WE FORSAKE ALL, AND SET OUT FOR ZION:—OUR JOURNEY ACROSS THE PLAINS.
IT was with strange feelings of doubt and unrest that I read that painful
story; but I folded up Mary Burton’s letter and stored it carefully away
in my desk, and then I began to think.
Certainly I was still a Mormon—at least I was nothing else—but I was not
now so firmly grounded in my faith as once I was, and these terrible
stories completely unsettled my mind. Then, too, I was well aware that,
before long, my husband and myself would be called upon to cross the
Plains to Zion, and I felt that if our experience were anything like
that of Mary Burton, I and my children would never reach Salt Lake. The
prospect was not very cheering.
One morning we were surprised to receive a visit from the Apostle George
Q. Cannon, who had come to take the place of Mr. Stenhouse as President
of the Mission in the Eastern States, and we were now to prepare to
travel with the next company of emigrants.
To me this was most unpleasant intelligence. Polygamy—the knowledge
that before long I should be brought personally within its degrading
influence—had now for years been the curse of my life, and I had welcomed
every reprieve from immediate contact with it in Utah. But the time had
come at last when I was to realize my worst apprehensions, and I think
at that time, had I been permitted to choose, I would have preferred to
die rather than journey to Zion. Besides this, ever since my husband had
been engaged with the secular papers, we had been getting along very
comfortably. We had now a pleasant home and many comforts and little
luxuries which we had not enjoyed since we left Switzerland, and I was
beginning to hope that we should be allowed to remain in New York for a
few years at least. We had also by this time six children—the youngest
only a few days old—and I leave it to any mother to determine whether I
had not good cause for vexation when I was told that we were expected
to leave New York within two weeks, with the emigrants who were then _en
route_ from England. My husband also was to take charge of the company,
and therefore everything would depend upon me—all the preparations for
our long and perilous journey, the disposal of our furniture, and, in
fact, the thousand and one little necessary duties which must attend the
packing up and departure of a family.
In the course of a few days the emigrants arrived, and then my husband
was compelled to devote all his time to them. When I told the Elders that
it was almost impossible for me, in the delicate state of health in which
I was, and with a babe only two weeks old, to undertake such a journey,
they told me that I had no faith in the power of God, and that if I
would arise and begin my preparations, the Lord would give me strength
according to my day. Thinking that probably my husband believed as they
did, I made the effort, but it cost me much. In the Mormon Church the
feelings or sufferings of women are seldom considered. If an order is
given to any man to take a journey or perform any given task, his wife
or wives are not to be thought of. They are his property just as much as
his horses, mules, or oxen; and if one wife should die, it is of little
consequence if he has others, and if he has not he can easily get them;
and if he is not young or fascinating enough to win his way with the
young ladies, he has only to keep on good terms with Brigham Young, or
even with his bishop, and every difficulty will be smoothed away, and
they will be “counselled” to marry him.
It is never expected, nor would it be tolerated in any Mormon woman,
that she should exercise her own judgment in opposition to her husband,
no matter how much she might feel that he was in the wrong: I have
frequently seen intelligent women subjected to the grossest tyranny on
the part of ignorant and fanatical husbands who were influenced by the
absurd teachings of the Tabernacle. One of the greatest Mormon writers,
Orson Pratt, has said,—
“_The wife should never follow her own judgment in preference to that
of her husband_; for if her husband desires to do right, but errs in
judgment, the Lord will bless her in endeavouring to carry out his
counsels; for _God has placed him at the head_, and though he may err
in judgment, yet God will not justify the wife in disregarding his
instructions and counsels; far greater is the sin of rebellion, than the
errors which arise from the want of judgment; therefore _she would be
condemned for suffering her will to rise against his. Be obedient_, and
God will cause all things to work for good.”
The trouble and annoyance occasioned by leaving a comfortable position
in New York to travel to such an unknown region as Utah was then, was
not a trifle; but we hastened our preparations, sacrificing all that we
possessed in the most reckless manner, and in due time set out.
When we reached Florence—the starting-point on the Frontiers—we were
detained on account of some mismanagement on the part of the Church
Agents, and remained for three weeks in camp. Ours was what was called
“an independent company;” by which I mean that we were able to defray our
own expenses without borrowing from the Church: the poorer emigrants were
assisted from a fund provided for that purpose—the Perpetual Emigration
Fund.
Our company was in an infinitely better position than that of those
emigrants of whose sad fate my friend Mary Burton had told me; for our
journey was made at the proper season, and, as far as was possible under
the circumstances, convenience and comfort had been attended to. The
incidents which befell us were few, and although, of course, every one
of us felt weary and worn out, we were not called upon to pass through
the miseries and sufferings endured by the hand-cart emigrants. Looking
back to our primitive mode of travelling, it appears to me almost as if
I must be making some mistake about my own age, and that it must have
been several centuries, instead of a few years ago, since we crossed
the Plains. The ox-team and waggon, the walk on foot in the day and the
camp-life at night, have been pleasantly exchanged for the swift travel
of a few days in a Pullman palace-car.
What living contradictions we were as we crossed the Plains—singing in
a circle, night and morning, the songs of Zion and listening to prayers
and thanksgivings for having been permitted to gather out of Babylon; and
then during the day as we trudged along in twos and threes expressing to
each other all our misgivings, and doubts, and fears, and the bitterness
our thoughts against Polygamy; while each wife, confiding in her
husband’s honour and faithfulness, solaced herself with the hope that all
might yet be well. How little sometimes do the songs of gladness reflect
the real sentiments of the heart. How often have I heard many a poor
heart-broken woman singing the chorus,—
“I never knew what joy was
Till I became a Mormon.”
I never could sing that song, for my experience had been exactly the
reverse.
It was the month of September—the beginning of our beautiful Indian
summer—when we emerged from the cañon, and caught sight of Salt Lake
City. Everything looked green and lovely, and in spite of all my sad
forebodings while crossing the Plains, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Ah,
what a glorious spot!” It looked like a beautiful garden—another Eden—in
the midst of a desert valley. We had a glimpse of the Great Salt Lake
far away in the distance, stretching out like a placid sheet of molten
silver, while everywhere around were the lonely-looking snow-clapped
mountains, encircling us like mighty prison-walls.
It would be impossible for me to describe my feelings at that time.
Even while I was enchanted with the glorious prospect before me, there
arose again in my mind that haunting spectre of my existence—Polygamy. I
believed that this little earthly paradise would probably be to me, and
my daughters after me, a prison-house, and with a mother’s instinct I
shuddered as I thought of what they might be destined to suffer there.
Lovely as the scene was, there was a fatal shadow overhanging it all.
Then, too, there was no escape: if the sad forebodings of my heart were
realized, it would be utterly impossible for us ever to get away. The
idea of a railway being constructed across those desert plains and rocky
mountains never for a moment entered my mind, and even had I thought
it possible, I should have supposed that it would take a lifetime to
complete. No, there was no help for me, even if it came to the worst. I
felt that my doom was sealed; and there were many women in our company
who thought just the same as I did, and who were troubled at heart with
fears as sad as mine.
My first impressions of Salt Lake City when we began life there were
anything but pleasant—we had to “rough it.” For nearly two weeks we were
obliged to remain in our waggons, as it was quite impossible to obtain
house-room. At that time each family built their own little hut, and
there were no vacant houses to let.
[Illustration: VIEW OF MAIN STREET, SALT LAKE CITY.
(_From a Photograph._)
_To face p. 148._]
The weather was now growing very cold and wintry, and it was absolutely
necessary that we should have some better shelter than the waggons
afforded. One day my husband told me, when he came home, that he had
been offered a house which belonged to the Church. It was in a very
dilapidated condition, he said, but that if I would go and look at it
with him, we could then decide about taking it. No time was to be
lost, for companies of emigrants were coming in almost daily, and if we
neglected this chance we might not find another.
When we arrived at the house I was much discouraged at seeing the
condition it was in: the window-panes were all cracked or broken out, the
floors and walls looked as if they had never known soap or paint, and the
upper rooms had no ceilings; in fact it was not fit for any civilized
Christian to live in. In point of size there was nothing to complain of,
but of comfort or convenience there was none—the wind whistled through
every door and every cracked window; and altogether it presented anything
but a cheering prospect for winter.
My husband told me that Daniel H. Wells, who was superintendent of Church
property and also one of the First Presidency of the Church, had promised
him that if we took the house it should be repaired and made fit for
living in before winter fully set in; and under the circumstances we
thought we could do no better than accept his offer.
Thus we began housekeeping in Utah, and we unpacked our trunks and tried
to give the place as home-like an appearance as we possibly could. I
had known what it was to be in a strange country and destitute; and,
therefore, benefiting by experience, when I left New York, regardless of
the teachings of the Elders and of my own husband’s directions to the
contrary, I had secretly stowed away many little necessaries towards
housekeeping. Indeed had I not done so, we should have been as badly off
when we reached Zion as when we arrived in New York. Besides which, I
have no doubt that our waggons would have been filled with the trunks
of those very brethren who counselled us not to take more than was
absolutely necessary. The brethren who gave this counsel were, I noticed,
constantly purchasing while they advised every one else to sell, and I
thought it wiser to follow their example than their precepts.
Among my treasures was some carpet, and when that was laid down and the
stove put up we began to feel almost at home. The wind, however, soon
drove away all thoughts of comfort, for it came whistling in through
a thousand undetected crevices, and the tallow candles which we were
obliged to burn presented a woeful spectacle. Even the most wealthy,
then, had no other light but candles, and every family had to make their
own: I have often seen people burning a little melted grease with a bit
of cotton-rag stuck in the middle for a wick—how pleasant the smell,
and how brilliant the light thus produced can be imagined. Everything
was upon the same scale—and to keep house in any fashion was really a
formidable undertaking, especially to those who had been accustomed to
the conveniences of large towns. I believe that many women consented to
their husbands taking other wives for the sake of getting some assistance
in their home duties.
We spent nearly all the first evening in our new house in trying to
discover some means of keeping out the storm, but to little purpose.
Nearly a fortnight passed before any one came to see about repairing the
house, but as it belonged to the Church my husband seemed to think it
must be all right. The Mormon men are always very lenient towards “the
Church”—very much more so than the Mormon women, for the latter have
somehow got mixed up in their minds the idea that Brigham Young and “the
Church” are synonymous terms. I remember one day a good young sister—a
daughter of one of the twelve Apostles—saying to me, “I have just seen
the Church,” and when I asked her what she meant, she said, “I have just
met Brigham Young and Hyram Clawson, and are they not the Church?” It was
evident to me that others besides myself sometimes gave way to wicked
thoughts. Nevertheless I was still of opinion that “the Church” had
plenty of money and ought to have repaired the house.
One day a man whom I had never seen before, called upon me and asked what
repairs I should like done. I was not feeling very well, and had been
annoyed at the delay, and I answered rather ungraciously that I should
like anything done, if it were only done at once, for I thought we had
waited long enough. He answered me very politely, and said that he would
see to it immediately. When Mr. Stenhouse returned home in the evening,
he said, “So you have had a visit from President Wells.” “No,” I said,
“there has been no one here but a carpenter—an ugly man with a cast in
his eye, and I told him that I wanted the house fixed right away.”
“Why, that was President Wells,” he said, very much shocked, and I think
I felt as bad as he did when I realized that I had treated one of the
“First Presidency” so unceremoniously.
This Daniel H. Wells, besides being an Apostle, a Counsellor of Brigham
Young, and one of the three “Presidents” who share with Brigham the first
position in the Church, and are associated with him in all his official
acts, was Lieutenant-General of the Nauvoo Legion, and at the present
time and for some years past Mayor of Salt Lake City. It was a shocking
indiscretion, to say the least, to speak slightingly of such a high and
mighty personage.
The repairs, however, were seen to, and the house rendered a little more
habitable. We had now to begin the struggle of life afresh, and could
not afford to be too particular about trifles;—to obtain shelter was
something—for the rest we must still continue to hope and trust.