Musical taste in America is in progress of formation. We have no

national music: we have not even a decided preference for any style. We

like Beethoven and Chopin, but we also like Rossini and Donizetti and

delight in Lecocq and Sullivan. In no respect is the national pride so

utterly forgotten as in music. We give to all schools a fair hearing.

The great German masters are household words: the national music of

every land is welcome. We have been learning to like Italian opera at an

insane cost; we have kindly winked at the follies of opera-bouffe;

probably nowhere in the world are the intellectual depths of a German

symphony and the passionate declamation of an Italian recitative more

thoroughly appreciated. This is the natural musical exposition of our

complex and various life. This wondrous variety, which indicates

possibilities not yet revealed, pleases us without being always clear to

our feelings and intellect. Still, we shall not ask, with the Frenchman,

"Sonate, que veux-tu?" We are satisfied with what the present affords,

and what new masters shall appear or what new instruments be invented we

know not. Always the epochs will have their own interpreter. One hundred

years ago who had imagined a Weber or Steinway piano, that piece of

furniture with a soul in it?

It has been suggested to me while writing this paper that national

melodies are in a great measure influenced by the physical features of

the country in which they rise. I think very little so. It is true that

the music of all mountainous countries has many points of resemblance,

but it is because the people of such countries have strong mental and

moral similitudes. Savages are not inspired by the most lovely scenery,

and a collection of national airs from different parts of the world

would not reveal to us whether they were written in valleys or on

mountains or by the sounding seashore.

There are distinct ensigns by which national music may be as promptly

detected as a ship by its colors. Spanish airs have in them the rapid

twinkling, so to speak, of the guitar; the mountain-melodies of

Switzerland recall the open notes of the Alp-horn; the Irish and Scotch

musics have their marks as plainly impressed upon them as the

physiognomy of the peoples is distinct, and it is nothing to the

purpose to say that they have been cleverly imitated: the mark still

remains a fact, and is the mysterious specialty that thrills the rich,

the poor, the soldier and the churchman, the peasant and the exile.

Whatever analogy exists between a country and its music is mainly with

the inward character of the people themselves, and is generally too

profound to be theorized upon. We only know that at every step we

advance in the science of music we are deciphering what is written

within us, not transcribing anything from without.

Nor as Americans are we insensible to the value of a national music. The

few airs which have any claim to represent us in this capacity have done

service that no money can estimate. During the late war wherever the

rebel flag was raised it was necessary to silence "Yankee Doodle." Like

the "Marseillaise," it was an institution before which its enemies

trembled; and when we have produced or annexed something infinitely

grander we shall not forget the saucy, free-and-easy,

mind-your-own-business melody that carried the nation cheerfully through

two great crises.

AMELIA E. BARR.

MALLSTON'S YOUNGEST.

The railroad-village of Fairfield woke up one spring morning and found a

clumsy blue car, with a skylight in its roof, standing on the common

near the blacksmith-shop. Horses and tongue were already removed, the

former being turned into the tavern pasture and the latter stowed in the

tavern barn. A small sky-colored ladder led up to the door of this

artistic heaven, which remained closed long after a crowd of loungers

had gathered around it.

The Fairfield loungers were famously lazy savages, though to the last

degree good-natured and obliging. They wore butternut overalls and

colored shirts, a few adding the picturesque touch of bright

handkerchiefs and broad straw hats: there were a few coats in various

stages of rags and grease, and one or two pairs of boots, but the

wearers of these put on no airs over the long ankles and sprawling toes

which blossomed around them. The whole smoking, stoop-shouldered,

ill-scented throng were descendants of that Tennessee and Carolina

element which more enterprising Hoosiers deplore, because in every

generation it repeats the ignorance and unthrift branded so many years

ago into the "poor white" of the South.

Those who could read traced the legend "Photographic Car" on the sides

of the vehicle, and with many a rude joke each bantered the other to

have his picter took for such purposes as skeerin' stock off the

railroad-track or knockin' the crows stiff. Their scuffling and haw-haws

waked the occupant of the car, who rose in his bunk and drew the curtain

from a window. The boys saw his face and hushed. Raising the window, he

scattered a bunch of handbills among them, which set them all to

scrambling, and, when they had caught the bills, to struggling with

large and small type which announced that an unrivalled photographer

would be in that vicinity in a very few days with his beautiful

travelling-car, giving everybody an opportunity of securing such

tin-types and photographs as only the large cities turned out, and at

the lowest possible prices.

Presently the photographer appeared at his own door and looked abroad.

The tender spring morning, though it glorified surrounding woods and

rich farming-lands, could do little for this dilapidated village, which

consisted of one lane of rickety dwellings crossed at right angles by

the Peru Railroad, a stern brick building, a wooden elevator and a mill.

It was a squalid sight, though the festive season of the year and that

glamourous air peculiar to Indiana brooded it. The photographer surveyed

his new field with an amused sneer, and descended the steps to go to his

breakfast at the tavern, a peak-roofed white frame set among locust

trees--the best house on the street. Before it stood that lozenge-shaped

sign on a fat post which stands before all country taverns, making a

vague, lonesome appeal to the traveller.

The loungers moved in groups on the station-platform, their hands in

their pockets and their necks stretched forward, eying the stranger.

Out of the blue distance on the railroad two plumes of steam rose

suddenly: then a black object stood up on the track and gave two calls

at a crossing. Double-shuffles were danced on the platform, as if the

approaching train charged these vagabonds with some of its own strength.

It screamed, and bore down upon this dilapidated station to stop for

one brief minute, change mail-sacks and gaze pityingly out of its one

eye at the howling crew which never failed to greet it there. People in

the cars also looked out as if glad they were not stopping, and a few

with long checks in their hats, who appeared to be travelling to the

earth's ends, were envied by a girl approaching the post-office in the

brick block.

She waited near the photographic car until the train passed, her lip

curling at this blue van and the pretensions of its owner.

Later she came out of the post-office by a back hall, and, darting a

fierce look at Jim Croddy, who ran against her in his performance of the

double-shuffle, took her way across the common, crushing her letters in

her hand. This time she scarcely looked at the photographic van, but

with dilated eyes and set teeth pursued her path into the springing

weeds. The photographer, who had returned, looked at her, however, and

found her individuality so attractive that he watched her swift step

until it took her out of sight within the doorway of a brick residence

detached from the village by a meadow and long lawn.

The young man opened his car and prepared for business. His landlady was

going to bring her grandchild to be photographed. A locker received his

primitive couch, and he further cleared the deck for action by stowing

in the back apartment where he prepared his chemicals all remaining

litter. Jim Croddy and kindred spirits ventured to look in.

"See here, boys," inquired the photographer, "couldn't one of you get me

a bucket of water from somewhere?"

They would all do it. The heartiest and most obliging set of idlers in

the world, they almost fought for the pail, and two, taking it between

them, cantered to the pump in front of the post-office. The rest were

fain to enter, treading each other's bare heels as they tumbled up the

steps.

"Don't you want your pictures taken?" inquired the artist, quizzically

surveying his shaggy crowd.

"We ain't got no money," replied Bill Stillman, the smallest but

readiest-tongued.

"You got money, Bill," retorted Leonard Price, a parchment-colored wisp

of nineteen who had recently become a widower.

"I got to git clo'es with it if I hev'. There's Mallston: git him to set

for _his_ picter."

Mallston was hooted for as he came across the dewy grass on feet of

brawn, shaming puny rustics by his huge physique. The photographer

mentally limned him: a bushy, low-browed head and dark, reddish,

full-lipped face, bearded; muscle massed upon his arms and

tatter-clothed legs; a deep, prominent chest; hands large, black,

powerful; the whole man advancing with a lightness which in some

barbaric conqueror would have been called dignified grace.

Mallston had nothing to answer for himself. He stood folding his arms

and looking in. It was said he had African blood in his veins--barely

enough to stain the red of his skin, pinch up his children's hair and

give them those mournful, passionate black eyes through which the

tragedy of the race always looks. But so vague, so mere a hearsay, was

this negro stain, if it existed at all, that he had married a white

wife, and moved in society unchallenged by these very fastidious

descendants of Carolina and Tennessee.

Mallston's wife had lately added a son to his family. He had two sons

before, also two daughters. From any standpoint it seemed an unnecessary

addition when the economist considers that he had no means of support

except his big-fingered paws, and these, though very willing, depended

on chance jobs and days' works given him by other men. In face of these

facts the youngest was there as well as the oldest--scarcely seven; the

second, scarcely five; and the third and fourth, aged three and a half

and two--in his rented house of one room, containing beds in opposite

corners, a table and a cooking-stove in front of the fireplace. A

generous family and scant provision for it being the mode in Fairfield,

however, Mallston may not have seen his desperate position, especially

with summer and harvest wages coming. Just now he was out of a job,

having finished a ditching contract, and his black, speculative eyes

looked anxiously at the photographer.

"Come, clear now!" exclaimed that young man with some authority to his

loafers: "I am going to have some sitters."

The landlady and her grandchild were already coming to take advantage of

morning sunlight and the domestic lull before dinner. With them came a

curious neighbor in ill-made, trailing calico and dejected sun-bonnet,

who walked with her hands on her hips and puckered her upper lip, with

consciousness of the loss of two front teeth, when she laughed. As they

proceeded at a pace regulated by the toddling child, they encountered an

old woman with no teeth at all, whose nose and chin leaned very much

toward each other: her grizzled hair curled under a still more dejected

sun-bonnet, and, setting down a basket of clothes, she stood panting

from exertion and wiping her wan face on the bonnet cape.

"I'm a-garn to hick'ry that Bill," she exclaimed weakly. "I tole him to

carry me wash-water, and here he is stannin' round thish yer car! George

and John's just out, too, and so's Foster. Soon's they git the'r vittles

they up and leave me to do the best I kin. Laws! who's garn to pay out

money fer fortygraphs? If folks all had to work as hard as I do, they

wouldn't have no money fer no such things, so they wouldn't. It 'ud

stan' 'em in hand to be savin'."

"Why don't you drive off some yer good-fer-nothin' boys and make 'em do

somethin', Mis' Stillman?" bantered the neighbor.

"Well, they've all been a-workin'," relented the mother. "Bill, he's as

good a feller to work as ever was if he don't git with a lot of orn'ry

boys. Hit hurts Fawt to work stiddy, so it does.--Bill, come here and

tote these clo'es home fer me."

Bill came, ruddy and laughing from a scuffle, and walked off with the

basket.

"And git the wash-water and make a fire under the kittle," called his

mother.

"I'll be apt to," responded Bill.

"Come along into the daguerreyan car, Mis' Stillman," invited the

landlady. "You never see the inside o' one, did you?"

"Laws! is that wher' you're garn to? I can't stop but a minute. Hit

looks mighty fine. The boys said this feller was drivin' into town last

night when meetin' broke. Who's garn to have their picter took?--You,

Jane?"

"Me?" replied the neighbor. "Laws! no: I ain't rich."

"Oh, you'll change your minds," drawled the landlady patronizingly, as

became a lady of means: "he takes 'em reel cheap."

The photographer met this group at his door and assisted them into the

car, from which all his earlier visitors had dispersed except Mallston.

Mallston stood at the steps and watched the landlady's grandchild

prepared for a sitting. The rabble had begun their morning business of

pitching horseshoes, but his interest was held by that little child--its

fresh clothes, rings of black hair and pomegranate coloring. The artist,

having placed his camera, was in the farther room preparing his plate.

When he came out and was in the act of closing the door he noticed

Mallston, and asked, "Do you want a job?"

The barbarian did decidedly.

"Come into the back room, then, and help me."

Mallston went striding through the car, and placed himself in an

obedient attitude behind the partition.

"Laws!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillman, standing between the camera, where the

artist was burying his head under a black cloth, and the object to be

photographed, "when we lived in Bartholomew county--'twas the year after

we moved f'm Johnson county--Foster and John they was little fellers

then, and I did want the'r picters that bad, so I did. But the'r pap he

'lowed it was a waste o' money. Pore man! he was a mighty hard worker:

he'd go a mile'd to make a cent, and then he'd lose it all with bad

management, so he would. But I had easy times them days, with everything

to my han': I spun and wove all the jeans the men-folks wore, and we

milked a dozen cows--"

"Will you please move aside?"

"Git out o' the way, Mis' Stillman: the man can't see through ye."

"Oh!" exclaimed the old woman, jerking herself from the photographer's

line of vision, "I didn't go fer to git in the way. But this ain't doin'

my washin'," she added, moving toward the entrance. Here, on a little

shelf, she found some tiles and brushes, which she took up to examine

and hold before the other women, who were seated awaiting the

picture-taking. "What's these here things?"

"Artists' materials," replied the photographer, removing his head from

under the black cloth, and that from the camera.--"Now, my little man,

look straight at the hole in the box, and don't move.--That large brick

house--keep perfectly quiet--across the field seems a good point to

sketch from. Who lives there?"

"Harbisons," replied the landlady.

"Harbisons, eh? I suppose it was Miss Harbison I saw go past this

morning?--Don't move, my little man."

"I do' know," demurred the washer-woman, whose sole recreation in life

was the faculty of speech. "I ain't seen Mis' Harbison to town to-day.

They's him and her and the boys. Both the boys is away f'm home now.

What-fer lookin' woman?"

"It was a young lady in a wide hat."

"Oh, that's Miss Gill: she's some kin to 'em. She's a school-teacher to

Bunker Hill or Peru. Laws! I hate to see anybody so proud."

"That's a good boy!" said the photographer. He removed his plate and

carried it to the rear room, where he required the assistance of

Mallston, who had watched the process with silent interest. Presently

reappearing with the dripping negative, which he held for the women to

see, he repeated incidentally, "Proud, is she, this Miss Gill?"

"Yes, she is, kind o'," testified the neighbor who was called

Jane.--"It's a reel good one, ain't it?"

"If ye take as good as this all the time," cried the pleased landlady,

holding off the negative and giving that excited drawl to the terminal

word which may distinguish Kentuckians, for she claimed to be one,

"every girl in town 'll be comin' after the'r picter-uh!"

"Except the proud Miss Gill."

The landlady, who had a moustache, bristled it over her square mouth: "I

never ast much about her. She's kind o' yaller-complected, but some says

she's smart. Bill Harbison was smart too, but he's all broke up now.

They don't own nothin' but the house and grounds they're livin' in."

"Laws!" poured in the steady washer-woman, "I used to work fer Mis'

Harbison when she was well off--I done knit socks and pieced quilts--and

she was always liber'l, so she was. When we fust come here he was

gittin' down with his last sickness, and we left a good place in

Bartholomew county, fer _his_ folks they kep' a-writin', 'Here's the

place, Billy: this is wher' you'll find the flitter tree and the honey

pond.' And it wasn't never my will, but come we must; and you orto seen

Fairfield then. Why, ther' wasn't nothin' but mud, so ther' wasn't.--My

soul! if thern don't go Bill, and I know he ain't carried me no

wash-water."

The artist helped her down the steps and asked her to come again, which

courtesy she distrusted. She 'lowed he was p'tendin'. He throwed his

head up like he was big-feelin'. It ruffled her that anybody should be

big-feelin' over a pore widder-woman that took in days' washin's, and

had a pack o' triflin' boys that et her out o' house and home.

Still, this old woman enjoyed the fruit trees' budding promise as she

patted along the railroad, and perhaps some old thrill shot again as a

meadow-lark uttered his short, rich madrigal from the weather-darkened

fence.

"Ho, Mis' Stillman," called Mallston's wife, standing in her door with

the youngest on her arm, "le's go over and see that ther' picter car."

"I done done it," responded the old woman.

By the end of two weeks this photographic car had done good execution on

the community. The artist himself appeared friendly, which greatly

assisted his trade, openness to familiarity being a prime virtue in all

rustic neighborhoods. Every youngster who came to the store after

groceries, with a bag slung over the horse's neck in which to carry

them, gave pap no peace until means were furnished for a rosy-cheeked

tin-type of himself in a pink, green or purple case. The Appledore

girls, handsome daughters of a rich farmer, and therefore able to sit

for pictures in Kokomo, or even Indianapolis, yet put on all their

chains, rings and bracelets and went to the car to test this young

photographer's skill. Mrs. Stillman received money from her daughter in

Ellwood, together with the written command: "You go and git your

fortygraph took fer me, mother: we don't none of us never know what's

a-garn to happen." So she removed her black alpaca from its peg on the

wall for her adornment, and came also, explaining to the neighbors that

Kit sent the money, so she did, and was makin' a pore mouth about not

havin' no picter of mother. And having got the picture, she used all her

past trials and present misfortunes to save half the price, which she

succeeded in doing.

Every day the artist had a few sitters. It was surprising how many of

the bilious, bare-legged children who collected to gaze at his framed

specimens were brought to be photographed, for most of the villagers

were squalidly poor and the farmers were entering their busy season.

During this time he had opened the Harbison domicile to himself, being

son of a friend who had sat in the State legislature with Mr. Harbison.

All Fairfield knew that he went there nearly every day, and that it was

not to shoot with the long-bow on the lawn. They had no idea how he

loved to lounge from one empty room to another of this picturesque,

half-furnished house, and how he was gratified by the fitness of the

inhabitants to their abode. He liked to see Miss Gill tuck a bunch of

peach-blossoms in her coil of hair, and to feel the quickening

influences of spring supplemented by her electricity.

Mrs. Harbison took her earth-loving hands from garden-making and went to

show the young people the ferns in the woods. She pulled her sun-bonnet

over her eyes and trod out with the solid steps of a woman bred to love

the soil under her feet. The photographer sketched along the way, but he

finally sat down by Little Wildcat where the water boiled over boulders,

and Mrs. Harbison went farther to dig ginseng. There was a joyful hurry

of birds all around. That leopard of the Indiana woods, the sycamore,

repeated itself in vistas.

"Sycamores always look like dazzling marble shafts blackened with

patches of moss," said the young man.

"And their leaves," said the girl sitting on the log not far from him,

"smell like poetry. I spread them on my face late in summer after a

shower and suck up their breath. But I never can put the sensation into

words."

"How's that for a sycamore?" he asked, showing a scrap.

She examined it with great satisfaction: "Why do you go about with a

photographic car? Why don't you set out to be an artist?"

He laughed: "Because there is so much of the vagabond in me, I suppose.

Then I never had any education in art. Folks as poor as Job's turkey."

"But a man can do so much or so little."

"Well, when I'm going about with the car I see a great many odd people,

and can pick up little striking things for studies. I get a living, too,

such as it is, which I shouldn't do if I set up as an artist. Look

here!" He turned over his book and showed an etching of Mallston

stepping across the common carrying his youngest, with the four older

children at his heels. One had sprawled, and was evidently lifting a

howl to the paternal ear. They both laughed at it.

"He's a good fellow," remarked the photographer, "but there's no end to

the ignorance and misery such creatures bring upon the world. He

couldn't take decent care of himself, and he has a wife and five

children hanging on him."

"It is just so with nearly all these people," exclaimed Miss Gill in

high scorn. "They have no idea of what life should be--no ambition, and

scarcely a soul to divide around among them all. It smothers me!" She

threw her arms out impetuously. "I want such different things--the

society of the cultivated, the stimulus of great natures. Maybe I could

write something that would get before the public then."

"Have you ever sent anything East?" he inquired with a Hoosier's vast

respect for older civilization.

"Yes," she answered with a falling inflection of voice and head. "But

it's no use: I never shall amount to anything with my surroundings."

The water gurgled over its boulders and the green landscape sent up an

exquisite loamy breath. The young people, both representing the afflatus

of the State, met in one tragic look which ended in a smile.

Next morning Mallston took his usual post in the car, shifting from one

bare foot to the other, while the photographer lounged on his locker

waiting for custom. The native frequently parted his shaggy jaws, but

considered how he should offer his information. He watched his employer

with real attachment, and his dark red face deepened its hue around the

eyes as he broke out, "We've got a little feller t' 'r house."

"What! not another one?"

"He's two month ole," explained Mallston.

"Oh, your youngest. Why, yes, I've seen him." Mallston was evidently

surprised that so humble a creature as his youngest had attracted the

great photographer's notice. "He's a fine youngster," added the latter.

Mallston was then emboldened to blurt out, "We've named him."

"You have? Well, what do you call him?"

"We called him after you."

"Why, here's an honor! How did you come to name him for me?"

"_I_ done it."

"Let me see: what can I do for him? Suppose you bring him over now while

we aren't very busy and I'll take his picture."

Mallston grinned with pleasure: "My woman wanted his picter. My woman

'lowed mebby you wouldn't charge for it if you knowed he was a

namesake."

"Certainly I won't. So bring him right along and we'll do our best for

him."

It was some time before he reappeared, carrying his youngest in his

arms, its cheeks polished and its wet hair turning over in rings, decked

in its chief finery, a blue quilted cloak. The mother came along to hold

her cherub in her lap. She was a long, raw-boned woman, immature in face

under all her crust of care and tan, evidently distressed in her free

waist by the tightness of her calico dress and in her unfenced feet by

shoes.

"What are you going to do with the baby?" inquired Miss Gill kindly as

she encountered this group at right angles on her return from the

post-office.

"Garn with him to the man to git his picter. Come in and see him took,"

invited Mrs. Mallston timidly.

The young woman, ready to seize on any distraction, went in, scarcely

understanding that her bruised ambition reached for healing to such

homely, lowly natures as these.

The artist was glad to see her, and she sat on the locker while

preparations went on. She exchanged amused glances with him when the

other Mallstons flocked to the steps, bellowing in various keys for

their mother, and on their being swung in by one arm and placed in a row

on the opposite locker, she gazed at them in turn, wondering what the

future held out to such lumps of dirt and sombre black eyes.

Mallston set his youngest on the mother's lap and looked at it with

sneaking fondness. The whole tribe seemed equally dear to him, but this

youngest appealed to his strength. Mrs. Mallston was not celebrated as a

tender mother. She went after pails of water and left her children

playing beside the railroad-track; their tattered and ludicrous

appearance bespoke her unskilfulness with the needle; she was said to

have scalded the eldest boy with a skilletful of hot water in which she

had soaked bacon, pouring it out of the window on his head. But she

probably did as well as she knew how, and Mallston did much better. The

photographer watched him go back a dozen times to straighten the baby's

sturdy legs, tap it under the chin with his colossal fore finger, cluck

in the laughing red cavern of his mouth and change the folds of its

quilted cloak with quite a professional air. What were poverty, the

world's neglect, hard labor and circumscribed life to this man? That

muscle which gathered and distributed the streams of his body may have

been to him a heaven in which these five youngsters ministered as

angels.

The young man felt moved with an emotion he resisted: "My God! can it be

that this savage is right in his instincts, and I am wrong? Can some

peculiar blessing of Heaven rest on the man who dares Fate for family

love? Or is the poor wretch's fondness a recompense for his overburdened

lot?"

The baby took a fine picture. Mallston stood by a window and gazed at

the large tin-type. His full lips dropped apart and his head leaned

sidewise. He turned to his wife and said with a foolish expression, "If

the little feller 'ud happen to drop off now we got sumpin' to remember

him by."

"My childern's kind o' sickly," remarked his wife, marshalling forth her

quartette, "fer all they look so hearty."

* * * * *

The photographic car remained day after day, although sitters seldom

came now, for even the loafers were helping to put in crops. The horses

which should have dragged it out almost any dewy morning were not

exactly eating their heads off, being turned upon pasture, but the

landlord was famous for getting his entertainment's worth. As long as

weekly board-bills were paid he said it was none of his business if the

man stayed all summer.

On Monday the photographer resolved, "I will start on Wednesday;" on

Wednesday he decided, "I will wait till Saturday;" and on Saturday,

"It's too late in the week now, but I _must_ go next Monday."

Mrs. Harbison, when interviewed about the generous portion of time he

spent on her lawn with her summer visitor, answered with downrightness,

"Well, what if he does like to come to our place? We know all about his

folks. And if them two wants to sit and talk, they're fit company fer

each other, and I reckon it won't hurt 'em. So what you going to do

about it?"

The village was going to talk about it. The female population gathered

at the storekeeper's house, their favorite rallying-place because the

storekeeper's wife had no opinions of her own, but made a good echo to

whatever was said, and there they judged that Gill girl for taking up

with strangers like she done, so stuck up, and hoped it would turn out

he was a married man, and wouldn't that bring her down?

Meanwhile, the photographer stretched himself on his oilcloth-cushioned

locker and stared at the now fully-unfurled woods, without one mental

glance at the vivid moss in its shades, its four varieties of ferns or

the ruined cabin with one side thrown down, showing nickers of sunlight

through the gaps of its fireplace. He called himself ill names for

remaining where he was, and made a crazy picture of a photographic car

seesawing along the country roads, with a figure he well knew sitting on

the platform beside him as he drove. It was so absurd, but he quoted

Mrs. Dalles's song of "Brave Love" while he etched:

We could not want for long,

While my man had his violin

And I my sweet love-song.

The world has aye gone well with us,

Old man, since we were one:

Our homeless wanderings down the lanes,

They long ago were done.

Then, across some chasm of indefinite time, he saw a studio and himself

happy at an easel, with this devoted dark face resting against his side,

reciting her work to him and quivering with joy at some sign of success.

But the whole panorama dissolved at a breath.

"Now, aren't you a nice fellow," he addressed himself, "a brilliant

rascal, a wise genius, to be thinking of such a thing?"

Miss Gill was returning from the woods with a full basket before the

morning heat came on. A few women at the storekeeper's fence looked

sidewise at each other as she paused to chat under the photographer's

window.

The morning was so clear that every object stood in startling relief. A

plume of steam far up the leafy railroad vista heralded the Peru

express's lightning passage through the town. Scarcely a lounger was

left on the platform. Mallston had a job of cleaning the cellar for the

storekeeper, and at intervals appeared from its gaping doors with a

basket of decayed potatoes on his shoulders. The landscape rung with

bird-songs, and the girl, who had skimmed the cream off such a morning,

looked up and laughed at her dejected friend. She had purple violets

tucked into her coil of hair, her belt and under her collar.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you out trying to catch the effect

of day-twilight in the thick woods?"

"I've been trying," he replied without smiling, "to catch the effect of

a rash action--and a woman's face."

"How solemn! Let me see it. Is it Mrs. Stillman's?"

"No, it isn't: it's my wife's."

Her half-lifted hand dropped. While her eyes met his without blenching

she turned ghastly white, her face seeming to wither into sudden age.

The express-train whistled. Only a moment before its steam-plume had

been her symbol of rushing success in life, and now, for some scarcely

apprehended reason, she felt that the train and Fate were running her

down. With intuitive resistance and a defiant sweep of her body she

turned toward it and screamed aloud.

The photographer could not credit this rapid change to himself when he

saw upon the track a small rough cart drawn by Mallston's oldest girl

and containing his youngest stretched upon a dirty pillow. The express

was coming down-grade at full speed, but at its whistle the oldest child

turned off the track and tried to drag her burden across the rail. The

cart upset, and the baby sprawled, crying, between the rails, while his

sister fled crying toward home.

This whole occurrence was a flash: it seemed to the spectators they had

barely started forward with their blood curdling, the engine had but

screamed, and Mallston was merely seen dropping a basket of potatoes and

leaping with upright hair and starting eyes, before the whole thing was

over. The train stopped with such a recoil that many passengers were

thrown from their seats: the engineer dropped from his cab, and there

was a crowd.

Mallston was jammed into a heap against a tall board fence which

surrounded the store-lot. The baby sprawled near him, where he had

thrown it when the engine struck him.

"Are you hurt?" asked the photographer, turning him over.

He sat up, looking dazed and ludicrous: "Wher's the little feller?"

"I got him," panted the breathless mother, shaking the child from side

to side as she showed it to him.

"_He's_ all right," cried the engineer, "but I hit you. Where are you

hurt?"

"I ain't hurt no place," said Mallston, crawling up on all fours, "'cept

wher' my back and head hit the fence." He stood up grinning at the

excited crowd, and put his sneaking, protecting fingertips under the

baby's chin. The youngest had ceased to yell during the fright, but this

touched him off again.

"You skeered the poor little feller," said Mallston severely, but the

engineer was already mounting his cab, laughing with relief. The train

passed on, people crowding the platforms.

Women felt the baby's limbs: there were no hurts except a bruise on one

fat leg and a little more than the usual amount of dirt on its face.

"Are you sure you aren't injured?" urged the photographer, shaking his

man.

But Mallston looked into his eyes with a preoccupied mind, and said, as

to the only person present who would appreciate the depth of the remark,

"I couldn't a-stood that, by jeeminy!" Tears stood in his big bovine

eyes.

The group dispersed, many glad to have enjoyed such a genuine

sensation, Mrs. Stillman declaring to the neighbor and the landlady she

hadn't had such a skeer since the time _he_ was took in the dead o'

night with bleedin' at the lungs, and not a doctor in ten mile, and

every minute like to be his last, so it was.

The artist followed Miss Gill from the spot. She picked up her basket

beside the photographic car, her face so sublimated it seemed never to

have known any other look.

"I didn't understand human nature," she confessed to the photographer,

who had entered his car and again appeared at the window above her.

"That fellow has the poetry in him that I can't write out. I'm afraid

I'm going to cry."

The artist held down his sketch-book to her. Dabbing back her tears with

one hand, she took it with the other and exclaimed at once, "Why, you've

sketched _me_!"

"When a man like that dares so much for home happiness in this world, I

think I can dare a little, poor, struggling dog as I am. I called that a

while ago the picture of my wife; and it shall be--my _woman_," infusing

the idiom of his native State with its primitive, tender meaning.

She handed back the book, and he took it, with her hand.

"Do you dare?" trembled the girl with a laugh, mindful that all

Fairfield was out.

"I think I do," he replied, smiling also as he followed her eyes toward

a group proceeding down the railroad--"even in spite of that."

Mrs. Mallston was walking beside her husband, making a display of

ankle-bone under her scant calico wrapper, her sun-bonnet flapping to

her nose, the four juveniles able to walk dangling from her fingers or

drapery. Mallston, straight as a hickory tree, carried his youngest on

his bosom, patting its cheek with his horny, potato-scented palm.

M.H. CATHERWOOD.

THE EARLY DAYS OF MORMONISM.

For many years both before and after the Revolution the western part of

New York was claimed by Massachusetts. The dispute was finally settled

in 1786 by the latter State retaining the title to the soil westward of

a meridian line extending from Pennsylvania to Lake Ontario. The line

was afterward ascertained to be the meridian of Washington. It passed

near Elmira, through the county of Seneca, and pierced the town of Lyons

in the county of Wayne. The area of the Massachusetts claim was more

than seven million acres, or about fifteen counties as they are now

arranged. The entire tract was sold in 1787 to Oliver Phelps and Daniel

Gorman for one million dollars. Phelps and Gorman immediately proceeded

to Canandaigua and obtained the Indian title to one third of the tract.

A land-office was opened in that village, the first of its kind in

America. But the sales, although rapid, prevented the ruin neither of

the purchasers nor of Robert Morris, the financier of the Revolution,

who came forward to help them. The Holland Land Company profited by

these misfortunes. The rich valleys of the Genesee and its tributaries

more than made good its promises to actual settlers, as is readily

proved by the waving fields of grain which greet the traveller through

that section to-day.

In the year 1815 there came to the town of Palmyra, in Wayne county, a

family by the name of Smith. Their former home was Sharon, Vermont. The

father's name was Joseph, the mother's maiden name was Lucy Mack, and

they were both of Scotch descent. Their son Joseph, afterward "the

Prophet," was born on December 23, 1805. Hyrum, another son, helped his

father at the trade of a cooper. Joseph, Jr., grew up with the

reputation of being an idle and ignorant youth, given to

chicken-thieving, and, like his father, extremely superstitious. Both

father and sons believed in witchcraft, and they frequently "divined"

the presence of water by a forked stick or hazel rod. Orlando Sanders of

Palmyra, a well-preserved gentleman of over eighty, tells us that the

Smith family worked for his father and for himself. He gives them the

credit of being good workers, but declares that they could save no

money. He also states that Joseph, Jr., was "a greeny," both large and

strong. By nature he was peaceably disposed, but when he had taken too

much liquor he was inclined to fight, with or without provocation.

The profession of a water-witch did not bring enough ducats to the Smith

family; so the attempt was made to find hidden treasures. Failing in

this, the unfolding flower of Mormonism would have been nipped in the

bud had not Joe's father and brother been engaged in digging a well upon

the premises of Clark Chase in September, 1819. Joseph, Jr., stood idly

by with some of the Chase children when a stone resembling a child's

foot was thrown from the well. The Chase children claimed the curiosity,

as it was considered, but Joe seized and retained it. Afterward, for a

series of years, he claimed that by the use of it he was enabled to

discover stolen property and to locate the place where treasure was

buried.

After living in Palmyra for about ten years, the Smith family moved

southward a few miles and settled in Manchester, the northern town of

Ontario county. Their residence was a primitive one, even for those

days. William Van Camp, the aged editor of the _Democratic Press_ at

Lyons, recalls the fact that it was a log house from the following

circumstance. Martin Harris, a farmer near Palmyra, visited the Smiths

while he was yet in doubt concerning the doctrines of Mormonism. One

night, while he was in his room, curtained off from the single large

room of the interior, there appeared to him no less a personage than

Jesus Christ. Harris was informed that Mormonism was the true faith, and

Van Camp knows that it was a log house, although no vestige now

remains, because Harris told him that his celestial visitor was lying on

the beam overhead!

One mile from the Smith residence was the farm of Alonzo Sanders, now

owned by William T. Sampson, commander in the United States Navy. This

farm is four miles south of Palmyra, on the road toward Canandaigua. It

includes a barren hill which rises abruptly to the height of one hundred

and fifty feet. The ridge runs almost due north and south, and from the

summit there are beautiful views of the hills surrounding Canandaigua

and Seneca Lakes. It is known to the present generation as "Gold Bible

Hill:" to Joe Smith it was known as "the Hill Cumorah," where the angel

Moroni announced to him the presence of the "golden plates" giving an

account of the fate which attended the early inhabitants of America.

With these plates would be found the only means by which they could be

read, the wonderful spectacles known as the "Urim and Thummim." Joe was

not averse to such a revelation, for his hazel rod and his "peek-stone"

had already failed him. There had been various religious awakenings in

the neighborhood, and when the various sects began to quarrel over the

converts Joe arose and announced that his mission was to restore the

true priesthood. He appointed a number of meetings, but no one seemed

inclined to follow him as the leader of a new religion. In September,

1823, an angel appeared to him, forgave his many lapses from grace and

announced the golden plates.

These plates, however, were not found for several years. In the mean

time the scene of Smith's operations shifted along the banks of Seneca

Lake and down the tributaries of the Susquehanna to the point where that

river sweeps southward into Pennsylvania past a borough of its own name,

and then northward into New York, before it finally crosses Pennsylvania

on its way to the Chesapeake. The borough of Susquehanna forms an

important station on the Erie Railway, one hundred and ninety miles

north-west of New York City. All about the locality houses are built in

little groups upon the steep hillsides: even the railroad-shops could

not be erected before the ground was levelled for them. When the river

first cut a channel through the Appalachin Mountains it was very saving

of its strength. Should anything besides the river attempt to enter this

valley it must either hang against the sides or swim.

Joe Smith had paid several visits to this region when the first settlers

were struggling with the wilderness. It was a much wilder country than

that about Palmyra, and the inhabitants were much more credulous. Upon

these people Smith practised with his peek-stone. A number of aged

persons now living in that vicinity give this description of the

prophet: He was six feet or a trifle over in height; of stout build, but

wiry; his hair and complexion were light; his eyes were blue and mild;

and "he did not look as if he knew enough to fool people so," as one old

lady expresses it. When "peeking" he kneeled and buried his face in his

white stovepipe hat, within which was the peek-stone. He declared it to

be so much like looking into the water that the "deflection of flight"

sometimes took him out of his course. On a wilderness-hill--now a part

of Jacob J. Skinner's farm--his peek-stone discovered a ton of silver

bars which had been buried by weary Spaniards as they trudged up the

Susquehanna. An expedition for their recovery was undertaken as soon as

Smith could muster enough followers to do the work. Unlike St. Paul, Joe

did not work with his own hands, and he did not hesitate to be

chargeable to any one. Several round excavations were made on the crown

of a hill, the largest of which was about thirty-five feet in diameter

and of about the same depth. The water was drained toward the south, and

a shanty covered the hole from the eyes of the scoffers and the profane.

The diggers had proceeded with great labor, and were just ready to grasp

the silver, when the charm moved it three hundred feet to the

north-east. Joe tracked it with his peek-stone to its hiding-place. It

was not so far under the surface this time--only about twenty feet--and

the faithful again worked with a will. The dilatory movements of the

silver caused anxiety to Mr. Isaac Hale, with whom the diggers had been

"boarding round." Hale was a stiff old Methodist whose business judgment

told him that he was taking too much stock in this "big bonanza." For

all his anxiety, the silver again flitted away, and alighted fifty feet

beyond the big hole. They determined to capture it if they ran the hill

through a sieve. The third hole had been sunk fifteen out of the

necessary twenty feet when the treasure once more jumped to the other

side of the big hole. Then the prophet had a vision: the blood of a

black sheep must be shed and sprinkled around the diggings. Black sheep

were scarce, and while they waited for one the faithful obtained their

needed rest. At length, no sheep appearing, Joe said that a black dog

might answer. A dog, therefore, was killed, and the blood was sprinkled

on the ground. After that the silver never went far away. Still, it

waltzed about the big hole in such a lively manner that frequent

tunnelling to effect its capture availed nothing. At last the prophet

decided that it was of no use to dig unless one of their number was made

a sacrifice. None of the faithful responded to his call, and thus the

magnificent scheme was abandoned. Oliver Harper, one of the diggers who

furnished the money, was soon afterward murdered. The prophet thought

this might answer for a sacrifice: he again rallied the diggers, but the

charm remained stubborn and would not reveal the silver.[2]

There was, however, another object for which Smith said the Lord had

sent him to Susquehanna; and that was--a wife. Until he obtained one

there was no use in trying to get certain buried treasures at Palymra. A

headless Spaniard guarded it with great vigilance, but would, it

appeared, be driven away if Smith should shake millinery and dry-goods

bills at him. Joseph stopped at the house of Isaac Hale, already noticed

as having furnished board to the diggers. Mr. Hale owned a farm on the

north side of the river, a mile and a half below the present borough of

Susquehanna. He had three daughters, two of them already married. The

second daughter, Emma, was easily persuaded to join her fortunes with

those of the adventurer. The father, however, made so much opposition

that they crossed over into the State of New York, and were married at

Windsor, a neighboring town. This was probably early in 1826. Mr. Hale

threatened to shoot his son-in-law--the "Peeker," as he called him--if

he ever returned.

About these days, every other means of gaining a living without honest

work having been exhausted, the prophet thought it was time to find the

golden plates. Returning to the vicinity of Palmyra, Smith and his

followers began to dig for the plates on the eastern side of the hill.

It was announced that each one of the diggers must be pure in deed, and

that no evil thought must cross his mind as he worked. One night a spade

struck an iron box at the same moment that an evil thought seized one of

the diggers. The box sank to lower depths amid thunder and lightning,

while Smith announced that nothing could be done that night but to go

home and pray. They were more fortunate, however, in leaving their evil

thoughts at home on the night of September 22, 1826, for then, according

to the faithful, the golden plates were taken from "the Hill Cumorah

with a mighty display of celestial machinery." It is recorded that after

the prize had been delivered to the prophet by angels his eyes were

opened and he saw legions of devils struggling with a celestial host to

keep the plates concealed. On his return to Susquehanna with a bandaged

head, Smith gave out that he had had an encounter with the chief devil,

and been severely wounded by a blow "struck from the shoulder."

With the golden plates were also found the Urim and Thummim, the magic

spectacles or religious peek-stones, "transparent and clear as crystal,"

which should translate the hieroglyphics on the plates. There were three

witnesses who swore by all that was sacred that the angel of the Lord

laid these plates before them, and that "they were translated by the

gift and power of God." The three witnesses were Oliver Cowdery, who was

finally expelled from the brotherhood in Missouri; David Whitner, who

abandoned the Mormons and settled in Richmond, Missouri, where he still

lives; and Martin Harris, who quarrelled with Smith in the same State

and returned to New York to live.

Such a precious treasure as was now in the hands of Smith was not to be

"borne in earthly vessels frail." He applied to Willard Chase, a son of

that Clark Chase on whose premises the original peek-stone was

discovered, to make him a wooden box for the plates. The compensation

was to be a share in the prospective profits from the "Gold Book."

Chase's lack of faith in both the man and the book caused him to decline

the work. Smith thereupon thrust his gold plates and the rings which

connected them into a bag of beans and started for Susquehanna. Twenty

miles above that borough lies the village of Harpersville. Here lived

Benjamin Wasson, who married one of Mrs. Smith's sisters. Wasson was a

cabinetmaker, and, although not a Mormon, he made a strong box for the

plates. Smith announced that no one could look into the box and live,

but when his father-in-law, Hale, wished to try it Smith hid the box in

the woods. Hale, in his statement of 1834, declared that Smith

translated the plates in his own house, "with the stone in his hat and

his hat over his face," while the plates were still hid in the woods.

Fortunately for Smith, he did not have to depend upon Hale for a place

in which to carry on his operations. His wife had a six-acre place in a

corner of her father's farm, adjoining the farm of Joseph McKune. Upon

this little strip of land Smith moved a partly-finished house,

twenty-six feet broad, eighteen feet deep and fourteen feet in the

posts. It is evident, from the stovepipe through the roof, that the

edifice was never finished. After Smith left this region Martin Harris

came from Palmyra and sold the house to McKune, whose widow lived in it

for about forty years. It is now the farm-residence of her son, Benjamin

McKune, high sheriff of Susquehanna county, and lies close to the track

of the Erie Railway, a mile and a half west of Susquehanna Depot. The

elder McKune strongly suspected that Smith and his gang were

counterfeiters.

The prophet's original plan was that the plates should be translated by

an infant son, who should perform other miracles and become his

successor. But his expectations were doomed to disappointment, for in a

little fern-grown cemetery near at hand is a tottering slab of black

sandstone with the simple inscription, "In memory of an infant son of

Joseph and Emma Smith, June 15, 1828." Hence the magic spectacles were

very opportunely found with the plates. The little low chamber in

Smith's house was used as a translating-room. The prophet and his plates

were screened even from the sight of his scribes, Martin Harris, Oliver

Cowdery and Reuben Hale, by blankets secured with nails. While the

translation was going on the neighbors frequently called to discuss the

forthcoming book, which, it was alleged, would make the Hale family very

rich. Occasionally a visitor was allowed to feel the thickness of the

Golden Book as it reposed within a pillow-case, but no one was permitted

to see it.[3]

The "celestial machinery" for the translating process was very simple.

A copy of the hieroglyphics was taken, and then Smith either wrote his

translation on a slate or dictated for others to write on paper. Martin

Harris having taken a scroll containing some of the hieroglyphics to

Professor Anthon, the characters were pronounced to be partly Greek,

partly Hebrew and partly Roman inverted, with a rude copy of Humboldt's

Mexican calendar at the end. That the prophet was not well advanced

either in Greek or English appears from a story related by the Rev.

Henry Caswall, who visited Nauvoo, Illinois, in 1842. He had with him a

copy of the Psalter in Greek, which he handed to the prophet and asked

him to explain its contents. Smith looked at it a few moments, and then

replied, "No, it ain't Greek at all, except perhaps a few words. What

ain't Greek is Egyptian, and what ain't Egyptian is Greek. This book is

very valuable: _it is a dictionary of Egyptian hieroglyphics_." Pointing

to the capital letters at the beginning of each verse, he said, "Them

figures is Egyptian hieroglyphics, and them which follows is the

interpretation of the hieroglyphics, written in the reformed Egyptian.

Them characters is like the letters that was engraved on the golden

plates." Upon this the Mormons began to congratulate Mr. Caswall on the

information he was receiving. "There!" they said, "we told you so: we

told you that our prophet would give you satisfaction. None but our

prophet can explain these mysteries." The prophet then attempted to buy

the book, on the ground that it could be of no use to Caswall, because

he did not understand it! Refusing to sell, Caswall inquired the meaning

of certain of the hieroglyphics on the papyrus of the prophet. When

cornered the prophet slipped out of the room, and Caswall saw him no

more.

Mrs. McKune relates the particulars of an incident which took place

early in 1828. Martin Harris had advanced so much money to Smith that

his wife came from Palmyra in great alarm to arrest the destruction of

property and to reclaim her husband if possible. Harris showed her the

sacred writings, already nearly completed, as an inducement for her to

hold her peace. She found where the manuscript was concealed, and at

once secured it. When asked to return it she replied, "Joe Smith may

peek for it." This he attempted to do, but accused her of unfairly

removing the manuscript whenever the attendants had almost reached it.

After waiting a little time, she produced a portion of the roll and

declared Smith to be a fraud. The remainder of the manuscript she

retained, and finally burned it, with the remark, "If it cannot be found

there will be an end to the partnership between Joe Smith and my

husband." Joe never undertook to use his wonderful spectacles for a

second translation of the matter in the missing manuscript: he feared

that Mrs. Harris might produce a totally different Bible consisting of

his first translation.

Mrs. Squires and Mrs. McKune agree in saying that no converts were made

by Smith and Harris in the vicinity of Susquehanna. The scene of the

Mormon endeavors was suddenly moved along the beautiful valley of the

Susquehanna to a point north of the Appalachin Mountains and just within

the borders of New York. In the locality of Harpersville and Nineveh a

broad plain had been settled by a colony of emigrants called "the

Vermont Sufferers," from their having formerly occupied land which was

claimed by both Massachusetts and New York. Three miles above Nineveh

lies Afton, just on the edge of Chenango county, and a short distance

above are Sidney, in Delaware county, and Otego, in Otsego county. Smith

and his followers operated with the peek-stone in this part of the

valley, where he was a comparative stranger. George Collington, one of

the most substantial farmers in Broome county, was then a lad of

sixteen. One evening, at twilight, he discovered Smith, Joseph Knight,

William Hale (uncle of Smith's wife) and two men named Culver and

Blowers in the act of dodging through the woods with shovels and picks

upon their shoulders, their object being to discover a salt-spring by

the agency of the peek-stone. He followed them, under cover of the

brush, to a point where they stopped for consultation and finally

decided to dig the next day. Noticing that Bostwick Badger, who then

owned the farm now occupied by Collington, had felled an oak near the

place, and that he had drawn out the timber, Collington obtained

permission to cut the top for wood. Collington's axe and the prophet's

diggers began operations about the same time on the following morning.

Out from the treetop came Collington and asked what they were doing.

They told him to mind his business, which he did by thoroughly

publishing them about the neighborhood--a proceeding that brought them a

number of unwelcome visitors in the place of one. Frederick Davenport

furnished young Collington with a half bushel of salt to be deposited in

the hole at night. By morning the water had dissolved the salt and

retained its briny flavor. Bottles were filled for exhibition, and the

stock of the converts in the peek-stone ran high until the trick was

discovered. It was claimed that the peek-stone also pointed out an

extensive silver-mine on the farm of Abram Cornell at Bettsburg, nearly

opposite Nineveh. No silver was found except that furnished by Josiah

Stowell, a not over-bright man whose little all went into the pocket of

Smith.

However much he might fail in discovering material treasures, Smith's

hold upon the religious infatuation of his followers grew more and more

strong. John Morse, an aged convert to Mormonism, had recently died, and

Smith was sent for to restore him to life. After looking at him Smith

declined, because it would be a pity to have him suffer rheumatism and

die again so soon! This was something like Brigham Young's refusal to

restore a lost leg to one of his Mormons, on the ground that if he did

it the man would be obliged to walk on three legs all through eternity!

Mrs. Marsh says that Joseph Knight and his sons were on one occasion in

her husband's hay-field, and boldly declared that Smith could perform

miracles. On being challenged for an example, Joseph Knight said, "The

prophet cast the Devil out of me. He looked like a black cat; and he

ran into a pile of brush." The prophet prayed for a deceased shoemaker

in Greene, Chenango county. This man had joined their Church, and the

Mormons needed his property to help them in leaving the country. The

widow refused to sign the property over until the prayers had been

offered for the return of her husband. The prayers having availed

nothing, the executor sought to recover the property. Thomas A. Johnson,

then a law-student and a brother of Mrs. Marsh, was sent to Harpersville

to get possession. Smith's followers were encamped in the barn of Joseph

Knight, and they threatened to shoot. By the advice of friends Johnson

compromised the matter by taking a valuable horse.

All accounts agree that Smith drank freely, both in the Susquehanna and

in the Harpersville neighborhoods. Mrs. McKune relates that one night

Smith volunteered to pray the frost away from the corn-field of his

brother-in-law, Michael Morse. The field was not saved, probably because

it had an exposure toward the north and the west. A number of witnesses

in the vicinity of Nineveh remember that the prophet set a day for that

village to sink, but that he afterward repented and withdrew his curse.

He did, however, announce that on a certain evening, about twilight, he

would walk on the water. The place of his selection was watched by

Gentile boys until one of Smith's followers was seen to construct a

bridge of planks just under the surface. Watching their opportunity, the

boys removed the outer planks. Before the prophet made the attempt to

walk he exhorted his followers to have strong faith. When his bridge

suddenly gave way he swam ashore and said, "Woe unto you of little

faith! Your faith would not hold me up."

There were other boys in the neighborhood who thought it rare sport to

annoy the Mormons. The same Joseph Knight who has already figured in

this narrative owned a small farm on which he had built a combined

grist- and carding-mill. The power was obtained by means of a small

stream, the outlet of Perch Pond to the Susquehanna River, opposite

Harpersville. This stream was dammed, so that the Mormon converts might

be baptized by immersion. The day for the ceremony was fixed, but the

boys so persistently destroyed the dam that the Mormons did not attempt

to rebuild it till the night before, and then they were obliged to stand

guard until the hour for the baptism had arrived. Knight's barn was a

rude structure of about forty by thirty feet, but it served the purpose

of a tabernacle in the wilderness for a number of months. The prophet

himself was not a very successful preacher, but the versatile Sidney

Rigdon more than made up for his defects. Smith Baker gives Rigdon the

credit of being "a decent speaker, as preachers averaged in those days."

A semblance of persecution having strengthened the Church, the Gentile

inhabitants of the Susquehanna Valley were glad when a "revelation"

caused the sixty Mormons to pack their traps and move westward. Some of

the followers were moved by a spirit of adventure, while others placed

their property in the common lot and determined to accompany the prophet

to his earthly as well as to his heavenly kingdom. Smith Baker was one of

the teamsters, and reports that the train consisted of three baggage- and

eleven passenger-wagons. The exodus was along the old State road, north of

Binghamton, to Ithaca, and thence, across Cayuga Lake, to Palmyra.

The Saints in the region about the Gold Bible Hill had not been idle

while these things were occurring in Susquehanna. William Van Camp

relates that he and all the other boys believed Hen Pack Hill, a mile

east of Palmyra, would open to allow a giant to step forth and place his

foot upon Palmyra to crush it. This would be the end of all disbelievers

in Mormonism, and the Saints would at once be gathered together in that

vicinity. "I did not know then," says Mr. Van Camp, "how easy it is for

men to lie."

Mr. Van Camp is about seventy years old, and Major John H. Gilbert, who

still resides in Palmyra, is about seventy-six. Both of these gentlemen

were working in the office of the _Wayne Sentinel_, E.B. Grandin

proprietor, during the months from September, 1829, to March, 1830, the

time during which the Book of Mormon was in process of printing. The

office was in the third story of a building now known as "Exchange Row,"

in the principal street of Palmyra. The foreman was Mr. Pomeroy Tucker,

who afterward published a work on Mormonism. Major Gilbert was a

compositor and also a dancing-master. His duties in the latter calling

took him away from his "case" so frequently that Van Camp "distributed"

in order to give him a chance to work the next day. The "copy" was on

ruled paper--an expensive thing in those days--and the letters were so

closely crowded together that words like _and_ or _the_ were divided at

the end of the line. The copy was in Cowdery's handwriting, but it was

produced from a tightly-buttoned coat every morning by Hyrum Smith. One

day's supply only was given at a time, and even this was carefully taken

away at night, there being but one occasion when permission was given to

Major Gilbert to take it away from the office. Major Gilbert and others

say that David Whitner of Richmond, Missouri, has this manuscript copy;

and it has been stated recently that he has been called upon by

officials from Salt Lake City to produce it, and refused.[4]

There were no marks of punctuation in the copy--a sore trial to both

Tucker and Gilbert in "reading proof." At such times Cowdery

occasionally "held the copy." In the absence of Cowdery the

proof-readers often resorted to the orthodox Bible to verify some foggy

passage. The "matter" was "paged" so that thirty-two pages could be

printed at a time on one of Hoe's "Smith" six-column hand-presses. After

the sheets had been run through once and properly dried, they were

reversed and printed on the other side. The bookbinder then folded them

by hand, and severed them with an ivory paper-cutter. The result was

that the twenty-five hundred large sheets made five thousand small

sheets, with sixteen pages printed upon each side. Major Gilbert has an

unbound copy of the book, which he saved, sheet by sheet, as it came

from the press.

Martin Harris furnished the funds for printing the book by a mortgage of

three thousand dollars on his farm. He celebrated the completion of the

work by inviting all the printers to his house. Mrs. Harris (the same

who secreted the manuscript at Susquehanna) had not signed the mortgage.

Harris brought his guests within the door--as Van Camp relates it--and

introduced them to his wife, who bowed coldly and took no pains to

welcome them. At length Harris asked for the cider-pitcher, and went to

the spot indicated by his wife. Returning with it in his hand, he showed

a large hole in the bottom. "Well," said Mrs. Harris, "it has as much

bottom as your old Bible has." There was enough bottom to the Bible,

however, to give a comfortable sum of money to "Joseph Smith, Jr.,

Author and Proprietor." Orlando Sanders, son of Alonzo Sanders before

mentioned, says that the Smiths made too much money to walk any longer:

he sold them a horse, and he now has a Bible which he took in payment

for a bridle.

The most reasonable theory of the origin of the Book of Mormon connects

the work directly with Solomon Spalding, a soldier of the Revolution

from Connecticut and a graduate from Dartmouth in the class of 1785.

Failing health induced Spalding to leave the ministry and to join his

brother in a mercantile life at Cherry Valley and Richfield, New York.

In 1809 he removed thence to Conneaut, in Ashtabula county, the extreme

north-eastern corner of Ohio. Next west of Ashtabula is Lake county,

wherein is located Kirtland--a place of great historic interest to the

Mormons, as will appear before our narrative closes. While Spalding was

in Conneaut he wrote a few novels of so unmeritorious a nature that no

one would publish them. At length the opening of an Indian mound gave

him a basis of facts upon which he built a story relating to the Indian

population of America and its descent from the Lost Tribes of Israel. He

announced that the title of his novel would be _The Manuscript Found_,

and that he proposed to publish a sensational story of its discovery in

a cave in Ohio. Spalding frequently read extracts to his friends, and

one of them furnished him with money, so that he could proceed to

Pittsburg and have the novel printed. The manuscript remained in the

office of Patterson & Lambdin in that city for some time, but it was

never published. It is probable that it was taken away by Spalding, who

died shortly after (in 1816) at Amity, Washington county, near

Pittsburg. While it was in the office it is believed that Sidney Rigdon,

a young printer, was so pleased with the novel that he took a copy for

future use. Rigdon was born in Alleghany county, Pennsylvania, February

19, 1793. He received a fair English education, and in 1817 became an

orthodox Christian preacher. He soon gave forth strange doctrines, which

were founded on the manuscript in his possession, and then he abandoned

preaching for a number of years "to study the Bible," as he expressed

it. Moving into Lake county, Ohio, he prepared the minds of his

followers for some new _ism_. It cannot be accurately stated just when,

where and how he met Joseph Smith and added his religious enthusiasm to

the humbuggery of the Peeker. But that such a union was formed appears

from the talk of Smith regarding the gold plates, and from the actual

finding of them in the manner proposed by Spalding fourteen years

before. The union is still more evident when we listen to witnesses who

had heard Spalding's readings, and who afterward recognized them in the

Book of Mormon, with additions of a religious nature. These witnesses

noted certain inconsistencies in the Book of Mormon which they had

formerly discovered in Spalding's novel. History records that the widow

of Spalding sent the manuscript to Conneaut, where it was publicly

compared with the printed book and the fraud exposed. Soon afterward the

manuscript was spirited away from Mrs. Spalding, probably to avoid the

certainty of a still more convincing disclosure. Major Gilbert

testified that Rigdon dogged Smith's footsteps about Palmyra for nearly

two years before the Bible was printed. He is of opinion that Rigdon was

among those who listened to Spalding in Conneaut, and took notes on

those occasions. The Bible itself is full of the religious questions

which stirred the people of Western New York in those days--a most

strange thing in a celestial work of such great antiquity.

Immediately after the publication of the Book the Church was duly

organized at Manchester. On April 6, 1830, six members were ordained

elders--Joseph Smith, Sr., Joseph Smith, Jr., Hyrum Smith, Samuel Smith,

Oliver Cowdery and Joseph Knight. The first conference was held at

Fayette, Seneca county, in June. A special "revelation" at this time

made Smith's wife "the Elect Lady and Daughter of God," with the

high-sounding title of "Electa Cyria." In later years this lady became

disgusted with her husband's religion, and refused after his death to

leave Illinois for Utah. She remained in Nauvoo, and married a Gentile

named Bidamon. For a long time she kept the Mansion House in that place,

where she died April 30, 1879.

Another revelation was to the effect that Palmyra was not the

gathering-place of the Saints, after all, but that they should proceed

to Kirtland in Ohio. Consequently, the early part of 1831 saw them

colonized in that place, the move being known as "The First Hegira."

Still another revelation (on the 6th of June) stated that some point in

Missouri was the reliable spot. Smith immediately selected a tract in

Jackson county, near Independence. By 1833 the few Mormons who had moved

thither were so persecuted that they went into Clay county, and thence,

in 1838, into Caldwell county, naming their settlement "Far West." The

main body of the Mormons, however, remained in Kirtland from 1831 till

they were forced to join their Western brethren in 1838. Brigham Young,

another native of Vermont, joined at Kirtland in 1832, and was ordained

an elder. The conference of elders on May 3, 1833, repudiated the name

of "Mormons" and adopted that of "Latter-Day Saints." The first

presidency consisted of Smith, Rigdon and Frederick G. Williams. In May,

1835, the Twelve Apostles--among them Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball

and Orson Hyde--left on a mission for proselytes. During the same year

Rigdon's _Book of Doctrine and Covenants_ and his _Lectures on Faith_

were adopted. A professor of Hebrew also joined them, and all the male

adults entered upon the study of that language with a will.

Rigdon was by far the ablest man in the band. His earlier religious

affiliations were with the Campbellites, now called Disciples. At the

time of the Mormon advent he lived in Mentor, the next town to Kirtland,

but he had no farm or any other property to offer them, as has been

frequently stated. Those of his followers whom he found in Kirtland

frequently remarked that they "had a good time before Joe Smith came." A

very clear idea of his religious power may be gained by the following

statement of Judge John Barr, ex-sheriff of Cuyahoga county, Ohio, and a

most excellent authority on the history of the Western Reserve. The

statement has never been made public hitherto: "In 1830 I was deputy

sheriff, and, being at Willoughby (now in Lake county) on official

business, determined to go to Mayfield, which is seven or eight miles up

the Chagrin River, and hear Cowdery and Rigdon on the revelations of

Mormonism. Varnem J. Card, the lawyer, and myself started early Sunday

morning on horseback. We found the roads crowded with people going in

the same direction. Services in the church were opened by Cowdery with

prayer and singing, in which he thanked God fervently for the new

revelation. He related the manner of finding the golden plates of Nephi.

He was followed by Rigdon, a famous Baptist preacher, well known

throughout the eastern part of the Western Reserve and also in Western

Pennsylvania. His voice and manner were always imposing. He was regarded

as an eloquent man at all times, and now he seemed fully aroused. He

said he had not been satisfied in his religious yearnings until now. At

night he had often been unable to sleep, walking and praying for more

light and comfort in his religion. While in the midst of this agony he

heard of the revelation of Joe Smith, which Brother Cowdery had

explained: under this his soul suddenly found peace. It filled all his

aspirations. At the close of a long harangue in this earnest manner,

during which every one present was silent, though very much affected, he

inquired whether any one desired to come forward and be immersed. Only

one man arose. This was an aged 'dead-beat' by the name of Cahoon, who

occasionally joined the Shakers, and lived on the country generally. The

place selected for immersion was a clear pool in the river above the

bridge, around which was a beautiful rise of ground on the west side for

the audience. On the east bank was a sharp bluff and some stumps, where

Mr. Card and myself stationed ourselves. The time of baptism was fixed

at 2 P.M. Long before this hour the spot was surrounded by as many

people as could have a clear view. Rigdon went into the pool--which at

the deepest was about four feet--and after a suitable address, with

prayer, Cahoon came forward and was immersed. Standing in the water,

Rigdon gave one of his most powerful exhortations. The assembly became

greatly affected. As he proceeded he called for the converts to step

forward. They came through the crowd in rapid succession to the number

of thirty, and were immersed, with no intermission of the discourse on

the part of Rigdon. Mr. Card was apparently the most stoical of men--of

a clear, unexcitable temperament, with unorthodox and vague religious

ideas. He afterward became prosecuting attorney for Cuyahoga county.

While the exciting scene was transpiring below us in the valley and in

the pool, the faces of the crowd expressing the most intense emotion,

Mr. Card suddenly seized my arm and said, 'Take me away!' Taking his

arm, I saw that his face was so pale that he seemed to be about to

faint. His frame trembled as we walked away and mounted our horses. We

rode a mile toward Willoughby before a word was said. Rising the hill

out of the valley, he seemed to recover, and said, 'Mr. Barr, if you had

not been there I certainly should have gone into the water.' He said the

impulse was irresistible."

Kirtland is on the Kirtland branch of the Chagrin River, so named from

the disappointment of a party of early surveyors, who thought they were

in the valley of the Cuyahoga, the first river to the westward. The

village is nine miles west of Painesville, three from Willoughby and

twenty-two from Cleveland. Mentor is the nearest station on the Lake

Shore Railway. Besides the Temple, the Mormons erected a number of

substantial buildings, which show that they expected to remain in

Kirtland. The residences of Smith and Rigdon are almost under the eaves

of the Temple, and the theological seminary is now occupied by the

Methodists for a church. A square mile was laid out in half-acre lots,

and a number of farms were bought--the "Church farm" being half a mile

down one of the most beautiful valleys which it is possible to conceive

in a range of country so uniformly level.

Many an interesting story is told regarding the Mormon methods of

carrying on business with the merchants of Cleveland. A bank was

started, like other "wild-cat" banks of that period, without a charter

from the State of Ohio. The institution was called "The Kirtland Safety

Society Bank." A number of its bills of issue may be seen at the rooms

of the Western Reserve Historical Society in Cleveland. An examination

of these bills shows that early in 1837 Smith was cashier and Rigdon was

president, Two or three months later either Rigdon or Williams was

secretary, and Smith was treasurer. Thus the process of inflation must

have been both easy and rapid. Richard Hilliard, a leading merchant of

Cleveland, received their bills for a few days, and then took possession

of all their available assets. They were also in debt for their farms

and for goods bought in New York. The bubble burst, and many in the

vicinity of Kirtland were among the sufferers. Smith and Rigdon fled to

Far West, after having been tarred and feathered for their peculiar

theories of finance.

The Mormons were driven from Missouri by Governor Boggs's "Extraordinary

Order," which caused them to gain sympathy as having been persecuted in

a slave State. They moved to Hancock county, Illinois, in 1840, and

built up Nauvoo by a charter with most unusual privileges. Smith here

announced a new revelation, sustaining polygamy, which was supplemented

by Young in 1852. His rebellious followers started a paper, which he

promptly demolished. He was under arrest by the State authorities when a

mob shot him on the 27th of June, 1844. On his death Brigham Young

tricked the expectant Rigdon out of the successorship. Rigdon then

refused to recognize Young's authority, and for this contumacy he was

excommunicated and delivered to the Devil "to be buffeted in the flesh

for a thousand years." Returning to Pittsburg, Rigdon led a life of

utter obscurity, and finally died in Friendship, Allegany county, New

York, July 14, 1876. Cowdery, Whitner and Harris either deserted or were

cut off. The Legislature of Illinois repealed the charter of Nauvoo in

1845. Most of the Mormons gathered at Council Bluffs, Iowa, in June,

1846. Those who were left in Nauvoo were driven out at the point of the

bayonet. Early in 1847 pioneers crossed the Plains to Salt Lake Valley,

whither Young followed them in July. A crop was raised that year. In

1848 the main body of the Mormons were safely lodged within the confines

of Utah.

By far the most important and enduring monument left by the Mormons in

Kirtland is their Temple. The advent of several hundred strangers into

the midst of the insignificant hamlet was an event of considerable

importance, but when they selected a most commanding site, of easy

access to the public highway, and commenced the building of a church,

all Northern Ohio looked on in wonder. A structure of such pretensions

would be a tax upon a goodly-sized town of this generation, but the

several hundred Mormons who built it gave cheerfully each one his tenth

in labor, materials or money for the four years from 1832 to 1836, the

entire cost being estimated at forty thousand dollars. The visitor, come

from whatever direction he may, has the Temple constantly in view as a

reminder of the quainter style of "meeting-houses" in New England. Its

architectural superiority over the meeting-houses is probably due to the

fact that Smith had a "revelation" which gave him the exact measurements

and proportions. The size upon the ground is eighty feet by sixty, and

the eastern gable runs up into a square tower, surmounted by a domed

belfry, to the height of one hundred and twenty-five feet. Two lofty

stories above a low basement are covered by a shingled roof pierced with

dormer windows. Large Gothic windows of the Henry VIII. shape are filled

with seven-by-nine glass, and afford relief to the solid walls of stone

and stucco that have so well survived the ravages of nearly half a

century, though the iron rust streaking the exterior, the moss-grown

shingles, the wasps' nests under the eaves, and the two immense chimneys

already tottering to their fall, give evidence of approaching ruin.

As much as this even the careless passer-by cannot well avoid seeing.

The more patient and accurate visitor may readily repeat my own

experience as I went in search of the key on a bleak day in December.

"The people ought to fix it up," said one informant: "it is a good thing

for Kirtland;" the force of which remark I did not realize till I called

upon an old Mormon woman who was said to have the keys. Inquiry at her

little cabin resulted in my being directed to "go to Electy Stratton's."

The latter personage, my cicerone, stated that her parents were

Mormons--that her father had spent several hundred dollars in the cause;

and so "it was thought best that their family should have the keys for a

while now." The small fee for visiting the Temple was the "good thing

for Kirtland," and the custody of the keys was not to remain long in one

family. Opening a rickety gate, we entered the churchyard. High aloft,

just under the pediment, I could read this inscription in golden letters

upon a white tablet: "House of the Lord, built by the Church of Christ,

1834." Instead of the words "of Christ" the original inscription read

"of the Latter-Day Saints." The Temple faces the east. Solid green

doors, with oval panels, open into a vestibule extending across the

entire front, and terminating on either hand in a semicircular stairway.

The ceiling is cut away from the front wall to allow a flood of light to

enter from a huge square window above, and the open space is railed off

like a steamer's cabin. At the right, under the stairway, is the "Temple

Register Room," containing a record of visitors. On the left is the

"Library," with a curious collection of whale-oil chandeliers. On the

left of the wall, parallel with the front, is the "Gentlemen's

Entrance:" on the right is the "Ladies' Entrance." Between these doors

are the inscriptions: "Laus Deo," "Crux mihianchora," "Magna veritas, et

prevalebit." The auditorium occupies all the rest of the first story,

but one could wish that the wall which divided it from the vestibule

need not have spoiled one of the beautiful windows at either end, thus

leaving an ungainly half window in the auditorium. A row of wooden

pillars on either side gives the effect of galleries as the room is

entered, but a closer view shows that the space between the rows is

arched toward the centre of the ceiling. One of the pillars contains a

windlass, which in former times controlled the heavy canvas curtains

from above. The larger curtain fell into grooves between the high-back

pews in such a manner as to separate the men from the women: the smaller

curtains, at right angles to the other, divided both the men and the

women into separate classrooms. Thus the audience was quartered or

halved at pleasure, and the whole audience was enabled to face either

westward or eastward by simply changing the movable benches from one

side of the pews to the other. Clusters of richly-carved pulpits, rising

by threes, in three tiers, fill up either end of the room. The eastern

cluster is devoted to the Aaronic Priesthood, which also includes the

Levitical Priesthood, and administered the temporal affairs of the

Church. Each of the three pulpits in the upper tier has upon the front

the letters "B.P.A.," meaning Bishop Presiding over Aaronic Priesthood;

the middle tier has the letters "P.A.P.," Presiding Aaronic Priest; the

lower tier has the letters "P.A.T.," Presiding Aaronic Teacher; a

smaller pulpit below is labelled "P.A.D.," Presiding Aaronic Doorkeeper.

The pulpits against the western end are built up against an outer

window, with alternate panes of red and white glass in the arched

transom. These pulpits were occupied by the spiritual leaders, or the

Melchisedec Priesthood, Joe Smith's seat being in the highest tier. This

tier of pulpits is marked "M.P.C.," Melchisedec President of

Counsellors; the middle tier is marked "P.M.H.," Melchisedec Presiding

High Priest; the lower tier is "M.H.P.," Melchisedec High Priest.

Curtains from above were arranged to come down between the different

tiers of the priesthood, but so arranged that while those of one degree

might shut themselves away from the audience "for consultation," they

could not hide themselves from their superiors in ecclesiastical rank.

Strings and nails in the ceiling are the only remnants of these

remarkable partitions. A simple desk below the Melchisedec pulpit bears

the title "M.P.E.," Melchisedec Presiding Elder. The letters are in red

curtain-cord, and the desk itself, like all the pulpits above, is

covered with green calico. In the days of the Temple's glory rich velvet

upholstery set off all the carved work of the pulpits, and golden

letters shone from spots which are now simply marked by black paint. The

gilt mouldings which formerly set off the plain white finish of the

woodwork were first despoiled by the vandals, and then entirely removed

by the faithful to prevent further destruction. These mottoes still

remain upon the walls: "No cross, no crown;" "The Lord reigneth, let His

people rejoice;" and "Great is our Lord, and of great power." Over the

arched window behind the ten Melchisedec pulpits, and just beneath the

vertical modillion which forms the keystone of the ornamental wooden

arch, is the text, "Holiness unto the Lord."

Such is the auditorium to-day--a room which will comfortably hold six

hundred people, but which was often packed so full that relays of

worshippers came and went during a single service. The high pews in the

corners were for the best singers in Israel; and in one of these pews,

the natives assert, an insane woman was in the habit of rising and

tooting on a horn whenever the sentiments of the officiating minister

did not meet with her approval. Smith was in the habit of announcing

from his lofty pulpit, "The truth is good enough without dressing up,

but Brother Rigdon will now proceed to dress it up."

Over the auditorium is a similar room with lower ceilings and plainer

pulpits, each marked with initials which it would be tiresome to

explain. This hall was used as a school of the prophets where Latin and

Hebrew were taught. Marks of the desks remain, but the desks themselves

have long since been carried away, and the hall has been used for an Odd

Fellows' lodge and for various social purposes. On one of the pillars is

this remarkable announcement: "THE SALT LAKE MORMONS.--When Joseph Smith

was killed on June 27, 1844, Brigham Young _assumed_ the _leadership_ of

the Church, telling the people in the winter of _1846_ that all the

_God_ they wanted _was him_, and all the _Bible_ they wanted was in

_his_ heart. He led or drove about two thousand people to Utah in 1847,

starting for Upper California and landing at _Salt Lake_, where, in

1852, Brigham Young presented the _Polygamic Revelation_(?) to the

people. The _True_ Church remained disorganized till 1860, when Joseph

Smith took the leadership or Presidency of _the_ Church at Amboy,

Illinois. _We_ (thirty thousand) have no affiliation with the _Mormons_

whatever. They are to us an _apostate_ people, _working all manner of

abomination_ before _God_ and man. We are no part or parcel of them in

_any sense whatever_. Let this _be distinctly_ understood: _we are not

Mormons_. Truth is truth, wherever it is found."

In the vestibule of the Temple there is a photograph of Joseph Smith,

Jr., and over it is the inscription, "Joseph Smith, Jr., M.P.C.

President of the _Re_-organized Church of J.C. of L.D.S. He resides at

Plano, Kendall county, Illinois." Mr. Smith, who is a son of the

prophet, was born in Kirtland November 6, 1832. He removed with his

parents to Missouri and Illinois, and was in his twelfth year when his

father was killed at Nauvoo. He was a farmer, a school-director and

justice of the peace. Removing to Canton, Illinois, he studied law, and

has held various city offices. In 1860 he began to preach Mormonism

according to the notice nailed on the pillar of the Temple. In 1866 he

removed to Plano to take charge of _The Latter-Day Saints' Herald_, a

position which he still retains, in connection with the presidency of

the Church. Under date of December 23, 1879, Mr. Smith writes: "I am now

pretty widely recognized as the leader of that wing of the Mormon Church

declaring primitive Mormonism, but denying and opposing polygamy and

Utah Mormonism.... We hope they [the Utah Mormons] are waning in power.

We are maintaining an active ministry in Utah, striving to show the

people there their errors.... It is not my province to state whether the

Church will return to Kirtland or not."

From Mr. Smith's further statements it seems that the various

sects--such as Rigdonites, Strangites, etc.--into which the Mormons were

broken after leaving Kirtland are very few in numbers and very widely

scattered. His reformed Church believes in the Trinity, future

punishment, the laying on of hands, an organization like the primitive

Church, continued revelations, single marriages, and the creed of most

orthodox churches relating to the atonement and the ordinances of the

gospel. The title to the Church property at Kirtland is now in Mr. Smith

and a Mr. Forscutt, who derived their title through a Mr. Huntley, the

purchaser under a mortgage sale against the prophet. Proceedings to

remove the cloud from the title are now in the Ohio courts. "It is

believed," writes Mr. Smith, "that the real title is in the Church, and

not in Joseph Smith as an individual nor in his legal heirs or

assignees."

The space under the roof is utilized by a series of school-rooms, each

with falling plastering and "ratty" floors. Here the young Mormons were

taught to ascend the Hill of Science by trudging up some scores of steps

several times a day. Strange and dark cubbyholes stare at the visitor

from all sides. In one of these was kept the body of Joseph, the son of

Jacob, known by a roll of papyrus which was found in his hand. Joe Smith

translated the characters on the roll, being favored with a "special

revelation" whenever any of the characters were missing by reason of the

mutilation of the roll.

Still up the stairway within a small square tower, now without a bell,

I thrust my way until a little trap-door allowed an egress. But the

railing had gone, and I clung to the belfry-blinds while I surveyed the

cold waters of Lake Erie on the north, the rise of Little Mountain on

the south, and, between them the broad tract of rolling country divided

by the Chagrin River. I descended through labyrinthine passages, and

came again to the ground and to the outer air with a sense of relief

after my two hours' sojourn within the Mormon Temple.

FREDERIC G. MATHER.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] On a scorching day in July I visited Susquehanna to obtain an

authentic narrative from several parties who were eye-witnesses of the

events which they related. At the residence of Mrs. Elizabeth Squires I

found both herself and Mrs. Sally McKune, the widow of Joseph McKune.

Mrs. Squires is considerably over seventy, and Mrs. McKune is about

eighty, years of age. Both these ladies lived in the neighborhood at the

time of the Smith manifestations. The statement given above with regard

to the digging for treasure is that of Mrs. McKune, supplemented by Mrs.

Squires. Jacob J. Skinner, the present owner of the farm, was about

sixteen years old at the time of the search. For a number of years he

has been engaged in filling the holes with stone to protect his cattle,

but the boys still use the north-east hole as a swimming-pond in the

summer.

[3] Among the callers was Samuel Brush, now a vigorous man of

seventy-five, who carries on a large farm and a lumber-mill three miles

south-west of Susquehanna. At the time of the translation he often

called Reuben Hale away from his work, and the pair went for a walk.

Reuben also explained the phenomenon of the peek-stone on the theory of

"deflected light." Mr. Brush declares that Martin Harris was a believer

in "second sight," and that "Smith was a good and kind

neighbor"--testimony which is also given by Mrs. McKune, Mrs. Squires

and Mr. Skinner.

[4] A note of inquiry has elicited from this sole survivor of the

original "three witnesses" the information that he has this manuscript.

Perhaps he may yet startle the Mormon world by publishing a _facsimile_

edition of the original "translation."

A VENGEANCE.

From savage pass and rugged shore

The noise of angry hosts had fled,

The bitter battle raged no more

Where fiery bolts had wrought their scars,

And where the dying and the dead

In many a woeful heap were flung,

While night above the AEgean hung

Its melancholy maze of stars.

One boyish Greek, of princely line,

Lay splashed with blood and wounded sore;

His wan face in its anguish bore

The delicate symmetry divine

Carved by the old sculptors of his land;

A broken blade was in his hand,

Half slipping from the forceless hold

That once had swayed it long and well;

And round his form in tatters fell

The velvet raiment flowered with gold.

But while the calm night later grew

He heard the stealthy, rustling sound

Of one who trailed on laggard knees

A shattered shape along the ground;

And soon with sharp surprise he knew

That in the encircling gloom profound

A fierce Turk crawled by slow degrees

To where in helpless pain he lay.

Then, too, he witnessed with dismay

That from the prone Turk's rancorous eye

Flashed the barbaric lurid trace

Of hate's indomitable hell--

Such hate as death alone could quell,

As death alone could satisfy.

Closer the loitering figure drew,

With naked bosom red from fight,

With ruthless fingers clutching tight

A dagger stained by murderous hue,

Till now, in one great lurch, he threw

His whole frame forward, aiming quick

A deadly, inexorable blow,

That, weakly faltering, missed its mark,

And left the assassin breathing thick,

Levelled by nerveless overthrow,

There near the Greek chief, in the dark.

Then he that saw the baffled crime,

Half careless of his life's release,

Since death must win him soon as prey,

Turned on his foe a smile sublime

With pity, and the stars of Greece

Beheld him smile, and only they.

All night the two lay side by side,

Each near to death, yet living each;

All night the grim Turk moaned and cried,

Beset with pangs of horrid thirst,

Save when his dagger crept to reach,

By wandering, ineffectual way,

The prostrate Greek he yearned to slay,

And failure stung him till he cursed.

But when soft prophecies of morn

Had wrapped the sea in wistful white,

A band of men, with faces worn,

Clomb inland past a beetling height

To find the young chief they adored,

Sought eagerly since fall of sun,

And now in ghastly change restored....

One raised a torch of ruddy shine,

And, kneeling by their leader, one

Set to his mouth a gourd of wine.

Then the young Greek, with wave of hand,

Showed the swart pagan at his side;

So, motioning to the gathered band,

That none could choose but understand,

"Let this man drink," he said, and died.

EDGAR FAWCETT.

STUDIES IN THE SLUMS.

IV.--JACK.

"I've never told the whole straight ahead, ma'am. The Lord knows it all,

an' there've been times I couldn't ha' done it, an' wouldn't ha' done it

if I could ha' helped it. For, you see, in spite of the deviltry I never

quite got rid of the sense that God sat lookin' at me, an' that, I do

suppose, came from what stuck to me, whether or no, in the school. An'

you'd wonder that anything stuck or could.

"I'll begin at the beginnin'. Drink? No, it wasn't _my_ drinkin'. You'd

think that must ha' been it, but it wasn't, for all I came up in the

Fourth Ward--the only sober bartender the ward ever see, or ever will

see, I reckon.

"The very first thing that ever I remember is my mother dead drunk on

the floor. I thought it was dead without the drunk, an' stood screamin';

an' my father come up an' some of the neighbors. We was all respectable

then, an' one of them says, 'The Lord help you, Mr. Brown! She's begun

ag'in.' He didn't speak, but just lifted her up an' put her on the bed,

and then he sat down and covered up his face with his hands, an' was so

still I thought he was dead too. I crawled up to him whimperin', an' he

lifted me up.

"'Jack,' he says, 'my heart's broke. It's no use: she's bound to go to

the bad, an' maybe you'll take after her.'

"I screamed ag'in, though I didn't know what that meant, but he hushed

me. 'Jack,' he said, 'you're a little fellow, an' your troubles ain't

begun yet. I'd give my life this minute to take you with me.' He held me

up to him tight an' took my breath, so 't I couldn't ask him where; an'

then he cried.

"That was the beginnin' of me, if gettin' a gleam of sense means

beginnin' for folks; for, though I didn't know what it all meant, I did

know he wanted comfort bad as I did, an' we hugged up to one another.

But I know now all the ins and the outs, for I was told by one that knew

them both.

"She was a pretty girl in a mill in Fall River--fast, like some of them,

but with an innocent face an' big blue eyes, like a child's, to the very

last. Many's the time I've seen 'em with no more sense, nor as much, as

a baby's in 'em. He was a young shoemaker, that fell in love with the

pretty face, an' married her out of hand then an' there, an' took her to

New York, where he'd got a good place--foreman in a factory. His folks

lived in Fall River, and hers off somewheres. I haven't never seen any

of 'em, an' good reason not to want to.

"She liked fine clothes, an' thought she was goin' to be a lady an' do

nothin'; an' when the first baby come it was a bother to her, for she

wasn't strong, an' one of the neighbors told her to drink beer. There's

no use spinnin' it out. It began with beer, but it ended with whiskey,

an' the first my father ever knew was the dead baby that she'd killed

rollin' over on it in a drunken sleep.

"That cured her for a year. She was afraid of my father, for at first,

in his fury, he swore he'd give her up to the officers; an' then she

cried so, an' went on day after day, till he couldn't but be sorry for

her ag'in. An' then I come along--many's the time I've cursed the

day--an' till I was four all was well enough. Then it came. She'd been

takin' a little slyly a good while, but nobody knew till it got to be

too much for her ag'in. It was partly trouble, I will say, for my father

was weakly an' goin' with consumption, an' she was fond of him. But this

time there was no stoppin' her. She'd pawn everything: she's taken the

jacket off me in a winter's day an' sent me with it to the pawnbroker's,

an' I not darin' not to go. To the last minute my father did what he

could. I was six when he died, an' he'd dress me himself an' try to

keep me decent. She was drunk the very night he died, an' not a soul

near. I sat on the bed an' looked at him. 'Jack,' he said, 'hate whiskey

long as you live: it's killed me, an' it'll kill your mother. It's a

devil.'

"There was a saloon under us then. We had got lower and lower, for, fix

up as father might, there was never any surety he wouldn't find things

smashed or sold out; an' at last there wasn't anything to sell. An' when

he was gone I can't remember as I ever see her sober. I got to hate the

smell of it so it sickened me. It does now, though it was my trade to

sell the stuff, an' I never minded that.

"I lost track of her. I was a newsboy an' lookin' out for myself when I

was eight, an' sometimes I'd hunt her up, an' she'd hug me an' go on

over me if she wasn't too drunk; but mostly I didn't. I might ha' been

respectable enough, for I liked my work, but I got in with a set of boys

that had learned to pick pockets. It was good fun. I had quick ways, an'

the first time I ever hauled out a handkerchief I thought it about the

smartest game anybody could play. It's more for the excitement of it,

half the time, than from real native cussedness, that boys begin; an' I

didn't think one way or another. But the time come when I did think. I

was caught with fellows that had been up half a dozen times, an' because

I was little they sent me to the house of refuge.

"Now, I ain't goin' to say more'n I can help about that, for there was

one man I sha'n't ever forget. He's dead now, but he meant work with

them boys, an' he did it. I believe he loved 'em every one just because

they had souls. But what I do say is, that, far's I know, eight boys out

o' ten come out worse'n when they went in. Why not? They're mostly the

worst sort, an' it's a kind of rivalry amongst them which'll tell the

most deviltry. There ain't a trick nor turn you can't be put up to, an'

I learned 'em every one. I learned some other things too. We had to

study some, an' I was quick, an' I learned Bible-verses so well they

thought I was a crack scholar; an' we all laughed, thinkin' how easy

you can humbug a teacher. But the last year I was wild to get away an'

try my hand at some of the new kinks I'd learned. I was fourteen and

full grown, so't I was always taken for twenty; an' I thought I was a

man, sure. I run away twice, an' was brought back, an' it went hard with

me, for they flogged me each time so't I couldn't stir for a week.

"At last time was up. I'd made up my mind what to do: I'd settled it by

that time that everybody was ready to humbug, an' the pious-talkin' ones

worst of all, for I'd seen some that I'd spotted in lies many a time.

The first thing I did was to chuck away the Bible they'd given me an'

make straight for Micky Hagan's. You don't know what that means? I'll

tell you. Micky Hagan's was one of the receivin'-places for

river-thievin'. He had boats to let, an' bought out an' out or advanced

on the swag, just as you pleased; an' mostly you're in his debt, because

you get into the way of swappin', an' he sets his own price on the thing

you fancy.

"Now, I've thought it all out, ma'am, many a time. If there'd been

anybody to take hold of us in the right way I don't believe we should

have come out as we did. I wasn't bad all through then: I mean, I was

ready to do a good turn if I could, an' bound for a lark anyhow. But

we'd smuggled in novels and story-papers till our heads was full of what

fine things we'd do. They didn't give us better things. There was

books--yes, plenty of 'em--but mostly long-winded stuff about fellers

that died young, bein' too good for this world. There wasn't anybody to

tell us we'd a right to some fun, and the Lord meant us to enjoy life,

nor to get us busy in some way that would take our minds off real

wickedness. These preachers hadn't ever been boys: they'd been born in

their white chokers, I believe, an' knew no more of real human nature

than they did of common sense. If I had a boy growin' up I'd keep him

hard at something, an' try an' have him like it, too. A boy don't mind

work if there's anything he can see to be got by it. Why, see how I did.

At fifteen out all night long, up an' down the river, schemin' all ways

to circumvent the watchmen, for they're that 'cute it needs all your

brains an' more to get ahead of 'em. You see, a ship'll come in an'

unload partly, an' there's two or three days they're on the keen lookout

till they're nigh empty; an' then's the best time for light

plunder--ropes an' such. But I went in for reg'lar doin's--bags of

coffee or spice, or anything goin'. We had a dodge for a good while they

couldn't make out--goin' along soft, oars muffled, hardly drawin' a long

breath, till we'd got under the dock, where I'd seen the coffee-bags

lie, an' a man on 'em with pistol cocked. Then, slow an' easy, bore with

a big auger up through them beams and straight into the bag, an' the

coffee'd pour down into the bag we held under. Went off with seven bags

that very way one night, an' I was that full of laugh! I walked back

down the dock when we'd landed 'em, an' saw the watchman jest dancin'

an' swearin', he was so mad.