scene of assassination, and totally ignorant of what was done, was so
unaccountably sad, and filled with such unspeakable anguish of heart,
without knowing the cause, that he was constrained to turn aside from
the road and give utterance to his feelings in tears and supplications
to God. Another Apostle, twelve hundred miles distant, while standing
in Fanuel Hall, Boston, Massachusetts, with many others, was similarly
affected, and obliged to turn aside to hide the big tears that gushed
thick and long from his eyes. Another, president of the high priests,
while in the distant state of Kentucky, in the solitude of midnight,
being marvellously disquieted, God condescended to show him, in a
vision, the mangled bodies of the two murdered worthies, all dripping
in purple gore, who said to him, we are murdered by a faithless state
and cruel mob.
Shall I attempt to describe the scene at Nauvoo on that memorable
evening? If I could, surely you would weep, whatever may be your faith
or scepticism, if the feelings of humanity are lodged in your bosom;
all prejudice and mirth would slumber, till the eye of pity had bedewed
the bier, and the heart had found relief in lamentation. Before another
day dawned, the messenger bore the tidings into the afflicted city;
the picquet guards of the city heard the whisper of murder in silent
amazement, as the messenger passed into the city. There the pale muslin
signal for gathering the troops hung its drooping folds from the
temple spire (as if partaking of nature's sadness), and made tremulous
utterance to the humble soldiery to muster immediately. As the dawn
made the signal visible, and the base tone of the great drum confirmed
the call, fathers, husbands, and minor sons all seized the broken
fragment of a dodger, or a scanty bone, for the service that might be
long and arduous before their return, or swallowed some thickened milk
(as might be the case) and fled to the muster ground; the suspicious
mother and children followed to the door and window, anxious to see
the gathering hosts emerge from their watch-posts and firesides,
where rest and food were scanted to the utmost endurance. The troops
continued to arrive, and stood in martial order, with a compressed lip
and a quick ear. They waited with deathly but composed silence, to hear
the intelligence that _mournful spirits_ had saddened their hearts
with during the night. The speaker stood up in the midst, not of an
uniform soldiery of hirelings, for they had no wages; their clothing
was the workmanship of the diligent domestic--the product of wife and
daughters' arduous toil; their rations were drawn from the precarious
supplies, earned in the intervals between preaching to the states and
nations of the earth, and watching against the intrusions and violence
of mobs. The speaker announced the martyrdom of the Prophet and
Patriarch, and paused under the heavy burden of the intelligence.
But here I must pause; my pen shall touch lightly, as it must feebly,
that hallowed--that solemn and ever memorable hour! The towering
indignation; the holy and immutable principle of retribution for crime
that dwells eternally in the bosom of God, insensibly impelled the
right hand almost to draw the glittering sword, and feel the sharpness
of the bayonet's point and its fixedness to the musket's mouth. But
the well planted principle of self-command, and also of observing the
order of heaven and the council of the priesthood, soon returned the
deadly steel to the scabbard; and the victorious triumph of loyalty
to God, in committing evil doers to Him that judgeth righteously,
and who hath said, "vengeance is mine and I will repay," prevailed
over the billows of passion; and in the transit of a fleeting moment
the holy serenity of the soldiery, depicted by an occasional tear,
showed to angels and men, that the tempest of passion was hushed, and
wholly under the control of the spirit of wisdom and of God. It was
the most unearthly and morally sublime scene that I ever witnessed.
Contemplate a city and community of 20,000 people, whose love for
their leader, the Prophet of the Lord, was warm and abiding as the
love of David and Jonathan, in an evil moment betrayed by a sovereign
State! Under his instructions they had been taught the ways of truth
and salvation--they had been gathered from remote parts, even distant
islands and continents, that they might hear the word of the Lord from
his lips, and build up a city where _gambling_ and _lewdness, theft_
and _drunkenness_ should have no admittance! And the life of Joseph
was considered so necessary to the work of God and the welfare of the
human family, that many thousands could readily have died in his stead,
if that could have preserved his life. But the Governor of Illinois,
the Commander-in-Chief of 80,000 organized militia, threatened the
speedy demolition of the whole city of Nauvoo, if Joseph was not
delivered up to him for trial on the _antiquated charge_ of treason!
He made the most solemn assurance, and pledged the sacred faith of the
State, that he should be kept safe and unharmed until he could have
a fair and impartial trial. But oh! the cruel perfidy of that modern
Nero, the governor! and the bloody butchery of the soldiery (some of
whom had been disbanded and others had not), that could deliberately
murder innocent and helpless men, that had surrendered at discretion,
after all the strongest assurances of protection! The soldiery in
Nauvoo numbered near four thousand, while those in alliance with the
bloody perpetrators in the country, were not more than one-half the
number. They would have been an easy prey to the merited revenge of
the outraged force at Nauvoo; but that force bore the outrages with
coolness and wisdom that has never been equalled by uninspired men.
They governed themselves under circumstances the most extraordinary,
and hearkened calmly to the voice of wisdom, when their pain and grief
were almost insupportable. The soldiery on the Temple square heard, but
felt that there was no adequate victim for vengeance in the county,
or even in the destruction of the whole State. Some, least tender in
their hearts, found relief in tears. In the houses of the Saints,
aside from the soldiery, females, less competent to bear the news than
husbands and fathers, in some instances lost their sanity of mind for a
season; but as the sun arose and the people congregated on the green,
after being exhorted to give their enemies into the hands of Him that
judgeth righteously, tranquillity and order ensued. But not so with the
mob. During all the bloody night their houses were hastily deserted
by men, women, and children. So great was the consternation and so
precipitate the flight, that even females fled in their nightclothes,
almost naked, and continued their flight amid imprecations and shrieks
for the distance of even fifty miles, where, exhausted and frightened,
they alarmed villages, and the city of Quincy to the ringing of bells,
and the speedy gathering of every person that could bear arms for their
defence; but no man pursued, though "the wicked fled."
DEATH OF THE AUTHOR'S WIFE.
Catherine Curtis Spencer died on the 12th of March, 1846, at Indian
Creek, near Keosaqua, Iowa territory, at the age of thirty-five
years, wanting nine days. In one month from the time of her departure
from Illinois to the wilderness, she fell a victim to the cares and
hardships of persecution. The youngest daughter of a numerous family,
brought up in affluence and nurtured with fondness and peculiar care
as the favourite of her father's house; her slender, though healthy
frame, could not endure the privation of sleep and rest, and the
inclemency of the winter season (the thermometer below Zero for ten
days). The change from the warm rooms of brick and plaistered walls, to
that of mere canvass ceiling and roof, floored with snow and icy earth,
was too much for her fragile form to endure. When, through unforseen
hindrances in travelling, there was no place where sleep could visit,
or food suited to the demands of nature could be administered to her
or her six little children (from the age of thirteen and under), she
would cheer her little innocents with the songs of Zion. The melody
of her rare voice, like the harmony and confluence of many virtues
in her mind, contributed on that memorable epoch of the church, to
render her the glory of her husband, and the solace and joy of her
children. When asked if she would go to her distant friends that were
not in the church, who had proffered comfort and abundance to her and
her children, she replied, "no, if they will withhold from me the
supplies they readily grant to my other sisters and brothers, because I
adhere to the Saints, let them. I would rather abide with the church,
in poverty, even in the wilderness, without their aid, than go to my
unbelieving father's house, and have all that he possesses." Under the
influence of a severe cold, she gradually wasted away, telling her
children, from time to time, how she wanted them to live and conduct
themselves, when they should become motherless, and pilgrims in a
strange land. To her companions she would sometimes say, "I think you
will have to give me up and let me go." As her little ones would often
inquire at the door of the waggon, "how is ma'? is she any better?" she
would turn to her husband, who sat by her side endeavouring to keep the
severities of rain and cold from her: "oh, you dear little children,
how I do hope you may fall into kind hands when I am gone!" A night or
two before she died, she said to her husband, with unwonted animation,
"A heavenly messenger has appeared to me to-night, and told me that I
had done and suffered enough, and that he had now come to convey me
to a mansion of gold." Soon after, she said she wished me to call the
children and other friends to her bedside, that she might give them
a parting kiss, which being done, she said to her companion, "I love
_you_ more than ever, but you must let me go. I only want to live for
your sake, and that of our children." When asked if she had anything to
say to her father's family, she replied emphatically, "_Charge them to
obey the gospel_."
The rain continued so incessantly for many days and nights, that it was
impossible to keep her bedding dry or comfortable; and, for the first
time, she uttered the desire to be in a house. The request might have
moved a heart of adamant. Immediately, a man of the name of Barnes,
living not far from the camp, consented to have her brought to his
house, where she died in peace, with a smile upon her countenance, and
a cordial pressure of her husband's hand about an hour previous.
Many tributes to her memory, from the Twelve, and other distinguished
friends, expressive of her worth and the amiableness of her life, have
been communicated to the writer, which conjugal relationship forbids
_me_ to insert, but which are still a comfort to the bereaved in his
pilgrimage through mortality. Though prepossessing in her manners, her
confiding and generous mind always made permanent the friendship that
she once obtained. Her unceasingly affectionate and dutiful bearing
to her husband, and her matronly diligence in infusing the purest and
loftiest virtues into the minds of her children, not only exemplified
the beautiful order of heaven, but made the domestic circle the
greatest paradise of earth. Said a member of the high council, after
her death, who had often observed her in the temple of the Lord, where
she loved to linger and feast on the joys of that holy place, "I never
saw a countenance more inexpressibly serene and heavenly, than hers."
"'O! she was young who won my yielding heart,'
No power of genius nor the pencils' art
Could half the beauties of her mind portray,
E'en when inspired; and how can this my lay?
Two eyes that spoke what language ne'er can do,
Soft as twin violets moist with early dew.
In sylph-like symmetry her form combin'd,
To prove the fond endearments of the mind,
While on her brow benevolence and love
Sat meekly, like to emblems from above,
And every thought that had creation there,
But made her face still more divinely fair."
Her remains were conveyed to the city of Nauvoo, and there, after a few
neighbours had wept, and sung, "Come to me; will ye come to the Saints
that have died," and expressed their condolence to the deeply afflicted
husband, buried, in the solitude of the night, by the side of her
youngest child, that had died near six months before.
The writer does not mourn for his dead as those that die without hope,
knowing they are taken from many evils to come. He desires to dedicate
the above faint sketch to his children, now in the wilderness, for the
testimony of Jesus, lest time should obliterate from their young and
tender minds the recollection of her person and some of her virtues,
and thereby perpetuate the memory of the just, while that of the wicked
shall rot. He desires the prayers of all Saints for himself and his
children; and may the blessing of Almighty God rest upon all who love
our Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity. Amen.
LINES,
_Suggested on reading the Author's first Letter in the Series_.
BY MISS E. R. SNOW.
"My heart is fix'd"--I know in whom I trust.
'Twas not for wealth--'twas not to gather heaps
Of perishable things--'twas not to twine
Around my brow a transitory wreath,
A garland deck'd with gems of mortal praise,
That I forsook the home of childhood; that
I left the lap of ease--the halo rife
With smiling friendship's soft and mellow tones--
Affection's fond caresses, and the cup
O'erflowing with the sweets of social life,
Where high refinement's richest pearls were strew'd.
Ah no! a holier purpose fir'd my soul--
A nobler object prompted my pursuit:
Eternal prospects open'd to my view,
And hope's celestial torch within me burn'd.
God, who commanded Abraham to leave
His native country, and to offer up
On the lone alter, where no eye beheld
But His who never sleeps, an only son,
Is still the same; and thousands who have made
A covenant with him by sacrifice.
Are bearing witness to the sacred truth.
Jehovah speaking? Yes, as heretofore.
The proclamation sounded in my ear--
It touch'd my heart--I hearken'd to the sound.
Counted the cost, and laid my earthly all
Upon the altar; and with purpose fix'd
Unalterably, while the spirit of
Elijah's God within my bosom reigns,
Embrac'd the "Everlasting Covenant;"
To be a Saint among the faithful ones
Whose race is measur'd by their life--whose prize
Is everlasting, and whose happiness
Is God's approval, and to whom 'tis more
Than meat and drink to do his righteous will.
It is no trifling thing to be a Saint
In very deed. To stand upright, nor bow
Nor bend beneath the weighty burthen of
Oppressiveness.--To stand unscath'd amid
The bellowing thunders and the raging storm
Of persecution, when the hostile pow'rs
Of darkness stimulate the hearts of men
To warfare: to besiege, assault, and, with
The heavy thunderbolts of Satan, aim
To overthrow the kingdom God has rear'd
To stand unmov'd beneath the with'ring rock
Of vile apostacy, when men depart
From the pure principles of righteousness--
Those principles requiring man to live
By ev'ry word proceeding from the mouth
Of God.--To stand unwav'ring, undismay'd,
And unseduc'd, when the base hypocrite
Whose deeds take hold on hell, whose face is garb'd
With saintly looks, drawn out by sacrilege
From a profession, but assum'd and thrown
Around him for a mantle to enclose
The black corruption of a putrid heart.--
To stand on virtue's lofty pinnacle
Clad in the heav'nly robes of innocence,
Amid that worse than every other blast--
The blast that strikes at moral character,
With floods of falsehood foaming with abuse.--
To stand, with nerve and sinew firmly steel'd,
When in the trying scale of rapid change,
Thrown side by side and face to face with that
Foul hearted spirit, blacker than the soul
Of midnight's darkest shade, the traitor,
The vile wretch that feeds his sordid selfishness
Upon the peace and blood of innocence--
The faithless, rotten-hearted wretch, whose tongue
Speaks words of trust and fond fidelity,
While treach'ry, like a viper, coils behind
The smile that dances in his evil eye.
To pass the fiery ordeal, and to have
The heart laid open--all its contents prov'd
Before the bar of strictest scrutiny.
To have the finest heart-strings stretch'd unto
Their utmost length to try their texture. To
Abide, with principle unchang'd, the wreck
Of cruel, tott'ring circumstances, which
Ride forth on revolution's blust'ring gale.
But yet, altho' _to be a Saint_, requires
A noble sacrifice--an arduous toil--
A persevering aim; the great reward
Awaiting the grand consummation, will
Repay the price however costly; and
The pathway of the saint, the safest path
Will prove, tho' perilous: for 'tis foretold,
All things that can be shaken, God will shake:
Kingdoms, and Institutes, and Governments,
Both civil and religious must be tried--
Tried to the core and sounded to the depth.
Then let me be a Saint, and be prepar'd
For the approaching day, which like a snare
Will soon surprise the hypocrite--expose
The rottenness of human schemes--shake off
Oppressive fetters--break the gorgeous reins
Usurpers hold, and lay the pride of man,
And glory of the nations low in dust!
THE END.
* * * *
Liverpool: Printed by R. James, 39, South Castle Street.