MORMONISM IN ENGLAND—PREPARING TO EMIGRATE.
It was fortunate for the Swiss mission that the new converts in general
could not read any language but their own, and thus were ignorant of the
deceptions which the American Elders had practised upon the people.
Monsieur Petitpierre, the Protestant minister who thought that the
Revelation ought to be “prayerfully considered,” was the only one who
understood English, and his knowledge was very limited. His wife did not
at all coincide with him about the prayerful consideration of polygamy;
she disposed of the subject without any prayer at all; and it is to be
regretted that in this respect the whole body of the Mormon women did not
follow her example.
What arguments she used I do not know; but that they were very much to
the point no one can doubt, for they banished for ever all thoughts of
polygamy from her husband’s mind. It was said among the Saints that she
was very energetic in her private discussions with her husband. But
however this might be, it is certain that Monsieur Petitpierre resisted
as long as he could, for the Revelation quite fascinated the childless
old man; and it is possible that he might have held fast to the faith,
but unfortunately, just then certain documents and publications of
the apostles, and a very large amount of evidence respecting them and
their doings, attracted his attention. He was in the main a good and
truthful man, although of small mental calibre, and the deceptions and
contradictions which he discovered quite disgusted him. His wife’s strong
personal arguments gave the finishing blow to his faith, and the spell
was broken. The vision of a modern Hagar and a little Ishmael vanished
from his mind; he apostatised—and Mr. Stenhouse lost the services of a
very useful translator.
When I heard that he had left the church, how I wished that I could have
followed in his footsteps! But apostasy from Mormonism is only possible
to two classes—the young disciple, who has embraced the faith more from
enthusiasm than from conviction, whose experience is limited; and the old
disciple, who has entirely outgrown it, and has become disgusted with it
all.
I was neither of these. My faith was too firmly grounded to admit of my
giving it up. Though I hated polygamy, I did not dare to question the
divinity of its origin. I only pitied myself and my sex for the burden
which God had seen fit to place upon us. I never for a moment supposed
that any man would have been so wicked as to fabricate a “Revelation,” or
so blasphemous as to palm it off in the name of the Lord.
Oh yes, I hated polygamy in my heart. And my efforts in teaching it only
increased my hatred; for when I was gravely told by the Elders that
woman had been cursed in the garden of Eden, and that polygamy was one
of the results of that curse—“her desire shall be unto her husband, and
_he shall rule over her_!”—I must confess that my heart within me was
rebellious. From my earliest childhood I had thought of God as a father
and a friend, to whom I might go and tell all my griefs and cares; but
now He was presented to me as a hard taskmaster, not as a father or a
friend.
I met with much kindness, but I did not meet with much sympathy from
the brethren. They could not understand that opposition to polygamy was
anything else than selfishness on the part of the sisters; they did not
comprehend the feelings of a woman’s heart—its craving for some object
upon which to devote its whole wealth of love. They were taught that
theirs was a nobler position than that of the sisters, and that women
might consider themselves sufficiently honoured in being allowed to
become the mothers of their children, and to help in building up _their_
“kingdom.”
Of my missionary work in Switzerland subsequent to the introduction of
polygamy I will say but little, except that it was too successful. The
same sorrow and indignation which Madame Balif had so forcibly expressed,
were shown by almost every new convert, and I had to bear the blame of
teaching such a doctrine. The sisters became unhappy, and wished that
they had died in ignorance of Mormonism; and I felt humbled to the
dust to think that I should be the innocent cause of so much misery to
others. I looked anxiously for a change; but the only change which seemed
probable was that we might be permitted to emigrate to Utah—and there was
no comfort for me in that prospect.
We remained in Switzerland until the close of the year 1854, and through
the unremitting efforts of my husband Mormonism was introduced into six
cantons of the Confederation. Monsieur Balif became an indefatigable
missionary, as was also Governor Stoudeman; and to their liberality and
zeal Mr. Stenhouse was greatly indebted. With the aid of Monsieur Balif,
he established in Geneva a monthly periodical in the French language, for
the edification of the Saints, besides publishing a book in reply to the
attacks of the clergy, and many minor effusions.
At that time there was great excitement among the Saints in Utah.
Brigham Young and his apostles were denouncing the Gentiles in the most
unmeasured language. As I write, a volume of sermons delivered at that
time is before me, and I really can hardly credit that so much ridiculous
nonsense, bad grammar, and blasphemy, could ever have been uttered in a
public place of worship—yet it was so. The Saints were told that in these
last times all the vials of the wrath of God were about to be poured
upon the earth; wars and desolations, anarchy and persecution, fire,
pestilence, and unheard of horrors, were to desolate all the world, until
men should call upon the rocks to hide them, and in the bitterness of
their souls curse the day in which they were born; death was to be sought
for, but not found. Believing, as they did, that all this was true, it
is no wonder that the Saints in Europe were alarmed, and became anxious
to emigrate to Utah, where they were told they would be safe. A seven
years’ famine was said to be at the door, when a sack of wheat should be
sold for a sack of gold, and Gentile kings and princes were to come and
crouch to the Saints for a morsel of bread. The very women in Zion were
counselled to sell the ribbons from their bonnets, to buy flour with the
proceeds, and to hide it away against the day of wrath.
The brethren and sisters in Switzerland who could dispose of their
property hastened to “flee to Zion.” Some did so at a ruinous sacrifice.
One gentleman, a Monsieur Robella, I knew, who was part proprietor of a
newspaper and printing establishment. In a very short time it would have
been entirely in his own hands; but he sold out at a great loss, dreading
that the storm might overtake him before he reached the “chambers of the
Lord in the mountains,” as the Elders called Salt Lake City.
The journey from Europe to Utah at that time occupied six or eight
months; it was a very tedious pilgrimage. My Swiss friends had first to
travel to Liverpool; thence by sailing vessel to New Orleans; by steamer
up the Mississippi as far as St. Louis; up the Missouri to the frontiers;
and then across the plains by ox-teams. Much of this distance had to be
travelled during the worst part of the year. They left their homes while
the Jura mountains were still draped in snow; and those who escaped the
ravages of cholera and the perils of the ways, reached their destination
just as the frosts of winter were beginning to whiten the hoary heads of
the hills which stand about Zion.
All the Swiss pilgrims travelled together until they arrived at St.
Louis; there they separated, one party going up the river, and the other
making the journey overland. The cholera attacked the latter party,
and cut off the greater number of them, and their bones now whiten the
prairie.
The news of their death soon arrived in Switzerland, and the people at
Lausanne were exasperated against the Mormon missionaries; and when my
husband visited that place he found it prudent not to remain long. At
the same time those of the Saints whose relations had perished in the
emigration were pained to hear that it was because they “had not obeyed
counsel,” and gone up the river with the other party, that they fell by
the way. And, as if in mockery of this statement, the next news that we
received was that a Missouri steamer, on board of which were many Mormon
missionaries—all most obedient to counsel—had been blown to atoms. Many
of the Saints began to consider these things, and their love waxed cold.
Through all this our position was anything but pleasant, and my husband
applied for permission to be released from the presidency of the Swiss
and Italian missions, in order that he might “gather to Zion.” His
request was granted; and in the autumn of 1854 we bade a final adieu to
Switzerland.
We might now be said to have _begun_ our journey to Zion, although we
tarried long by the way, and several years elapsed before we reached our
destination.
When we arrived in London we obtained apartments in the house of the
President of the London Conference, and there I had opportunities of
observing the effects of the system upon the English Saints. Elder
Marsden, the president, was a thorough Mormon, and a man who was very
highly thought of. He had been acquainted with all the apostles and high
priests who had resided in Liverpool—the great _rendezvous_ of the
Saints in England; had been President of the Conference there, and now
occupied the highest position of the European mission. He was a pleasant,
intelligent man, who in his day had done much to build up the church;
but, like his two predecessors, John Banks and Thomas Margetts, he also
apostatized from the Mormonism of later years. At the time, however, of
which I speak, he was considered to be of good standing among the Saints.
Up to this time I had never seriously doubted my religion, and I probably
never should have done so had it not been for the introduction of
polygamy. But what I saw in London at that time sadly shook my faith,
and the stories which I heard from Utah quite frightened me. Nothing, of
course, was openly said, and at first I disbelieved every evil report,
until at last it was impossible for me altogether to reject what was
told me. The testimony of an apostate or of a Gentile would have been
dismissed with contempt; but when we saw letters from mothers to their
children, and husbands to their wives—all people of unquestioned faith,
setting forth the troubled state of men’s minds in Utah, expressing fears
for their own safety, and hinting at “cutting off” the transgressor,
and the doings of “Avenging Angels,” we could not cast them aside with
contempt. My views of the glories of Zion were changing; henceforth I was
never firm in the faith; I felt that there was _something_ wrong.
Perhaps the reader may think that now I might have left the church,
and thus have avoided all those troubles which awaited me in Utah. But
let him remember that, although my faith was shaken, it was not wholly
destroyed. All that I clung to on earth—my husband, whom I truly loved,
and my darling children—were part and parcel of Mormonism. I could not
tear myself from them, and isolate my soul from all that made life worth
having.
My unsettled state of mind, however, did not long remain a secret. It
was spoken of among the Saints, and I became an object of interest. The
pastor over the London and adjoining Conferences was the son of one of
the chief apostles in Utah—a young man, whose good nature was far better
than his religion. He visited us very frequently, and used to bring
with him the distinguished American Elders who might be visiting the
metropolis. I have no doubt that they were sincere in their desire to do
me good; but it was not kind attentions that I then needed, it was the
removal of the cause of my sorrows.
They tried to persuade me that it was all “the work of the Lord;” but
I could not see it in that light, and very often in reply to their
consolations I said very hard things of polygamy and the leaders of the
church, whose conduct I considered sinful. And in this I did not stand
alone, for I soon found that the President of the Conference, Elder
Marsden, had been in the same position for years, and his wife was
“quite through” with Mormonism. In fact, so great had been the distrust
occasioned by polygamy, that in the report ending June 30th, 1853, it
was stated that from the whole British church, which then numbered very
nearly 31,000 souls—1776 had been excommunicated for apostasy!
Of those who remained faithful I cannot give a much more cheering
account. The Elders who visited President Marsden made as damaging
reports of the condition of the Saints as their worst enemies could
desire. All that my young friend, Mary Burton, had told me did not equal
the truth of what I saw for myself. No one had any confidence _now_ in
what the Elders said; how could they be trusted after so many years of
deception?
The Elders who visited me and reasoned with me about my want of faith,
tried to persuade me to be baptized again. Among the Mormons it is
the privilege of the faithful to be baptized over and over again, as
often as may be needed, for the remission of their sins, which are thus
washed away, and the penitent is enabled to start afresh. At that time
of fearful excitement in Utah, called by the Mormons “The Reformation,”
when people were being exhorted under terrible penalties to confess their
sins, many were so frightened that they acknowledged themselves guilty
of crimes of which they had never dreamed, while at the same time many
horrible and detestable sins were brought to light. Brigham and the
leaders found that they were confessing too much—the sinners were far
more numerous than the godly. Brigham, with his usual craft, soon found a
way of escape; the people were told to be baptized again, so that their
sins being washed away, they could truly say they were not guilty of the
crimes of which they might be accused.
I was not convinced, and did not see that I had anything to repent of,
but I was quite willing to be re-baptized if it was thought proper.
At the same time I stipulated that the President of the Conference,
Elder Marsden, should be baptized with me. I felt that if I required
re-baptizing, how much more necessary was it for Elder Marsden to have
_his_ sins washed away also. I partly believed in the fearful stories
that I had heard from Zion, but it was _he_ who had shown them to me. The
Pastor of the Conference gave no sign that he suspected my meaning in
wishing Elder Marsden to be baptized at the same time as I was, though
I believe he must have formed a pretty shrewd guess. And so we two
went down into the water, but I am afraid that little of our sins was
washed away. Not long after, President Marsden apostatized, and my heart
remained as hard as ever. At least I was frequently told so.
Poor Elder Marsden! He was branded with the most opprobrious titles which
Mormon ingenuity or malice could fling against him: and yet I know of
_many_ men—not one nor two, associated most intimately with Brigham Young
to-day, whose faith is not a whit stronger than that apostate’s, who
serve the Prophet because it is their interest to do so, but who in their
hearts no more believe in his high pretensions than did James Marsden,
the President of the London Conference.
Meanwhile, the season for emigration had again arrived, and we were
directed to hold ourselves in readiness to start. Although by no means
unexpected, this “counsel” to emigrate came very painfully to me,
for every step we took towards Utah seemed to bring me nearer to the
realization of my worst apprehensions. I had lost my affection for
Mormonism, and my enthusiasm had now quite melted away. But to refuse to
go was altogether out of the question.
Two little ones had been added to our family in Geneva, and a fourth was
born in London, the Christmas Day after our return from the continent.
The foggy atmosphere of the metropolis did not agree with them at all,
accustomed, as they had been, to the pure and bracing air of Switzerland,
and I soon had serious illness in my family. My second little girl,
Minnie, was so sick that we almost despaired of her life, and the others
required constant attention; while the little baby boy, only a few weeks
old, was seldom out of my arms. Just then it was, when so very awkwardly
situated, that the notification came for us to set our faces Zionward.
They chided us for our want of faith, because we did not take our poor
little sick child from her bed at the risk of life; but I thank God now
that nature was stronger than our fanaticism, and that our little girl
was spared to grow up a blessing of which we shall ever be proud.
One day, President Marsden came to me confidentially, and told me that
the brethren were determined that I should leave England, and had counted
upon my yielding in a moment of despair. My husband was to be counselled
to go without me to Utah, if I persisted in my refusal. After he had left
London, Elder Marsden was to give me notice to leave his house; and left
destitute, and entirely among strangers, it was thought that I should be
only too glad to follow.
I cannot tell how indignant I was; I could not find words sufficiently
contemptuous to express what I felt; I reproached Elder Marsden with
cowardice for agreeing to such an inhuman proposition, and I declared
that I would not risk the life of my child if an eternity of suffering
awaited me.
My husband was absent when this took place; but when he returned
he approved of what I had done, and Elder Marsden was consequently
“counselled” to send us away. The doctor warned us against the danger
of exposing my little daughter to the cold in removing her; but we had
no choice, for we were obliged to leave. Those were very painful times.
Constant watching and anxiety had undermined my own health, and I fell
ill. Even then, had we been left alone we might have escaped much of
our trouble; but the incessant meddling of “counsel” was a perpetual
irritation, and we were completely worn out with annoyance.
A pleasant apartment at the west end of the town was taken for me, by
the advice of the medical man, and I was removed thither with my baby. I
was not equal even to the task of taking care of that little thing, and
had to procure the assistance of a nurse; the other children were cared
for by friends. All that I needed was rest and tranquillity of mind, and
I soon began to recover strength, though far from well. But this state
of quietude was soon to be disturbed. Again we were notified that the
last emigrant ship of the season was about to leave, and we must sail
in her; and again we were obliged to refuse. My husband telegraphed to
the Apostle at Liverpool that I was not well enough to travel, and he
was told to “bring me along, and I should get better.” The Apostle (!)
cared nothing for individual suffering providing the ambitious plans
of the priesthood in Salt Lake City were carried out. But my husband,
anxious though he was to set out for Utah, and obedient as he ever was to
“counsel,” was not such a slave as they thought him, and he positively
refused to go. For this he was very much blamed, and it was said that his
own faith must be wavering.
Since my arrival in London I had several times seen my young friend, Mary
Burton. She had, as she told me in her letters, very greatly changed, for
she had now become quite a young lady. Still she retained most of her
winning ways, though her childish prettiness had given place to the more
mature beauty of womanhood; and when I saw her I was not surprised that
she should be an object of attention, or that Elder Shrewsbury should
have felt so deeply her rejection of him.
I also had a visit from another person, whom I little expected to see.
This was no other than Elder Shrewsbury himself, who, I had been told,
had left London some months before. This, he said was quite true; he had
left London, and gone to work as a missionary hundreds of miles away;
trying to forget his disappointment, but to no purpose. His was one
of those natures which, though kind and considerate to every one, are
not ready to form hasty attachments, but which, when once they do meet
with an object upon which to lavish their affections, became devoted in
friendship and unchanging in love. Their affections flow more deeply than
those of most people.
Such was Elder Shrewsbury, and such I thought he would always be; but
what disposition, however good, can be relied upon when influenced by
religious fanaticism? He stood before me, _then_, manly and upright in
his bearing, truthful and honest—a man who would have scorned evasion or
deceit; and his every thought of Mary was replete with tenderness and
love. And yet I lived to see that man again, in Utah—alas, how changed a
man!
Before we first left England I was acquainted with Elder Shrewsbury, but
not very intimately. We had had one or two interesting conversations
together, but I remembered him chiefly in connexion with Mary Burton. It
was about her that he now came to see me;—he wanted me to talk to her,
and intercede with her in his behalf. But I was no match-maker, and all
my thoughts respecting love and marriage had recently been anything but
pleasant. I told him plainly that I thought Mary had done quite right in
refusing to see him, and, in fact, declining to receive the attentions of
_any_ Mormon man. I did not doubt his love for her at present, I said;
but no one could any longer rely upon a Mormon Elder’s word. Years to
come, when they had a little family growing up around them, and when it
would be too late for Mary to repent of trusting him, he might suddenly
be convinced of the necessity of obeying the Revelation, and then what
could she do? No! Even supposing that she loved him, which, I said, was
very questionable, it was better that she should suffer a disappointment
now, than have her heart wrung with cruelty and neglect in after-years.
“What!” he cried, his eyes dashing with indignation; “do you take me for
a dog that I should treat _her_ so?”
“No, no,” I said, and tried to pacify him; “I do not think anything
bad of you, but I look upon you as a man who is in love, and therefore
blind. You think of nothing now but Mary, and are willing to sacrifice
everything, and to promise anything, providing you can win her. But when
she has become your wife, if she ever does, and you have time to cool
down, you’ll begin to see things in another light. You’ll find that she
is only an ordinary woman, made of flesh and blood, like all the other
daughters of Eve, and with, I daresay, quite as many whims, and fancies,
and perverse ways as any of them; and then, when she ceases to be ‘an
angel’ in your eyes, and becomes merely a woman, you’ll begin to assert
your right to think and judge for yourself, and very probably all your
former devotion to your religion will return.”
“Sister Stenhouse,” he replied, “you do not seem to have a very high
opinion of my constancy; but I can assure you that I have given this
matter my most earnest, prayerful thought. My love for Mary I need not
mention; my devotion to my religion you only partly know. While we were
told that Polygamy was not true, no one could be more steadfast in the
faith than I was; and when the Revelation came, I looked upon it as a
blight and a curse to the Church of God. And how well-founded my fears
were, you can see from this terrible apostasy which has come upon us. I
almost myself left the Church. Then I went to the Apostle, and I told him
how I was situated. I told him all about Mary, and my devotion to her;
that I wished to win her for my wife, but that I knew she would not marry
me if she thought there was the shadow of a chance that I should live up
to the Revelation. I told him that I myself should be perfectly wretched
in Polygamy, and that it was impossible that I should love more than
_one_. The Apostle said that I was quite right in all this. We had no
proof, he said, in the Bible, that Isaac had more than one wife, and he
was accepted of God. He counselled me to do all I could to win Mary, and
told me that I might truthfully promise her that I would never enter into
Polygamy. But Mary would not so much as listen to me; in fact, since then
she never would see me alone.”
“I am not sure,” I answered, “whether I am doing right; but I don’t mind
saying to you that I think, from what I have seen of Mary, that she does
not dislike you; but she is a sensible girl, and does not choose to risk
the happiness of her whole life.”
He was vexed with me for saying this. How could I suppose that _he_ would
wreck her happiness? Was he not willing to die if it would give her a
moment’s pleasure? And much more lover’s nonsense he talked.