AMONG THE MORMONS.
Seven cents a mile is the passenger rate upon the Union Pacific
Railroad west of Cheyenne. To one accustomed to the almost uniform
rate of two cents a mile on Eastern roads this at first seems high,
but there are many things that the Eastern roads do not have to contend
with that are sources of great expense to the Union Pacific. Water,
for instance, is a large item. Trains of low box cars filled with
water are almost as common on this road as gravel trains on a newly
constructed one. Every eight or ten miles are section-houses for
the accommodation of trackmen, and each one of these places has to
be furnished with a large cistern filled with water, and this water
is often brought by these trains of water cars from a distance of a
hundred miles or more. Then there must be water tanks for filling the
engines at certain distances, and much of this water is also brought
from distant rivers. Many persons pass over the thousand miles of this
road and the cost of distributing the necessary amount of water along
its line never enters their thoughts, but one who wheels over hundreds
of miles of this waterless country, and goes with parched tongue,
mouth, and throat for hours, fully realizes the absolute necessity of
having water distributed along the line of the road at whatever cost.
The wages of the employees, from the common laborer up, is considerably
higher than in the East--one deserves more for living out in such a
barren country--so that the more one learns of the cost of running
the road the less he grumbles at the high passenger fare.
But it may be asked what has a touring bicyclist to do with the
railroad, and why should he feel less or more like grumbling? It is
just here. We had ridden three or four days against a wind so strong
that it would not allow riding much of the time even on level ground,
and to keep up this discouragingly hard work for the sake simply of
riding the whole distance, was not the object of the trip. We could
already realize the hardships and privations of the early settlers
who crossed these same plains years ago, fighting Indians the whole
time. Of that part we, of course, knew nothing, but our experience was
sufficient. I do not regret it, but it is like putting one's head under
water the first time to feel that queer sensation. It is unnecessary,
though, to keep the head under for an hour or two to fully realize the
feeling, so we thought about the plains, and took a freight at Rawlins.
There we found a wheelman, Mr. James Deitrick, chief train dispatcher
on the Wyoming Division of the Union Pacific Railroad, whose kindness
to us, especially in a pecuniary manner, will never be forgotten. We
thought of him as the train slowly climbed the continental divide and
went spinning down the other side, over the same monotonous stretch
of sand and sage brush. A ride of seventy-five miles brought us to
Green River at eleven o'clock at night. We knew nothing of the town,
excepting that we wanted to find some other place to stay than at the
$4 a day hotel, and were inquiring at a saloon (there were plenty of
those open), when a little short man said: "Come over and stay with
me. You are welcome to the best I have." This open-hearted fellow
proved to be Frank H. Van Meer Beke, an older brother of the plucky
young wheelman who started last March from New York for San Francisco
via New Orleans and New Mexico. Frank was formerly a member of the
Kings County Bicycle Club of Brooklyn, N. Y., and we were his welcome
visitors for two days longer. If his brother Fred is anything like
him he is a royal good fellow.
Green River is a place of a few hundred inhabitants, without a shade
tree or a patch of green grass in the whole town. During the day
we took a swim in the cold waters of the river, the first stream
we had seen that empties into the Pacific Ocean, and climbed some
of the high rocks in the vicinity, and from their very summits we
picked out the fossil remains of many a tiny little fish that had
been imbedded there ages ago, when perhaps the only dry land on the
face of the earth was in the Adirondacks, Canada, and in the western
part of our own State of Connecticut. In the evening (Sunday evening,
July 4th) stores were open, saloons in full blast, and fireworks,
cannons, and bonfires added to the turmoil. They fired Roman candles
into each other's faces without the slightest warning, and the back
of my shirt shows the effect of one of the bolts that scorched the
skin through the flannel.
Monday our host took our machines to pieces and cleaned them
thoroughly, for he was perfectly at home at that work, having had
charge of a riding rink in Brooklyn, and Tuesday morning at 4 o'clock
found us on our way to Evanston. We started early to avoid as much as
possible the discouraging trade winds, and after crossing the river
on the ties of the railroad bridge we climbed a long hill, and got
a most extended view of just the same sand and sage brush. At noon,
to get out of the terribly hot sun, we crawled down under a railroad
bridge and ate our luncheon. We were beginning to learn to carry food
along with us.
But thirty miles of sand, railroad ties, and that blazing sun drove us
into another freight train, and Wednesday morning we left Evanston and
before noon were riding leisurely down Echo Cañon on our bicycles. I
did not regret then that I was traveling on my wheel, for the roads
were good and we stopped and enjoyed the grand scenery to our heart's
content. A train went whizzing by, and I saw passengers quickly
calling each other's attention to a particularly interesting place
in the cañon. With them it was simply a glance, and they were gone;
with us, an abundance of time to look as long as we liked. The finest
view of the best part of the cañon is to be had, I think, only from
the highway. Looking up the cañon, the rocks, four or five hundred
feet high projecting out into it, have very much the appearance of
the bows of so many immense ocean steamers lying side by side. These
rocks are a conglomerated mixture of sand, gravel, stones, and rocks
thrown together promiscuously and hardened by some process of nature
into one solid mass of rock again. On the outside the whole body
of rocks is colored red by some action of the atmosphere, I think,
but underneath they show their natural color, that of light sandstone.
Coming down the cañon we found an overall jacket lying in the road,
pretty soon we came to the tailboard of a wagon, then a ball of tobacco
twine, soon after a bottle (how our mouths watered) of varnish (then
they did not). Then more twine and a bunch of ropes and a bag and
then more twine. For five miles we could see the trail in the road
where this twine had been dragged along, and whenever it happened to
catch on a bush or stone the twine would be strung along for a quarter
of a mile or so. A small feed box came next and finally a good horse
collar. It still remains a mystery to whom all these things belonged,
and the reader must conjecture for himself. We really enjoyed wondering
what we should find next.
Gophers seem to take the place of prairie dogs in the high
altitudes. They are somewhat smaller, but have very much the same
ways of living and are more tame. One of the little fellows stopped
in front of his hole one day, within a few feet of me, sat up and ate
some sage leaves, came up and sniffed at the bicycle, and, indeed,
seemed very friendly. I really wanted to get hold of and squeeze him.
Traveling alone so much has made me feel very friendly toward the
lower animals. I have been as much inclined to stop and talk to a
horse or a little pig as to a person, and many times I longed to have
the different ones wait till I could get hold of and caress them. The
farther I travel the more this feeling grows on me, but there is still
one animal that I have not yet learned to love or to want to squeeze,
and that is a rattlesnake. But I can see I am growing in grace in that
respect also. Now, when I see a snake, I don't run and jump on it,
as I used to at home. The defenseless condition of my legs may have
had something to do with this change of heart, but really they are
the only living things that have annoyed me, thus far.
At Echo we found we were as near Salt Lake City as we should be at
Ogden, forty miles further along on the line of the Union Pacific,
so we started in a southerly direction over excellent roads, up the
beautiful Weber Valley, and were soon eating supper at a comfortable
farm-house, where everything was as homelike and pleasant as in any
New England home. Desiring information, I said: "I wonder if any of
those people in large canvas covered wagons we have been meeting
are Mormons?" "O, yes," the farmer's wife replied quickly, "there
are lots of them around here. They go out on fishing excursions this
time of the year a great deal. What do you Eastern people think of
the Mormons, anyway? Do you think we have horns?" You can imagine
my surprise, but the farmer and his wife, too, joined in and talked
so freely and pleasantly on the subject that I soon asked questions
as freely as they answered them. "Yes," the farmer said, "I have
been married twenty-three years and have never had more than the
one wife. I may sometime take another, but I don't see my way clear
to do so yet. A few Mormons around here have more than one wife,
but the elections show that only one in eight throughout the whole
territory are polygamists. The church does not oblige us to take
more than one wife any more than it does to pay one-tenth of what we
raise at tilling, and there are lots of Mormons who never do either,
but if we do our whole duty we should do both. It is not enough for
the Government to oblige us to give up wives we have loved and had
children by, but now they are trying to pass a law to disfranchise
us if we will not swear we will give up our religion. Juries are
packed and we are convicted without justice. We never will give up
our religion. We must submit for a while, but the time will come when
we shall be delivered from our persecutors."
This and much more was said, and it all gave me the impression that
if only one-eighth of the Mormons were polygamists, the extent of the
blot upon the good name of the country had been greatly over-estimated,
for these people were really as kind and Christ-like as any I have
met in my travels. But this was one side of the question.
During the day we climbed over the Wasatch Mountains, and came down
through Parley's Cañon into Salt Lake Valley. Although the sides of
this cañon are not as precipitous as some, yet the rocks go boldly
up into the air till their tops are covered with snow. The coasting
down this cañon would have been very good, but the great number of
team-wagons and Mormon camping parties made dismounts frequent and
unpleasant. Just before reaching Salt Lake City, which lies to the
northwest of the mouth of this cañon, we hid behind some bushes
and took a most refreshing bath in one of the irrigating ditches,
for the roads were very dusty all day.
Riding into the city about six o'clock, we had passed up Main street
but a little way when, by chance, we met the secretary of the bicycle
club. Before we had reached the hotel another member came tearing up
the street after us, and in less than fifteen minutes ten or twelve
wheelmen came into the hotel to welcome us, all this, too, without
a minute's warning from us, or without our knowing a single person
in the city by name. A few days before starting, in the spring, I
clipped from the L. A. W. Bulletin what few names of wheelmen I could
find, and thus, in almost every city, I knew some wheelman by name;
but here were only four or five League members and we knew no one,
but that made no difference. They heard we were from the East and
they were our friends, because we were wheelmen. Mr. A. C. Brixen,
proprietor of the Valley House, where we stopped, is a wheelman,
and so are several of his boarders, and although at Buffalo, Denver,
and many other places I have been most cordially received, the Salt
Lake City wheelmen outdid all other wheelmen in their spontaneous
outburst of welcome.
Shortly after supper, the sound of a brass band playing in front of
the hotel, made me wonder, as I sat in my room trying to get cool:
Could it be those enthusiastic fellows had gone so far as to give
us a serenade? Just then the music stopped and a knock at the door
convinced me. Surely they wanted me to come out and say something, I
thought; but what could I say? I had never made a speech in my life,
and the very idea of doing so made me blush there in the dark in my
room. But I must go out and say something to the crowd, and do the
best I could. So I did; I went out trembling. The music came from
some theater band out in the street in an omnibus, and just then
they drove on to the next hotel, to advertise simply themselves,
not me. And the expected crowd of enthusiastic admirers consisted of
two men and a boy, sitting under the trees with their feet cocked up,
reading, unconcernedly. I did not tremble any more. The knocker was
Mr. C. E. Johnson, who wanted us to take a ride about the city in the
morning with him. We did, and of him I asked more questions. "Why yes,
every member of the club is a Mormon. There is only one who has two
wives, and since he was fined he has only lived with one. It amuses
us to see Eastern tourists come here, as many of them do, and appear
afraid to ask us questions. We are glad to answer all inquiries,
and believe Eastern people would not be so prejudiced against us if
they knew us better,"--and much more.
The members of the club, in intelligence, personal habits, and
gentlemanly conduct, will compare very favorably with any Eastern club,
and they, from the first, showed such a liking for us, which we could
not help but reciprocate, that I left them with more of a feeling of
sadness than I have ever experienced in parting from new friends,--and
for this reason: These young men who were so full of kindness to us
believe in a religion that the government is totally opposed to, and
which it is determined to suppress, that is, the polygamous part of
it. In case of trouble, and I am afraid from what little I was able
to find out in regard to the situation that there will be trouble;
in that case these young wheelmen will stand up for their religion,
a religion they as honestly believe in as any Eastern wheelmen do
in theirs.
Then I talked a few minutes with the editor of the Tribune. "The
statement," said he, "that only one-eighth of Mormons are polygamists
is misleading, certainly. The number of Mormons disqualified from
voting for practicing polygamy may have been one-eighth of the whole
population, but that includes every man, woman, and child, Gentiles
and all. Now Gentiles and women and children are not polygamists;
women and children cannot be in the very nature of the case. So that
the number of Mormons, capable of being polygamists, that practice
it to-day, is nearer one-half than one-eighth. As for juries being
packed, the same course is being pursued here as in all courts. A man
disbelieving in capital punishment cannot sit in a murder trial, for
he would not convict on evidence; just so with a Mormon, he would not
convict another Mormon of polygamy. The only persecution practiced is
by United States deputies enforcing a United States law. The troops
are quartered here in the city because there has been, and is still,
need of them to preserve the peace."
I feel that what I have learned of the trouble here is only
superficial, for a two days' stop, with much of my time otherwise
occupied, is not a sufficient time to look up the subject; but one
thing seems certain, it will be a very long and a very hard struggle,
but the conclusion is foregone. Polygamy must go. Yesterday afternoon
we went bathing in Salt Lake; as far as the view is concerned, it
is like bathing in the ocean, you cannot see across the lake. It is
only three or four years since the people of the city have availed
themselves of the benefits of their salt water to any great extent,
but now, cheap excursions run out to the lake, twenty miles distant,
and returning trains frequently bring back 2,000 passengers. Yes, it
is genuine salt water bathing with a vengeance, for you can't swim in
it. It is almost like trying to swim in thin mud, you can't get along
any. The water is so heavy it is almost impossible to dive to any
depth, and then you bob up out of the water feet first, just like a
cork. It must be really dangerous to dive from any height. Sink! You
can't sink if you try. You can walk clear across the lake and not
go under; lie flat on your back with your hands under your head for
a pillow, and one who has never been in any water, salt or fresh,
could lie there all day without any trouble. Turn over and throw your
arms out like a spread eagle, and it is just the same, or sit straight
up, tailor fashion, and still you are high above the water; that is,
high enough not to feel any nervousness about getting strangled. I
never experienced such a pleasant sensation and never enjoyed bathing
more, unless it was high surf bathing, and here that is impossible,
for no wind, however strong, could raise very high waves on this
genuinely heavy sea. The water was full of men, women, and children,
all floating around, none swimming, some sitting bolt upright, others
lying around in any position that was agreeable, and all unconcerned
as to whether there was three or thirty feet of water under them.
I went out upon the beach to sit in the sun, to dry off, but soon
looked like a miller; hair, neck, face, and hands, were covered with
salt, and a bath with fresh water was of course necessary. This water
in your mouth or up your nose is very disagreeable; in your eyes,
painful; and to be strangled with it, simply terrible. Eyesight has
been permanently injured by people opening their eyes under this
water. I am told that it contains nearly three times as much salt as
ordinary salt water, and the numerous streams of fresh water which
empty into it, have no effect on its saline strength. Without any
visible outlet, the only change noticeable is a slight rise in the
water level.
Of course we had to visit the Tabernacle, which comfortably seats over
ten thousand people, and when we were told the great organ was brought
across the plains on ox-teams, over the same route we had just passed,
a chord of sympathy seemed to vibrate between the organ and us. The
Temple, which was commenced in 1853, and is to be finished in seven
years, making the allotted forty years that must be consumed in its
construction, is still nothing but four bare walls, nine feet thick
and 100 feet high.
Distance traveled with the wheel, 2,625 miles.