse,
shirt, or whatever they may call it, were in peg-top style, admirably
setting off a pair of thin-soled, Frenchified, patent-leather
bottines, with elastic sides, which contained feet as large, broad,
and flat as a negro’s in Africa. The dear creature had a husband: it
was hardly safe to look at her, and as for sketching her, I avoided
it. The other “lady,” though more decently attired, was like women in
this wild part of the world generally――cold and disagreeable, with a
touch-me-not air, which reminded me of a certain
Miss Baxter,
Who refused a man before he axed her.
Her husband was the renowned Slade, who had the reputation of having
killed his three men. This pleasant individual “for an evening party”
wore a revolver and bowie-knife here, there, and everywhere. It at
once became evident that this station was not conducted for the public
convenience. One of our party who had ventured into the kitchen was
fiercely ejected by the “ladies,” and, asking for dormitories, we were
informed that lady travellers were admitted into the house, but men
could sleep where they could. We found a barn outside; it was hardly
fit for a decently brought up pig: the floor was damp and knotty;
there was not even a door to keep out the night breeze; and several
drunken fellows lay about in different parts of it. Into this
disreputable hole we were all thrust for the night. “May gracious
Heaven,” I prayed, “keep us safe from all ‘ladies’ in future!” Better
a hundred times the squaw, with her uncleanliness and her civility!
It was about the tenth day of our journey that the formation of the
land began to warn us that we were approaching, as yet far off, the
Rocky Mountains. We saw for the first time a train of Mormon waggons,
twenty-four in number, slowly wending their way towards the Promised
Land. The “captain” was young Brigham Young, a nephew of the
Prophet――a fine fellow, with yellow hair and beard, an intelligent
countenance, a six-shooter by his right, and a bowie-knife by his left
side. It was impossible to mistake, even through the veil of freckles
and sunburn with which a two months’ journey had invested them, the
nationality of these emigrants――“British-English” was written all over
them. One young person concealed her facial attractions under a manner
of mask. I I though that perhaps she might be a sultana, reserved for
the establishment of some very magnificent Mormon bashaw; but the
driver, when appealed to, responded with contempt, “’Guess old Briggy
won’t stampede many o’ that ere lot!” Though homely in appearance,
they seemed to be healthy and well fed.
The same day, a little later, we crossed a war party of Arapahos; they
looked less like warriors than a band of horse-stealers, and though
they had set out with the determination of bringing back some Utah
scalps and fingers, they had not succeeded. The war party consisted of
some dozen warriors, with a few limber, lithe lads. They had sundry
lean, sorry-looking nags, which were presently turned out to graze.
Dirty rags formed the dress of the band; their arms were the usual
light lances, garnished with leather at the handles, with two cropped
tufts and a long loose feather dangling from them. They carried mangy
buffalo robes; and scattered upon the ground was a variety of belts,
baldricks, and pouches, with split porcupine quills dyed a saffron
yellow. I found them sulky and not disposed to be communicative, a
fact which, no doubt, was accounted for by the ill-success of their
expedition.
I have given some account of the “ladies” we met _en route_; in
fairness one must reverse the shield, for, at a station forbiddingly
known as the Devil’s Post-Office, we came across an Englishwoman, a
“Miss” Moore (Miss is still used for Mrs. by Western men and negroes),
who was a pattern of cleanliness, tidiness, civility, and housewifery
in general. Her little ranche was neatly swept and garnished, papered
and ornamented. The table-cloth was clean, so was the cooking, and so
were the children, and I was reminded of Europe by the way in which
she insisted upon washing my shirt, an operation which, after leaving
the Missouri, had fallen to my own lot. This day also introduced me to
the third novel sensation on the western side of the Atlantic. The
first was to feel that all men were your equal; that you were no man’s
superior, and that no man was yours. The second――this is spoken as an
African wanderer――was to see one’s quondam acquaintance, the Kaffir or
Negro, put by his grass kilt and coat of grease, invest himself in
broadcloth, part his wool on one side, shave, and call himself, not
Sambo, but “Mr. Scott.” The third was to meet in the Rocky Mountains
with this woman, a refreshing specimen of that far-off Old World.
“Miss” Moore’s husband, a decent appendage, had transferred his belief
from the Church of England to the Church of Utah, and the good wife,
as in duty bound, had followed in his wake. But when the Serpent came
and whispered in “Miss” Moore’s modest, respectable, one-idea’d ear
that the Abrahams of Great Salt Lake City were mere “Shamabrams,” and
not content with Sarahs, but added to them an unlimited supply of
Hagars, her power of endurance broke down. Not an inch would she
budge, not a step nearer to the City of the Saints would she take. She
fought against the impending misfortune, and she succeeded in reducing
her husband to submission and making him earn a good livelihood as
station-master on the waggon-line――he who might have been a Solomon in
the City of the Saints!
The evening of the next day, when we had reached Pacific Springs, the
Wind River Mountains appeared in marvellous majesty. It was one of the
sights of the journey. The huge purple hangings of rain-clouds in the
northern sky set off their vast proportions, and gave prominence, as
in a stereoscope, to their gigantic forms and their upper heights,
hoar with the frosts of ages. The setting sun diffused a charming
softness over their more rugged features, defining the folds and
ravines with a distinctness which deceived every idea of distance. As
the light sank beyond the far western horizon it travelled slowly up
the mountain side, till, reaching the summit, it mingled its
splendours with the snow. Nor was the scene less lovely in the morning
hour, as the first effulgence of day fell upon the masses of
dew-cloud, lit up the peaks, which gleamed like silver, and poured
streams of light and warmth over the broad skirts reposing on the
plain.
On August 25th, the nineteenth day of our journey, we set out at 7
a.m. to breast the Wasach, the last and highest chain of the mountain
mass before we reached Great Salt Lake Valley, and to arrive at our
destination――the New Jerusalem, the future Zion on the tops of the
mountains. The road up the big mountain was a very rough one, lined on
either side with great trees――hemlocks, firs, and balsam-pines. The
varied hues of the quaking ash were there also; the beech, dwarf oak,
and thickets of elders and wild roses; whilst over all the warm
autumnal tints already mingled with the bright green of summer. The
ascent became more and more rugged; this steep pitch, at the end of a
thousand miles of hard work and semi-starvation, caused the death of
many a wretched animal. Towards the summit it rises sharpest. Here we
descended from the waggon, which the four mules had work enough to
draw. The big mountain lies eighteen miles from the city; the top is a
narrow crest. From that eyrie, eight thousand feet above sea-level,
the weary pilgrim first sights his shrine, the object of his long
wanderings, hardships, and perils――the Happy Valley of the Great Salt
Lake.
After a few minutes’ delay to stand and gaze, we resumed the footpath
way, whilst the mail-waggon, with wheels rough-locked, descended what
appeared to be an impracticable slope. Falling into the gorge of Big
Kanyon Creek, we reached about midday a station, half stifled by the
thick dust and the sun. We slaked our thirst with the cool water that
trickled down the hill by the house side. Presently the station-master
arrived; he was introduced to us as Mr. Eph Hanks. I had often heard
of him as a Mormon desperado, leader of the dreaded Danite band, and a
model ruffian. We found him very pleasant and sociable, though a
facetious allusion to the dangers that awaited us under the roof of
the Danite was made. We had dinner there, and, after a friendly leave,
we entered the mail-waggon again, and prepared ourselves for the last
climb over the western-most reach of the Wasach.
The road was now only a narrow shelf, and frequent fordings were
rendered necessary by the capricious wanderings of the torrent. At one
of the most ticklish turns our driver kindly pointed out a precipice
where four of the mail passengers fell and broke their necks. He also
entertained us with sundry other horrible tales. In due time, emerging
from the gates and portals and deep serrations of the upper course, we
descended into a lower level, and the valley presently lay full before
our sight. At this place the pilgrim emigrants, like the hajis of
Jerusalem and Meccah, were wont to give vent to the emotions pent up
in their bosoms by sobs and tears, laughter and congratulations,
psalms and hysterics. It is indeed no wonder that children danced,
that strong men cheered and shouted, and that nervous women, broken
with fatigue and hope deferred, screamed and fainted; that the
ignorant fondly believed that the “Spirit of God” pervaded the very
atmosphere, and that Zion on the tops of the mountains is nearer
Heaven than the other parts of the earth. In good sooth, though
uninfluenced by religious fervour――beyond the natural satisfaction of
seeing a brand new Holy City――even I could not, after nineteen days of
the mail-waggon, gaze upon the scene without emotion.
The hour was about 6 p.m., the atmosphere was touched with a dreamy
haze, and a little bank of rose-coloured clouds, edged with flames of
purple and gold, floated in the upper air, whilst the mellow radiance
of an American autumn diffused its mild, soft lustre over the face of
the earth. The sun was setting in a flood of heavenly light behind the
bold, jagged outline of Antelope Island. At its feet, and then
bounding the far horizon, lay, like a band of burnished silver, the
Great Salt Lake, that innocent Dead Sea. South-westwards, and the
Oquirrh Range sharply silhouetted against the depths of an evening
sky.
The undulating valley-plain between us and the Oquirrh Range, once a
howling wilderness given over to a few miserable savages, was now the
site of a populous city. Truly the Mormon prophecy had been fulfilled;
the desert had blossomed like the rose.
As we descended the Wasach Mountains we could look and enjoy the view
of the Happy Valley, and the bench-land then attracted our attention.
The eastern valley-bench, upon whose western declivity the city lies,
may be traced on a clear day along the base of the mountains for a
distance of twenty miles. As we advanced over the bench-ground, the
city by slow degrees broke upon our sight. It showed, one may readily
believe, to special advantage after a succession of Indian lodges,
Canadian ranchos, and log-hut mail-stations of the prairies and the
mountains. About two miles north, and overlooking the settlements from
a height of four hundred feet, a detached cone called Ensign Mount
rose at the end of a chain, and overhung and sheltered the
north-eastern corner of the valley. Upon this mount the spirit of the
martyred Prophet, Mr. Joseph Smith, is said to have appeared to his
successor, Mr. Brigham Young, and pointed out to him the position of
the new temple, which, after Zion had “got up into the high mountain,”
was to console the saints for the loss of Nauvoo the Beautiful.
The city was about two miles broad, running parallel with the right
bank of the Jordan, which forms its western limit. As we approached,
it lay stretched before us as upon a map; at a little distance the
aspect was somewhat Oriental, and in some points it reminded me of
modern Athens――without the Acropolis. None of the buildings, except
the Prophet’s house, were whitewashed. The material, the thick,
sun-dried adobe, common to all parts of the Eastern world, was here of
a dull leaden blue, deepened by the atmosphere to a grey, like the
shingles of the roofs. The number of gardens and compounds, the dark
clumps of cottonwood, locust, or acacia, fruit trees――apples, peaches
and vines――and, finally, the fields of long-eared maize, strengthened
the similarity to an Asiatic rather than to an American settlement.
But the difference presently became as marked. Farm houses strongly
suggested the old country; moreover, domes and minarets, even churches
and steeples, were wholly wanting. The only building conspicuous from
afar was the block occupied by the present Head of the Church. The
court-house, with its tinned, Muscovian dome; the arsenal, a barn-like
structure; and a saw-mill were next in importance.
As we entered the suburbs, the houses were almost all of one pattern,
a barn shape, and the diminutive casements showed that window glass
was not yet made in the valley. The poorer houses are small, low, and
hut-like; the others, single-storied buildings, somewhat like stables,
with many entrances. The best houses resembled East Indian bungalows,
with flat roofs and low, shady verandahs, well trellised, and
supported by posts or pillars. I looked in vain for the outhouse-harems,
in which certain romancers concerning things Mormon had told me that
wives were kept, like other stock. I presently found this one of a
multitude of delusions. The people came out to their doors to see the
mail-coach, as if it were a “Derby dilly” of old, go by. I was struck
by the English appearance of the colony, and the prodigious numbers of
white-headed children.
Presently we turned into the main thoroughfare, the centre of
population and business, where the houses of the principal Mormon
dignitaries and the stores of the Gentile merchants combined to form
the city’s only street, properly so called. We pulled up at the Salt
Lake House, the principal if not the only establishment of the kind in
New Zion. In the Far West one learns not to expect much of a hostelry,
and I had not seen one so grand for many a day. It was a two-storied
building, with a long verandah supported by painted posts. There was a
large yard behind for coralling cattle. A rough-looking crowd of
drivers and their friends and idlers, almost every man armed with
revolver and bowie-knife, gathered round the doorway to prospect the
“new lot.” The host presently came out to assist us in carrying in our
luggage. There was no bar, but upstairs we found a Gentile ball-room,
a fair sitting-room, and bedchambers, apparently made out of a single
apartment by partitions too thin to be strictly agreeable. The
proprietor was a Mormon who had married an Englishwoman. We found him
in the highest degree civil and obliging. To sum up, notwithstanding
some considerable drawbacks, my first experience of the Holy City of
the Far West was decidedly better than I expected.
Our journey had occupied nineteen days, from August 7th to 25th both
included, and in that time we had accomplished not less than 1,136
statute miles.
II
_THE CITY AND ITS PROPHET_
Before giving any detailed account of the Mormons, I should like to
say that I was twenty-four days at headquarters, and every opportunity
was given me of surface observation; but there is in Mormondom, as in
all other exclusive faiths, Jewish, Hindu, or other, an inner life,
into which I cannot flatter myself to have penetrated. No Gentile,
however long he may live in Salt Lake City, or how intimately he may
be connected with the Mormons, can expect to see anything but the
outside. The different accounts which have been given of life in the
City of the Saints by anti-Mormons and apostates are venomous and
misleading, whilst the writings of the faithful are necessarily
untrustworthy. I therefore take the middle distance of the
unprejudiced observer, and can only recount, honestly and truthfully,
what I heard, felt, and saw.