Two years are supposed to elapse between the third and fourth chapters
of this original American romance.
A manly Mormon, one evening, as the sun was preparing to set among
a select apartment of gold and crimson clouds in the western
horizon--although for that matter the sun has a right to "set" where
it wants to, and so, I may add has a hen--a manly Mormon, I say, tapped
gently at the door of the mansion of the late Reginald Gloverson.
The door was opened by Mrs. Sarah Gloverson.
"Is this the house of the widow Gloverson!" the Mormon asked.
"It is," said Susan.
"And how many is there of she?" inquired the Mormon.
"There is about twenty of her, including me," courteously returned the
fair Susan.
"Can I see her?"
"You can."
"Madam," he softly said, addressing the twenty disconsolate widows. "I
have seen part of you before! And although I have already twenty-five
wives, whom I respect and tenderly care for, I can truly say that I
never felt love's holy thrill till I saw thee! Be mine--be mine!"
he enthusiastically cried, "and we will show the world a striking
illustration of the beauty and truth of the noble lines, only a good
deal more so--
"Twenty-one souls with a single thought,
Twenty-one hearts that beat as one!"
They were united, they were!
Gentle reader, does not the moral of this romance show that--does it
not, in fact, show that however many there may be of a young widow
woman, or rather does it not show that whatever number of persons one
woman may consist of--well, never mind what it shows. Only this writing
Mormon romances is confusing to the intellect. You try it and see.
____________________
I.
ON THE STEAMER.
New York, Oct. 13, 1868.
The steamer Ariel starts for California at noon.
Her decks are crowded with excited passengers, who instantly undertake
to "look after" their trunks and things; and what with our smashing
against each other, and the yells of the porters, and the wails over
lost baggage, and the crash of boxes, and the roar of the boilers, we
are for the time being about as unhappy a lot of maniacs as was ever
thrown together.
I am one of them. I am rushing around with a glaring eye in search of a
box.
Great jam, in which I find a sweet young lady, with golden hair,
clinging to me fondly, and saying, "Dear George, farewell!"--Discovers
her mistake, and disappears.
I should like to be George some more.
Confusion so great that I seek refuge in a stateroom which contains a
single lady of forty-five summers, who says, "Base man! leave me!" I
leave her.
By and by we cool down, and become somewhat regulated.
The next day and the next pass by in a serene manner. The waves
are smooth now, and we can all eat and sleep. We might have enjoyed
ourselves very well, I fancy, if the Ariel, whose capacity was about
three hundred and fifty passengers, had not on this occasion carried
nearly nine hundred, a hundred at least of whom were children of an
unpleasant age. Captain Semmes captured the Ariel once, and it is to be
deeply regretted that that thrifty buccaneer hadn't made mince-meat of
her, because she is a miserable tub at best, and hasn't much more
right to be afloat than a second-hand coffin has. I do not know her
proprietor, Mr. C. Vanderbilt. But I know of several excellent mill
privileges in the State of Maine, and not one of them is so thoroughly
Dam'd as he was all the way from New York to Aspinwall. _______________
I have spoken my Piece about the Ariel, and I hope Mr. Vanderbilt will
reform ere it is too late. Dr. Watts says the vilest sinner may
return as long as the gas-meters work well, or words to that effect.
_______________ We were so densely crowded on board the Ariel that I
cannot conscientiously say we were altogether happy. And sea-voyages at
best are a little stupid. On the whole I should prefer a voyage on
the Erie Canal, where there isn't any danger, and where you can carry
picturesque scenery along with you--so to speak.
_______________ II.
THE ISTHMUS.
On the ninth day we reach Aspinwall in the Republic of Granada. The
President of New Granada is a Central American named Mosquero. I
was told that he derived quite a portion of his income by carrying
passengers' valises and things from the steamer to the hotels in
Aspinwall. It was an infamous falsehood. Fancy A. Lincoln carrying
carpet-bags and things! and indeed I should rather trust him with them
than Mosquero, because the former gentleman, as I think some one has
before observed, is "honest."
I intrust my bag to a speckled native, who confidentially gives me to
understand that he is the only strictly honest person in Aspinwall.
The rest, he says, are niggers--which the colored people of the Isthmus
regard as about as scathing a thing as they can say of one another.
I examine the New Grenadian flag, which waves from the chamber-window of
the refreshment saloon. It is of simple design. You can make one.
Take half of a cotton shirt, that has been worn two months, and dip it
in molasses of the Day & Martin brand. Then let the flies gambol over
it for a few days, and you have it. It is an emblem of Sweet Liberty.
At the Howard House the man of sin rubbeth the hair of the horse to the
bowels of the cat, and our girls are waving their lily-white hoofs in
the dazzling waltz.
We have a quadrille, in which an English person slips up and jams his
massive brow against my stomach. He apologizes, and I say, "all right,
my lord." I subsequently ascertained that he superintended the
shipping of coals for the British steamers, and owned fighting cocks.
_______________ The natives amass wealth by carrying valises, &c., then
squander it for liquor. My native comes to me as I sit on the veranda
of the Howard House smoking a cigar, and solicits the job of taking
my things to the cars next morning. He is intoxicated, and has been
fighting, to the palpable detriment of his wearing apparel; for he has
only a pair of tattered pantaloons and a very small quantity of shirt
left.
We go to bed. Eight of us are assigned to a small den upstairs, with
only two lame apologies for beds.
Mosquitoes and even rats annoy us fearfully. One bold rat gnaws at the
feet of a young Englishman in the party. This was more than the young
Englishman could stand, and rising from his bed he asked us if New
Grenada wasn't a Republic? We said it was. "I thought so," he said.
"Of course I mean no disrespect to the United States of America in the
remark, but I think I prefer a bloated monarchy!" He smiled sadly--then
handing his purse and his mother's photograph to another English person,
he whispered softly, "If I am eaten up, give them to Me mother--tell her
I died like a true Briton, with no faith whatever in the success of a
republican form of government!" And then he crept back to bed again.
_______________ We start at seven the next morning for Panama.
My native comes bright and early to transport my carpet sack to the
railway station. His clothes have suffered still more during the night,
for he comes to me now dressed only in a small rag and one boot.
At last we are off. "Adios, Americanos!" the natives cry; to which I
pleasantly reply, "Adous! and long may it be before you have a chance to
Do us again."
The cars are comfortable on the Panama railway, and the country through
which we pass is very beautiful. But it will not do to trust it much,
because it breeds fevers and other unpleasant disorders, at all seasons
of the year. Like a girl we most all have known, the Isthmus is fair
but false.
There are mud huts all along the route, and half-naked savages
gaze patronizingly upon us from their doorways. An elderly lady in
spectacles appears to be much scandalized by the scant dress of these
people, and wants to know why the Select Men don't put a stop to it.
From this, and a remark she incidentally makes about her son, who has
invented a washing machine which will wash, wring, and dry a shirt in
ten minutes, I infer that she is from the hills of Old New England, like
the Hutchinson family. _______________ The Central American is
lazy. The only exercise he ever takes is to occasionally produce a
Revolution. When his feet begin to swell and there are premonitory
symptoms of gout, he "revolushes" a spell, and then serenely returns to
his cigarette and hammock under the palm-trees.
These Central American Republics are queer concerns. I do not of course
precisely know what a last year's calf's ideas of immortal glory may be,
but probably they are about as lucid as those of a Central American in
regard to a republican form of government.
And yet I am told they are a kindly people in the main. I never met but
one of them--a Costa-Rican; on board the Ariel. He lay sick with fever,
and I went to him and took his hot hand gently in mine. I shall never
forget his look of gratitude. And the next day he borrowed five dollars
of me, shedding tears as he put it in his pocket. _______________ The
Senoritas who leave us at Panama are splendid creatures. They learned
me Spanish, and in the soft moonlight we walked on deck and talked of
the land of Pizarro. (You know old Piz. conquered Peru! and although he
was not educated at West Point, he had still some military talent.) I
feel as though I had lost all my relations, including my grandmother and
the cooking stove when these gay young Senoritas go away.
They do not go to Peru on a Peruvian bark, but on an English steamer.
Off to Acapulco.
_______________
III.
MEXICO.
We make Acapulco, a Mexican coast town of some importance, in a few
days, and all go ashore.
The pretty peasant girls peddle necklaces made of shells and oranges,
in the streets of Acapulco, on steamer days. They are quite naive
about it. Handing you a necklace they will say, "Me give you pres-ent,
Senor," and then retire with a low curtsey. Returning, however, in a
few moments, they say quite sweetly, "You give me pres-ent, Senor, of
quarter dollar!" which you at once do unless you have a heart of stone.
Acapulco was shelled by the French a year or so before our arrival
there, and they effected a landing. But the gay and gallant Mexicans
peppered them so persisently and effectually from the mountains near by
that they concluded to sell out and leave.
Napoleon has no right in Mexico. Mexico may deserve a licking. That
is possible enough. Most people do. But nobody has any right to lick
Mexico except the United States. We have a right, I flatter myself, to
lick this entire continent, including ourselves, any time we want to.
_______________ The signal gun is fired at 11, and we go off to the
steamer in small boats.
We reach Manzanillo, another coast place, twenty-four hours after
leaving Acapulco. Manzanillo is a little Mexican village, and looked
very wretched indeed, sweltering away there on the hot sands. But it
is a port of some importance, nevertheless, because a great deal of
merchandise finds its way to the interior from there. The white and
green flag of Mexico floats from a red steam-tug (the navy of Mexico,
by the way, consists of two tugs, a disabled raft, and a basswood
life-preserver), and the Captain of the Port comes off to us in his
small boat, climbs up the side of the St. Louis, and folds the healthy
form of Captain Hudson to his breast. There is no wharf here, and we
have to anchor off the town.
There was a wharf, but the enterprising Mexican peasantry, who subsist
by poling merchandise ashore in dug-outs, indignantly tore it up.
We take on here some young Mexicans, from Colima, who are going to
California. They are of the better class, and one young man (who was
educated in Madrid) speaks English rather better than I write it.
Be careful not to admire any article of an educated Mexican's dress,
because if you do he will take it right off and give it to you, and
sometimes this might be awkward.
I said: "What a beautiful cravat you wear!"
"It is yours!" he exclaimed, quickly unbuckling it; and I could not
induce him to take it back again.
I am glad I did not tell his sister, who was with him and with whom
I was lucky enough to get acquainted, what a beautiful white hand she
had. She might have given it to me on the spot; and that, as she had
soft eyes, a queenly form, and a half million or so in her own right,
would have made me feel bad.
Reports reach us here of high-handed robberies by the banditti all along
the road to the City of Mexico. They steal clothes as well as coin. A
few days since the mail coach entered the city with all the passengers
stark-naked! They must have felt mortified.
_______________
IV.
CALIFORNIA.
We reach San Francisco one Sunday afternoon. I am driven to the
Occidental Hotel by a kind-hearted hackman, who states that inasmuch
as I have come out there to amuse people, he will only charge me five
dollars. I pay it in gold, of course, because greenbacks are not
current on the Pacific coast.
Many of the citizens of San Francisco remember the Sabbath day to keep
it jolly; and the theatres, the circus, the minstrels, and the music
halls are all in full blast to-night.
I "compromise," and go to the Chinese theatre, thinking perhaps there
can be no great harm in listening to worldly sentiments when expressed
in a language I don't understand.
The Chinaman at the door takes my ticket with the remark, "Ki hi-hi ki!
Shoolah!"
And I tell him that on the whole I think he is right.
The Chinese play is "continued," like a Ledger story, from night to
night. It commences with the birth of the hero or heroine, which
interesting event occurs publicly on the stage; and then follows him or
her down to the grave, where it cheerfully ends.
Sometimes a Chinese play lasts six months. The play I am speaking of
had been going on for about two months. The heroine had grown up into
womanhood, and was on the point, as I inferred, of being married to
a young Chinaman in spangled pantaloons and a long black tail. The
bride's father comes in with his arms full of tea-chests, and bestows
them, with his blessing, upon the happy couple. As this play is to run
four months longer, however, and as my time is limited, I go away at the
close of the second act, while the orchestra is performing an overture
on gongs and one-stringed fiddles.
The door-keeper again says, "Ki hi-hi ki! Shoolah!" adding, this time
however, "Chow-wow." I agree with him in regard to the ki hi and hi ki,
but tell him I don't feel altogether certain about the chow-wow.
To Stockton from San Francisco.
Stockton is a beautiful town, that has ceased to think of becoming a
very large place, and has quietly settled down into a state of serene
prosperity. I have my boots repaired here by an artist who informs me
that he studied in the penitentiary; and I visit the lunatic asylum,
where I encounter a vivacious maniac who invites me to ride in a chariot
drawn by eight lions and a rhinoceros.
John Phoenix was once stationed at Stockton, and put his mother aboard
the San Francisco boat one morning with the sparkling remark, "Dear
mother, be virtuous and you will be happy!" _______________ Forward to
Sacramento--which is the capital of the State, and a very nice old town.
They had a flood here some years ago, during which several blocks of
buildings sailed out of town and had never been heard from since. A
Chinaman concluded to leave in a wash tub, and actually set sail in
one of those fragile barks. A drowning man hailed him piteously, thus:
"Throw me a rope, oh throw me a rope!" To which the Chinaman excitedly
cried, "No have got--how can do?" and went on, on with the howling
current. He was never seen more; but a few weeks after his tail was
found by some Sabbath-school children in the north part of the State.
_______________ I go to the mountain towns. The sensational mining days
are over, but I find the people jolly and hospitable nevertheless.
At Nevada I am called upon, shortly after my arrival, by an athletic
scarlet-faced man, who politely says his name is Blaze.
Years ago Mr. Blaze was an agent of the California Stage Company. There
was a formidable and well-organized opposition to the California Stage
Company at that time, and Mr. Blaze rendered them such signal service
in his capacity of agent that they were very sorry when he tendered his
resignation.
"You are some sixteen hundred dollars behind in your accounts, Mr.
Blaze," said the President, "but in view of your faithful and efficient
services we shall throw off eight hundred dollars off that amount."
Mr. Blaze seemed touched by this generosity. A tear stood in his eye
and his bosom throbbed audibly.
"You will throw off eight hundred dollars--you will?" he at last cried,
seizing the President's hand and pressing it passionately to his lips.
"I will," returned the President.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Blaze, "I'm a gentleman, I am, you bet! And I
won't allow no Stage Company to surpass me in politeness. I'll throw
off the other eight hundred, and we'llcall it square! No gratitude,
sir--no thanks; it is my duty." _______________ I get back to San
Francisco in a few weeks, and am to start home Overland from here.
I do not leave the Capital of California in a light-hearted and joyous
manner. But "leaves have their time to fall," and I have my time to
leave, which is now.
We ride all day and all night, and ascend and descend some of the most
frightful hills I ever saw. We make Johnson's Pass, which is 6752 feet
high, about two o'clock in the morning, and go down the great Kingsbury
grade with locked wheels. The driver, with whom I sit outside, informs
me, as we slowly roll down this fearful mountain road, which looks down
on either side into an appalling ravine, that he has met accidents in
his time, and cost the California Stage Company a great deal of money;
"because," he says, "juries is agin us on principle, and every man who
sues us is sure to recover. But it will never be so agin, not with me,
you bet."
"How is that?" I said.
It was frightfully dark. It was snowing withal, and notwithstanding
the brakes were kept hard down, the coach slewed wildly, often fairly
touching the brink of the black precipice.
"How is that?" I said.
"Why, you see," he replied, "that corpses never sue for damages, but
maimed people do. And the next time I have a overturn I shall go round
and keerfully examine the passengers. Them as is dead I shall let
alone; but them as is mutilated I shall finish with the king-bolt! Dead
folks don't sue. They ain't on it."
Thus with anecdote did this driver cheer me up.
_______________
V.
WASHOE.
We reach Carson City about nine o'clock in the morning. It is the
capital of the silver-producing territory of Nevada.
They shoot folks here somewhat, and the law is rather partial than
otherwise to first-class murderers.
I visit the territorial Prison, and the Warden points out the prominent
convicts to me thus:
"This man's crime was horse-stealing. He is here for life."
"This man is in for murder. He is here for three years."
But shooting isn't as popular in Nevada as it once was. A few years
since they used to have a dead man for breakfast every morning. A
reformed desperado told my that he supposed he had killed men enough to
stock a graveyard. "A feeling of remorse," he said, "sometimes comes
over me! But I'm an altered man now. I hain't killed a man for over
two weeks! What'll yer poison yourself with?" he added, dealing a
resonant blow on the bar.
There used to live near Carson City a notorious desperado, who never
visited town without killing somebody. He would call for liquor at some
drinking-house, and if anybody declined joining him he would at once
commence shooting. But one day he shot a man too many. Going into the
St. Nicholas drinking-house he asked the company present to join him in
a North American drink. One individual was rash enough to refuse. With
a look of sorrow rather than anger the desperado revealed his revolver,
and said, "Good God! Must I kill a man every time I come to Carson?"
and so saying he fired and killed the individual on the spot. But this
was the last murder the bloodthirsty miscreant ever committed, for the
aroused citizens pursued him with rifles and shot him down in his own
dooryard. _______________ I lecture in the theatre at Carson, which
opens out of a drinking and gambling house. On each side of the door
where my ticket-taker stands there are monte-boards and sweat-cloths,
but they are deserted to-night, the gamblers being evidently of a
literary turn of mind. _______________ Five years ago there was only a
pony-path over the precipitous hills on which now stands the marvelous
city of Virginia, with its population of twelve thousand persons, and
perhaps more. Virginia, with its stately warehouses and gay shops;
its splendid streets, paved with silver ore; its banking houses and
faro-banks; its attractive coffee-houses and elegant theatre, its music
halls and its three daily newspapers. _______________ I visit several of
the adjacent mining towns, but I do not go to Aurora. No, I think not.
A lecturer on psychology was killed there the other night by the playful
discharge of a horse-pistol in the hands of a degenerate and intoxicated
Spaniard. This circumstance, and a rumor that the citizens are "agin"
literature, induce me to go back to Virginia. _______________ I had
pointed out to me at a restaurant a man who had killed four men in
street broils, and who had that very day cut his own brother's breast
open in a dangerous manner with a small supper knife. He was a
gentleman, however. I heard him tell some men so. He admitted it
himself. And I don't think he would lie about a little thing like that.
The theatre at Virginia will attract the attention of the stranger,
because it is an unusually elegant affair of the kind, and would be so
regarded anywhere. It was built, of course, by Mr. Thomas Maguire,
the Napoleonic manager of the Pacific, and who has built over twenty
theatres in his time and will perhaps build as many more, unless
somebody stops him--which, by the way, will not be a remarkably easy
thing to do.
As soon as a mining camp begins to assume the proportions of a city, at
about the time the whiskey-vender draws his cork or the gambler spreads
his green cloth, Maguire opens a theatre, and with a hastily-organized
"Vigilance Committee" of actors, commences to execute Shakespeare.
_______________
VI.
MR. PEPPER.
My arrival at Virginia City was signalized by the following incident:
I had no sooner achieved my room in the garret of the International
Hotel than I was called upon by an intoxicated man who said he was an
Editor. Knowing how rare it was for an Editor to be under the blighting
influence of either spiritous or malt liquors, I received this statement
doubtfully. But I said:
"What name?"
"Wait!" he said, and went out.
I heard him pacing unsteadily up and down the hall outside. In ten
minutes he returned, and said:
"Pepper!"
Pepper was indeed his name. He had been out to see if he could remember
it; and he was so flushed with his success that he repeated it joyously
several times, and then, with a short laugh he went away.
I had often heard of a man being "so drunk that he didn't know what town
he lived in," but here was a man so hideously inebriated that he didn't
know what his name was.
I saw him no more, but I heard from him. For he published a notice of
my lecture, in which he said I had a dissipated air!
_______________
VII.
HORACE GREELEY'S RIDE TO PLACERVILLE.
When Mr. Greeley was in California ovations awaited him at every town.
He had written powerful leaders in the "Tribune" in favor of the Pacific
railroad, which had greatly endeared him to the citizens of the Golden
State. And therefore they made much of him when he went to see them.
At one town the enthusiastic populace tore his celebrated white coat to
pieces, and carried the pieces home to remember him by.
The citizens of Placerville prepared to fete the great journalist,
and an extra coach, with extra relays of horses, was chartered to
the California Stage Company to carry him from Folsom to
Placerville--distance, forty miles. The extra was in some way delayed,
and did not leave Folsom until late in the afternoon. Mr. Greeley was
to be feted at 7 o'clock that evening by the citizens of Placerville,
and it was altogether necessary that he should be there by that hour.
So the Stage Company said to Henry Monk, the driver of the extra:
"Henry, this great man must be there by 7 to-night." And Henry
answered, "The great man shall be there."
The roads were in an awful state, and during the first few miles out of
Folsom slow progress was made.
"Sir," said Mr. Greeley, "are you aware that I must be at Placerville at
7 o'clock to-night?"
"I've got my orders!" laconically returned Henry Monk.
Still the coach dragged slowly forward.
"Sir," said Mr. Greeley, "this is not a trifling matter. I must be
there at 7!"
Again came the answer, "I've got my orders!"
But the speed was not increased, and Mr. Greeley chafed away another
half hour; when, as he was again about to remonstrate with the driver,
the horses suddenly started into a furious run, and all sorts of
encouraging yells filled the air from the throat of Henry Monk.
"That is right, my good fellow!" cried Mr. Greeley. "I'll give you ten
dollars when we get to Placerville. Now we are going!"
They were indeed, and at a terrible speed.
Crack, crack! went the whip, and again "that voice" split the air. "Git
up! Hi yi! G'long! Yip--yip!"
And on they tore over stones and ruts, up hill and down, at a rate of
speed never before achieved by stage horses.
Mr. Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end of the coach to the
other like an india-rubber ball, managed to get his head out of the
window, when he said:
"Do--on't--on't--on't you-u-u think we-e-e-e shall get there by seven if
we do--on't--on't go so fast?"
"I've got my orders!" That was all Henry Monk said. And on tore the
coach.
It was becoming serious. Already the journalist was extremely sore from
the terrible jolting, and again his head "might have been seen" at the
window.
"Sir," he said, "I don't care--care--air, if we don't get there at
seven!"
"I've got my orders!" Fresh horses. Forward again, faster than
before. Over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly
escaped turning a summerset.
"See here!" shrieked Mr. Greeley, "I don't care if we don't get there at
all!"
"I've got my orders! I work for the California Stage Company, Ido.
That's wot I work for. They said, 'git this man through by seving.' An'
this man's goin' through. You bet! Gerlong! Whoo-ep!"
Another frightful jolt, and Mr. Greeley's bald head suddenly found its
way through the roof of the coach, amidst the crash of small timbers and
the ripping of strong canvas.
"Stop, you ----maniac!" he roared.
Again answered Henry Monk:
"I've got my orders! Keep your seat, Horace!"
At Mud Springs, a village a few miles from Placerville, they met a large
delegation of the citizens of Placerville, who had come out to meet
the celebrated editor, and escort him into town. There was a military
company, a brass band, and a six-horse wagon load of beautiful damsels
in milk-white dresses representing all the States in the Union. It was
nearly dark now, but the delegation were amply provided with torches,
and bonfires blazed all along the road to Placerville.
The citizens met the coach in the outskirts of Mud Springs, and Mr. Monk
reined in his foam-covered steeds.
"Is Mr. Greeley on board?" asked the chairman of the committee.
"He was, a few miles back!" said Mr. Monk; "yes," he added, after
looking down through the hole which the fearful jolting had made in the
coach-roof--"yes, I can see him! He is there!"
"Mr. Greeley," said the Chairman of the Committee, presenting himself
at the window of the coach, "Mr. Greeley, sir! We are come to most
cordially welcome you, sir--why, God bless me, sir, you are bleeding at
the nose!"
"I've got my orders!" cried Mr. Monk. "My orders is as follers: Get him
there by seving! It wants a quarter to seving. Stand out of the way!"
"But, sir," exclaimed the Committee-man, seizing the off leader by
the reins--"Mr Monk, we are come to escort him into town! Look at the
procession, sir, and the brass bands, and the people, and the young
women, sir!"
"I've got my orders!" screamed Mr. Monk. "My orders don't say nothin'
about no brass bands and young women. My orders says, 'git him there by
seving!' Let go them lines! Clear the way there! Whoo-ep! Keep
your seat, Horace!" and the coach dashed wildly through the procession,
upsetting a portion of the brass band, and violently grazing the wagon
which contained the beautiful young women in white.
Years hence, gray-haired men, who were little boys in this procession,
will tell their grandchildren how this stage tore through Mud Springs,
and how Horace Greeley's bald head ever and anon showed itself, like a
wild apparition, above the coach-roof.
Mr. Monk was on time. There is a tradition that Mr. Greeley was very
indignant for a while; then he laughed, and finally presented Mr. Monk
with a brand new suit of clothes.
Mr. Monk himself is still in the employ of the California Stage Company,
and is rather fond of relating a story that has made him famous all over
the Pacific coast. But he says he yields to no man in his admiration
for Horace Greeley.
_______________
VIII.
TO REESE RIVER.
I leave Virginia for Great Salt Lake City, via the Reese River Silver
Diggings.
There are eight passengers of us inside the coach--which, by the way,
isn't a coach, but a Concord covered mud wagon.
Among the passengers is a genial man of the name of Ryder, who has
achieved a widespread reputation as a strangler of unpleasant bears in
the mountain fastnesses of California, and who is now an eminent Reese
River miner.
We ride night and day, passing through the land of the Piute Indians.
Reports reach us that fifteen hundred of these savages are on the
Rampage, under the command of a red usurper named Buffalo Jim, who
seems to be a sort of Jeff Davis, inasmuch as he and his followers have
seceded from the regular Piut organization. The seceding savages have
announced that they shall kill and scalp all pale-faces [which makes
our face pale, I reckon] found loose in that section. We find the guard
doubled at all the stations where we change horses, and our passengers
nervously examine their pistols and readjust the long littering knives
in their belts. I feel in my pockets to see if the key which unlocks
the carpet-bag containing my revolvers is all right--for I had rather
brilliantly locked my deadly weapons up in that article, which was
strapped with the other baggage to the rack behind. The passengers
frown on me for this carelessness, but the kind-hearted Ryder gives me
a small double-barrelled gun, with which I narrowly escape murdering
my beloved friend Hingston in cold blood. I am not used to guns and
things, and in changing the position of this weapon I pulled the trigger
rather harder than was necessary. _______________ When this
wicked rebellion first broke out I was among the first--to stay at
home--chiefly because of my utter ignorance of firearms. I should be
valuable to the Army as a Brigadier-General only so far as the moral
influence of--my name went. _______________ However, we pass safely
through the land of the Piutes, unmolested by Buffalo James. This
celebrated savage can read and write, and is quite an orator, like
Metamora, or the last of the Wampanoags. He went on to Washington a few
years ago and called Mr. Buchanan his Great Father, and the members of
the Cabinet his dear Brothers. They gave him a great many blankets, and
he returned to his beautiful hunting grounds and went to killing stage
drivers. He made such a fine impression upon Mr. Buchanan during his
sojourn in Washington that that statesman gave a young English tourist,
who crossed the plain a few years since, a letter of introduction to
him. The great Indian chief read the English person's letter with
considerable emotion, and then ordered him scalped, and stole his
trunks.
Mr. Ryder knows me only as "Mr. Brown," and he refreshes me during the
journey by quotations from my books and lectures.
"Never seen Ward?" he said.
"Oh, no."
"Ward says he likes little girls, but he likes large girls just as
well. Haw, haw, haw! I should like to see the d--- fool!"
He referred to me.
He even woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me one of Ward's
jokes. _______________ I lecture at Big Creek.
Big Creek is a straggling, wild, little village; and the house in which
I had the honor of speaking a piece had no other floor than the bare
earth. The roof was of sagebrush. At one end of the building a huge
wood fire blazed, which, with half-a-dozen tallow-candles, afforded all
the illumination desired. The lecturer spoke from behind the drinking
bar. Behind him long rows of decanters glistened; above him hung
pictures of race-horses and prize-fighters; and beside him, in his
shirt-sleeves and wearing a cheerful smile, stood the bar-keeper.
My speeches at the Bar before this had been of an elegant character,
perhaps, but quite brief. They never extended beyond "I don't care if I
do," "No sugar in mine," and short gems of a like character.
I had a good audience at Big Creek, who seemed to be pleased, the
bar-keeper especially; for at the close of any "point" that I sought
to make he would deal the counter a vigorous blow with his fist, and
exclaim, "Good boy from the New England States! listen to William W.
Shakespeare!"
Back to Austin. We lose our way, and hitching our horses to a tree,
go in search of some human beings. The night is very dark. We soon
stumble upon a camp-fire, and an unpleasantly modulated voice asks us to
say our prayers, adding that we are on the point of going to Glory with
our boots on. I think perhaps there may be some truth in this, as the
mouth of a horse-pistol almost grazes my forehead, while immediately
behind the butt of that death-dealing weapon I perceive a large man
with black whiskers. Other large men begin to assemble, also with
horse-pistols. Dr. Hingston hastily explains, while I go back to the
carriage to say my prayers, where there is more room. The men were
miners on a prospecting tour, and as we advanced upon them without
sending them word they took us for highway robbers.
I must not forget to say that my brave and kind-hearted friend Ryder
of the mail coach, who had so often alluded to "Ward" in our ride
from Virginia to Austin, was among my hearers at Big Creek. He had
discovered who I was, and informed me that he had debated whether to
wollop me or give me some rich silver claims.
_______________
IX.
GREAT SALT LAKE CITY.
How was I to be greeted by the Mormons? That was rather an exciting
question with me. I had been told on the plains that a certain humorous
sketch of mine (written some years before) had greatly incensed the
Saints, and a copy of the Sacramento "Union" newspaper had a few days
before fallen into my hands in which a Salt Lake correspondent
quite clearly intimated that my reception at the new Zion might be
unpleasantly warm. I ate my dinner moodily and sent out for some
cigars. The venerable clerk brought me six. They cost only two
dollars. They were procured at a store near by. The Salt Lake House
sells neither cigars nor liquors.
I smoke in my room, having no heart to mingle with the people in the
office.
Dr. Hingston "thanks God he never wrote against the Mormons," and goes
out in search of a brother nglishman. Comes back at night and says
there is a prejudice against me. Advises me to keep in. Has heard that
the Mormons thirst for my blood and are on the lookout for me.
Under these circumstances I keep in.
The next day is Sunday, and we go to the Tabernacle, in the morning.
The Tabernacle is located on ---- street, and is a long rakish building
of adobe, capable of seating some twenty-five hundred persons. There
is a wide platform and a rather large pulpit at one end of the building,
and at the other end is another platform for the choir. A young
Irishman of the name of Sloan preaches a sensible sort of discourse, to
which a Presbyterian could hardly have objected. Last night this
same Mr. Sloan enacted a character in a rollicking Irish farce at the
theatre! And he played it well, I was told; not so well, of course,
as the great Dan Bryant could; but I fancy he was more at home in the
Mormon pulpit than Daniel would have been.
The Mormons, by the way, are preeminently an amusement-loving people,
and the Elders pray for the success of their theatre with as much
earnestness as they pray for anything else. The congregation doesn't
startle us. It is known, I fancy, that the heads of the Church are to
be absent to-day, and the attendance is slim. There are no ravishingly
beautiful women present, and no positively ugly ones. The men are fair
to middling. They will never be slain in cold blood for their beauty,
nor shut up in jail for their homeliness.
There are some good voices in the choir to-day, but the orchestral
accompaniment is unusually slight. Sometimes they introduce a full
brass and string band in Church. Brigham Young says the devil has
monopolized the good music long enough, and it is high time the Lord had
a portion of it. Therefore trombones are tooted on Sundays in Utah as
well as on other days; and there are some splendid musicians there. The
Orchestra in Brigham Young's theatre is quite equal to any in Broadway.
There is a youth in Salt Lake City (I forget his name) who plays the
cornet like a North American angel.
Mr. Stenhouse relieves me of any anxiety I had felt in regard to
having my swan-like throat cut by the Danites, but thinks my wholesale
denunciation of a people I had never seen was rather hasty. The
following is the paragraph to which the Saints objected. It occurs in
an "Artemus Ward" paper on Brigham Young, written some years ago:
"I girded up my Lions and fled the Seen. I packt up my duds and left
Salt Lake, which is a 2nd Soddum and Germorer, inhabited by as theavin'
& onprincipled a set of retchis as ever drew Breth in eny spot on the
Globe."
I had forgotten all about this, and as Elder Stenhouse read it to me "my
feelings may be better imagined than described," to use language I think
I have heard before. I pleaded, however, that it was a purely burlesque
sketch, and that this strong paragraph should not be interpreted
literally at all. The Elder didn't seem to see it in that light, but we
parted pleasantly.
_______________
X.
THE MOUNTAIN FEVER.
I go back to my hotel and go to bed, and I do not get up again for two
weary weeks. I have the mountain fever (so called in Utah, though
it closely resembles the old-style typhus) and my case is pronounced
dangerous. I don't regard it so. I don't, in fact, regard anything.
I am all right, myself. My poor Hingston shakes his head sadly, and Dr.
Williamson, from Camp Douglas, pours all kinds of bitter stuff down my
throat. I drink his health in a dose of the cheerful beverage known
as jalap, and thresh the sheets with my hot hands. I address large
assemblages, who have somehow got into my room, and I charge Dr.
Williamson with the murder of Luce, and Mr. Irwin, the actor, with the
murder of Shakspeare. I have a lucid spell now and then, in one of
which James Townsend, the landlord, enters. He whispers, but I hear
what he says far too distinctly: "This man can have anything and
everything he wants; but I'm no hand for a sick room. I never could see
anybody die. "
That was cheering, I thought. The noble Californian, Jerome Davis--he
of the celebrated ranch--sticks by me like a twin brother, although I
fear that in my hot frenzy I more than once anathematised his kindly
eyes. Nursers and watchers, Gentile and Mormon, volunteer their
services in hoops and rare wines are sent to me from all over the city,
which, if I can't drink, the venerable and excellent Thomas can, easy.
I lay there in this wild, broiling way for nearly two weeks, when
one morning I woke up with my head clear and an immense plaster on my
stomach. The plaster had operated. I was so raw that I could by
no means say to Dr. Williamson, "Well done, thou good and faithful
servant". I wished he had lathed me before he plastered me. I was
fearfully weak. I was frightfully thin. With either one of my legs you
could have cleaned the stem of a meerschaum pipe. My backbone had the
appearance of a clothesline with a quantity of English walnuts strung
upon it. My face was almost gone. My nose was so sharp that I didn't
dare stick it into other people's business for fear it would stay
there. But by borrowing my agent's overcoat I succeeded in producing a
shadow.
I have been looking at Zion all day, and my feet are sore and my legs
are weary. I go back to the Salt Lake House and have a talk with
landlord Townsend about the State of Maine. He came from that bleak
region, having skinned his infantile eyes in York county. He was
at Nauvoo, and was forced to sell his entire property there for 50
dollars. He has thrived in Utah, however, and is much thought of by
the Church. He is an Elder, and preaches occasionally. He has only two
wives. I hear lately that he has sold his property for 25,000 dollars
to Brigham Young, and gone to England to make converts. How impressive
he may be as an expounder of the Mormon gospel, I don't know. His
beefsteaks and chicken-pies, however, were first-rate. James and I
talk about Maine, and cordially agree that so far as pine boards and
horse-mackerel are concerned, it is equalled by few and excelled by
none. There is no place like home, as Clara, the Maid of Milan, very
justly observes; and while J. Townsend would be unhappy in Maine, his
heart evidently beats back there now and then.
I heard the love of home oddly illustrated in Oregon, one night, in a
country bar-room. Some well-dressed men, in a state of strong drink,
were boasting of their respective places of nativity.
"I," said one, "was born in Mississippi, where the sun ever shines and
the magnolias bloom all the happy year round."
"And I," said another, "was born in Kentucky--Kentucky, the home of
impassioned oratory: the home of Clay, the State of splendid women, of
gallant men!"
"And I," said another, "was born in Virginia, the home of Washington:
the birthplace of statesmen: the State of chivalric deeds and noble
hospitality!"
"And I," said a yellow-haired and sallow-faced man, who was not of this
party at all, and who had been quietly smoking a short black pipe by
the fire during their magnificent conversation--"and I was born in the
garden-spot of America."
"Where is that?" they said.
"SKEOUHEGAN, MAINE!" he replied; "kin I sell you a razor strop?"
_______________
XI.
"I AM HERE."
There is no mistake about that, and there is a good prospect of my
staying here for some time to come. The snow is deep on the ground, and
more is falling.
The Doctor looks glum, and speaks of his ill-starred countryman, of Sir.
J. Franklin, who went to the Arctic once too much.
A good thing happened down here the other day, said a miner from New
Hampshire to me. "A man of Boston dressin' went through there, and at
one of the stations there wasn't any mules. Says the man who was fixed
out to kill in his Boston dressin', 'Where's them mules?' Says the
driver, 'Them mules is into the sage brush. You go catch 'em--that's
wot you do.' Says the man of Boston dressin', 'Oh no!' Says the
driver! 'Oh, yes!'and he took his long coach-whip and licked the man
of Boston dressin' till he went and caught them mules. How does that
strike you for a joke?"
It didn't strike me as much of a joke to pay a hundred and seventy-five
dollars in gold fare, and then be horse-whipped by stage-drivers, for
declining to chase mules. But people's ideas of humor differ in regard
to shrewdness which "reminds me of a little story."
Sitting in a New England country store one day I overheard the following
dialogue between two brothers:
"Say, Bill, wot you done with that air sorrel mare of yourn?"
"Sold her," said William, with a smile of satisfaction.
"Wot'd you git?"
"Hund'd an' fifty dollars, cash deown!"
"Show! Hund'd an' fifty for that kickin' spavin'd critter! Who'd you
sell her to?"
"Sold her to mother!"
"Wot!" exclaimed brother No. 1, "did you railly sell that kickin'
spavin'd critter to mother? Wall, you air a shrewd one!"
_______________
XII.
BRIGHAM YOUNG.
Brigham Young sends word I may see him tomorrow. So I go to bed singing
the popular Mormon hymn:
At two o'clock the next afternoon Mr. Hiram B. Clawson, Brigham Young's
son-in-law and chief business manager, calls for me with the Prophet's
private sleigh, and we start for that distinguished person's block.
I am shown into the Prophet's chief office. He comes forward, greets
me cordially, and introduces me to several influential Mormons who are
present.
Brigham Young is 62 years old, of medium height, and with sandy hair
and whiskers. An active, iron man, with a clear sharp eye. A man of
consummate shrewdness--of great executive ability. He was born in the
State of Vermont, and so by the way was Heber C. Kimball, who will wear
the Mormon Belt when Brigham leaves the ring.
Brigham Young is a man of great natural ability. If you ask me, How
pious is he? I treat it as a conundrum, and give it up. Personally he
treated me with marked kindness throughout my sojourn in Utah.
His power in Utah is quite as absolute as that of any living sovereign,
yet he uses it with such consummate shrewdness that his people are
passionately devoted to him.
He was an Elder at the first formal Mormon "stake" in this country,
at Kirtland, Ohio, and went to Nauvoo with Joseph Smith. That
distinguished Mormon handed his mantle and the Prophet business over to
Brigham when he died at Nauvoo.
Smith did a more flourishing business in the Prophet line than
B.Y. does. Smith used to have his little Revelation almost every
day--sometimes two before dinner. B.Y. only takes one once in a while.
The gateway of his block is surmounted by a brass American eagle, and
they say ("they say" here means anti-Mormons) that he receives his
spiritual dispatches through this piece of patriotic poultry. They
also say that he receives revelations from a stuffed white calf that is
trimmed with red ribbons and kept in an iron box. I don't suppose these
things are true. Rumor says that when the Lion House was ready to be
shingled, Brigham received a message from the Lord stating that the
carpenters must all take hold and shingle it, and not charge a red cent
for their services. Such carpenters as refused to shingle would go
to hell, and no postponement on account of the weather. They say that
Brigham, whenever a train of emigrants arrives in Salt Lake City, orders
all the women to march up and down before his block, while he stands on
the portico of the Lion House and gobbles up the prettiest ones.
He is an immensely wealthy man. His wealth is variously estimated at
from ten to twenty millions of dollars. He owns saw mills, grist mills,
woollen factories, brass and iron foundries, farms, brick-yards, &c.,
and superintends them all in person. A man in Utah individually owns
what he grows and makes, with the exception of a one-tenth part: that
must go to the Church; and Brigham Young, as the first President, is the
Church's treasurer. Gentiles, of course, say that he abuses this blind
confidence of his people, and speculates with their money, and absorbs
the interest if he doesn't the principle. The Mormons deny this, and
say that whatever of their money he does use is for the good of the
Church; that he defrays the expenses of emigrants from far over the
seas; that he is foremost in all local enterprises tending to develop
the resources of the territory, an that, in short, he is incapable of
wrong in any shape.
Nobody seems to know how many wives Brigham Young has. Some set
the number as high as eighty, in which case his children must be too
numerous to mention. Each wife has a room to herself. These rooms
are large and airy, and I suppose they are supplied with all the modern
improvements. But never having been invited to visit them I can't
speak very definitely about this. When I left the Prophet he shook
me cordially by the hand, and invited me to call again. This was
flattering, because if he dislikes a man at the first interview he never
sees him again. He made no allusion to the "letter" I had written
about his community. Outside guards were pacing up and down before the
gateway, but they smiled upon me sweetly. The veranda was crowded with
Gentile miners, who seemed to be surprised that I didn't return in
a wooden overcoat, with my throat neatly laid open from ear to ear.
_______________ I go to the Theatre to-night. I was an actor once,
myself. I supported Edwin Forrest at a theatre in Philadelphia. I
played a pantomimic part. I removed the chairs between scenes, and
I did it so neatly that Mr. F. said I would make a cabinet-maker if
I "applied" myself. _______________ The parquette of the theatre is
occupied exclusively by the Mormons and their wives and children. They
wouldn't let a Gentile in there any more than they would a serpent. In
the side seats are those of President Young's wives who go the play, and
a large and varied assortment of children. It is an odd sight to see
a jovial old Mormon file down the parquette aisle with ten or twenty
robust wives at his heels. Yet this spectacle may be witnessed every
night the theatre is opened. The dress circle is chiefly occupied by
the officers from Camp Douglas and the Gentile Merchants. The upper
circles are filled by the private soldiers and Mormon boys. I feel
bound to say that a Mormon audience is quite as appreciative as any
other kind of an audience. They prefer comedy to tragedy. Sentimental
plays, for obvious reasons, are unpopular with them. It will be
remembered that when C. Melnotte, in the Lady of Lyons, comes home
from the wars, he folds Pauline to his heaving heart and makes several
remarks of an impassioned and slobbering character. One night when the
Lady of Lyons was produced here, an aged Mormon arose and went out with
his twenty-four wives, angrily stating that he wouldn't sit and see a
play where a man made such a cussed fuss over one woman.
Brigham Young usually sits in the middle of the parquette, in a
rocking-chair, and with his hat on. He does not escort his wives to
the theatre. They go alone. When the play drags he either falls into
a tranquil sleep or walks out. He wears in winter time a green wrapper,
and his hat in the style introduced into this country by Louis Kossuth,
Esq. the liberator of Hungaria. I invested a dollar in the liberty of
Hungaria nearly fifteen years ago.
I lectured here, and I can only say that I was never listened to more
kindly than I was by this audience.
_______________
XIII.
HURRAH FOR THE ROAD!
TIME, Wednesday afternoon, February 10. The Overland Stage, Mr. William
Glover on the box, stands before the veranda of the Salt Lake House.
We go away on wheels, but the deep snow compels us to substitute runners
twelve miles out.
There are four passengers of us. We pierce the Wahsatch mountains by
Parley's canyon.
We reach Weber station, thirty miles from Salt Lake City and wildly
situated at the foot of the grand Echo Canyon, at 3 o'clock the
following morning. We remain over a day here with James Bromley, agent
of the Overland Stage line, and who is better known on the plains than
Shakspeare is; although Shakspeare has done a good deal for the stage.
James Bromley has seen the Overland line grow up from its ponyicy; and
as Fitz-Green Halleck happily observes, none know him but to like his
style. He was intended for an agent. In his infancy he used to lisp
the refrain, "I want to be an agent, And with the agents stand."
Forward to Fort Bridger, in an open sleigh. Night clear, cold, and
moonlit. Driver Mr. Samuel Smart. Through Echo Canyon to Hanging Rock
Station. The snow is very deep, there is no path, and we literally
shovel our way to Robert Pollock's station, which we achieve in the
Course of Time. Mr. P. gets up and kindles a fire, and a snowy nightcap
and a pair of very bright black eyes beam upon us from the bed. That is
Mrs. Robert Pollock. The log cabin is a comfortable one. I make coffee
in my French coffee-pot, and let loose some of the roast chickens in my
basket. Mrs. Pollock tells me where I can find cream for the coffee,
and cups and saucers for the same, and appears so kind, that I regret
our stay is so limited that we can't see more of her.
On to Yellow Creek Station. Then Needle Rock--a desolate hut on
the Desert, house and barn in one building. The station-keeper is a
miserable, toothless wretch, with shaggy yellow hair, but says he's
going to get married. I think I see him.
Pass Quaking Asp Springs and Muddy to Fort Bridger. Here are a group of
white buildings, built round a plaza, across the middle of which runs a
creek.
We are on the road again, Sunday the 14th, with a driver of the highly
floral name of Primrose. At 7 the next morning we reach Green River
Station, and enter Idaho Territory. This is the Bitter Creek division
of the Overland route, of which we had heard so many unfavorable
stories. The division is really well managed by Mr. Stewart, though the
country through which it stretches is the most wretched I ever saw. The
water is liquid alkali, and the roads are soft sand. The snow is gone
now, and the dust is thick and blinding. So drearily, wearily we drag
onward.
We reach the summit of the Rocky Mountains at midnight on the 17th. The
climate changes suddenly, and the cold is intense. We resume runners,
have a breakdown, and are forced to walk four miles.
I remember that one of the numerous reasons urged in favor of General
Fremont's election to the Presidency in 1856 was his finding the path
across the Rocky Mountains. I wrung my frostbitten hands on that
dreadful night, and declared that for me to deliberately go over that
path in mid-winter was a sufficient reason for my election to any
lunatic asylum, by an overwhelming vote.
Another sensation. Not comic this time. One of our passengers, a
fair-haired German boy, whose sweet ways had quite won us all, sank
on the snow, and said--Let me sleep. We knew only too well what that
meant, and tried hard to rouse him. It was in vain. Let me sleep, he
said. And so in the cold starlight he died. We took him up tenderly
from the snow, and bore him to the sleigh that awaited us by the
roadside, some two miles away. The new moon was shining now, and the
smile on the sweet white face told how painlessly the poor boy had
died. No one knew him. He was from the Bannock mines, was ill-clad,
had no baggage or money, and his fare was paid to Denver. He had said
that he was going back to Germany. That was all we knew. So at sunrise
the next morning we buried him at the foot of the grand mountains
that are snow-covered and icy all the year round, far away from the
Faderland, where it may be, some poor mother is crying for her darling
who will not come.
We strike the North Platte on the 18th.
At Elk Mountain we encounter a religious driver named Edward Whitney,
who never swears at the mules. This has made him distinguished all over
the plains. This pious driver tried to convert the Doctor, but I am
mortified to say that his efforts were not crowned with success, Fort
Halleck is a mile from Elk, and here are some troops of the Ohio 11th
regiment, under the command of Major Thomas L. Mackey.
On the 20th we reach Rocky Thomas's justly celebrated station at 5 in
the morning, and have a breakfast of hashed black-tailed deer, antelope
steaks, ham, boiled bear, honey, eggs, coffee, tea, and cream. That was
the squarest meal on the road except at Weber.
To Virginia Dale. Weather clear and bright. Virginia Dale is a pretty
spot, as it ought to be with such a pretty name; but I treated with no
little scorn the advice of a hunter I met there, who told me to give up
"literatoor," form a matrimonial alliance with some squaws, and "settle
down thar."
Bannock on the brain! That is what is the matter now. Wagon-load after
wagon-load of emigrants, bound to the new Idaho gold regions, meet us
every hour. Canvas-covered and drawn for the most part by fine large
mules, they make a pleasant panorama, as they stretch slowly over
the plains and uplands. We strike the South Platte Sunday, 21st, and
breakfast at Latham, a station of one-horse proportions. We are now in
Colorado ("Pike's Peak"), and we diverge from the main route here and
visit the flourishing and beautiful city of Denver, where I lecture.
We go to the mountains from Denver, visiting the celebrated gold-mining
towns of Black Hawk and Central ity. I leave this queen of all the
territories, quite firmly believing that its future is to be no less
brilliant than its past has been.
Back to Latham again over a marshy road, and on to Nebraska by the main
stage-line.
We reach Julesberg, Colorado, the 1st of March. We are in the country
of the Sioux Indians now, and encounter them by the hundred. A Chief
offers to sell me his daughter (a fair young Indian maiden) for six
dollars and two quarts of whisky. I decline to trade.
Kansas, 105 miles from Atchison. Atchison! No traveller by sea ever
longed to set his foot on shore as we longed to reach the end of our
dreary coach-ride over the wildest part of the whole continent. How
we talked Atchison, and dreamed Atchison, for the next fifty hours!
Atchison, I shall always love you. You were evidently mistaken,
Atchison, when you told me that in case I "lectured" there, immense
crowds would throng to the hall; but you are very dear to me. Let me
kiss you for your maternal parent!
We are passing through the reservation of the Otoe Indians, who long ago
washed the war-paint from their faces, buried the tomahawk, and settled
down into quiet, prosperous farmers. _______________ We rattle leisurely
into Atchison on a Sunday evening. Lights gleam in the windows of
milk-white churches, and they tell us, far better than anything else
could, that we are back to civilization again.
_______________
XIV.
VERY MUCH MARRIED.
Are the Mormon women happy?
I give it up. I don't know.
Igive it up. I don't know. Apparently, the Mormon women are happy. I
saw them at their best, of course--at balls, tea-parties and the like.
They were like other women as far as my observation extended. They were
hooped, and furbelowed, and shod, and white-collard, and bejewelled; and
like women all over the world, they were softer-eyed and kinder-hearted
than men can ever hope to be.
The Mormon girl is reared to believe that the plurality-wife system
as it is delicately called here is strictly right; and in linking her
destiny with a man who has twelve wives, she undoubtedly considers she
is doing her duty. She loves the man, probably, for I think it is not
true, as so many writers have stated, that girls are forced to marry
whomsoever "the Church" may dictate. Some parents no doubt advise,
connive, threaten, and in aggravated cases incarcerate here, as some
parents have always done elsewhere, and always will do as long as
petticoats continue to be an institution.
How these dozen or twenty wives get along without heart-burnings and
hairpullings I can't see.
There are instances on record, you know, where a man don't live in a
state of uninterrupted bliss with one wife. And to say that a man can
possess twenty wives without having his special favorite, or favorites,
is to say that he is an angel in boots--which is something I have never
been introduced to. You never saw an angel with a Beard, although you
may have seen the Bearded Woman.
The Mormon woman is early taught that man, being created in the image of
the Saviour, is far more godly than she can ever be, and that for her
to seek to monopolize his affections is a species of rank sin. So she
shares his affections with five or six or twenty other women, as the
case may be.
A man must be amply able to support a number of wives before he can take
them. Hence, perhaps, it is that so many old chaps in Utah have young
and blooming wives in their seraglios, and so many young men have only
one.
I had a man pointed out to me who married an entire family. He had
originally intended to marry Jane, but Jane did not want to leave her
widowed mother. The other three sisters were not in the matrimonial
market for the same reason; so this gallant man married the whole crowd,
including the girl's grandmother, who had lost all her teeth, and had
to be fed with a spoon. The family were in indigent circumstances,
and they could not but congratulate themselves on securing a wealthy
husband. It seemed to affect the grandmother deeply, for the first
words she said on reaching her new home were: "Now, thank God! I shall
have my gruel reg'lar!"
The name of Joseph Smith is worshipped in Utah; and, "they say," that
although he had been dead a good many years, he still keeps on marrying
women by proxy. He "reveals" who shall act as his earthly agent in
this matter, and the agent faithfully executes the defunct Prophet's
commands.
I have somewhere stated that Brigham Young is said to have eighty
wives. I hardly think he has so many. Mr. Hyde, the backslider, says
in his book that "Brigham always sleeps by himself, in a little chamber
behind his office;" and if he has eighty wives I don't blame him. He
must be bewildered. I know very well that if I had eighty wives of my
bosom I should be confused, and shouldn't sleep anywhere. I undertook
to count the long stockings, on the clothes-line, in his back yard one
day, and I used up the multiplication table in less than half an hour.
It made me dizzy--it did!
In this book I am writing chiefly of what I saw, and to elaborately
denounce, at this late day, a system we all know must be wildly wrong,
would be simply to impeach the intelligence of the readers of this book.