An Englishwoman in Utah: The Story of a Life’s Experience in Mormonism

In these pages, a woman, a wife and mother, speaks the sorrows and oppressions of which she has been the witness and the victim.

It is because her sorrows and her oppressions are those of thousands, who, suffering like her, cannot or dare not speak for themselves, that she thus gives this history to the public.

It is no sensational story, but a plain, unvarnished tale of truth, stranger and sadder than fiction.

Our day has seen a glorious breaking of fetters. The slave-pens of the South have become a nightmare of the past; the auction-block and whipping-post have given place to the church and school-house; and the songs of emancipated millions are heard through our land.

May we not then hope that the hour is come to loose the bonds of a cruel slavery whose chains have cut into the very hearts of thousands of our sisters—a slavery which debases and degrades womanhood, motherhood, and the family?

Let every happy wife and mother who reads these lines give her their sympathy, prayers, and aid to free her sisters from this degrading bondage. Let all the womanhood of the country stand united for them. There is a power in combined enlightened sentiment and sympathy before which every form of injustice and cruelty must finally go down.

May He who came to break every yoke hasten this deliverance!

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

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In the fall of the year 1869, a few earnest, thinking men, members of the Mormon Church, and living in Salt Lake City, inaugurated what was regarded at the time as a grand schism. Those who had watched with anxiety the progress of Mormonism, hailed the “New Movement” as the harbinger of the work of disintegration so long anticipated by the thoughtful-minded Saints, and believed that the opposition to Theocracy, then begun, would continue until the extraordinary assumptions of the Mormon priesthood were exploded, and Mormonism itself should lose its political status and find its place only among the singular sects of the day.

It was freely predicted that Woman, in her turn, would accept her part in the work of reformation, take up the marriage question among the Saints, and make an end of Polygamy.

Little did I imagine, at that period, that any such mission as that which I have since realized as mine, was in the Providence of Time awaiting me, or that I should ever have the boldness, either with tongue or pen, to plead the cause of the Women of Utah. But, impelled by those unseen influences which shape our destinies, I took my stand with the “heretics;” and, as it happened, my own was the first woman’s name enrolled in their cause.

The circumstances which wrought a change in my own life produced a corresponding revolution in the life of my husband.

In withdrawing from the Mormon Church, we laid ourselves, our associations, and the labours of over twenty years, upon the altar, and took up the burden of life anew. We had sacrificed everything in obedience to the “counsel” of Brigham Young; and my husband, to give a new direction to his mind, and also to form some plan for our future life, thought it advisable that he should visit New York. He did so; and shortly after employed himself in writing a history of the “Rocky Mountain Saints,” which has since been published.

In course of time, the burden of providing for a large family, and the anxiety and care of conducting successfully a business among a people who make it a religious duty to sternly set their faces against those who dissent from their faith, exhausted my physical and mental strength. Considering, therefore, that change might be beneficial to me, and my own personal affairs urgently calling me to New York City, I followed my husband thither.

On my way East I met a highly-valued friend of my family, who, in the course of our journey together over the Pacific Railroad, enthusiastically urged me to tell the story of my past life, and to give to the world what I knew about Polygamy. I had been repeatedly advised to do so by friends at home, but up to that time no plan had been arranged for carrying out the suggestion.

I had hardly arrived in New York before the electric messenger announced that a severe snow-storm was raging on the vast plains between the Rocky Mountains and the Missouri River, and for several weeks all traffic over the Union Pacific Railroad was interrupted, and I could not return to my home in the distant West.

That unlooked-for snow-blockade became seriously annoying; for not only was I most anxious to return to my children, but also, never having known an idle hour, I could not live without something to do. At that moment of unsettled feeling, a lady-friend, with whom I was visiting, suggested again “the book;” and she would not permit me to leave her house until she had exacted from me a promise that it should be written.

Next morning I began my task in earnest. I faithfully kept my room and laboured unremittingly; and in three weeks the manuscript of my little work on “Polygamy in Utah” was completed. It was very kindly welcomed by the press—both secular and religious—and for this I was sincerely grateful. I had not, up to that time, thought of much else than its effect upon the people of Utah; but the voluminous notices which that little book received showed the deep interest which the people of the United States had taken in “the Mormon question,” and how ardently they desired to see the extinction of the polygamic institution among the Saints.

In Salt Lake City I was so situated that I was daily—I might almost say hourly—brought in contact with visitors to the Modern Zion; for, during the summer, thousands of travellers pass over the Pacific Railroad. Not a few of these called to see me; and I received from ladies and gentlemen—whose kind interest in my welfare I felt very deeply—many personal attentions, many words of sympathy and encouragement, and many intelligent and useful suggestions in respect to my future life. Indeed, I saw myself quite unexpectedly, and, I may truthfully say, without my own desire, become an object of interest.

By the earnest suggestions of friends and strangers, and by the widely published opinions of the press, I was made to feel that I had only begun my work—that I had but partly drawn aside the veil that covered the worst oppression and degradation of woman ever known in a civilized country. Nearly all who spoke to me expressed their surprise that intelligent men and women should be found in communion with the Mormon Church, in which it was so clearly evident that the teachings of Christianity had been supplanted by an attempt to imitate the barbarism of Oriental nations in a long past age, and the sweet influences of the religion of Jesus were superseded by the most objectionable practices of the ancient Jews. How persons of education and refinement could ever have embraced a faith that prostrated them at the feet of the Mormon Prophet, and his successor Brigham Young, was to the inquiring mind a perfect mystery.

The numerous questions which I had to answer, and the explanations which I had to give, showed me that my little book had only whetted the appetite of the intelligent investigator, and that there was a general call for a woman’s book on Mormonism—a book that should reveal the inner life of the Saints,—exhibit the influences which had contributed to draw Christian people away from Christian Churches to the standard of the American Prophet, Joseph Smith, and subject them to the power of that organization which has, since his death, subjugated the mass of the Mormon people in Utah to the will and wickedness of the Priesthood under the leadership of Brigham Young.

A few months after the publication of my first book, I was invited to lecture upon “Polygamy in Utah;” and wherever I spoke I observed the same spirit of inquiry, and met with a renewed demand for more of circumstance and narrative—which I had, from a sense of personal delicacy, withheld in my former work.

I saw no way of satisfying myself and others than by accepting the rather spiteful invitation of a certain Mormon paper to “Tell it all;” and this, in a narrative of my own personal experience, which I now present to the reader, I have endeavoured to do. Not being in any sense a literary woman, or making any pretensions as a writer, I hope to escape severe criticism from the public and the press. I had a simple story to tell—the story of my life and of the wrongs of women in Utah. Startling and terrible facts have fallen under my observation. These also I have related; but my constant effort has been to tell my story in the plainest, simplest way, and, while avoiding exaggeration, never to shrink from a straightforward statement of facts. I have disguised nothing, and palliated nothing; and I feel assured that those who from their actual and intimate acquaintance with Mormonism in Utah as it really is, are capable of passing a just and impartial judgment upon my story, will declare without hesitation that I have told “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Fanny Stenhouse.

Salt Lake City, Utah.

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CHAP.		PAGE
I.	My Early Life	1
II.	My First Introduction to Mormonism	7
III.	The Labour of my Life begun—How the Mormon Missionaries made Converts	16
IV.	Life among the Saints—My New Engagements	25
V.	The First Whisperings of Polygamy	33
VI.	My Husband’s Mission—I am left Alone	41
VII.	Our Mission in Switzerland—Mutterings of the Coming Storm	56
VIII.	The Revelation on “Celestial Marriage”	67
IX.	Missionary Work—Teaching Polygamy	76
X.	Mormonism in England—Preparing to Emigrate	86
XI.	Emigrating to Zion—We Arrive in New York	97
XII.	Life in New York—Conducting a Mormon Paper	103
XIII.	Saintly Pilgrims on the way—the “Divine” Hand-cart Scheme	111
XIV.	A Terrible Story—The Hand-cart Emigrants crossing the Plains	123
XV.	Mary Burton’s Story continued—Terrible ending of the Hand-Cart Scheme	132
XVI.	We forsake all, and set out for Zion—Our Journey across the Plains	145
XVII.	My First Impressions of the City of the Saints	152
XVIII.	Brigham Young at Home—We visit the Prophet and his Wives	163
XIX.	The Wives of Brigham Young—Their History and their Daily Life	168
XX.	Ways and Works of the Saints—The Prophet’s Millinery Bill	179
XXI.	Mysteries of the Endowment House—Fearful Oaths and Secret Ceremonies	189
XXII.	Secrets of Saintly Spouses—A Visit from my Talkative Friend	202
XXIII.	Social Life in Salt Lake City—Ball-rooms, “Wall-flowers,” and Divorce	209
XXIV.	The Origin of “The Reformation”—Extraordinary Doings of the Saints	224
XXV.	The “Reign of Terror” in Utah—The Reformation of the Saints	235
XXVI.	The Mountain Meadows Massacre—“I will Repay, saith the Lord”	247
XXVII.	What Women Suffer in Polygamy—The Story of Mary Burton	259
XXVIII.	How Marriages are made in Utah—A New Wife found for my Husband	268
XXIX.	Taking a Second Wife—The Experience of the First	278
XXX.	Trials—The Second Wife chosen—Shadows of Life	285
XXXI.	Marriage for the Dead—Entering into Polygamy—The New Wife	293
XXXII.	Domestic Arrangements of the Saints—Polygamy from a Woman’s Standpoint	299
XXXIII.	Lights and Shadows of Polygamy—Marriage and Baptism for the Dead	306
XXXIV.	My Daughter becomes the Fourth Wife of Brigham Young’s Son—The Second Endowments	314
XXXV.	Realities of Polygamic Life—Orson Pratt: The Story of his Young English Wife	323
XXXVI.	“Our” Husband’s Fiancée—A Second Wife’s Sorrows—Steps towards Apostasy	331
XXXVII.	Some curious Courtships—Brigham ruins our Fortunes—Belinda Divorces “our” Husband	340
XXXVIII.	Mary Burton—Life’s Journey ended: Rest at Last	347
XXXIX.	My Husband Disfellowshipped—We Apostatize—Brutal Outrage upon my Husband and Myself	357
XL.	Amusing Troubles of my Talkative Friend—Charlotte with the Golden Hair	361
XLI.	After we left the Church—Interesting Facts and Figures—Mormonism and Mormons of to-day	363
	L’Envoi	377
	Postscript	380
XLIV.	Mountain Meadows Massacre—Complete Confession of Bishop John D. Lee	384
	Killing a Rival Prophet	398

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1.	Steel-plate Portrait of the Author	Frontispiece
2.	Steel-plate Portrait of Brigham Young	To face
3.	“Gathering to Zion”—Life on the Plains	125
4.	Over at Last	136
5.	View of Main Street, Salt Lake City (From a Photograph) The Ladies’ Side of Mormonism.	148
6.	Amelia Folsom Young, Brigham’s Favourite Wife	168
7.	“Ann Eliza,” Brigham’s Nineteenth Wife	168
8.	Miss Eliza R. Snow, Mormon Poetess and High Priestess	168
9.	Mrs. John W. Young, Wife of Brigham’s Apostate Son	168
10.	Brother Brigham’s Last Baby	168
11.	Scene of the Mountain Meadows Massacre	255
12.	The Crisis of a Life—Entering into Polygamy	296
13.	Polygamy in Low Life—The Poor Man’s Family	302
14.	Polygamy in High Life—The Prophet’s Mansion	302
15.	Despair!	326
16.	Fac-simile of a Mormon “Bill of Divorce”	344

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The story which I propose to tell in these pages is a plain, unexaggerated record of facts which have come immediately under my own notice, or which I have myself personally experienced.

Much that to the reader may seem altogether incredible, would to a Mormon mind appear simply a matter of ordinary every-day occurrence with which every one in Utah is supposed to be perfectly familiar. The reader must please remember that I am not telling—as so many writers have told in newspaper correspondence and sensational stories—the hasty and incorrect statements and opinions gleaned during a short visit to Salt Lake City; but my own experience—the story of a faith, strange, wild, and terrible it may be, but which was once so intimately enwoven with all my associations that it became a part of my very existence itself; and facts, the too true reality of which there are living witnesses by hundreds, and even thousands, who could attest if only they would.

With the reader’s permission I shall briefly sketch my experience from the very beginning.

I was born in the year 1829, in St. Heliers, Jersey—one of the islands of the English Channel.

From my earliest recollection I was favourably disposed to religious influences, and when only fourteen years of age I became a member of the Baptist Church, of which my father and mother were also members. With the simplicity and enthusiasm of youth I was devoted to the religious faith of the denomination to which I had attached myself, and sought to live in a manner which should be acceptable to God.

My childhood passed away without the occurrence of any events which would be worthy of mention, although, of course, my mind was even then receiving that religious bias which afterwards led me to adopt the faith of the Latter-day Saints. Like most girls in their teens I had a natural love of dress—a weakness, if such it be, of the sex generally. I was not extravagant, for that I could not be; but thirty years ago members of dissenting churches were more staid in their dress and demeanour and were less of the world, I think, than they are to-day. In plainness of dress the Methodists and Baptists much resembled the Quakers. My girlish weakness caused me to be the subject of many a reprimand from older church-members who were rather strict in their views. I well remember one smooth-faced, pious, corpulent brother, who was old enough to be my father, saying to me one day: “My dear young sister, were it not for your love of dress, I have seriously thought that I would some day make you my wife.” I wickedly resolved that if a few bright coloured ribbons would disgust my pious admirer, it should not be my fault if he still continued to think of me. But many of our other church-members were more lenient. Our good minister in particular bore with my imperfections, as he said, on account of my youth and inexperience; and later still, when I was ready to leave my native island, an extra ribbon or a fashionable dress had not affected my standing in the Baptist denomination.

I mention these trifles, not because I attach any importance to them in themselves, but because similar religious tendencies and a devotional feeling were almost universally found to be the causes which induced men and women to join the Mormon Church. From among Roman Catholics, who place unquestioning confidence in their priesthood, and also from among persons predisposed to infidelity, came few, if any, converts to Mormonism. But it was from among the religiously inclined, the Evangelical Protestants of the Old World, that the greater number of proselytes came.

But to return to my story. I was one of the younger members of a large family; and when I thought of the future I readily saw that if I desired a position in life I should have to make it for myself; and this I resolved to do. I began by consulting all my friends who I thought would be able to counsel or assist me in carrying out my determination; and before long I found the opportunity which I sought. An English lady, the wife of a captain in the British army, to whom I had confided my aspirations, proposed—although I was not yet fifteen years of age—to take me with her to France, in the temporary capacity of governess, to her children, assuring me at the same time that she would advance my interests in every possible way after our arrival.

This lady and her husband were as kind to me as my own parents could have been; and soon after our arrival in France they procured for me a situation in one of the best schools in St. Brieux, called the Maison-Martin, where, young as I was, I engaged myself to teach the young ladies fancy-needlework and embroidery, as well as to give lessons in English. Some of the elder girls, I soon found, were further advanced in fancy-needlework and some other matters than I was myself. This, of course, I did not tell them; but to supply my deficiency I spent many a midnight hour in study and in preparing myself to give the advanced instructions which would be required by my pupils on the following day. For some time after I began my work as teacher in that school, I spent the whole of my salary in paying for private lessons to keep me in advance of my pupils. It was for awhile a severe task and a strain upon my youthful energies; but I have never since regretted it, as it gave an impulse to my mind that has remained with me through life.

I had not been more than six months in my situation when the parents of one of the pupils objected to the school retaining a Protestant teacher, and I was consequently given to understand that unless I consented to be instructed, if nothing more, in the Roman Catholic faith, I could not remain in my present position. This was my first experience of that religious intolerance of which I afterwards saw so much. The principal of the establishment, however, being very kindly disposed towards me, advised me to submit, and it was finally agreed that I should be allowed twelve months for instruction and consideration.

During this probationary year I attended mass every morning from seven to eight o’clock, and was present at vespers at least three times a week. Every Saturday morning I accompanied my pupils to the confessional, where I had to remain from seven o’clock till noon; after which we returned to breakfast. On Sundays there was the usual morning mass, and after that high mass; and in the afternoon, from two to four, we listened to a sermon. In addition to all these services, at which I was expected to “assist,” a very good-looking, interesting young priest was appointed to attend to the spiritual instruction of the young Protestant, as they called me, after school hours. He saw me frequently, but he was ill-qualified to instruct me in the Catholic faith or to remove my doubts, for he was not himself too happy in the sacerdotal robe. At first he aimed at convincing me that the apostolic priesthood vested in the fishermen of Galilee had descended in unbroken succession in the Church of Rome; but he seemed to me much more inclined for a flirtation than for argument; I thought I could at times discover something of regret on his own part at having taken holy orders; and in after years I heard that he had abandoned his profession.

To the numerous stories of Catholic oppression and artifice in undermining Protestants and seducing them from their faith, I cannot add my own testimony. Those among whom I lived very naturally desired that I should be instructed in their religion, and join the church to which they belonged; but their bearing towards me was ever kind and respectful; although when the twelve months of probation had expired, I found myself as much attached to the religion of my childhood as ever, and had in consequence to resign my situation. I had made many warm friends in the school, and none were kinder to me than the principal, who proved her attachment by finding for me a lucrative situation in a wealthy private family.

My new position was a decided advance in social life. The family consisted of husband and wife, two children, the husband’s brother, and an elderly uncle. The little girls were, when I first knew them, of the ages of five and seven years respectively. The young gentleman alluded to—the husband’s brother—had been educated for the church, but when the proper time came had refused to take orders; the uncle was a fine old gentleman, a retired general in the French army, and a bachelor. Altogether they formed as happy a domestic circle as I had ever known. The position which I occupied among them was that of governess and English teacher to the two little girls.

My young charges during the first year made rapid progress, which was very gratifying to the family, and secured for me their good-will and interest. Had I been their nearest relative I could not have received more respect and consideration from them. One member of the circle alone seemed to be entirely indifferent to my presence; this was the brother of Monsieur D——. Though I had lived in the same house with him a whole year, and had sat at the same table every day, scarcely a word had ever passed between us beyond a formal salutation.

The young gentleman was very handsome, and when conversing with others his manner was extremely fascinating. I did not believe that I particularly desired his attentions, but his indifference annoyed me—for I had never before been treated with such coldness, and I determined to become as frigid and formal as he could possibly be himself. This formal acquaintanceship continued for two years, and I persuaded myself that I had become altogether indifferent to the presence of my icicle, while at the same time all the other members of the family increased in their manifestations of attachment to me.

But trifles often possess a great significance. It was the custom of the family to get up a little lottery once a week for the children, if my report of their deportment and progress was favourable. In this lottery were presents of books, toys, gloves, and a variety of fancy articles, and among them there was sure to be a bouquet of choice flowers for “Mademoiselle-Miss,” as they familiarly called me. I knew not positively whom to thank, although I instinctively felt from whom they came, for the other members of the family always made me more useful presents. In time one little attention led to another, until at the end of three years I found myself the fiancée of the wealthy Constant D——.

Madame D—— was opposed to my marriage with her brother-in-law, as she desired that he should marry one of her own wealthy cousins of the old noblesse of France. She treated me, notwithstanding, with great kindness, and confined her opposition to persuading me not to listen to her brother’s suit; but finding opposition to his wishes ineffectual, she finally consented to our engagement, which took place in the following winter.

From what I observed of the relations which existed between husbands and wives in France, I did not feel perfectly happy in the thought of becoming the wife of a Frenchman, although I dearly loved the French people. Several of my young lady acquaintances, I knew, had married because it was fashionable, and especially because it was an emancipation from what ladies in the higher ranks of society regarded as a severe social restraint. It was considered shocking for any young lady to be seen talking to a young gentleman in the street; indeed it was hardly proper for any unmarried girl to be seen in the street at all without a bonne or some married lady to accompany her. But immediately she was married she was at liberty to flirt and promenade with all the gentlemen of her acquaintance, while her husband enjoyed the same liberty among the ladies. This state of affairs did not at all coincide with my English ideas, for to me the very thought of marriage was invested with the most sacred obligations, and I knew I should never be able to bring my mind to accept less from my husband than I should feel it my duty to render to him.

I loved the French people, and was pleased with their polite mannerism, but I was not French in character; and though the prospect before me of an alliance with a wealthy and noble family was certainly pleasant, and I was greatly attached to my fiancé, my mind was considerably agitated upon the subject of marriage, as it had before been occupied with religion.

During my sojourn in France I had frequently questioned myself whether I had not done wrong in remaining absent for so many years from my home and from communion with the church of my childhood, and I had always looked forward to the time when I should return to them again. To this occasional self-examination was now added another cause of anxiety, produced by the thought of marriage with a person of a different faith. Marriage, to me, was the all-important event in a woman’s life, and some mysterious presentiment seemed to forewarn me that marriage in my life was to be more than an ordinary episode—though little did I then dream that it would have a polygamic shaping.

My young ambition alone had led me to France. I had aspired to an honourable social position, and had found both it and also devoted friends. Sometimes I felt that I could not relinquish what I had gained; at other times I yearned for the associations of my childhood and the guiding hand of earlier friends. The conflict in my mind was often painful. My early prejudices and the teachings of those around me induced me to believe that the Roman Catholic religion was entirely wrong; yet, notwithstanding, while living among Catholics I saw nothing to condemn in their personal lives, but much to the contrary. In fact, Romanism fascinated me, while it failed to convince my judgment.

While labouring under these conflicting sentiments, I resolved to visit my native land, to consult with my parents about my contemplated marriage; and for that purpose I asked and obtained two months’ vacation. Surely some mysterious destiny must have been drawing me to England at that particular crisis, and before the fulfilling of my engagement, which would have changed so entirely the whole current of my existence.

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During my residence in France, my parents had left St. Heliers and returned to Southampton, England. To visit them now I had to take a sailing vessel from Portrieux to the Isle of Jersey, and thence I could take the steamer to Southampton.

Monsieur and Madame D——, together with the two little girls, accompanied me in their private carriage to Portrieux, a distance of forty miles, in order to confide me safely to the captain’s care. As they wished me “bon voyage” and embraced me affectionately, Mons. D—— handed me a valuable purse for pocket-money during my absence, and they all exhibited great anxiety for my welfare, saying over and over again au revoir, as they entered their carriage to return to their happy home;—thereby implying that this was not a final adieu, but that we should soon meet again.

I cannot tell why it was, but I experienced at that moment a painful feeling of mental indecision about the future. I had no real reason to doubt my return to France, and the certainty of a warm welcome when I should again greet those dear ones who were now leaving me in tears; but my mind was troubled by a vague feeling of uncertainty which made me anything but happy. Filial affection and a sense of duty drew me towards my parents in England; while a feeling of gratitude, and, I think, another and more tender sentiment, turned the current of my thoughts towards the happy home at St. Brieux.

It was not necessary for me to stop in Jersey for more than a few hours, but I wanted to revisit the scenes of my childhood’s happy days, and to speak again with those whom I had known and loved in early life. In later years the scenes and memories of childhood seem like the imaginings of a pleasant dream. A sweet charm is thrown around all that we then said and did; and the men and women who then were known to us are pictured in our recollection as beings possessing charms and graces such as never belonged to the common-place children of earth. The glamour of a fairy wand is over all the past history of mankind; but upon nothing does it cast so potent a spell as upon the personal reminiscences of our own infant years. To me that little island had charms which no stranger could ever have discovered; and even now, after the lapse of so many long, eventful years I often feel an earnest wish to visit again those rock-bound shores, to listen to the everlasting murmur of the wild, wild waves, to watch the distant speck-like vessels far away upon the swelling ocean, and to drink in the invigorating breezes which seem to give life and energy to every pulsation of the living soul.

But I must not theorize: life has been to me too earnest and too painful to admit of much sentiment or fancy as I recall the past. Little as I thought it, during the short visit which I paid to my birthplace the web of destiny was being woven for me in a way which I could not then have conjectured even in a dream.

At St. Heliers I heard for the first time of the Latter-day Saints, or Mormonites, as they were more familiarly called; but I cannot express how perfectly astonished I was when I learned that my father, mother, sisters, and one of my brothers had been converted to the new faith.

It was my own brother-in-law who told me this. He himself, with my sister, were “Apostate” Mormons. They had been baptized into the Mormon Church, but became dissatisfied, and abandoned it. The St. Heliers branch of the Latter-day Saints had had a turbulent experience. Their first teachings had been a mixture of Bible texts about the last days, and arguments about the millennium, the return of the Jews to Palestine, the resurrection of the dead, and a new revelation and a new prophet; but the improper conduct of some of the elders had disgusted the people with their doctrines, and the tales of wickedness which I heard were, if true, certainly sufficient to justify them in rejecting such instructors.

The more I heard of this strange religion the more I was troubled; yet, as I knew my parents were devoted Christians, I could hardly believe that Mormonism was such a vile delusion and imposture as it had been represented to me, or they would never have accepted it: still it was possible that they had been led astray by the fascinations of a new religion.

In this state of mind I met in the street the wife of the Baptist minister whom I have already mentioned. She greeted me affectionately and then began at once to warn me against the Latter-day Saints. I inquired what she knew of them; and she replied that personally she knew nothing, but she believed them to be servants of the Evil One, adding, “There is a strange power with them that fascinates the people and draws them into their meshes in spite of themselves. Let me entreat you not to go near them. Do not trust yourself at one of their meetings, or the delusion will take hold of you too.”

“I cannot ignore Mormonism in this way,” I said, “or pass it by with indifference; for my parents whom I tenderly love have been blinded by this delusion, and I can do no less than investigate its teachings thoroughly, and if I find it false, expose its errors, and, if possible, save my father’s family from ruin.”

She was not convinced that this was the wisest course for me to pursue, but I resolved at once to attend a meeting of the Saints and judge for myself. My brother-in-law, when he heard of my intentions, tried to dissuade me, but, finding me determined, finally offered to escort me to the meeting-place.

What I heard on this occasion made a great impression on my mind, and set me thinking as I had never thought before. On returning to my sister’s house she asked me what opinion I had now formed of the Latter-day Saints. I replied that I had not yet formed any conclusion, but that what I had heard had given me serious cause for reflection. “Oh,” she said, “you have caught the Mormon fever, I see.”

I felt a disposition to resent this implication, but I was half afraid that, after all, my sister was right. Much that I had heard could, I knew, be proved true from Scripture; and the rest seemed to me to be capable of demonstration from the same authority. I resolved, however, to fortify myself against a too easy credulity, and thought that probably if I heard more of these doctrines I might be able to discover their falsity.

On the following day, the elder who had preached at the meeting, and who, by the way, is one of the present proprietors of the Salt Lake Herald, called to see me, as he had been intimate with my parents before they left the island. I hardly knew how to be civil to him, though he had done nothing to offend me, nor had he been the cause of my parents entering the Mormon Church; but I disliked him solely on account of the stories which I had heard about the Mormons. Intending only to be kind to me, he told me that on the following day he proposed to take the steamer for Southampton, as he was going to attend a conference of the Saints in London, and that he should be pleased to show me any attentions while crossing the Channel, and would see me safe home in England. I confess I really felt insulted at a Mormon Elder offering to be my escort; and although my trunks were ready packed for my departure by the same steamer, and Mr. Dunbar knew it, I thanked him politely, but said I would not go by that boat. He tried to persuade me to change my mind, and said that I should have to wait a whole week for another vessel; and at last I frankly told him the abhorrence I felt at the things I had heard about the Mormons, and that I should be afraid to travel in the same steamer with him or any of the Mormon Elders whom I regarded as no better than so many whited sepulchres. He, however, very kindly took no offence, for he knew that I had been listening to those who disliked the Saints. I felt ashamed at having been betrayed into such unladylike rudeness, but, notwithstanding, tried to persuade myself that his civility was, after all, an insult; for I had conceived a detestation of every Mormon, on account of the deception which I felt sure had been practised upon my family.

This feeling was not lessened by the consciousness that an impression had been made upon my own mind. The more in accordance with Scripture the teaching of the Elders appeared, the more firmly I believed it must be a powerful delusion. Here, I said, Satan has indeed taken the form of an angel of light to deceive, if possible, the very elect.

Elder Dunbar, finding me unyielding, left by the next steamer, and had a pleasant passage across the Channel, and I remained on the island another week. During that interval my mind was haunted with what I had heard of this new gospel dispensation, as it was called. That angels had again descended from heaven to teach man upon earth; that a prophet had been raised up to speak again the mind of the Lord to the children of men; that the Saints were partakers of the gifts of the Spirit, as in the Early Christian Church,—all these assumed facts took the form of reality, and came back into my mind with greater force every time I strove to drive them away; just as our thoughts do when we desire to sleep, and cannot—our very efforts to dismiss them bring them back with greater force to torment us.

We had an unusually bad passage across the Channel, which annoyed me all the more when I remembered my scornful refusal to go in the same boat with Elder Dunbar.

On my arrival in Southampton I soon discovered that my father, mother, and sisters were full of the spirit of Mormonism. They were rejoicing in it, ardently believing that it was the fulness of the everlasting gospel, as the Elders styled it; and whatever I might think of the new religion, I was forced to confess that it brought into my father’s house peace, love, kindness, and charity such as were seldom seen in many households of religious people. My sisters were completely changed in their manner of life. They cared I nothing for the amusements which girls of their age usually crave and enjoy. Their whole thoughts seemed to be occupied with the Church, attending the meetings of the Saints, and employing every leisure hour in preparing comforts for the Elders who were travelling and preaching without purse and scrip. And in all this they were as happy as children.

Of my parents I might say the same. My dear mother rejoiced in the belief that she had been peculiarly blessed in being privileged to live at a time when “the last dispensation” was revealed; and my father, though an invalid, rejoiced that he had entered into the kingdom by baptism. Such was the condition of my father’s house; and who can wonder that, accustomed as I was to listen with respect to the opinions of my parents, I was more than ever troubled about the new religion which they had adopted?

The first Sunday morning that I was in England, my parents asked me to accompany them to meeting, and I readily complied, as I wanted to hear more of the strange doctrines which in some mysterious way had made our family so happy, but which in other quarters had provoked such bitter hostility. I know now that this joyousness of heart is not peculiar to new converts to Mormonism, but may be found among the newly-converted of every sect which allows the emotional feelings to come into play. To me, at the time, however, it was a mystery, but I must confess that the change which had taken place in those nearest and dearest to me, affecting me personally, and being so evidently in accordance with the teachings of the Saviour, led me to regard Mormonism with less antipathy. The bright side alone of the new faith was presented to the world abroad; we had yet to go to Utah and witness the effects of Brigham Young’s teachings at home before we could know what Mormonism really was.

I shall never forget the trial it was to my pride to enter the dirty, mean-looking room where the Saints assembled at that time. No one would rent a respectable hall to them, and they were glad to obtain the use of any place which was large enough for their meetings. On the present occasion there was a very fair gathering of people, who had come together influenced by the most varied motives. The Presiding Elder—I should here remark that the word “Elder” has among the Mormons no reference whatever to age, but is simply a rank in the priesthood—called the meeting to order, and read the following hymn:

Every word of this hymn had a meaning peculiar to itself, relating to the distinctive doctrines of the Saints. The congregation sang with an energy and enthusiasm which made the room shake again. Self and the outer world were alike forgotten, and an ecstasy of rapture seemed to possess the souls of all present. Then all kneeled down, and prayer was offered for the Prophet, the apostles, high-priests, “seventies,” elders, priests, teachers, and deacons; blessings were invoked upon the Saints, and power to convert the Gentiles; and as the earnest words of supplication left the speaker’s lips, the congregation shouted a loud “Amen.”

There was no prepared sermon. There never is at a Mormon meeting. The people are taught that the Holy Ghost is “mouth, matter, and wisdom.” Whatever the preaching Elder may say is supposed to come directly by inspiration from heaven, and the Saints listening, as they believe, not to his utterances but to the words of God Himself, have nothing to do but to hear and obey.

The first speaker on this occasion was a young gentleman of respectable family, who had been recently baptized and ordained. He, too, was from St. Heliers, and I had known him from childhood. His address impressed me very much. He had been a member of the Baptist church, and he related his experience, told how often he had wondered why there were not inspired men to preach the glad tidings of salvation to the world to-day, as there were eighteen centuries ago. He spoke of the joy which he had experienced in being baptized into the Mormon Church and realizing that he had received the “gift of the Holy Ghost.” The simplicity with which he spoke, his evident honesty, and the sacrifice he had made in leaving the respectable Baptists and joining the despised Mormons, were, I thought, so many evidences of his sincerity.

Alas! how little could that young preacher conjecture how different the practical Mormonism in Utah was from the theoretical Mormonism which he had learned to believe in Europe, before polygamy was known among the Saints. A short time afterwards he gave up his business, married an accomplished young lady, and went with her to Salt Lake City. There they were soon utterly disgusted with what they witnessed, apostatized, and set out for England. When they had gone three-fourths of their way back to the Missouri river, the young man, his wife, child, and another apostate and his wife, were killed by “Indians:”—such, at least, was the report; but dissenting Mormons have always charged their “taking off” to the order of the leaders of the Mormon Church.

But to return to the meeting. The reader must please forgive me if I dwell a little upon the events of that particular morning, for naturally they made a deep impression upon my own mind—it was there that I saw for the first time my husband who was to be.

I had heard a good deal about a certain Elder, from my family and from the Saints who visited at our house. They spoke with great enthusiasm of the earnestness with which he preached, of the effect which his addresses produced, and of his confidence in the final triumph of “the kingdom.”

At that time—the summer of 1849—although the branch of the Mormon Church in Britain was in a most flourishing condition, there were not in England more than two or three American Elders preaching the faith, for when—two years before the period of which I speak—the Saints left Nauvoo and undertook that most extraordinary exodus across the plains to the Rocky Mountains, the missionary Elders were all called home, and the work of proselytizing in Europe was left entirely to the native Elders. To direct their labours there was placed over them an American elder named Orson Spencer, a graduate of Dartmouth University, a scholar and a gentleman—a man well calculated from his previous Christian education to give an elevated tone to the teachings of the young English missionaries.

Mormonism in England then, had no resemblance to the Mormonism of Utah to-day. The Mormons were then simply an earnest religious people, in many respects like the Methodists, especially in their missionary zeal and fervour of spirit. The Mormon Church abroad was purely a religious institution, and Mormonism was preached by the Elders as the gospel of Christianity restored. The Church had no political shaping nor the remotest antagonism to the civil power. The name of Joseph Smith was seldom spoken, and still more seldom was heard the name of Brigham Young, and then only so far as they had reference to the Church of the Saints.

About eighteen months before I visited Southampton, one of these missionaries had come into that town, “without purse or scrip.” He was quite a young man and almost penniless, but he was rich in faith and overflowing with zeal. He knew no one there; and homeless, and frequently hungry, he continued his labours. Of fasting he knew much, of feasting nothing. He first preached under the branches of a spreading beech-tree in a public park, and when more favoured he held forth in a school-room or public hall. He had come to convert the people to Mormonism, or he was going to die among them; and before such zeal and determination, discouragements, of course, soon vanished away. He troubled the ministers of other dissenting churches when they found him distributing tracts and talking to their people. He was sowing broadcast dissatisfaction and discontent wherever he could get any one to listen to him, and thus he drew down upon himself the eloquence of the dissenting pulpits and the derision of the local press. But the more they attacked him the more zealously did he labour, and defied his opponents to public discussion. Mormonism was bold then in Europe—it had no American history to meet in those days.

This, and a great deal more, I had heard discussed in glowing language by my relatives and friends; and thus the young missionary—Elder Stenhouse—was, by name, no stranger to me.

It was Elder Stenhouse who now addressed the meeting, and I listened to him with attention. The reader must remember that at that time polygamy was unheard of as a doctrine of the Saints, and the blood-atonement, the doctrine that Adam is God, together with the polytheism and priestly theocracy of after-years, were things undreamed of. The saving love of Christ, the glory and fulness of the everlasting Gospel, the gifts and graces of the Spirit, together with repentance, baptism, and faith, were the points upon which the Mormon teachers touched; and who can wonder that with such topics as these, and fortifying every statement with powerful and numerous texts of Scripture, they should captivate the minds of religiously inclined people? However this may be, I can only confess that, as I listened to Elder Stenhouse’s earnest discourse, I felt my antipathy to Mormonism rapidly melting away.

At the close of the service, when he left the platform, he was warmly received by the brethren and sisters, for so the Saints speak of one another, and they came about him to shake hands, or it might be to seize the opportunity of slipping a trifle into his hand to help him in his work. Young and old, the poor and their more wealthy neighbours, mingled together like one happy family. It was altogether a most pleasing scene; and, whatever explanation may yet be given to Mormonism in America, one thing I know—the facts of its early history in Europe are among the most pleasant reminiscences of my life.

Elder Stenhouse came up in a familiar and open-hearted way to my mother and sisters, and I was introduced to him as “the other daughter from France.” He kindly welcomed me, and when I frankly told him the state of my mind, he made, I must admit, a successful attempt to solve my doubts, and when I left the meeting it was with sentiments towards the Saints and their religion far different from those which I entertained when I entered.

This meeting was a memorable era in my life.

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In the afternoon I attended a meeting of a still more interesting character. These Sunday afternoon meetings were held for the purpose of receiving the sacrament, and the confirmation of those who had been baptized during the week; they were intended exclusively for the Saints, but for certain reasons I was permitted to be present.

The meeting was opened with singing and prayer, and then the presiding Elder—Brother Cowdy—arose, and invited all those who had been baptized during the week to come to the front seats. Several ladies and gentlemen came forward, and also three little children. Upon inquiry I found that children of eight years of age were admitted members of the Church by baptism—which is administered by immersion. At that age they are supposed to understand what they are doing; but before that, if of Mormon parents, they are considered members of the Church by virtue of the blessing which they received in infancy. Brother Cowdy—the presiding’ Elder—then called upon two other Elders to assist him in the confirmation.

One of the ladies took off her bonnet, but retained her seat, when all three of the Elders placed their hands upon her head, and one of them said:—

“Martha; by virtue of the authority vested in us, we confirm you a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and as you have been obedient to the teachings of the Elders, and have gone down into the waters of baptism for the remission of your sins, we confer upon you the Gift of the Holy Ghost, that it may abide with you for ever, and be a lamp unto your feet, and a light upon your pathway, leading and guiding you into all truth. This blessing we confirm upon your head, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Then, before they took their hands off her head, the presiding Elder asked the other two if they wished to say anything. Whereupon one of them began to invoke a blessing upon the newly-confirmed sister. He spoke for some time with extreme earnestness, when suddenly he was seized with a nervous trembling which was quite perceptible, and which evidently betokened intense mental or physical excitement. He began to prophecy great things for this sister in the future, and in solemn and mysterious language proclaimed the wonders which God would perform for her sake. When we consider the excited state of her mind, and—if the statements of psychologists be true—the magnetic currents which were being transmitted from the sensitive nature of the man into the excited brain of the new convert, together with the pressure of half a dozen human hands upon her head, it is not at all astonishing that when the hands were lifted off she should firmly believe that she had been blessed indeed. She had been told that she should receive the Gift of the Holy Ghost; and she did not for an instant doubt that her expectations had been realized.

Each of the newly-baptized went through the same ceremony, and then they all partook of the sacrament, when, after another hymn, the meeting was closed with prayer.

In the evening I returned, to listen to a lecture upon “the character, spirit, and genius” of the new church, delivered by Elder Stenhouse; and I was captivated by the picture which he drew of the marvellous latter-day work which he affirmed had already begun. The visions of by-gone ages were again vouchsafed to men; angels had visibly descended to earth; God had raised up in a mighty way a Prophet, as of old, to preach the dispensation of the last days; gifts of prophecy, healing, and the working of miracles were now, as in the days of the Apostles, witnesses to the power of God. The long-lost tribes of Israel were about to be gathered into the one great fold of Christ; and the fulness of the Gentiles being come, they, too, were to be taken under the care of the Good Shepherd. All were freely invited to come and cast away their sins, ere it was too late; and the fullest offers of pardon, grace, sanctification, and blessing, in this world and in the next, were presented to every repentant soul.

Surely, I thought, these are the self-same doctrines which my mother taught me, when I knelt beside her in childhood, and which I have so often heard—only in colder and less persuasive language—urged from the pulpits of those whom I have ever regarded in the light of true disciples of Jesus. Who can wonder that I listened with rapt attention, and that my heart was even then half won to the new faith? The days passed; and as I pondered over these things it appeared to me that I had at last found that which I had so long earnestly desired and prayed for—a knowledge of that true religion for which the Saviour presented Himself a Holy Sacrifice, and which the Apostles preached at peril of their lives—the only faith, in which I might find joy and peace in believing.

But why should I dwell upon those moments, soul-absorbing as was their interest to me then—sadly-pleasing as is their memory now! The reader can see the drift of my thoughts at that time; and I feel sure, although I have but hastily sketched the causes which brought about these great changes in my religious belief and in my life, that he will not hastily accuse me of fickleness and love of change, if he himself has fought the battles of the soul, and has learned even in a slight measure to realize the mystery of his inner being.

Each day the finger of destiny drew me nearer to the final step. The young Elder, whose words I had listened to with such strange and, to me, momentous results, was intimate with my father’s family, and called frequently to see us, and before long he convinced me that it was my duty to test for myself whether the work was of God, or not. In the agitated state of my mind at that time, I could not withstand the earnest appeals which were made to my affections and hopes; and within two weeks after my arrival in England I became formally a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; or in more popular language—I became a Mormon.

The day was fixed for my baptism. Several others were to be baptized at the same time; for scarcely a week passed without quite a number of persons joining the Church. For this purpose we all repaired to a bath-house on the banks of the Southampton river. This place was not perhaps the most convenient, and it certainly was devoid of the slightest tinge of romance; but it was the only one available to the saints at that time.

When we were all assembled and had united in singing and prayer, Elder Stenhouse went down into the water first, and then two men went down and were baptized, and came up again. Now came my turn. I was greatly agitated, for I felt all the solemnity of the occasion. I had dressed myself very neatly and purely, for I believed that angel eyes were upon me; I wished to give myself—a perfect and acceptable offering—to my God, and I was filled with the determination henceforth to devote my whole life to His service.

As I went down into the waters of baptism, how thankful I felt that it had been my privilege to hear the gospel in my youth, for now I could give my heart in all its freshness to the Lord, before it had been chilled by the cold, hard experience of life.

I descended the steps, and Elder Stenhouse came forward and led me out into the water; then, taking both my hands in one of his, he raised his other hand towards heaven, and in a solemn and impressive voice he said,—

“Fanny; by virtue of the authority vested in me, I baptize you for the remission of your sins; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Then he immersed me in the water; and as I reascended the steps, I really felt like another being: all my past was buried in the deep—the waters of baptism had washed away my sins; and a new life lay open before me, in which my footsteps would be guided by the inspired servants of God. All now would be peace and joy within me, for I had obeyed the commands of God, and I doubted not that I should receive the promised blessing, and that now I could indeed go on my way rejoicing.

My baptism took place one Saturday afternoon, and the afternoon following I was confirmed a member of the Church. Elder Stenhouse presided at the meeting, and he, with Elder Cowdy, and two other elders, confirmed me. As the “blessing” which I then myself received differs somewhat from the one which I have already given, and as it is a very fair specimen of those effusions, I present it to the reader in full.

Elder Stenhouse, Elder Cowdy, and the two other Elders, placed their hands solemnly upon my head, and Elder Stenhouse said,—

“Fanny; by virtue of the authority vested in me, I confirm you a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and inasmuch as you have been obedient to the command of God, through his servants, and have been baptized for the remission of your sins, I say unto you that those sins are remitted. And in the name of God I bless you, and say unto you, that inasmuch as you are faithful and obedient to the teachings of the priesthood, and seek the advancement of the kingdom, there is no good thing that your heart can desire that the Lord will not give unto you. You shall have visions and dreams, and angels shall visit you by day and by night. You shall stand in the temple in Zion, and administer to the Saints of the Most High God. You shall speak in tongues, and prophecy; and the Lord shall bless you abundantly, both temporally and spiritually. These blessings I seal upon your head, inasmuch as you shall be faithful; and I pray heaven to bless you; and say unto you—Be thou blessed, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

After the meeting, I received the congratulations of all the Saints present, and more particularly those of my own family. My dear mother and father were overjoyed; and I now learned how anxious they had been, and how they had feared that I should return to France and reject the faith of the new dispensation. Altogether we were very happy.

Elder Stenhouse and Elder Cowdy returned home with us to tea, and afterwards we all attended the usual evening lecture. In this way was passed one of the happiest days of my life—one which I shall ever remember;—and yet that memory will always be mingled with regret that so much love and devotion as I then felt were not enlisted in a better cause.

Thus began a new era in my life. All my former friends and associations were now to be remembered no more; my lot was cast among the Saints; and in the state of my mind at that time, I believed that I should be happy in my new position, and resolved to give evidence of the sincerity of my faith.

The untiring energy and restless activity of Elder Stenhouse was ever before our eyes, and inspired all who associated with him with a similar enthusiasm. There were no drones in that hive. The brethren, at a word from him, would roam the country, teaching and preaching in the open air, while the sisters would go from house to house in the city, distributing tracts about the new faith. I caught the enthusiasm of the rest, and was soon in the ranks with the other sisters, as devoted in my endeavours as a young, ambitious heart could be. I was indeed like one born again from an old existence into a new life. I felt grateful and happy—I began to dream of the eternal honour which crowns a faithful missionary life; and I soon found an ample field for testing my fitness for that vocation.

At the time of which I speak, the Primitive Methodists in England were doing a great work in the way of converting sinners. Their missionaries were zealous and devoted men, though generally poor and uneducated. They resembled very closely the Mormon elders in their labours; and, in fact, a very large number of the leading Mormons had been Methodist local-preachers and exhorters; and the greater number of the new-born Saints had come from that denomination with their former teachers, or else had followed them soon after.

The change from Methodist to Mormon was, in course of time, very strongly marked; but for a considerable period the same, or what seemed the same, influences were at work among the people. Remarkable scenes of excitement were often witnessed at the “love feasts;” and from the “anxious seats,” as they were called, might be heard, the entreaties of self-accusing souls, frightened by a multitude of sins, crying earnestly, nay, wildly, for grace, mercy, and the Holy Ghost; while many of the supplicants would fall upon the ground, completely overcome by nervous excitement. Then they would have visions, and beheld great and unutterable things; received the forgiveness of their sins; and, coming back to consciousness, believed themselves now to be the children of God, and new creatures; doubting not that they would ever after be happy in the Lord.

The experience of the Saints at their meetings, when Mormonism was first preached, was exactly similar to this. Into the psychological, moral, or religious causes of these scenes of excitement I cannot here enter;—I simply mention facts as they came under my own observation.

The Mormon Missionary often came upon whole communities in the rural districts of England, where this “good time” was in full operation; and being a man of texts he would follow up the revival, preaching that the spirit of the prophet was subject to the prophet, and not the prophet subject to the spirit. Controversy would arise, and his appeal to Scripture, literally interpreted, was almost invariably triumphant. Even in America, especially in New York and Ohio, the same causes produced the same effects. It was after his mind was excited by a general revival near his native place, that Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism, received his first religious impression, and saw, as he asserted, his first angelic vision. His followers, even in the early days of the Church, had revival-meetings and meetings at which the most extraordinary excitement was manifested,—when the Saints fell into ecstatic trances, saw heaven opened, and spake with tongues. But Joseph, shrewd man as he was, albeit “a prophet,” when he found too many rival seers were coming into the field, announced by “special revelation,” that these too-gifted persons were possessed by devils, and that their visions and prophesyings must be at once suppressed. And he did suppress them.

Not long after my own baptism I was present at a meeting of this description, in Southampton. It was called a “testimony meeting,” and was held in a large upper room situated, if I rightly remember, in Chandos Street. No one from the outside would have supposed that it was the place of assembly of the Saints, for it was generally used for ordinary secular meetings, and I have heard that great objections were at first raised as to the propriety of letting it to the Mormons.

As we entered the door, we were saluted by Brother Williams, who expressed great pleasure at seeing us. There was a full attendance of the Saints, and every face wore an expression of peaceful earnestness. A person who has never attended a Mormon meeting can form no idea of the joyous spirit which seemed to animate every one present. I am not, of course, speaking of modern meetings, but of meetings as they used to be. Whence and whatever that “spirit” might be which moved the sisters and brethren when they met in early times, I cannot tell; but I, and with me, ten thousand Mormons and seceding Mormons in Utah, can, from our own experience, testify that that spirit no longer visits the Tabernacle services over which Brigham Young presides, or the meetings of the Saints since they adopted the accursed doctrine of polygamy, and forsook the gentle leadings of their first love.

Often have I heard Mormons of good standing and high position in the Church, lament the “good old times” as they called them, when the outpouring of the Spirit was so abundant, and mourn over the cold, barren services of the present day. But the elders explain this away. It is, they say, the fault of the people themselves, and because their own hearts have become cold.

At the meeting of which I speak, that happy spirit was peculiarly marked. An encouraging smile, or a kind word, greeted me on every side, and, as a newly-converted sister, I received the most cordial welcome. The brethren were seated on forms and chairs and any other convenient article which came to hand, while at the further end of the room was Brother Bench, who was to preside, and with him several other leading Elders. Brother Bench gave out a suitable hymn.

The whole congregation joined in the singing, and every heart seemed lifted up with devotion. Then another Elder rose, and offered a spirit-moving prayer; and then the brother who presided stated that for the time he withdrew his control of the proceedings, and, as the phrase was, he “put the meeting in the hands of the Saints,” exhorting them not to let the time pass by unimproved.

Then arose Brother Edwards, a well-tried champion of the faith, and to him every one listened with profound attention, eagerly drinking in his every utterance. I could almost, even now, imagine that he was really inspired. Then I firmly believed he was. His voice thrilled with an earnestness which seemed to us something more than the mere excitement of the soul. A burning fire seemed to flash from his large, expressive eyes; his features were lighted up with that animation which gives a saint-like halo to the earnest face when fired with indignation or pleading soul-felt truths; while his whole frame seemed to glow with the glory of a land beyond this earth, as in the most impressive and convincing language he reminded us that our sins had been washed away by the waters of baptism, that upon us had been poured the gifts and graces of the Spirit, and that it was our sacred privilege to testify of these things.

The effect of this exhortation was magical. We forgot all our outward surroundings, in the realization that the great work of the Lord was so gloriously begun, and that it would surely go on, conquering and to conquer. One sister—an elderly woman—who was present, unable to control her emotion, burst out with that Mormon hymn which I have heard some old Nauvoo Saints declare produced upon the people in those days an enthusiasm similar to that which moves the heart of every true Frenchman when he listens to the soul-stirring notes of the Marseillaise:—

I have often heard in magnificent cathedrals, hoary with the dust of time, and in vast places of amusement dedicated specially to music and to song, the outpouring of that glorious vocal flood, which a chorus of a thousand well-trained singers can alone send forth. I have felt sometimes that entrancing state of ecstasy which thrilled the soul of the seer in Patmos, as he listened to the melody of the angelic throng—“the voice of many waters, and the peal of mighty thunders, and the notes of harpers harping upon their harps;” but never, even when surrounded by all that was best calculated to produce a sentiment of devotion in my mind—never did I experience so rapt a feeling of communion with “the armies of heaven”—as I felt in that unadorned meeting-room, surrounded by those plain but earnest and united people.

Nor was I alone in this. The feeling was contagious. There was not one present who did not sympathize. And thus, I suppose, melody has always played a prominent part in all religious revivals, whether of divine or human origin. The Apostles had their psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; the Martyrs their Te Deum; the Waldenses made the hills and vales of Piedmont vocal with their singing; the Lollards and Hussites had their melodies; and in more modern days the followers of Luther, Wesley, and (may I add?) Joseph Smith, have poured out the fulness of their souls after the same fashion.

The last notes of the hymn had scarcely died away when another, and then another brother, arose and bore testimony to the great work, told what the Lord had done for them personally, told of their zeal for the faith, and fervently exhorted all present to persevere unto the end. Again prayer was offered, another hymn sung, and the Saints were dismissed with a solemn benediction.

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I was now a Mormon in every sense of the word, although entirely ignorant of Utah politics and polygamy.

My dreams were of a life of happiness spent in seeking to convert the whole world to the religion of Jesus, which I believed had been restored again to earth by the ministry of holy angels. It is easy to say that such an ambition was ill-directed when associated with Mormonism, but no one can deny that, in itself, it was the noblest and purest that could inspire the heart of man. There was no sacrifice too great for me to make; there was no object too dear for me to resign, if it stood in the way of my sacred calling. The whole current of my thoughts and plans was now changed. It was henceforth my duty to be entirely forgetful of self, and to devote my energies—my all—to the advancement of the Kingdom of God. My life was to be identified with the Saints,—my faith required it, and I was willing that it should be so.

But what of my beloved France, all this time; and my betrothed husband?

This reflection aroused within me a most painful train of thought. How many fond and endearing memories entwined themselves around my heart at that moment, when most I needed to banish them for ever! With what lingering love did I look back to those dear ones from whom I had parted but a few short weeks before, and whom I might perhaps never see again! To return would be to desert my newly-adopted friends and faith—to violate the covenant which I had made at baptism to “be ever afterwards governed by the servants of God.”

No; it was too late—I could not now return;—I tried to persuade myself that I did not even wish to;—in a word, affection, and what I thought duty, were at war together in my heart. All my former ties and associations must now be severed, however terrible the cost might be; and I was bound not only to submit, but even to glory in the sacrifice. Thus I argued away the regrets which would at times agitate my very soul, and cause me much painful thought.

The trial of my profession in the new faith came swiftly to my door. My marriage-engagement must be broken off, though I knew not how that could honourably and conscientiously be done. Of myself I had no wish to draw back from anything that I had promised of my own free will; and much less did I desire to be faithless to my solemnly plighted word.

I now first realized the all-absorbing influence of an earnest religious faith. I was brought face to face with the fact that I could not marry out of the Mormon Church. The teaching of the Elders was against it, and I saw that in this they were consistent. Great as was the trial, and painful as was the sacrifice, I resolved to be true to my religion. How very earnestly the Elders insisted upon such sacrifices, may be seen from an appeal made at a later date by the “Apostle” Orson Pratt. Brother Orson was in Europe, and, speaking authoritatively, he set forth the duties of mothers and daughters in “Babylon,” as he graciously styled the rest of the world, in the following terms, which unmistakably show the purposes of the leaders relative to marriage:—

“Many of you have daughters, some of whom are grown to womanhood; others are now young. Would, you have them gather with you to a land where virtue and peace dwell, where God has promised to protect and bless the righteous? If so, teach them, as they love their parents, and the Saints, and the truth, not to throw themselves away by marrying Gentiles; teach them to keep themselves entirely aloof from Gentile courtships and associations. Scores of women who once were counselled as you are now, are mourning in wretchedness, in bondage to Gentile husbands, cut off from all privilege of gathering with their fathers, mothers, brethren, and sisters; and, in some instances, cut off from even attending the Saints’ meetings. But this is not all. They are raising up children in these lands to perish with themselves in the general desolations coming upon Babylon. But what is still more aggravating and heart-rending, they are raising up children not only destined for temporal judgments, but who must for ever be cut off from the presence of God and the glory of the celestial kingdom.... What fearful responsibility for any young sister to voluntarily take upon herself, after all the warnings she has received. See to it, then, parents, that you not only do not give your consent, but actually forbid all such marriages....

“Let them marry according to the holy order of God, and begin to lay the foundation of a little family kingdom which shall no more be scattered upon the face of the earth, but dwell in one country, keeping their genealogies from generation to generation, until each man’s house shall be multiplied as the stars of heaven.”

These were the influences which were brought to bear upon my mind at a time when it was peculiarly sensitive, and open to impressions from without.

While in this uncertain state a little incident occurred which, though in itself of the most trifling nature, assisted in forming my ultimate decision.

It was a beautiful evening in early summer, and my mother and sister asked me to accompany them to one of the testimony-meetings which I have already described. This meeting was very similar to the others, with one notable exception:—it was here that I saw and heard, for the first time in my own experience, the “gift of tongues” exercised.

Long before I had even heard of Mormonism, I had frequently thought how wonderfully useful this gift must have been to the Apostles. One of the great difficulties encountered by the missionary is learning the language of the people among whom he works and lives. To be able to dispense with all this labour, and to be understood wherever he went, must have lightened the mind of the holy man of half its load; and naturally, when I heard that the Mormons had “the Gift of Tongues,” I supposed it was the self-same power of diverse speech as that exercised by the Apostles; and I presume the reader will conjecture with me that it was the same “gift,” or, at least, some imitation of it. How surprised I was when I first discovered the meaning of the term “speaking in tongues” among the Mormons, may perhaps be imagined when I explain what happened at that testimony-meeting.

After prayer, and singing, and listening to several very fervent addresses from some of the elders, Brother Seely had delivered a most impassioned speech, and had hardly concluded, when Sister Ellis, who was sitting near me, gave evidence of being in an abnormal condition of mind, which to me was painful in the extreme. Her hands were clenched, and her eyes had that wild and supernatural glare which is never seen, save in cases of lunacy or intense feverish excitement. Every one waited breathlessly, listening to catch what she might say;—you might have heard a pin drop.

Then in oracular language and with all the impassioned dignity of one inspired of heaven, she began to speak.

I say “speak,” as that term is generally applied to the utterances of the human voice; but she did not speak in the sense in which we always employ that word; she simply emitted a series of sounds. They seemed to me chiefly the repetition of the same syllables—something like a child repeating, la, la, la, le, lo; ma, ma, ma, mi, ma; dele, dele, dele, dela—followed, perhaps, by a number of sounds strung together, which could not be rendered in any shape by the pen. Sometimes in the Far West, in later years, I have heard old Indian women, crooning weirdly monotonous and outlandish ditties in their native tongue. These wild dirges, more nearly than anything else I ever heard, resembled the prophetic utterances of Sister Ellis; save only, that the appearance of the latter was far too solemn to admit of even a smile at what she said.

Ridiculous as this appears when I now write it down on paper, and strange as even then it was to me, there was something so commanding, so earnest, so “inspirational,” if I may be allowed the term, in Sister Ellis’s manner, that I could not wonder at the attention which the brethren and sisters paid to this gifted speaker in tongues.

I now know that these extraordinary displays are by no means confined to Mormonism. People of a certain temperament, excited to frenzy—generally by religious enthusiasm—have in all ages given painful illustrations of this mental disease; as the student who remembers the Convulsionnaires of the middle ages, the Munster Anabaptists of Luther’s time, and the various emotional sects of more modern days, will abundantly bear me witness. But at that time, new in the faith, and believing as I did that, as the Elders said, it was the manifestion of the power of God, as foretold by the prophet Joel, though I secretly felt a sense of repugnance, I tried to combat my better sentiments.

Overcome by the excitement of the moment, Sister Ellis suddenly paused, not so much intentionally as from sheer inability to proceed; and the leading Elders looked round from one to another to see if any one was present who could interpret. The gift of interpretation is very rarely possessed by the same person who has the gift of tongues, and you may often hear one after another arise and “speak,” but there is no one to “interpret,” and the Saints go away unedified. Even when an interpreter is present, there is no authority to determine whether he gives the proper rendering of the sounds uttered, and I have over and over again heard the most ludicrous stories of the comical interpretation placed by some half-witty or half-witted expounder upon these oracles.

When Brother Brigham—then a man who was lowly in his own eyes—first met the prophet Joseph Smith, at Kirtland, Ohio, there was a scene somewhat like the one I have described; and the future leader of “this people,” as he calls the Saints, himself spake with tongues and uttered wonderful things. But even supposing his words at that time to have been of the wisest, we all know from the example of Balaam’s reprover, that it does not require a very high order of intellect to speak in unaccustomed language—and that, too, to some purpose. In later days the exercise of this gift has been discouraged by the Elders, and especially by Brigham Young. Going one day, some years after, to the Lion-House to see a certain member of the Prophet’s little family concerning a subject which lay very near to my heart at that time, we prayed together earnestly and anxiously; when suddenly the lady’s face was lighted up with a supernatural glow, and placing her hand on my head she, sibyl-like, poured forth a flood of eloquence which—although I did not understand a single word that was uttered—I confess sent through me a magnetic thrill as if I had been listening to an inspired seeress. Another of Brigham’s wives who was present interpreted the words of blessing to me, but added: “Do not speak of this, Sister Stenhouse, for Brother Young does not like to hear of these things.” Thus we see that one inspired prophet in the presence of another “prophet, seer, and revelator,” could himself take part at one time in a miraculous manifestation, which in later years he “would not like to hear of,” if it was only one of his many wives who enacted the prophet’s rôle.

But my meeting! I have wandered far away from that. Let me proceed.

After more testimony, more “speaking,” and much enthusiasm, the Saints separated. My sister was talking with a young-lady friend, and regretting that no one present had been able to interpret; and I stood by, but did not join in the conversation. Suddenly the young lady turned to me and said: “Sister Fanny, do you not see in all this, more and more, the convincing power of God?”

Rather hesitatingly I replied, “Yes, I think I do.”

“Think! sister?” said she, with warmth. “Oh, yes, I see by your looks that you are only half convinced; your faith is not strong enough yet; but remember, whatsoever is of doubt is sin!”

“But,” I answered, “I do not see clearly what good we receive from these manifestations when no one can understand them.”

“That is your want of faith—nothing else; you have the evidence of the truth before you, and you see how these miraculous powers build up the belief of God’s people; and yet you doubt. To doubt is sin: whatsoever is not of faith is sin. You must pray and strive, sister, to be strengthened against temptation.”

All this was not very logical, and it certainly did not help to dispel my doubts. But twice in the course of a few short sentences, she had used a certain expression which, though trifling in itself, was recalled to my mind very forcibly before many days had passed.

This was my first experience of speaking in tongues.

But there were every-day matters of much more real importance to me than those strange speculations which had recently employed so much of my time and attention. It was now necessary that I should either return to France and fulfil my engagement with Monsieur D—— or else resolve, once and for ever, to renounce all those ties which had become so dear to me.

Meanwhile, religious theories were not the only influences brought to bear upon my mind.

While day by day I began to be still more doubtful whether it would not after all be sinful in God’s sight for me to leave my friends in the new faith and go back to France and my betrothed, who I knew neither was nor ever could become a Saint, other thoughts began to intrude themselves, and to shake my determination.

Elder Stenhouse’s visits to my father’s house began to be more frequent than ever, but as he desired to become familiar with the French language, and would bring his French grammar with him “to get a lesson,” as he said, no particular notice was taken of his frequent coming. He was always welcomed with pleasure by the whole family, and, of course, by myself, who was his teacher. After awhile he took so much delight in his studies that he could not endure to let an evening pass without a lesson; and somehow or other, I must confess, it was the first time since I had been a teacher that I felt such a peculiar pleasure in imparting instruction. I suppose it was the interest which all teachers experience when their pupils are studiously inclined. My pupil was particularly studious—so much so that he told my father and mother that he could not study very well in the parlour where every one was conversing, and begged the privilege of having the folding doors thrown partly open, that we might sit in the back parlour and be more quiet.

This was granted. But after a few evenings my pupil took a notion to partly close the folding doors after him, and, as mother’s eyes are ever watchful, one of my sisters was sent in with her sewing to keep us company. But my pupil by this time had made rapid progress in the French language, and while my sister was innocently sewing, he was repeating his lesson to me; and it was not our fault if in those French phrase-books there were passages expressive of love and devotion. Unconsciously to us both, he formed the habit of repeating those phrases to me at all times, and I formed the equally bad habit of blushing whenever he made use of them.

This my sister observed, and communicated the fact to my mother, who immediately said that we had better discontinue our French for awhile, as it was monopolizing too much of our time, and keeping both of us from attending to other and more important duties. But the discontinuation of the French lessons did not put an end to the visits of Elder Stenhouse. He was a persevering young man; but the secret of the great interest taken in the French lessons was soon discovered.

Then it was that arguments of all kinds, and strong reasons, were brought forward to shake my purpose of returning to France. I was “in doubt;” when one day, discussing the point, Elder Stenhouse made use of the very same expression which had fallen from the sister’s lips at the testimony-meeting—“Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.” My mind unsettled, with all the strength of argument and religion on the one side, and on the other no one to plead for reason and for my return to France, who can wonder that I—at best only a weak and inexperienced girl—listened to the entreaties of my friends, and resolved to stay.

In the course of a few months I was engaged to be married to Elder Stenhouse. It may, perhaps, seem strange that I could so soon forget the past, with all its pleasant memories and renouncing my betrothed husband, accept the attentions of another; but it should be remembered that I now firmly believed it was my duty—a duty which I dared not neglect—to blot out for ever all past associations, however dear to my heart they might be. Besides which, I, in common with all around me, had learned to look upon Elder Stenhouse as almost an angel, on account of what he had endured for the gospel’s sake; and I thought that any girl might consider herself honoured by an offer of marriage from a man in his position in the Church. My marriage in France would, I feared, have been but doubtful happiness in this world, and certain ruin in the next; but heaven itself would bless my union with one of its own ordained and tried servants.

Thus it came to pass that on the 6th of February, 1850—eight months after my arrival in Southampton—I was married to the young Mormon missionary, Elder Stenhouse. I entered upon my new sphere as a missionary’s wife, feeling that there were no obstacles so great that I could not overcome them for the gospel’s sake. How little could I then imagine the life that was before me!

I wrote to my friends in France. I told them frankly all. In return they wrote to me—especially Monsieur D——, entreating me to alter my determination. Kind, and very gentle, were those letters. Dear, very dear, has been the memory of them, and of their writers, in later days. But at the time I felt that the influence which they still retained over me was in itself a sin.

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About three months after our marriage it was rumoured that four of the Twelve Apostles had been appointed to foreign missions, and were then on their way to England.

The Saints in Britain had been for several years without any missionaries direct from the body of the church, and the announcement of this foreign mission was hailed with joy.

I confess to experiencing much pleasure at the thought of becoming acquainted with a living Apostle. How often in my girlhood I had wished that I had lived when men inspired of God walked the earth. What a joy, I thought, it would have been to have listened to the wisdom of such teachers. Now the time was near when I should realize all the happiness of my day-dreams—when I should really have the privilege of conversing with those chosen men of God. The invitation, therefore, to meet the Conference in London on the 1st of June, was very welcome intelligence.

We went to the London Conference—my husband and I; and there for the first time I met with Apostles, who were also Prophets, and Priests, and High-priests, and Teachers, and Elders, and Deacons—all assembled in solemn convocation.

The four Apostles whom I met at that time were John Taylor, Lorenzo Snow, Erastus Snow, and Franklin D. Richards—pleasant and agreeable men, and withal very fair specimens of Mormon missionaries, who had found favour in the eyes of Brigham Young and of the leaders in Zion, and who had been promoted accordingly. They lived comfortably, wore the finest broadcloth, fashionably cut, and were not averse to gold chains, and charms, and signet-rings, and other personal adornments. They put on no particular airs, were as polite and attentive to ladies as gentlemen always are, and could go to a theatre or any other place of amusement without hesitation. I afterwards discovered that in one particular, at least, if not in all, they resembled the early Apostles, for they too could, like St. Paul, “lead about a sister” without any compunctions of conscience.

The Southampton Saints had hitherto formed only a branch of the London Conference, but did not form a conference of their own. It was now resolved that since so large a number had recently been baptized in Hampshire, the several branches of the church there should be organized into a special conference at Southampton, with Elder Stenhouse as its president; and the Sunday following was appointed for that purpose, when the Apostle Snow, en route to Italy—to which country he had just been appointed missionary—would honour the occasion with his presence.

As we returned, some gentlemen in the same railway carriage, to while away the time, I suppose, entered into a religious discussion. What the subject was I do not now remember; but I can recollect that a good deal was said as to which of all the numerous Christian sects really possessed Divine authority. Elder Stenhouse took an active part in the argument, and being, like all the Mormon Missionaries at that time, very well posted in Scriptural discussions, he attracted considerable attention, and was much complimented by several persons present.

The Apostle Lorenzo Snow was silent all the time, but he took note of all that passed. Elder Stenhouse was a man of great zeal and untiring energy—qualities in which perhaps Brother Snow felt himself a little deficient; and he was going on a mission which required unflagging devotion and perseverance. We had not been an hour at home, before he told my husband that the Lord had thrice revealed to him that he should accompany him to Italy! How often—even while I still clung to Mormonism—did it appear strange to me that the “revelations” of distinguished Saints should so frequently coincide with their own personal wishes, and come at such convenient times.

I had laid aside my travelling-dress, and was hastening to provide some refreshment for the Apostle, when my husband came and told me of the revelation which had been so opportunely received. I was at that time as much an enthusiast as Elder Stenhouse himself, and I felt honoured that my husband should be the first English elder appointed to a foreign mission. Here was the fulfilment of my ambition, that we should be in the forefront of the battle, and should obtain distinction as zealous servants of God. But at what a cost was this ambition purchased! My poor, weak heart sickened at the thought—I had been but four months married.

When the Apostle asked me if I were willing that Elder Stenhouse should go to Italy, I answered “Yes,” though I felt as if my heart would break. I remembered that in my first transport of joy and gratitude after being baptized, I had made a covenant with the Lord that I would do anything which He might require of me; and I dared not rebel, or break that vow. Oh, the agony that fell upon my young heart! It seemed that the weight of a mountain rested upon it when I was told that my husband might be five years absent. He had already been five years a travelling elder without a home, trusting for daily bread to the voluntary kindness of the Saints. He had laboured faithfully, and looked forward to the day when his “Conference” should be established, and he could count upon an improvement in his temporal position, and an early call to emigrate to Zion. In the few months that I had been his wife, it was only natural that I should share his hopes; but just at the moment when they were about to be realized, hopes and expectations were scattered to the winds.

On the following day the Saints assembled, the Southampton Conference was organized, and Elder Stenhouse elected its president. Ten minutes later he was publicly appointed by the Apostle on a mission to Italy.

During the few days which intervened between the time when Elder Stenhouse received his appointment, to the hour of his departure, I enjoyed but little of his society. Arranging the affairs of the Conference which he was leaving, and preparation for his mission, fully occupied his attention. I do not think we either of us uttered a word, when alone together, respecting the future that was before us. It was probably better that we did not. There are moments of our life when silence is better than speech; and it is safer to trust in the mercy of God than to try to shape our own destiny.

The Saints are noted for the fraternal spirit which exists among them. There are, of course, exceptions; but, as a rule, every Mormon is willing to help his brother in the faith, acting upon the principle “One is your Master, even Christ: and all ye are brethren.” The Southampton Saints were no exception to this rule, but showed their kindness both to my husband and myself in a thousand little ways. I have spoken of my unhappiness during that week of preparation, but I must not forget that there were gleams of hope in the darkness. One occasion I shall never forget—a picnic which our friends held as a kind of valedictory feast in honour of the missionaries—of Elder Stenhouse in particular.

Right up the Southampton river, not far from Netley Abbey, is a pleasant and picturesque spot, named Bittern, which I need not too particularly describe, although the memory of its beauty recalls recollections of mingled sadness and pleasure to my mind. There my parents now lived, and thither it was proposed our friends should go. They could obtain all they needed for the picnic at my father’s house, and we could take our good things into the woods, and enjoy ourselves as we pleased. We had a very happy time; for the moment, even I forgot the cloud that was hanging over me; and our dear friends not only enjoyed themselves to the utmost, but seemed bent upon making the time pass pleasantly to every one else.

I had been talking to Sister White about the recent doings of the Saints, the establishment of the Conference and the sending away of Elder Stenhouse. I wanted Sister White, as in fact I wanted every one else, to think that I was perfectly happy in the separation, and that I counted my feelings as a wife as nothing when placed in the balance against my duty as a missionary; and I tried to impress upon her how proud I was that my husband should be the first English Elder entrusted with a foreign mission. We talked together a great deal. She was still quite a young woman, though married, and the mother of four darling little children; but probably she had a better experience than I had, and could see through my attempts to stifle my natural feelings, while at the same time she sympathized with me. She spoke very kindly to me; and as we talked, we wandered inadvertently away from the rest of the party. Suddenly she thought of her little boy, and, mother-like, thinking he might be in danger, ran off in search of him, promising to come back immediately.

I sat down upon the grass to await her return. I was somewhat excited by the conversation which had passed between us; but as I sat musing my agitation began to cool down, and I was soon lost in thought, and did not notice that I was not alone.

I did not hear the light footsteps near me, and did not see a little fairy friend, as I called her, pass between me and the sun. But a tiny hand was laid gently on my shoulder, and looking up I saw the loving eyes of Mary Burton looking straight down into mine.

“Where have you been, dear?” I asked. “Why, I have hardly seen you all the day.”

“But I knew you were here,” she said, “and I thought you were alone; and I wanted to see you, and talk with you.”

“Come and sit down beside me, Mary,” I said, “and let us have a little chat together.” Then I drew her gently towards me, and she sat down by my side. For a few moments we said nothing, but I was watching her, and waiting to hear what she would say. She seemed such a pretty, such a sweet and gentle girl—more like one of those little birds of glorious plumage and thrilling song that we see glittering among the dew-drops and the dancing leaves, than a child of earth. And I pitied her for her beauty, for such beauty is a snare; and I wondered whether her innocent soul was as fair and glorious before God as her face was sweet to me; and I asked whether, in years to come, when the glory of her childish radiance had passed away, the brightness of a soul pure and serene would lend a new beauty to her features—the beauty, not of childish innocence, but of a noble womanhood.

I took her hand in mine, and asked her some trifling question; but she did not answer. Suddenly she looked up full into my face, and said, “Sister Stenhouse; I’m very, very sorry for you.”

“Sorry for me, dear?” I said. “Why should you be sorry? I am not sad.”

“You shouldn’t say so,” she replied; “you know in your heart you are sad, although you don’t say so. It’s a fine thing, no doubt, for Elder Stenhouse to go away, though for my part I’d rather stop at home if I loved any one there; and at any rate, you must feel sorry that he is going away so far, if you love him.”

“But Mary,” I said, “you know it is his duty to go; and he has been called to it by the Apostle, and it is a great honour.”

“Oh yes, I know that,” she replied, “I know that.” Then we relapsed into silence for some few moments. Presently drawing nearer to me, she said again, quite suddenly, “Sister Stenhouse, do you know the meaning of the word Polygamy?”

“Why, what a funny question to ask me, child!” I exclaimed.

“Child, you call me, Sister Stenhouse; but I’m not a child—at least not quite a child; I shall be fifteen next birthday.”

“Well, dear,” I said, “I did not mean to offend you; and I call you ‘child’ because I love you; but you asked me such a strange question, and used such a strange word.”

This was quite true, for at that time the word Polygamy was as seldom used as the word “polyandry,” or any other word signifying a state of things with which we have nothing to do.

“I’m not offended,” she said; “only people have a way of treating me as if I were only such a very little girl: I suppose I look so.”

She certainly did look so, and I suppose she read my thoughts. Womanhood, by-and-by, brought to her more of reality, both in face and figure, as well as in the terrible facts of life; but at that time the term “little fairy,” which I have so often used respecting her, seemed the most appropriate. The meaning of that terrible word Polygamy she understood, in later years, fully as well as I did.

“Well, dear,” I said, “why did you ask me that strange question?”

“You must promise not to be angry with me if I tell you,” she answered; “and yet I think you ought to know.”

I readily promised—what could I have refused her?—and she said,—

“The other day two of the sisters were at our house—I may not tell you their names for fear of making mischief—and they were talking together between themselves, and did not notice that I was present—or else they didn’t care. And I heard one of them tell the other, that she had heard, secretly, that in Zion men were allowed to have many wives; and she used that word Polygamy very often, and said that was what the people of the world called it.”

“Well, Mary dear,” I replied, “that is no great secret. We have all heard that said before. Wicked people who hate the Gospel say that, and a great deal more, in order to bring scandal upon the Church; but of course it isn’t true.”

“Ah, but I haven’t told you all,” she said. “The sisters had a long talk about it, and they explained whom they heard it from, and it was from no one outside the Church. And then one of them said that Elder Stenhouse had heard all about it, and knew it was true, only of course he did not talk about such things yet; but that the time would come when everyone would acknowledge it, and all the Saints would have many wives. I was frightened when I heard this, and very angry—for I thought of you—and I spoke to her, and said it was all untrue, and I’d ask Elder Stenhouse. And they scolded me very much for saying so, and said it was very wicked for a child to listen; and that was why I did not like you to call me ‘child.’”

“Well, darling,” I said, “I’ll not offend you any more in that way; and it was very good of you to tell me anything you thought I ought to know.” Then I kissed her, and continued, “But, after all, I don’t think it’s of any consequence. It’s the old scandal, just as in the early days they said wicked things of Christ and His apostles. Elder Stenhouse knows all that people say, but he has told me again and again that there is not a word of truth in it; and I believe him.”

“You think so, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, “and I suppose I ought to think so too; but if it’s all false how did people first begin to think of it? People don’t say that the Mormons are murderers or thieves, because we have given them no reason to think so. Then why should they think of such an unheard-of thing as Polygamy—surely there must have been some reason. Don’t you think so?”

“No, dear,” I answered, “Elder Stenhouse says that some very wicked men have sometimes joined the Church, and have done all manner of shocking things, so that they had to be cut off; and then they went about trying to make other people believe that the Mormons were as wicked as they were. There was John C. Bennett, who lived a frightful life at Nauvoo, and then tried to make out that Joseph Smith was as bad as he was. And Marsh, the president of the twelve apostles, and Orson Hyde, when they apostatized not only said bad things of Joseph, but took affidavit, and swore solemnly before the magistrates, that the prophet had been guilty of the most fearful crimes.”

I kissed her again; and she said, “Well, perhaps you are right;” but I could see that in her heart she was not convinced.

Then we talked of ourselves and all that interested us, and she told me all her childish hopes and ambitions; and to me—young as I was myself—it was pleasant to listen to her innocent prattle. She promised to come and see me when Elder Stenhouse had gone, and I should be left alone; and when we got back to the rest of the party we were as firm friends as if we had known each other a lifetime.

At midnight, Saturday, June 15th, 1850, the steamer left Southampton for Havre-de-Grace, bearing on board the first two Mormon missionaries to Italy; one of them was my husband.

The Saints had called in the evening to bid Elder Stenhouse good-bye; and as he was, of course, to travel “without purse or scrip,” they vied with each other in showing their appreciation of his position and his devotion to the faith. The poorest among them would not be denied the privilege of contributing their mites to aid in the conversion of the Italians; and none of the brethren felt that they could show too much kindness to the departing missionary. Just in this way have all the foreign missions of the Mormon Church been projected and sustained; the elements of success were always present—devotion and self-abnegation on the part of the missionaries, and an earnest, self-sacrificing disposition on the part of the people, commanding respect, however erroneous or foolish the foundation of their faith.

In the bustle of departure, Mr. Stenhouse seemed never to have thought about himself, and certainly he made no preparation for me. I had full confidence in him, however, and loved him devotedly, and knew that my love was returned. But men who look for miracles, and count upon special providences for daily bread, are not generally very prudent or far-seeing in their domestic arrangements. Elder Stenhouse had been told that “the Lord would provide,” and it therefore seemed to him superfluous that he should interfere; it would have been a lack of faith to have shown too much interest in what might become of me. He left me with only 1l.

I now realized the loneliness of my position; there was no earthly friend to whom I could turn for sympathy at a time like this. Before my Heavenly Father alone I could pour out the bitterness of my soul and all my griefs, and in His presence weep and pray.

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When the Apostle Snow called upon Mr. Stenhouse to go to Italy, the Saints willingly accepted the responsibility of providing for me during his absence.

They thought it was more an honour than a burden to have this charge committed to them; but it was very humiliating to me to be placed in such a position, however anxious they might be to assist me and to serve the general cause. To face opposition, or to give my all for my religion, I was willing indeed; but to depend upon others for my daily bread was utterly repugnant to my feelings, although, of course, if the Church sent away my husband, whose proper place and duty it was to support his family, it was only right that the members of that Church should undertake the responsibility. But then, and at many other times during my life, I have learned the truth of Christ’s precept, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

The American Apostle was not without worldly wisdom when he proposed that an unmarried man should be appointed to preside over the Southampton Conference, as his wants would be few. But Mr. Stenhouse had been solicited by a friend, who had a wife and children, to secure his appointment; and with ready confidence in that friend, he overlooked his own interests and my welfare, and I was left to pass through trials and privations which I can never forget.

The Saints were very kind, and took pleasure in doing all they could for me; but the mistake which my husband committed in leaving his friend to succeed him as president of the Conference was soon apparent. The “friend” thought of his own family first, and the family required all that the Saints could reasonably be expected to contribute; and even then they had not enough. I therefore received only such little sums as could be withheld from them; and to make the matter worse, those who had any property or estate were counselled to sell all, and “gather to Zion.” The more wealthy Saints were soon gone; and the current expenses of the church fell heavily upon those who were hardly able to support their own families.

They tried to send me something every week, and I have no doubt they did send me all that they could. When their contributions reached four or five shillings (about $1) I thought myself fortunate; more often I did not receive the value of fifty cents in the whole week, at times less, and sometimes nothing at all. That unfailing comfort to respectable English poverty, a cup of tea, was my greatest luxury, but at times for weeks together I had not even that; I had nothing but bread; but I never complained.

Whenever it was possible I concealed my true situation from every one, and in my almost daily letters to my husband not a shadow of a hint was ever dropped relative to my own privations. I wanted him to be successful in his mission, and I feared that his energy would desert him if he knew of my difficulties. I was in extreme poverty, certainly, but for myself I was not in trouble. God would provide for me, I felt; and it was glorious to suffer in a sacred cause.

But darker days, days of severer trial, were creeping slowly near me. Up to this time I had worshipped God and loved my husband with a perfect heart. Now the dark shadow of an accursed thing was looming in the distance, and approaching surely if slowly.

In some way an idea had got abroad that the Mormons were somewhat unsound respecting the marriage question. Still the elders stoutly denied the charge, and the more they were accused the more strenuous became their denials.

At a public discussion at Boulogne-sur-mer, in France, the Apostle John Taylor, in reply to the accusations of Polygamy which were brought against him, said,—

“We are accused here of actions the most indelicate and disgusting, such as none but a corrupt and depraved heart could have conceived. These things are too outrageous to admit of belief.... I shall content myself with quoting our views of chastity and marriage from a work published by us, containing some of our articles of faith—Doctrine and Covenants.”

He then proceeded to quote from the “Book of Doctrine and Covenants” such passages as the following:—

“Marriage is ordained by God unto man; wherefore it is lawful that he should have one wife, and they twain should be one flesh” (p. 218).

He quoted many other things also, among which might be enumerated the following:—

“Thou shalt love thy wife with all thy heart, and shalt cleave unto her, and none else.”

He quoted also many other passages of Scripture which had reference to the subject—each powerful to put aside even the idea of polygamy; and each equally powerful as an argument against polygamy itself.

Let the reader here note the value of what Mormons say when their faith is called in question. See and judge.

Brother Taylor, who spoke at that meeting, and utterly denied polygamy, had himself—at that very moment when he so atrociously perjured himself, and when he swore that no Mormon had more than one wife—five wives living in Salt Lake City. One of his friends there present had two wives; and the other was married to a mother, and her own daughter!

Any conclusion, any expression of disgust at these abominations and deliberate perjuries, I leave to the reader.

Among those who came to see Mr. Stenhouse before he left for Italy, was Elder Margetts, an English elder of some prominence in the British mission. At the picnic of which I have already spoken, I noticed that this elder was more than usually attentive to a pretty young sister who was also present. There was always an affectionate familiarity among the Saints; as I previously mentioned, they were like brothers and sisters, and addressed each other as such. But the attentions of the elder I speak of pointed a little beyond all this. He could not, perhaps, be accused of any open impropriety, but he certainly looked much more like the girl’s lover than an ordinary friend or her spiritual adviser.

I knew this Elder’s family in London, and his conduct pained me a good deal. So I drew the attention of my husband to the circumstance; and he said the Elder was foolish, but he would speak to them both; and this he did.

After the departure of the missionaries, this elder remained for several days. He then returned to London, but it was not long before he was again in Southampton, and he still paid marked attention to the same young sister. This caused unpleasant remarks among the Saints, who at this time certainly did not believe that polygamy was practised in Utah.

At a later date this Elder, with some others, was again in Southampton, and I was invited to take tea with them at the house of one of the Saints. In the course of the evening there was a general conversation on “the work of the Lord,” in which I, of course, was greatly interested.

Whenever any of the missionaries were visiting, the Saints would seek their society, just like children who were glad to meet again their parents after a long absence; and at such times they were at liberty to ask what questions they pleased. On the evening I speak of, I well remember that the general subject of conversation was the apostasy of the Christian Church from the true order of God’s salvation. Prominence was given to the history of Abraham and his descendants, and occasional allusion was made to their marital relations; but nothing directly was spoken. It was very evident that these elders only wanted to drop a word or two here and there, to suit those who wanted it; but nevertheless they spoke so obscurely and mysteriously that they could easily have retracted what was said if any one had accused them of teaching a doctrine which they were unwilling openly to avow.

When I returned home that night I was fully satisfied that the Elder I have spoken of had a reason for his frequent visits to Southampton, and shortly after the young sister went to London. Whether Polygamy was ever to be a doctrine of the Church or not, it was very clear to me that the London Elder was a polygamist at heart. The more my mind dwelt on these things, the more sick at heart did I become, and faint and weary.

I had, however, personal cares and trials enough to engage my attention. I found that I could not depend upon the Saints to provide me with even the barest necessaries of life, so I looked about me and made inquiries for some light employment by which I might support myself. My health at that time would not have allowed me to do much, but for a long time I could not get anything at all to do. I had, of course, been used to teaching, but employment of that kind it was just then impossible for me to take, even if I could have got it; the only resource which seemed left to me was to find occupation for my needle, and it was a long and weary time before I could obtain even this.

At length I got a little plain sewing to do, and out of the miserable pittance thus earned I contrived to pay my rent and provide a few necessaries; but at times that too was beyond my power, and I have gone a fortnight at a time with nothing to eat but dry bread. Still my faith never failed. And thus the weary days passed by.

Now, however, a new interest began to gather round my life, for I expected before the end of the year the arrival of a little stranger to share my affections and my care. This certainly was a sad beginning of domestic bliss, but still the thought was pleasant to me. I had at that time no one to aid me or comfort me. The Saints were very kind, but they could not supply the place of an absent husband. My dearest friend, Mary Burton, used to come as often as she could to see me, and her presence was like a gleam of sunshine; but she was so young, and innocent, and happy, that I had not the heart to trouble her with my sorrows. All my jewellery and trinkets, and the greater part of my wardrobe, had gone in providing for my daily wants, and in preparing those necessary trifles upon which a young mother bestows so much loving care. My health was daily failing, and sometimes I doubted if I should ever be well and strong again. But all that I suffered was for the Church, and that thought sustained me.

Often I would sit alone and think—think of the past, and all my early day-dreams of love, and hope, and bliss; think of my husband in a far-off land devoting his life and all his energies to the preaching of the latter-day glory; think of those whisperings of that accursed doctrine which has since brought desolation and anguish to the hearts of so many weary women; think of my future life, dark as its promise even then appeared.

Sometimes I heard from Italy—heard how my husband was progressing with his work, and with wifely love I sympathized with him in all his difficulties, for he told me how arduous the task was in which he was engaged.

It was not the expectation of the Mormon Apostles that the missionaries would do much in Catholic Italy. The same causes were in operation there as affected the work in France. Few, if any, really good Roman Catholics have ever joined the Saints. The Irish mission was never successful, and the same may be said of the French and Italian missions. In France and Italy by far the greater part of the people might be classed under two heads—Roman Catholics, and infidels. The first had already an infallible guide in which they trusted; and as for the infidels, they ridiculed the idea of any guide at all. Both classes were utterly devoid of that acquaintance with Scripture of which the Mormon missionaries understood so well how to take advantage, and which rendered those so susceptible to religious influences who took the Bible as their basis. The missionaries in Italy soon experienced the difficulties presented by these facts.

After their arrival in Genoa, Mr. Stenhouse was directed to carry the gospel to the Waldenses—those brave old Protestants of the dark ages, who so manfully suffered, even unto death, for conscience sake; and some time after he had begun his labours among them, the Apostle Snow joined him.

Whatever they might believe or teach theoretically, there can be no doubt that the American Apostles were largely endowed with the “organ” of caution. Preaching without purse or scrip among people who either detest you as a heretic or else regard you with profound indifference is not a pleasant task, and the Mormon Apostles very prudently “took up” liberal collections in England before they started. Had it not been for this common-sense proceeding, I am at a loss to say what would have become of the missionaries in Italy; and as it was, their lot was not a very enviable one.

Besides the scarcity of money, the other great difficulty experienced by the missionaries was learning the language of their destined converts. For many years it was supposed among the Saints that the “gift of tongues” would be all-sufficient for this purpose. The two distinguished Apostles, Orson and Parley P. Pratt, whose writings did so much for Mormonism, had both of them eloquently discussed the subject in print; but the missionaries soon discovered that for practical purposes the “gift” was not of much service; and the two Pratts themselves afterwards experienced—the one in South America and the other in Austria—the fallacy of their theories. Without the “gift” in any shape the work in Italy was necessarily very slow, and an Elder who could speak a little French was sent out from London to assist them. They had at last come to the conclusion that if the Lord would not bestow the “gift” upon them, they must try to acquire it themselves.

The Apostle Snow now thought of sending the Gospel to the Swiss, and Mr. Stenhouse was selected for the work. But before he went it was determined that the Church in Italy should be “organized,” and about a week later, I received a long account of how this was done. I heard how, one pleasant November morning, the Apostle Snow, Elders Stenhouse and Woodward, together with several Waldenses whom they had converted, ascended the mountain side contiguous to La Tour, and overlooking the fertile valley of Pinerello. There they sang praises and prayed. They christened the place “Mount Brigham;” and the stone upon which the three elders stood and offered up a written prayer, they named “The Rock of Prophecy;” and there they organized the church, dedicating the soil of Italy to the Lord. Moreover, then and there my husband was solemnly consecrated a “High-Priest after the Order of the Son of God.”

All this I heard, and much more; and in confiding faith that this was indeed a great and glorious work, I rejoiced that I had been accounted worthy to suffer patiently at home, if only my husband might successfully fulfil his task abroad.

After that I heard that he had left Italy, and had arrived in Geneva, believing that he would be more successful among the Swiss than the Italians.

A few days after the arrival of the missionary in Geneva, an event occurred which interested my own self personally—my little Clara was born. Very happy was I when I looked upon her tiny little face for the first time, and kissed her for being the prettiest baby in the world; very happy was I when I folded her in my arms, and talked to her as if she could understand all that I said; very happy indeed, as I looked at her again and again, and marvelled whether she really could be, indeed and certainly, my own baby girl. It seemed as if baby’s papa would never come back again, but I had a companion now in my child; and weak and weary as I was, with new responsibilities and less power to help myself, I found comfort in my new care, and realized the truth of the old Scotch song:—

I was not now alone.

Then, too, came round to see me, Mary Burton. She was as fond and tender to me as ever, and tripped quietly about the room, and tried to wait upon me, and sat by the bed, playing with baby, calling her all the pretty things she could think of; and I felt that her presence brought new light and life to my room. She brought me another letter from my husband, and I found that he was now acquiring for himself the “gift” of the French tongue, unable to do much else, as he and everybody didn’t understand each other. He could not yet talk to the French-speaking Genevese; and the English-speaking residents would not listen to him; they had only heard of Mormonism as a clumsy fraud, and looked upon the prophet Joseph Smith as an impostor. So, for a whole winter, he sat shut up in his own room, poring over a French grammar, and deploring his hard fate in being denied the gift of tongues.

In the spring of the new year I received a distinguished visitor, who kindly interested himself in my welfare. The Apostle Lorenzo Snow left Piedmont for England, and passed through Geneva en route. On his way to London he called upon me at Southampton, and expressed much sympathy for me. He noticed the change in my appearance, and immediately sent for Mr. Stenhouse to return to England. He acted very kindly by me at that time; did all that he could to assist me, and said that he never again would ask any man to make such a sacrifice. I fully appreciated all his kindness; but much as I wanted to, I did not venture to ask him about the truth or falsity of those terrible suggestions which I had heard whispered of late.

My husband hastened home, coming by way of Calais, in order to meet his president and receive his instructions. The Apostle showed much sympathy for him, and very early in the morning accompanied him some miles to the railway station; but he never once mentioned how I had been situated in Southampton until he left him, and then he exacted from him a promise not to open his lips whatever he might learn.

I need not say that I was happy to see my husband once again, and to present to him his little daughter, who was now five months old. He was, of course, soon busy in visiting the Saints, and he received from them many tokens of attachment.

In the beginning of June a General Conference of the branches of the Church in Britain was held in London. The Apostles and foreign missionaries were present, and my husband and I were also there. We had speeches and prayers. The business of the Conference occupied but very few minutes, for no measure was questioned. Among the Mormons there are no opinions, no discussion. The presiding head has made out his programme before he comes to the Conference; he knows what he wants to do, and no one ever questions him. He may perhaps for form’s sake invite the brethren to speak on any point he introduces; but when he has furnished the clue to his wishes, the Elders who speak only spend their time in arguments in favour of his measures. At the Conference of which I speak the reports of the native elders were very cheering to us. Throughout England and Wales they had been most successful in adding members to the Church. Mormonism was then most successfully preached in Britain. There were more Mormons there than in all Utah Territory: there were fifty Conferences, with over seven hundred organized “branches,” and more than six thousand men ordained to the priesthood. That peculiar influence which the Mormons call “the Spirit,” of which I have spoken elsewhere, was spoken of by the Elders as being a common experience everywhere.

During all that Conference I listened carefully for a word from the lips of any of the speakers which might indicate in any way that Polygamy was part of the Mormon faith; but not a whisper, not a hint, was uttered. I naturally concluded that the Elders, whose doubtful expressions at Southampton had so troubled my mind, were misinformed or unsafe men. Still I could not altogether banish my apprehension of coming evil; but so bound to secrecy were those who did know of Polygamy being practised in Utah, that there was not one who would admit it, and even my own husband’s lips were sealed to me. He did not deny it, but he would not talk about it, and did everything he could to banish the thought from my mind.

At that Conference the Apostle Snow spoke very strongly of the way in which I had been neglected; and it was arranged that Elder Stenhouse should return to Switzerland, and that I should accompany him. My knowledge of French was expected to be very serviceable.

We now made preparations for an early departure, and prepared to leave our friends. To the reader it may seem strange for a man, his wife, and babe, to be sent out in this way on a mission without any proper arrangement for their maintenance; but to my mind, at the time, it seemed to me not only perfectly proper, but altogether in accordance with God’s word and commandment.

My young friend, Mary Burton, came round to bid me good-bye; and the poor girl wept, and I wept with her, and we kissed one another tenderly as our tears mingled. We had become very dear to each other, and the thought of separation for years, or perhaps for ever, was very painful to us. She hung about my neck at the last moment, kissing me, and begging me not to forget to write to her very, very often; and this I gladly promised her, asking the same in return. Then with a fond embrace we parted, and it was years before I saw her dear face again.

Thus it was that we three—my husband, my babe, and myself—set forth on our pilgrimage to convert the Swiss.

It was with no ordinary feelings that I entered the ancient city of Geneva. I was not ignorant of its history, and the struggles of its inhabitants for civil and religious liberty. It had been the refuge for the English Protestants during the fiery days of Queen Mary; just as in the time of the French Revolution it was the refuge of infidel and Papist, royalist and republican alike. There Calvin lived in gloomy austerity, battling with Rome; there Servetus, the Unitarian, was condemned to be roasted alive as a heretic; and there we expected in our own humble way to be able to testify, by our suffering and patience, to what we firmly believed was the truth.

In free countries like England and the United states—free from the surveillance of a military police, it is easy, if he wishes it, for the missionary to mount a chair at a street corner, or hold forth under a tree; and such has often been done. But all over continental Europe there is hardly a place where this would be possible. In the various grand duchies, kingdoms, and empires, paternal governments look too closely after the morals and religion of their subjects; while under the ephemeral republics, as long as they happen to last, there is often to be found, under the name of liberty, a despotism more despotic than under the rule of royalty. It is the colporteur, the man of books and tracts, who makes the converts there; and in this slow way we soon found that we were destined to proceed.

During my husband’s former stay in Geneva he had had neither Mormon books nor Mormon papers, with the exception of a paper published at Boulogne, containing a letter by the Apostle Taylor, in French and English. This single copy he lent to a Genevese to read, and never saw it again; and yet in a short time, even before he could properly speak French, he converted and baptized two men in the Rhone, one of whom is to-day a devoted Mormon in Southern Utah.

His first attack was upon a shoemaker, whom he visited for the purpose of repairs. While the shoemaker worked, Elder Stenhouse talked; and as the English are all reputed wealthy on the continent, the friendly overtures of the Mormon missionary were graciously received. As they grew intimate, Elder Stenhouse would sit down on the bench beside the man as he worked, and taking from his pocket a French Testament, which he always carried about with him, would try to read it aloud—the good-natured shoemaker undertaking to correct his pronunciation. In this way he kept his auditor’s attention constantly fixed upon certain passages, more especially those which spoke of baptism for the remission of sins, and the laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost. So persistent was he that at last the shoemaker’s curiosity was awakened, and finally he was baptized; but unfortunately, not long after a small pamphlet upon the mission of Joseph Smith fell into his hands, and made shipwreck of his faith.

With his second convert he was much more successful. This time it was his landlord who was to be the subject of attack. He was a tailor, and, fortunately for the missionary, somewhat talkative. The same arrangement was made about reading and correction, and with a like result—the tailor was baptized. Just at this time came the Apostle Snow’s letter, telling my husband to return to England; and as he might not leave the country without a representative, he ordained the tailor a priest in the Mormon Church.

When we arrived in Geneva, Monsieur le tailleur was all that constituted the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Switzerland.

Soon a few personal friends began to gather, to hear the English missionary tell about the new religion; and my husband being very much in earnest, interest before long began to be excited. I remember well our first meetings among the Swiss—half-a-dozen people sitting round a table with open Bibles before them, passages from which Mr. Stenhouse was trying in very bad French to make them understand. I pitied him very much, but those who were present made as if they did not notice his embarrassment, and listened with marked attention. Among the Mormons it is a woman’s duty to keep silence; I therefore remained a listener only. But at the close of the service—for such it was regarded—when I might speak, my missionary labours began; I was aroused to eloquence, and our parting was longer than our meeting.

The warmth with which the few who were present responded to our efforts satisfied me that they had come under the same mysterious influence which I had observed in England. I was then convinced that Mormonism could awaken the Christian soul more to a realization of what it already possessed, than impart to it any new moral or religious qualities. Mormonism of itself never made Christians, but Christianity built up Mormonism. It was an awakening to the teachings of Christ and His Apostles that begat confidence in the mission of the Mormon Prophet.

Although we observed the very strictest economy, it did not take long for us to exhaust what little money we brought from England. This placed us in a very awkward position. It is inconvenient enough to be without money in one’s own country, where one understands and is understood by everybody; but to be in a strange land, especially in a country like Switzerland, where every Englishman is supposed to be a “milor” and the bounteous dispenser of unlimited wealth, it is more than inconvenient.

We left our first quarters, where we had had so many visitors, and rented a room from a widow woman, who fortunately was not inquisitive. She had a family of children to support; and as we paid our rent monthly in advance, she had no occasion to know whether or not we kept a bank account; and we were thankful that it was so, for, had it been so ordained, we could there have starved to death without attracting the notice of any one. A nice thing to be thankful for!

We were not hopeless, though we were heavy hearted; but we had expected trial, and could not complain, for we knew from the beginning that thus it would probably be.

One day my husband received a letter from an infidel gentleman who lived in Lausanne, a neighbouring canton, requesting him to come and see him, that they might talk together over Mormonism, for he had heard of us and of our doctrine; and my husband resolved to visit him before our money was all gone.

When Mr. Stenhouse reached Lausanne, he visited first a Protestant minister with whom he had some slight acquaintance, and who was also interested in Mormonism, and told him that he was going to call upon the Gouverneur de l’Hôpital. The minister was greatly opposed to my husband visiting such a man. “He is a socialist,” he said, “a revolutionist; he fought at the barricades; he is a mauvais sujet, and anything but a fit person to be spoken to about religion.”

This only increased the interest which Mr. Stenhouse felt in the governor, and made him more than ever determined to see him; and he did see him, although the good minister had represented him “aussi noir que le diable.” So they met; and my husband began the work for which he had come. They had long talks together, and my husband—as did the elders ever in such cases—spoke to the governor of redemption through Christ, and baptism for the remission of sins. Faith is not an act of the will. Like the unseen wind, it comes, and we see the power thereof, but know not whence it proceeds. Thus at first the unbelieving governor found it; he might find himself no match for the arguments of his opponent, but he could not force his heart to believe, and he was by no means a willing convert. My husband, however, remained with him; and before he left, the governor had been baptized into the church.

Our new convert proved to be a most excellent and worthy man, notwithstanding his former infidelity, and he was subsequently a great aid to us in our mission. We felt satisfied that the expenses of that journey had been well spent, although a few francs at that time could ill be spared.

But our circumstances seemed to be getting worse and worse, and my health began to fail. For several months neither of us had had sufficient nourishment, and my anxieties increased my physical weakness. I was dispirited, yet I feared to complain, or even to let my husband know what I felt. At length I fell really ill, and could not leave my bed. I well remember the solemn silence that reigned in our home one day. I had risen from my bed, weak, and oh, so faint-hearted that I had scarcely any desire to live; and I was sitting with my little daughter in my arms. She had cried herself to sleep, cold and hungry, and, much as I loved her—nay, idolized her—I confess that for an instant I harboured in my soul the impious, the unnatural wish, that rather than see my darling awake again to cold and hunger, she might sleep her sweet young life away. For me to yield to such a thought—to wish my child to wake no more! I, who would have given gladly the last drop of my life-blood to save her! For me to look upon her innocent little face with such a thought! I can hardly now believe that such a thing was possible, even for a moment. But I was desperate, and bold, and cowardly—all at the same time; or my heart was humiliated by poverty, and my faith was rousing bitter thoughts in my mind.

My husband was pacing the room. I knew too well all that was passing in his mind, although we had long been silent. At length I said to him, “Take courage, dear, for we are the servants of the great God, and surely He will find a means of escape for us. We were sent here; we came because the Lord wanted us to come, and surely He will provide for us!”

He turned to me in reply, and said kindly, “We can at least have some water;” and he went for some water; and then, with as reverential feeling in his soul as ever inspired a grace before dinner, he blessed it, and we drank.

We had scarcely done so when the mail-courier brought a letter to our door.

Governor Stoudeman, with a feeling of delicacy, had hesitated, when my husband visited him at Lausanne, to offer him any assistance; but, he said in his letter, he had been “impressed” to do so, and hoped that we should not be offended. As the letter was opened, a piece of gold fell upon the table. We could hardly believe that God had so soon answered our prayers, and sent us relief; and our emotions of gratitude for this timely aid, found expression in tears.

All this time our landlady knew nothing of our distress; she was as ignorant of our situation as if she had never seen us. So long as I was able to walk about, I used at regular hours to go to the kitchen, get the cooking utensils, and go through the routine of cooking, as if we had had a well-filled larder all the time. I set the table with punctilious care, and the good old widow never suspected but that we had plenty. Thus supposing that we wanted nothing, she and her children were more than ordinarily kind to us and to our little girl, who was now old enough to toddle round and go from room to room. Very often they would get her into their room at meal-time, and give her little things to please her; and while they felt honoured in being permitted to do so, we were silently thankful for our child’s sake, for her sufferings were more than we could endure.

The temporary aid from Lausanne was very welcome to us, though it only served to make us feel more keenly our dependent position. I might relate stories, alas, too true! of cold and want; of days, and even almost an entire week, passed at one time without food—stories which for painful detail would eclipse romance. It was a weary waiting for Providence! Such things are better forgotten. And yet I feel that in after years my temper was more subdued, and my mind more patient under affliction, than it would have been had I not experienced this preparatory discipline.

People who have heard, with a sneer, of Mormon missionaries and their work, would perhaps have realized that faith may be sincere, although mistaken, if they could have seen us at that time. The first teachers of a doctrine, whether it be good or evil, if only it stems the current opinions of the hour, have ever found that at the end of a rocky way there was waiting for them a crown of thorns.

Many a time since then I have felt the weight of anxious care in providing for my family; the trial of our faith has not been light, or seldom repeated; but those days of trouble in Switzerland were, I think, the darkest I ever experienced. We realized literally the necessity of trusting to God’s daily mercies for our daily bread; and the assurance that the Lord would provide, was our only hope. To say that we practised the strictest economy, would be to give but a faint idea of the way in which we had to consider and contrive in order to exist at all. For years we kept the “Word of Wisdom”—a “Revelation of Joseph Smith,” which enjoined abstinence from wine, coffee, tea, or, in fact, warm drinks of any kind; and trifling as such self-denial may at first appear, it was not really so when other privations were added thereto. For months at a time we existed—for I dare not say lived—without what are considered, even by the poorest, the most common necessaries. I can even recall to mind one trying week in Switzerland, when, for the whole seven long days, we had less than a pint of corn-flour to live upon, and that was chiefly reserved for our poor child.

As I look back to those dark, painful times I feel that it was by little short of a miracle that our lives were spared. Our faith alone saved us.

---

Very soon after this we were notified that the Apostle Snow was on his way to Switzerland, and that we might shortly expect him.

This to me was joyful news, for he had relieved me of my trouble once before, and I almost looked upon him as my good angel. He came, and remained with us a few days; and before he left he instructed Mr. Stenhouse to repair to England, to raise funds to aid the mission. He also gave me a few pounds to procure what I needed for an event which I expected shortly to take place. This kindness on his part brought to my mind such a sense of relief, and so renewed my energy, that I felt ready for my missionary labours again.

When my second child was about two months old I went to Lausanne to reside, while my husband was absent in England. Apartments were engaged for me at the house of a gentleman who had recently been baptized. I was made very comfortable there, and for the first time since my husband was sent on a mission, I experienced a feeling of repose, so that I now had some hopes of regaining mental and physical strength. No provision had been made by the Saints for my support; but even without that, I thought, living among those who were themselves happy, and one with us in the faith, I should myself find more tranquillity of mind.

Madame and Monsieur Balif, in whose house I resided, were persons of good social position. The husband was one of nature’s gentlemen, and as good a man as I ever knew. He received the Mormonism taught by Mr. Stenhouse with all his heart, and never seemed weary of showing his gratitude by his good deeds. Madame Balif did not at once join the church, and probably never would have done so but for the love which she bore to her husband. She was not, however, hostile to the new faith, as some other wives were, and she did all that she could to render pleasant my stay with them, and tried to make me forget what I had suffered in Geneva.

Madame Balif was a high-spirited, impulsive woman, and devotedly attached to her husband; I never saw a woman more so. She impressed me as being one of the happiest of wives; he one of the best of husbands. After I had lived in the house a few weeks, she was baptized; but she never was satisfied with Mormonism. Poor, dear lady! How often have I bitterly regretted that I was instrumental in leading her into the Mormon Church, in which, as (years later, in Utah) she told me, she endured such cruel humiliation and martyrdom. I knew well indeed then what all that meant.

While I lived with them, it was agreed that I should pay for my apartments monthly; but after I had paid for the first month, Monsieur Balif told me that I should do so no more. And knowing that he meant it as an expression of kindness and gratitude on his part, I felt relieved of all anxiety on that account. All that I had, even then, for the support of myself and my two little ones was about five francs ($1) a week; but my wants were few, for I had taught myself to require nothing but what was absolutely necessary to keep me alive.

During Mr. Stenhouse’s absence, the meetings were held in my parlour; and as the brethren who had joined the church had not previously been religious men, though they were persons of the best moral character, they were very diffident about conducting the meetings, and for a time could not think of praying before others. It devolved upon me—of sheer necessity, for I disliked prominence as much as they did—to lead the singing, to pray, to preach—in fact, to do everything. Had I not done so, they would have sat looking at each other, for they were all too timid to speak. I encouraged them in every way to try, and finally we got along very well. A “good spirit” prevailed; and we were like a little band of brothers and sisters.

The only person, now, who gave me any anxiety was Madame Balif, who was very weak in the faith. Her doubts and fears troubled me much, for I had conceived a very great regard for her. I feared that with a heart so proud and rebellious as hers, she would never get salvation, and I trembled for her happiness. How slight a hold the new faith had taken of her mind, I was forcibly reminded by an incident which was at the time a great trial to me.

My little daughter fell sick of intermittent fever, and I dared not call in a physician; it would not do for me, a missionary’s wife, to show lack of faith. Such was our zeal in those days. But now, as I once before stated, even the most orthodox Mormons, including Brigham Young, do not think of relying upon God and the ordinances of the church, as they used to in former years, but call in the best physician they can get.

I was much troubled about my little girl, for she was evidently failing fast. She had been “administered to” by one of the native elders, who had anointed her with oil, and prayed over her; but yet she did not get better. Madame Balif, in the midst of my affliction, taunted me about the child not recovering, and asked where was the power of God, of which I had talked so much: “Now,” she said “if you could get that child healed, it would be some proof to my mind that the power you speak of is still in the church.” I felt ashamed that I had not exercised more faith. I was certain that the gift of healing was in the church, and I believed it was my own fault that the child was not even now well. In my zeal I replied rather warmly, “My child will be healed, and you shall see it.” But I had no sooner uttered these words than I began to fear I had promised too much.

I determined, however, that nothing on my part should be left undone. I sent for Governor Stoudeman, our new convert, as he was the president of the branch and an elder. I told him that this child must be healed by the power of God. We had not witnessed any manifestation of the healing power among the Saints in Switzerland up to that time; and I earnestly desired that now for the first time this gift might be proved among us, for the sake of the church as well as for my own. So I told the governor that it was his duty, as well as mine, to fast and pray that the Lord might grant us this blessing, that it might be a testimony that it was His work and that we were His servants.

He became as enthusiastic as I was myself, and we fasted and prayed for nearly two days. At the end of that time he came to see me, and by the bedside we knelt and prayed; and he laid his hands upon the child, and blessed her in the name of the Lord.

That night the child was very low; and though I strove to show my faith, I dreaded that she would have her usual attack of fever about midnight. After the departure of the elder, Madame Balif came into the room, and said, “Your child is very ill; if your God cannot help her, why do not you send for a physician?” This appeared to me so profane, and such an insult to my God and my faith, that I replied indignantly, “Madame, she will and shall be healed this very night; for I know that power is in the church. The reason why the child was not healed before is, because I have not been earnest enough in seeking the Lord.”

When I was left alone I sat down by the bedside, trembling lest I had been too rash in declaring that the child would be healed that same night. Much and fondly as I loved my little treasure, I confess that I suffered more at the thought of God’s name suffering reproach than I did from fear of my darling’s death; and I tried earnestly to banish my doubts, with the remembrance that all things are possible to them that believe.

Kneeling there in the dark and lonesome midnight, I poured out my soul fervently to God, beseeching Him, for His kingdom’s sake, and for the glory of His great name, to answer, and not to suffer my unworthiness to stand in the way. I watched hour after hour beside my darling’s bed, and the child slept on peacefully, without any symptoms of returning fever; and, oh! how anxiously I waited for her awaking.

At last, worn out with fatigue and watching, I laid myself down on the bed beside her, and soon fell asleep; and when I awoke it was daylight, and my little one was peacefully sleeping on still—the fever had left her. No tongue could tell the gratitude which filled my heart; I could only weep tears of joy, and sing aloud my praise to God.

Madame Balif entered the room early in the morning to see what kind of a night we had passed. Then I drew her to the bedside, and told her how tranquilly the child had slept all night, and showed her how much better she looked, and asked her if she did not see in all this the providence of God. But she simply said, “Ah, well! I suppose the disease had run its course.” This grieved me, for I had trusted that such a direct answer to my prayers would have helped to increase her faith in our religion; but Mormonism had not touched her heart; and I believe it is much more the devotion of the heart than it is the mental acquiescence in doctrine which gives us the power to hope, and endure, and believe.

When, by-and-by, my little Clara awoke, she was evidently very much better, and not only free from the fever, but bright and cheerful, like her former self; and she never relapsed. In the course of a week she was running about as well as ever, and the Saints were greatly confirmed in their faith.

One morning, not long after this, Madame Balif brought me a letter which, as it bore the English postmark, she supposed came from my husband. The writing, however, was strange to me; and dreading that some terrible thing might have happened, I tore it open. There, at the bottom of the last page—for the letter was very long—in neat, clear characters, was the signature of my fairy friend, as I called her, Mary Burton. I read the letter through with the deepest interest. It was addressed “To darling Sister Stenhouse,” and was overflowing with affection. Used as I was to all her endearing ways, I could almost fancy that while I read I heard her speaking the words. After a great outpouring of love, she said,—

I read this letter carefully through, and I sat down and thought of dear Mary Burton, and felt deeply sorry that she should be placed in a situation surrounded by so many temptations. To myself the letter brought a sad confirmation of all my fears. There was something painful in the thought. Had Polygamy been openly avowed as a Mormon doctrine, I should never have joined the Church. But now, what could I do?

After three months’ absence, Mr. Stenhouse was to return home, and I went to Geneva to meet him, feeling very happy when I saw him once again. Numbers of persons, both in Geneva and Lausanne had been converted while he was away, and were waiting for him to baptize them—among them was a retired Protestant minister, Monsieur Petitpierre, of whom I have something yet to mention. We began at last to rejoice in our success, and to be thankful that the Lord had answered our prayers.

I was now more than ever anxious about Polygamy. From much thinking on that subject, it had become the haunting spectre of my existence, and I dreaded what every day might bring forth. The news which my husband brought with him by no means reassured me. He told me that he had heard in England from the American Elders that there was a general expectation among the Saints in Utah that at the October Conference in Salt Lake City, Brigham Young would publish to the world that Polygamy was a doctrine of the Mormon Church.

After all the prevarications and denials then of the Apostles and Elders, Polygamy among the Saints was really a fact. As the truth became clearer to my mind, I thought I should lose my senses. The very foundations of my faith were shaken, and not only did I feel a personal repugnance to the unholy doctrine, but I began to realize that the men to whom I had listened with such profound respect, and had regarded as the representatives of God, had been guilty of the most deliberate and unblushing falsehood; and I began to ask myself whether, if they could do this in order to carry out their purpose in one particular, they might not be guilty of deception upon other points? Who could I trust now? For ten years the Mormon Prophets and Apostles had been living in Polygamy at home, while abroad they vehemently denied it, and spoke of it as a deadly sin. This was a painful awakening to me; we had all of us been betrayed. I lost confidence in man, and almost began to question within myself whether I could even trust in God.

There was no argument between Mr. Stenhouse and myself. It would have been worse than useless, for it was not his doing, and he assured me that he had as great a repugnance to the doctrine as I had. He had at first only hinted that it might eventually be acknowledged by the leaders of the Church; but it was a matter of too deeply a personal character for me to keep silence, and I did not rest until he had told me all. He had not seen the revelation, but the information which he had received was beyond a question; and singularly enough Elder Margetts, the London Elder of whose flirtation in Southampton I have already spoken, was at that time on a visit to Switzerland, and confirmed all that my husband had said. Thus the very man who, two years before, first excited my suspicions, now confirmed my fears, and openly stated as a fact that which he then was ashamed almost to suggest.

Elder Margetts had been in Utah from the time I saw him in England, and was now on a mission to Italy. He knew, therefore, very well what was said and done among the Saints in Zion. I, and those like me, whose faith was not too strong, were spoken of as “babes” to whom milk only must be given; and in this way any deception necessary to quiet our tender consciences was allowable; but Elder Margetts was one of the “strong men,” to whom meat was necessary—in other words, they were initiated into all the mysteries of the faith.

My husband enjoined me not to speak of what I had heard, and I felt very little inclination to do so—my heart was too full. The pleasant dreams and hopes of life were ended now to me. What could I look forward too? Henceforth the stern realities of a lonely and weary existence were all the future that should be mine.

Still, the “Revelation” sanctioning a change in the doctrines and practice of the church, was not yet published; and until polygamy was openly avowed I felt that the doom of my happiness was not yet sealed; and like many another heart-broken woman, I hoped against hope.

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And time flew by; and at length the dreaded Revelation came.

One very pleasant morning, early in January, 1853, two Elders of the Italian Mission, Jabez Woodward and Thomas Margetts, took breakfast with us; and with them also was Mons. Petitpierre from Geneva, the Protestant minister of whom I have already spoken. While I was busy preparing the meal, Mr Stenhouse and the two English elders went to the post office to get their letters, for at that time they were expecting important news. When they returned, breakfast was quite ready, and they took their seats at the table. I asked if there were any letters from England; and my husband said, “No, no letters; but there is a Star, and it contains the Revelation on Polygamy.”

He handed me a copy of the Millennial Star, a Mormon paper published in Liverpool; and as I took it, I felt as if I were receiving my death-warrant. It was indeed the death-warrant to all my hopes of happiness. I rose from the table, asking them to excuse me; and overcome with agitation and conflicting emotions, I retired to my own chamber. There, for the first time, I read that document which has since brought such sorrow and misery to so many wronged and heart-broken women. The reader may perhaps like to see the only foundation and authority for the practice of polygamy ever produced by the Mormon leaders. So I copy exactly from the Millennial Star what I then read, leaving out only a few lines here and there, which had no special reference to the subject, but helped to swell the size of the “Revelation:”—

And this was the Revelation!—this mass of confusion, cunning absurdity, and falsehood. This was the celebrated document which was henceforth to be law to the confiding men and women who had embraced Mormonism! Looking at it now—noting its inconsistencies and its flagrant outrage upon common decency and morality, I can hardly credit that I should ever have been such a silly dupe as to give it a second thought. And yet, what could I do? I was bound hand and foot, as it were, and my very vision itself was distorted. Unquestioning obedience, we had been taught, was the highest virtue; rebellion was as the sin of witchcraft. I had been convinced of the truth of some of the tenets of the Mormon faith; and confident in them, I accepted without question all the rest. Never, till the possibility that polygamy might some day be acknowledged by the Church, began to be whispered among the Saints—never did a solitary doubt respecting my religion intrude itself upon my mind; and after my apprehensions were fairly aroused by those rumours, whenever I felt the faintest shadow of unbelief or suspicion arising in my heart, I banished it as an unholy thing. The time had not yet come when I could judge dispassionately: the Revelation aroused within me feelings of horror and dismay, but I did not dare to question its authenticity. It brought bitterness to my soul, but I believed it was from God, and that I must learn to bear the cross patiently.

I did not at that time read the document through from beginning to end. No; my indignation was such that before I had read half of it I threw it from me in anger. Perhaps if I had read it all, and considered it carefully, my own judgment and my sense of right and wrong might have pointed out its absurdity and wickedness. But I was far from being tranquil enough to think calmly. I felt bitterly that this new doctrine was a degradation to woman, and I wondered why God should see fit to humiliate my sex in this way. I was willing to devote myself, my life, my all to His service, but wherefore should He doom me to everlasting sorrow?

What now was to be a woman’s lot among the Mormons? A life without hope! Who can express the terrible meaning of those words—without hope? Yet so it was. Hereafter our hearts were to be daily and hourly trampled upon; the most sacred feelings of our sex were to be outraged, our affections were to be crushed. Henceforth we were to be nothing by ourselves; without a husband, we were told, we could not even enter heaven! But had our trials been limited to this life we might have borne them, as many a weary soul has done, waiting for the relief of death. But death was to bring no hope to us; we were told that in the other world polygamy should be the only order of marriage, and that without it none could be exalted in glory. We were told these things by men who we believed were true and holy men of God; and we trusted in them.

Rebellious I felt, indeed, as I paced the room after I had thrown the Revelation on the ground: I almost felt as if I should lose my reason. A woman in the time of trouble always looks to some one in whom she can confide; but to whom could I turn for one kind or cheering word? who would comfort me? I had neither relation nor friend to whom I could speak of this trial; there was no one who could understand me. I could not turn to my husband in this sorrow, and I dared not even kneel to my God to implore His aid. It was He, they said, who had declared this Revelation was His will; how then could I turn to Him? No; my heart sank within me; henceforth there was to be no hope, no peace, for me!

There was a knock at my chamber door, and my husband came in. He knew how acutely I must feel, and he came to comfort me. I was almost choked with emotion and tears, but he threw his arms round me tenderly, and spoke to me as if I had been a child that needed consolation. He tried to persuade me that God as a loving Father could never have intended the pain or misery of His children, and that when we came to understand the doctrine better, we should find that all would be well. He spoke also of his own unchanging attachment; and appealed to me whether I thought he could ever love me less, or place his affections on another.

I tried to believe, and when I felt a little better I went with him to the breakfast-room, where the others were waiting for us.

We were not a very entertaining party that morning. The Elders present of course knew what had kept me in my room, and their attempt at cheerfulness was not very successful. My husband was in sympathy with me, and I have no doubt that I looked sad enough. There was only one person present who did not appreciate the situation—Monsieur Petitpierre, the Protestant minister—and they handed the Revelation to him. Mr. Stenhouse and the other Elders had some misgivings as to how he would receive it, and they were afraid it might disgust him with Mormonism. But the old gentleman stood the test bravely; and I saw then, as I have seen since, that men can be easily satisfied that the Revelation on Polygamy, or any other revelation, is divine, if they desire, it to be so.

Here was old Monsieur Petitpierre, a man of more than threescore years, and childless. To him the example of Abraham and Solomon appeared most instructive—an example which might be followed with advantage. His wife, like Sarah of old, had never been called by a mother’s name; and now, although thus far he had no idea who might act the part of a second Hagar, there seemed a fair chance that a little Ishmael might perpetuate the race of Petitpierres on earth, if only the Revelation was acted upon by the faithful.

“It ought to be prayerfully thought of,” he said.

Prayerfully thought of! Poor, silly old man! Before then I had respect for his years and learning; but now—what could I think of a man who talked such nonsense? Had the Revelation told him that the wife of his youth, now tottering in step, and with hair silvered by age, was commanded to take two or a dozen young husbands—I wondered whether he would have added with such satisfaction “It ought to be prayerfully thought of!”

From that day I learned to regard polygamy as an essential part of the Mormon faith, and such for many years the world has considered it; but when I first joined the church, such an innovation would have appeared to the European Saints beyond the wildest fancies of a dream.

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I now entered upon a new phase of my missionary life; the Elders assured me that it was my duty to teach polygamy to the women of Switzerland.

Hitherto, although I had suffered much from poverty and privation, my work as a missionary had been very pleasant. I believed with my whole heart all that I taught, and my best wishes for the people around me were that they might become altogether such as I was, except in my sufferings.

Now, however, all this was changed. It was no longer salvation through faith in Christ, or repentance, or baptism; it was no longer love and peace for this world, and the promise of everlasting joy in the world to come, that I was called upon to teach. My task hitherto had been a labour of love; now it was to be a weary work of pain. How could I teach the sisters, the affection of whose guileless hearts I had won to myself—how could I teach them that which my own heart abhorred, a doctrine which I hated with my whole soul!

How I strove against my rebellious nature! how I battled with myself! That God had sent the Revelation I never questioned, and all rebellion to His will I knew must be sinful. I had no thought of evading the responsibility; my heart must be subdued. It might be subdued; it might be crushed and broken; but I could never again, I felt, be truly happy. I tried to reason with myself, and to persuade myself that it was I who was to blame and not the Revelation. If the Lord required me to submit, it must be for some good purpose; and I must not refuse the cross that He called upon me to bear. Sometimes for a few moments something would attract my attention and divert my thoughts; but the terrible reality—polygamy, refused to be ignored, and I felt all the more bitterly afterwards. I never was happy, for life had lost its charm to me. Ere I slept at night one dreadful thought was haunting my pillow—it disturbed my very dreams; and when I awoke in the morning, it was with a feverish apprehension of coming evil hanging over me. All through the long, weary day it haunted my footsteps like a spectre; and like a fearful blight that had fallen upon me, it seemed to be withering my soul. One thought was ever present in my mind—that thought, polygamy!

It can be no wonder that I lost all interest in life, and that I should almost wish to die rather than live that life of degradation which I dreaded would be mine. But death flies from those who woo her; the wretched, the weary, the hopeless, they find her not. I felt that there was no rest for me. My only comfort was in my children; no revelation, I felt, could change their relationship to me. But over my little daughter Clara I mourned, for I thought if this revelation were acted upon by the Saints, as doubtless it would be, she would some day be called upon to suffer as I did. How little did I then, however, anticipate in what way my fears would be realized! My Clara became the daughter-in-law of Brigham Young, having married his eldest son, Joseph A. Young.

I am afraid at that time I was somewhat of a trial to my husband, for my heart was not yet quite subdued. I grew impatient at the wrong which I felt had been done to me, and I often said bitter things against the Prophet of the Lord and all his sex, including my husband, who was then, and for years after, a devoted Mormon, and was quite horrified at what I said. He often told me that I was a great hindrance to him, and that it was impossible for any one who lived with me to enjoy the Spirit of God—and I was afraid that he only spoke the truth.

Then I repented, and sought to chasten myself; and I fasted and prayed, and asked forgiveness of God and my husband. But even when most subdued I was as unhappy as ever, and some one was sure to say something which reminded me of my trouble; and whenever the elders came to the house they were sure to discuss the one painful topic. Then my indignant feelings all came back again, and I felt the spirit of rebellion stirring within me. I could not help it, for I felt that woman’s nature itself was insulted by the degrading doctrine, and any mention of it excited my anger.

My husband and the Elders had anticipated that I would not readily submit, and they bore with me as patiently as they could, losing no opportunity of strengthening me in the faith, ever keeping before me the obligation that rested upon me in particular to explain the doctrine to the Swiss sisters. They knew very well that nothing tends more to confirm the faith of the wavering than setting them to teach others. Brigham Young has always acted on this principle, and whenever any of the brethren have evinced signs of doubt or disaffection they have been at once despatched on a mission. Their efforts to convert others established their own faith.

Among the Swiss we had never spoken on polygamy or any kindred subject, and we were therefore spared the humiliation which the British Elders experienced in having to retract their own teachings. Nevertheless, Mr. Stenhouse and the other Elders felt great anxiety as to how the new doctrine would be received. My husband did not at once openly tell them that such a Revelation had been sent from Zion; but whenever an opportunity presented he took them aside singly, and spoke to them about the ancient patriarchs who practised polygamy; and so great was his influence with the converts that he soon won them over to the new teaching, and made them feel that they would not be justified in rejecting the Revelation. Many of the Swiss Saints before their conversion had been more Socialists than Christians, and they probably thought that this change in the marriage institution was a sign of advancing intellectual supremacy; but their wives were very far from sharing these opinions with them.

After many days and nights of prayer and fasting I prepared myself for my work. To a certain extent I had brought my own self under control—or I thought I had; and I almost felt anxious to begin, so that I might get over the painful scenes which I fully anticipated. It was agreed that Madame Balif, of whom I have already spoken as being rather sceptical when my child recovered from her critical condition, should be the first to whom the intelligence should be imparted, for it was thought that if she accepted this Revelation without much difficulty, the other sisters would be more easily won over. She was a well educated and intelligent woman, and had seen a good deal of the world. She had met her husband while travelling in Russia, had married him, and they had returned to their native land. She was in every respect a lady, but she was a spoilt child, and had her whims; and she possessed a great influence over the minds of the other sisters. On this account it was that she was selected as the victim to whom should be first imparted the mysteries of the Revelation, for it was thought that whatever reception she might give to polygamy, her views would greatly influence the conduct of the rest.

As I before mentioned, Madame Balif and her husband were models of affection to one another, and it seemed to me quite a sin that I should introduce into such a household a doctrine which could only produce disunion and misery. I had, however, schooled my heart to what I thought was my duty, and I strove to smother the rebellion rising within me. But, after all, it seemed to me hardly fair that I should be selected for this painful task. These husbands had not courage enough, or were ashamed, to tell their own wives about this wonderful Revelation; and so I, a weak woman, hating in my heart the doctrine as much as a woman could hate—I was chosen to introduce this pleasant subject, and to persuade those I loved to their own ruin. I had had it all fully explained to me, and I thoroughly understood the beauties of the system in the sight of the elders, and what they considered the strong points in the Revelation;—but it is miserable work to try to convince others of a thing that you yourself detest.

One day, quite unexpectedly to her, they had told Madame Balif that a new Revelation had been sent from Zion, and that I would explain it to her; then Monsieur Balif left the house, and remained absent until the wife whom he so devotedly loved should have heard this new thing.

Madame Balif came down stairs singing, in her usual gay spirits, little expecting what she was going to hear; and when she came to me I felt so unfitted for my task that I dared not look her straight in the face, although she was my dearest friend, and I had such an affection for her. I stood there, pale and trembling, and she thought that I was not well. I was not indeed well; I was sick at heart. Never before had the face of a friend been so unwelcome.

She asked me what it was that I had to tell her; and when I hesitatingly denied having wanted to speak to her at all, she said she knew there must be something, as her husband had told her so.

I hesitated still; but at last found courage, and told her all. It was a cruel task to impose upon me. Day after day I had observed her and her husband, I had noticed their deep affection; had seen her watching at the window for his return; and he would come with a little offering of choice fruit or flowers; and I thought no woman could be happier than Madame Balif. And now for me to so cruelly awaken them from their dream of bliss!

She sat and listened eagerly as I told my story; and when at length she began to understand what was meant by it, she thought that I must be playing some unseasonable joke upon her, and showed as much in her countenance. But when she saw that I really was in earnest, she sprang up, and cried out, “Oh, my God! what a beastly religion! How dared your husband and you come to us Swiss with such a religion as that?” My eyes sank before her as she turned on me with mingled rage and disgust, as if she would wither me with her contemptuous looks. I felt as humbled as if I myself had been the author of the Revelation.

“And does my Serge believe this?” she cried.

I assured her that he did believe it, and she paced the room, to and fro, as if she would go crazy; my heart ached for her. She gave way to a perfect storm of rage, and then sobbed and cried like a child who had lost its mother. I was silent, for I knew how she must feel, and I felt that she would be relieved by tears. I had gone through the trial all alone, without one word from a woman’s heart that could reach my own. And I tried to comfort her. I remembered how I had felt myself, and I believed that thus it was now with her. In an instant, when I first realized that polygamy had anything to do with me, just as I have heard it said of dying men, all my past life rushed to my remembrance, and every word or deed of love therein, stood out in brightest reality. Thus I doubted not it was with my friend. Every tender word which her husband had ever uttered; every loving deed he had ever done, came to her recollection with a ten-fold dearness as she realized the horrors which awaited her in the future.

How little did we either of us imagine the story she would afterwards tell me in Utah!

I tried to soothe her, and she threw her arms passionately round me, and pressed me to her throbbing heart, and wept again. She thought of her husband and her little girls. But with all her fears she dreamed not how miserable was the life before her in poverty and polygamy. She was herself handsome in form and fair in feature; and, in the full enjoyment of all that could be desired in her sphere of life, she was as happy as a youthful wife could be. She pictured to herself a time—not now, her Serge loved her too truly now—when her husband might cast his eyes upon some blooming damsel, younger than she was then, and might begin to take a nearer interest in polygamy. She pictured him bestowing on the youthful beauty the love and tenderness which he had always bestowed on her; how his affections would die out towards her; how her heart would be desolate and alone!

I took her hand in mine and spoke very gently to her; and when she was calmer, I talked to her more freely. We found now, as we tried to look our common enemy in the face, how strong a hold Mormonism had taken of us; and it is in this that persons unacquainted with the Saints have so greatly misjudged the women of Utah; they know how small a hold such a religion—now they look upon Mormonism and polygamy as identical—would have upon them; and they forget how all-absorbing was our faith in Mormonism without polygamy. We confided not wisely, but too well.

Had polygamy been an invention of our husbands, or a system which they capriciously adopted, we might have been grieved, but we should have known how to act, for we were in a Christian country, where women had rights as well as men; it was our own hearts which were traitors to us. We had been taught to regard Abraham and Jacob, and David and Solomon as types of holiness, as men who were fit objects for imitation; and now it was proved to us, from Scripture, that these men were polygamists, and yet were blessed by God; and we were called upon to follow their example. Thus we tried to crush out the remembrance of our own womanhood. Had we but followed the light of reason which God had given for our guide, we should have trampled in the dust that vile burlesque upon the holy religion of Jesus called a “Revelation upon Celestial Marriage.” As it was, the religious teachings which we had received, both before and after we embraced Mormonism, alike combined to blind us to the truth.

In this state of mind we knelt, and prayed for the Lord to increase our faith in that very doctrine which in our hearts we cursed and hated; and on our knees we wept again; and natural feelings of repugnance mingled with an earnest struggle to submit to the will of God. Madame Balif had not so much faith in Mormonism as I had, and she had consequently less to trouble her in that respect; but she loved her husband, and she knew that he was determined to go to Zion as soon as he could; and then not only would all the luxuries of a happy home be sacrificed, but all her anticipations of the future were overshadowed by a terrible apprehension. Thus we were equally troubled, though I had to endure most, as the task of teaching fell upon me. I did at last manage to persuade her not to offer any active opposition to the Revelation, but I could not satisfy her that all was right. She even went so far as to promise to try to overcome her own feelings, for if it was really true she did not wish to be found fighting against the Lord. She had, however, hardly ceased speaking when the thought of her little daughters crossed her mind, and once more she paced the room like an enraged tigress, declaring angrily that “no vile polygamist should ever possess either of her sweet girls.” I had felt like this for my own darling Clara.

I had now a companion in misery, some one who could sympathize with me. Even had my husband detested the doctrine as I did, he could not have comforted me as a woman and a mother could. My poor friend could feel as I felt, and her sympathy was very dear to me; misery loves companionship; we were sisters in affliction. Not only so, Madame Balif declared that this painful task should not rest on me alone; she would help me in speaking to the sisters. Thus we helped each other in the time of our trouble.

It must have been about this time that I received another letter from Mary Burton. The postmark is quite indistinct, but a week or two one way or the other does not signify much. In her usual quick and impulsive way, she gave me her views of the “beauties” of polygamy, and perhaps the reader would like to hear what she said.

Poor girl! I said, as I folded up her letter; but it is better for her to suffer a little now, than for her to have been married first, as I was, and then, when too late to go back, to have polygamy announced as an article of faith.

---

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.

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The afternoon following, Mary herself came to see me, her face all flushed with excitement, and eager to tell me something.

“Whom do you think I’ve been talking to, Sister Stenhouse?” she exclaimed. “You’d never guess.”

“I don’t think there’s much need for guessing,” I said. “Your face betrays the secret, Mary.”

“Well,” she said, “perhaps it does, but you wouldn’t wonder at it, if you only knew how very anxious I have been. All this time I have kept my word, and I did not see him or speak to him once, except at meetings, and not much then, and I have been very unhappy. This afternoon I came round about an hour ago to see you, and there on the step was Elder Shrewsbury. He said he was here yesterday, and was just going to call on you again, and then he asked me to go a little way with him, as he had something very important to say to me. At first I refused to go, but he wouldn’t listen to it for a moment. So I went with him, and we have been talking ever since; or rather he has been talking, and I have been listening to him. I can’t tell you, Sister Stenhouse, all he said—you can guess better than I can tell you. But I’m afraid I shall not be able to keep my resolution much longer, for when we came back to the door again he said he wouldn’t come in to see you now, and when he begged me to let him call at Mrs. Elsworth’s to-morrow night, I did not feel it in my heart to refuse him;—was it very wrong of me to do so?”

Said I, “I’m afraid, Mary, my opinion would not matter much either way; Elder Shrewsbury’s eloquence is the music which you like best to listen to.”

She blushed, and came and sat down beside me, and we talked together until the sun went down and my little room was quite dark. I told her of my troubles in Switzerland, and of the miserable effects of introducing Polygamy there; and she in return told me all her love affairs with Elder Shrewsbury and of her resolution not to listen to him unless he solemnly promised never to have anything to do with the hated Revelation. Her faith in Mormonism itself had, as I expected, been very severely shaken; and I think that had it not been for my efforts to reassure her, she would have left the Church at that time. Would to God she had.

After tea, she said, “Have you a copy of the Revelation here, Sister Stenhouse? I want to show you some strong points in it which I think will astonish you. I learned all about it from Elder Shrewsbury that night when he came to see me, and it was that that disgusted me with the whole affair.” We searched through my trunk but could not find the document, and I told her that I had not patience to read it quite through when it was given to me, and that since then I was not sure that I had even seen it. “Never mind,” she said; “I’ll bring it with me when I come again.”

How often have I thought since how much depended upon that trifling circumstance. Had we then together read over the Revelation and noticed the “strong points” of which she spoke, I believe my eyes would have been opened, and I never should have submitted to the misery which I afterwards endured in Utah.

Towards the end of the year 1855 it was determined that a company of Mormon emigrants, numbering several hundreds, should leave Liverpool en route for Salt Lake City; and for that purpose a vessel was chartered early in November. This was not the ordinary season for emigration, but there were then in England numbers of the Saints, anxious to go to Zion, but too poor to pay their passage all the way. It was thought that when they arrived in New York they would have time to earn sufficient to carry them on, and it was then supposed they could join those who came over by the ordinary spring emigration. My husband and myself were counselled to join these emigrants in Liverpool and proceed at once to New York.

The Mormons in London were very kind to us before we left, and did all they could to help us in preparing for our journey. A kinder people than the Saints in Europe could nowhere be found. My husband had been directed to take charge of the emigrants in the transit from London to Liverpool, and consequently I received no assistance from him. It seemed to me a very cruel arrangement for the Elders to take away from me and my helpless little ones the very person to whom we ought naturally to have turned for protection; but what were the feelings of a weak woman when they came in conflict with the “counsel” of inspired Apostles?

We arrived at Liverpool the same evening, and there my husband was relieved of the charge of the company, and some of the brethren were appointed to see that the baggage was safely transferred from the railway to the ship. Early the next morning we went on board, and it was not long before we began to experience the pleasures (?) of an emigrant life.

Before we set out for Liverpool, I had been told that on board ship I should be able to obtain all the “help” that I might desire; and, anxious to provide for the comfort of the children, I engaged the services of two young girls to look after them and assist me generally. This was an imprudent step, as I afterwards found to my cost; but at the time I thought that I had made a very sensible arrangement. Help being secured, my next thought was to get our berths fixed, so that all might be ready before the rolling of the ship began. My first inquiries were for our bedding; but it was nowhere to be found. Now this was very annoying, for we were all tired, and the children, poor things, were fidgetty; and anticipating a long and unpleasant voyage, I wanted to have everything in readiness. Besides which I had made special preparations in the shape of many additional comforts which I knew on board ship would be absolutely necessary, and had even sold my watch and jewellery for that purpose.

I inquired of the proper authorities, but could obtain no information, and nothing remained but for me to wait until the Apostle came on board to bid a final adieu to the emigrants. I felt this annoyance all the more, as I considered that we had no right to expect such mismanagement. We would naturally have preferred to make our own arrangements and to go alone, had we been permitted to do so; but we had, over and over again, been instructed not to go by any other vessel than that chartered by the Apostle Richards, that so we might escape the perils which were sure to overtake the Gentiles. Imagine our disgust when we found that as there were not enough of the Saints to occupy the whole ship, the lower deck was filled with Irish emigrants of a very low order, and that their luggage and ours had been thrown together indiscriminately into the hold. Most of the Mormon emigrants recovered their property when they arrived at New York; but as for our own, personally, we never saw it again, and all the voyage through we were left utterly destitute.

Nothing remained but for me to put the best face I could upon matters. I took my wearing apparel and other articles out of the trunks and put them into pillow-slips, and extemporized as well as I could a rough substitute for beds. These served for the children, and I covered them with my cloaks and shawls; and for our own berths and bed-covering I had only a few pieces of carpet which I put aside for the cabin floor, together with a worn-out blanket which an old lady on board was good enough to lend me. This was our going to Zion.

We had not been long at sea when the young sisters whom I had engaged to help me fell sick, and some of the brethren were very anxious to nurse them. This appeared to be quite the established order of things, for I then found that it was very seldom that a Mormon emigrant ship crossed the ocean without one or more marriages on board. It was, no doubt, very interesting to them, but to me it was extremely inconvenient, especially considering that my husband had now taken to his berth, which he did not leave during the remainder of the voyage, and myself and the children were not much better off.

Sick as I was, I had to prepare our food and manage everything, for in those times emigrants either took out their own provisions or were allowanced in raw material, and in either case had to do their own cooking. My chief difficulty was in getting what I had prepared to the fire-galley, for I could not leave the children, and I was afraid to venture myself upon deck. So I got any of the brethren who chanced to be passing to take it up, and of course they were willing to oblige me; but the galley was so crowded—every one having his or her own interest to attend to—that I very rarely, if ever, had my provisions decently cooked, and on more than one occasion I never saw them again. This was an inconvenience which emigrants do not suffer at the present day.

Unsuccessful with the young sisters, I thought I would try if I could not get one of the brethren to help me, and fortune at first appeared to favour me. There was on board a young man—Harry they called him—and he was so situated that I found it easy to open a negotiation with him. He had been a saddler’s apprentice in a country town in England, and having listened to some itinerant preacher, had been converted, joined the Church, and began to think for himself. So hearing that terrible judgments were quickly coming upon the Old World, he resolved to flee to the New, and in his hurry to get there he forgot to inform his master that he was about to leave. This accounted for his being so badly provided for.

Now, Harry had those two great blessings—a splendid appetite and unimpeachable powers of digestion. I will not say that he enjoyed these two blessings, for that he did not, on account of lacking a third blessing, namely, the wherewithal to make the first two blessings a pleasure, and not an inconvenience. The ship’s allowance was altogether insufficient for him, and he therefore gladly engaged to do what few things I required upon condition that I should add a little to his own private commissariat.

Harry was a smart lad and at first very useful, and he soon convinced me that he had told the truth when he said that he had not had enough to eat ever since he came on board—it seemed to me very questionable whether he ever had before. He had, however, nothing to complain of in that respect while in our employment; for although the children were able to eat whenever we had anything fit for them, my husband and myself could seldom touch our rations, and as everything that was not used fell to Harry’s share, he fared pretty well.

Harry was not the lad to neglect his own interests, and as our interests appeared just then to be his also, matters worked very harmoniously. Our bread was never now brought back to us half raw or burnt to a cinder. It must be properly cooked for our eating or it would not do for Harry’s; and as for it being lost or delayed on its way to or from the galley, that was, of course, quite out of the question. But the strangest thing of all connected with Harry was that immediately after his coming we were incessantly annoyed by the rats. I had brought for the children’s use a small supply of preserves and other little delicacies; but these mysteriously disappeared with alarming rapidity; and whenever I saved any trifle for the children to eat between meals, that also was gone when it was wanted, and in every instance Harry suggested that it was “the rats,” though I never could find any traces of those interesting animals. I was sorry to part with Harry, for he used to tell funny stories to the children, and amused them a great deal; but “the rats” and Harry were so closely associated in my mind, that I thought if Harry left the rats might perhaps also cease their visits. So Harry went, and I was once more left alone to do the best I could.

The weather was very cold, and we felt its severity very much. The rigging of the ship was hung with icicles, and, without fire or warmth of any sort, it is no wonder that we all were soon hardly able to move from cold and sickness.

In the midst of my trouble I was told of an ancient Scotch sister—a maiden lady, sharp and shrewd—who, like the miser in Scott’s “Fortunes of Nigel,” was willing to help us “for a consideration.” It was agreed that she should give me her services for the remainder of the voyage; and the “consideration” was to be two pounds English. Small as was our stock of money, and much as I knew we should need it upon our arrival, I felt that I could do no better than engage her. There was no saying upon whom she might chance to set her maiden fancy, but there was not the remotest chance of any of the brethren falling in love with her; so I considered her a safe investment, and, besides, I must have somebody—there was no alternative.

It was now Christmas time—a season sacred to joyous memories and festivities; but to us, exiles and wanderers, seeking a land of which we knew nothing, and which to us was a new and untried world, it was far from being a happy time. In the midst of the wild, dreary ocean there was nothing to recall the pleasant reminiscences of the past, or to inspire us with hope and courage as we thought of the future.

The captain told us that we might prepare to eat our Christmas dinner in New York; but he was mistaken in his calculations. We did not eat our Christmas dinner in New York, as he had promised. A storm came on, which compelled us to stand out to sea again, and then a dead calm followed, and it was not until New Year’s eve that we set foot upon the shore of the New World.

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Very cold, and dark, and dreary, were the first days which we spent in the New World. That faith which once had led me to hope, and believe, and “endure all things,” was now powerless to nerve me to any new course of action for my religion’s sake; for the dark shadow of Polygamy had come across my way; hope had fled, and my love, with the love of many other faithful Saints, had waxed cold.

To my husband and children I was, of course, devotedly attached, and was willing to combat any difficulty or endure any trial with them, or for their sake; and it was not long before my constancy was put to the test.

The Mormon emigrants have always a Captain and two “Counsellors” to every company. The Captain on board the “Emerald Isle,”—the vessel in which we came—was a returning Utah Elder;—one of his Counsellors was also a returning Elder, and my husband was the other. As soon as the Mormon Captain had come on shore, and had reported to the Apostle in charge of the New York Saints, he left to visit his friends. The Utah Counsellor had a young lady in the company to whom he had become very much attached, and who afterwards became one of his wives. I was not, therefore, surprised that, as soon as he could get his baggage, he also should disappear; but my husband—the other Counsellor—being encumbered with a wife and family, was obliged to remain, and the whole charge of seeing to the company devolved upon him.

We had, therefore, to remain in Castle Gardens until the whole company of emigrants was provided for; and during all the next week I, with my four children, remained in that public place, sick and weary, and as destitute of bedding and covering as we had been on board ship. The weather was intensely cold, and, unaccustomed as we were to the severity of an American winter, we suffered not a little. The other unfortunate victims to faith were in the same condition, with the exception that they had something to sleep on at nights, while I had nothing but the bare boards for my bed since we left Liverpool;—all that I could gather together had been reserved for my babes. How we lived through that journey I know not, but I am certain that, could I have foreseen what we should have to endure, I would never have left England, whatever my refusal might have cost me.

I could not refrain from contrasting my life before and since I knew Mormonism. Before, I scarcely knew what suffering was, so little had I been called upon to endure. I never knew what it was to be without money, or to want for anything; but now I was in a strange land, in the depth of winter, without a home, without a pillow to rest my weary head upon, and with a future before me so dark that not a single ray of light gave to it the promise of hope. Could any slavery be more complete than mine? My fanaticism and zeal were all gone—I had nothing to sustain me. Certainly, I was still held by the fear that Mormonism, after all, might be of God, and that all this suffering might be necessary for my salvation—but if at that time I had only had a friend whose mind was clear from all the nonsense of Mormonism, and who had felt sufficient interest in me to advise me for my good, I think even then I might have freed myself from the mental slavery in which I was bound. But I had no intercourse with any but Mormons; and, indeed, a wish to form Gentile friendships I should then have considered a sin.

A week after our arrival, my husband found time to seek for apartments for his family, and I was thankful to leave our miserable quarters at Castle Gardens.

The Mormon authorities had, meanwhile, given instructions to the other emigrants how to act, and they did little more than this. Those who had not found work or places to go to were ordered to leave the gardens, and received permission to occupy an old dilapidated school-room in Williamsburgh, which had been used for preaching. I went there almost daily to see them, and therefore state what I saw as an eye-witness, and neither exaggerate nor misrepresent. There they huddled together, about one hundred and fifty—men, women and children. Most of the men had been respectable mechanics in their own country; many of them I had known personally and had visited in their cosy English homes; and their wives and families had been decently brought up. What they must have suffered under this change of circumstances I leave the reader to guess.

In that miserable place they lived day and night—the poor, dispirited mothers (many of them very sick) having to cook, and wash, and perform all the necessary domestic duties, round two small sheet-iron stoves. It was not long before the place became like a pest-house from so many being confined in so small a place, and breathing the same fetid and pestilential atmosphere; and many of the young children died of an epidemic which was raging among them.

They had saved some of the ship’s provisions, and that was all they had to eat, and it did not last long. To me it was most distressing to witness so much misery without being able to render any assistance, particularly to see the poor little children shivering and crying with hunger and cold, while many of their mothers were in such a miserable state of apathy that they paid little or no attention to them. I often tried to awaken in them feelings of human sympathy, but I was met with a murmur of discontent. The people, men and women alike—seemed to be utterly demoralized. Nor can this be a matter of wonder; for in England the men had been told that—while at home they could only earn four or five shillings a day, and would never be able to put by enough to carry them all the way to Utah—in New York they would be able to earn two-and-a-half to three, and even four dollars a day—equal to from ten to sixteen shillings English—and that employers would even come on board ship anxious to engage them. Thus they had by false statements been allured from their homes and plunged into the most abject poverty. Day by day they went out seeking work, but finding none; willing to do anything to provide bread for their families, but returning nightly, unsuccessful, to their starving wives and children.

My own resources were gone. I could do nothing. When we left Castle Gardens I think we only had about five dollars left, while the heavy snow which covered the ground and the intense cold promised many weeks of unusual severity. Needing so greatly pity myself, how I sympathized with those poor sufferers, how I pitied them!

In the midst of all this, the Apostle John Taylor learned that some of these poor souls had been seen begging. So he came from his comfortable boarding-house in Brooklyn, well wrapped up in a handsome overcoat, and scolded these poor, starving creatures, and harangued them concerning the meanness of begging. With great swelling words he spoke of the dignity of the Saints of the Most High, and told them that he despised a Mormon who could fall to the level of a common street beggar.

Could he have heard the unspoken curses of the poor, wounded hearts of those who listened to him, as they thought of his brother “Apostle” in England, and of how he had deceived them and sent them into a strange country, in the depth of winter, to beg, to starve, or to steal, he would have learned that though the victim of a delusive faith may mentally submit to man-made creeds and priesthoods, in his heart he will judge, not so much the words he hears as the man who utters them.

The wisdom of the Apostle found out a remedy. He “counselled” the men and boys to buy shovels, and go forth into the streets and clean away the snow from the fronts of the doors and from the side-walks, and told them that they would thus get plenty of money to keep them until winter was over. One elderly brother, who had a little money left, bought a stock of shovels; but the emigrants found that there were plenty of others who were as eager as they for work, and who were much better acquainted with the way of obtaining it. The shovel experiment was a failure, and the poor old brother lost his money in the investment.

For whatever the Apostle Taylor may have contributed to these unfortunate persons—whether in “counsel,” money, or provisions—he will doubtless have his reward; and, for aught I know, he may have been unable to give anything more than counsel; but, at the same time, my opinion of the value of counsel remains unchanged. There has been no lack of “counsel” or counsellors in the Mormon Church. “Counsel” has been given in abundance to all, and by no means always for the benefit of those who received it. It was not, however, because he failed to assist them practically that the people hated the Apostle Taylor, and have hated him ever since; but it was for his pride and arrogance, and the way in which he dared to talk to free-born Englishmen and Englishwomen about the dignity of the Priesthood, and the contempt in which he held them in the hour of their humiliation and distress—for that they hated him.

I do not, of course, wish to justify the people in begging; such conduct would have been despicable if they could have found employment of any sort. But when I saw the starving condition of those men and their helpless families, in that wretched school-house, in my heart I almost honoured them for having the courage to beg; and I thanked God that the “mean Yankee Gentiles”—as the Elders taught the Saints to call American citizens who did not believe in Mormonism—were able and willing to assist them.

One of those emigrants very recently related to me some of the painful circumstances through which he passed at that time. He told me that he walked the streets of Williamsburgh for three days and three nights without a mouthful of anything to eat, or a place to lay his head;—he could obtain no work, and at length, in sheer desperation, he was forced to beg. The Church authorities knew well the misery of the people, but took no adequate steps to alleviate it.

During the first weeks after our arrival in New York city, we had nothing to depend upon but the provisions which we had saved from the ship’s rations. I had known what it was to be in a foreign country without money and without food; and on board ship I took care of our rations when they were not consumed by Harry or “the rats;” for I thought that if I did not need them—which, indeed, I sincerely hoped might be the case—I could certainly find some one who would be thankful for them. These rations consisted chiefly of sugar that was almost black; very bad black tea, which when made looked like dye; the poorest kind of sea-biscuit; and other things accordingly. The provisions for the Mormon emigrants were purchased in bulk by the Church authorities, who made their own profits out of them, and the Apostle at Liverpool had the benefit of all that could be saved out of them during the voyage. It was commonly said among the people that the sight of them alone was quite sufficient for any one who was not half-starved; and yet they had paid the price of the best.

We had been in New York several weeks when one day my husband called at the office of a paper called The Mormon, and there met with the Apostle Taylor, who conducted that paper. The Apostle expressed great regret that Mr. Stenhouse should be without occupation at that season of the year, and with a family of children upon his hands. This sympathy, coming from a brother Missionary was, I thought, very tardy, for my husband had then devoted over ten years of his life to the cause, and his record in the Church had been untarnished. The Apostle was living in an elegant house, surrounded by every comfort and luxury, while he knew that we had not so much as a chair, or even a bed to lie upon. What had he done for the Church more than my husband had done? Indeed, I firmly believe that he had not endured half so much, but—he was an Apostle! His unhelping sympathy appeared to me a little more than questionable.

He told my husband that he might come into the office of The Mormon, and write the addresses on the wrappers, and that he would give him a few dollars a week “to help things along,” until something better presented itself. My husband thought this a disinterested action on the part of the Apostle John Taylor, but my experience in Mormonism led me to be distrustful and suspicious of everything that an Elder or Apostle said or did. This offer, however, came when we really had nothing to look to, and dared not refuse any assistance that was offered, however small it might be. But I must admit that my ideas of Apostolic liberality were very much shocked when at the end of the week Mr. Stenhouse informed me that he had been allowed four dollars for his services, and that out of that magnificent sum the Apostle John Taylor had deducted twenty-five cents which sheer necessity had compelled him to borrow for the week’s ferriage.

The Apostle-editor had two assistants from Utah with him in The Mormon office—the one a “Seventy,” and the other a “High-Priest”—terms and titles which I shall presently explain. A few weeks after my husband entered the office, the “Seventy” who had charge of getting out the paper was allowed to return to Zion. The High-Priest remained in the Eastern States visiting alternately the various branches of the Church, and doing some very zealous courting with a young English girl who lived in Williamsburgh, while his two unsuspecting wives at home in Salt Lake City were earnestly praying the Lord to bless him in his “mission.”

Whatever the Apostle may have thought of his associate, he could not very well remonstrate with him, for he himself was, and had been for some time, doing a good deal in that line with an amiable Connecticut girl, and was only waiting for special permission from Brigham Young, to add her to the half-dozen wives he already had in Utah.

There was, moreover, another High-Priest attached to that office, but no one seemed to understand his exact position. To all appearance his principal occupation was travelling from New York to Connecticut and from Connecticut back again to New York. He was a very robust-looking man, but it was reported that he was troubled with heart-disease, and that the purer air of Connecticut was a great relief to him. This I fully believed when, some time after, I discovered that the young lady engaged to the Apostle had a charming sister, for I thought it very probable that she rendered no small assistance to the Connecticut air in giving relief to his diseased heart.

My husband not being at that particular time under the influence of “heart-disease,” soon became very useful on the editorial staff. In fact, pretty well everything was left to him, and not unfrequently for two or three days he saw nothing of the Apostle or either of his associates, and the whole responsibility of getting out the paper—at the magnificent salary of four dollars a week!—rested upon him. He was told that he must regard it as a mission, and be prepared to act accordingly.

In course of time, however, the visits to Connecticut came to an end. The Apostle obtained Brother Brigham’s permission to practise a little Polygamy among the Gentiles, and Miss Young made him an excellent housekeeper in a handsomely furnished house in Brooklyn. The poor High-Priest and the Seventy did not fare so well: they were expected to wait until they reached Zion. The two young ladies to whom they were engaged were amiable and good girls, who would without doubt have met with excellent husbands either in or out of the Church; but the name of an Apostle or High-Priest—when the men themselves were away from home—carried with it many charms, and won the hearts of the young ladies and their friends. The Apostle was, of course, well used to the training of wives in the “celestial order,” and when he returned home with his youngest bride he suffered no particular inconvenience. But the High-Priests realized the truth of the adage “The course of true love never did run smooth.” The first wife of one of them refused to have anything to do with his new bride, and kept him at a respectful distance from herself then and ever afterwards; while the first wife of the other declined to acknowledge the claims of her youthful rival. The first High-Priest has gone to heaven; the other, in the course of time, gave a bill of divorce to his wife. What happiness either of these three girls found in Polygamy they best know, but the young widow appears decidedly the happiest of the three.

I had heard much while in London about men taking wives “from principle,” and that, after the first wife, they made no open display of their love, but I could not see that they differed in the slightest from their Gentile brethren in that respect; the Utah Elders of whom I have spoken always seemed to be very human. In all Polygamic courtships that I have since witnessed, the brethren have appeared to think that the “Lord’s” revelation was a trifle too slow in arranging affairs of the heart, and they have been zealously preparing for its coming. In some instances the revelation has come too late, and in many others it would have been very disastrous if it had not come at all. In all cases it may be safely asserted that all that has been said about getting the consent of the first wife and obtaining a revelation from the Lord as to whether it is pleasing in His sight for a man to take another wife, or not—is pure folly and nonsense. Brigham Young is the only “lord” who has ever been consulted on that question. If he acknowledged this to the people and they chose to abide by it, they alone would be to blame; but it is the grossest of frauds for men claiming to be the representatives of Jesus Christ to play upon the credulity of an honest people, trifling with the most sacred subjects, and telling them that God answers by special revelation and declares whether or not it is His will that each of these plural marriages should take place. The Apostles and Elders themselves are not deceived. They know well enough that there is no truth in all this mockery; they know that the only source of all their revelations is the man Brigham Young.

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One Sunday morning in early spring I attended a meeting of the Saints in Williamsburgh.

My husband was there, and took part in the service, and so did the Apostle Taylor, and one or two other Utah Elders. I went to that meeting in a very desponding state of mind, for our prospects since the day of our arrival had not brightened very much, and I felt the need of some comforting and cheering words.

Whether it was the influence of the clear spring morning, or that the Elders had noticed the depression of spirit among the Saints, I cannot tell, but I know that on that particular occasion their words seemed to me more earnest and encouraging than they had been for a long time past.

As we came out from the meeting, Brother Benton, one of the Elders, stepped up to my husband, and said, “Brother Stenhouse, they are expected to arrive to-night or to-morrow; I suppose you will be down at the ‘Gardens’ to meet them.”

I knew well enough who “they” were who were expected to arrive, and so did Mr. Stenhouse. “Yes,” he said, “of course I shall be there, but most likely we shall have to wait a few days before they come.” Then he stopped and talked over the matter with Elder Benton.

Now it chanced that at that time Brigham Young was trying an experiment. The “Prophet of the Lord” sometimes finds it necessary—notwithstanding the “revelations” which he is supposed to receive—to try experiments like other men before he can feel sure that his plans are likely to succeed. The only difference between him and other men is, that he—knowing himself that his plans are his own inventions, or the inventions of the leaders—gives out that they come direct from God, thereby deceiving the ignorant, innocent, and confiding people; and when his plans fail, as they often do, he never confesses that he is wrong or mistaken, but lays all the blame on some other person, or, failing that, on “the Lord” or the devil. Other men, as a rule, say nothing about “the Lord” or devil, but when their experiments fail they frankly confess that they themselves were not inspired, but were liable to err. That is all the difference.

In the present instance Brigham Young tried an experiment upon a rather large scale.

Up to the year 1856 the Mormon emigrants made the journey from the Frontiers across the Plains by ox-teams, as I have already described, and every season some of the wealthier Mormons formed themselves into an independent company, paid their own expenses, and travelled with more comfort. The expense to the poorer emigrants was very small, for they performed the greater part of the journey on foot—the ox-teams being used for transporting provisions and baggage—one hundred pounds of the latter being allowed to each emigrant.

This “plan” was, so far, a success, and the settlements of the Saints increased thereby, slowly but surely, in population and wealth. There were, however, at that time, thousands of Saints in Europe anxious to emigrate, but who were too poor to provide the small sum requisite for that purpose. During the winter of 1855 this difficulty was discussed in Conference by Brigham and the leading men in Salt Lake, and some one suggested what was afterwards known as the “Hand-Cart Scheme.” The idea of this “scheme” was to transfer the people from Liverpool to the Frontiers in the cheapest possible way, and for them then to cross the Plains with light-made hand-carts, just strong enough to carry the fewest possible necessary articles, but sufficiently light for the men, women, and even young girls, to draw them.

This “plan” would not perhaps have been a bad one if it had been properly carried out, and if Brigham Young had seen, as he might have done, that suitable preparations were made beforehand. But the Hand-Cart Emigration Scheme began with a lie and ended in ruin.

The confiding Saints were told that “God” had specially inspired His servant Brigham for this purpose, and the scheme was a revelation direct from on high.—No proper measures were taken to provide for the emigrants—all was done upon faith—faith on the part of the people in their—as they supposed—inspired leaders; deception on the part of those leaders towards the people, whose only fault was that they trusted them too well.

The Millennial Star proclaimed the “plan” to the Saints in Europe, and so great was the response to this special summons that in that year—1856—it was roughly estimated that no fewer than five or six thousand Mormon emigrants travelled from Liverpool to Salt Lake City. It was the first company of these emigrants that Brother Benton alluded to when he told Mr. Stenhouse that “they” were expected that night or the next; but in those days emigrant vessels were frequently delayed by adverse winds and other circumstances, and no one could calculate upon the exact time of their arrival in port.

The following morning, my husband, when he returned from the Mormon office, brought with him a letter bearing the English postmark, and addressed to me in the neat unmistakable handwriting of Mary Burton. I had been waiting and watching for a letter from her ever since our arrival; I was anxious to hear from her, and I hastily tore it open, so impatient was I to know how she was getting on. What I read interested me deeply, though it did not surprise me. I had seen Mary many times after the interview which I have already related, and our conversations and discussions were to us of all-absorbing interest; but as they were mostly personal I have not cared to record them in this narrative. To tell the truth, her love affairs with Elder Shrewsbury occupied more and more the most prominent place in all our discussions. His enthusiasm was perfectly infectious. As long as Mary absolutely refused to see him, her love for him and her faith in Mormonism were anything but overpowering. But Elder Shrewsbury was one of those peculiar persons who have a sort of magnetic charm about them; who, without our knowing it, or even, in some instances, contrary to our will and reason, enlist all our sympathies and leave behind them an impression that we vainly try to efface. He only wanted opportunity, and his success was sure.

Opportunity he had had for pressing his suit with Mary and making an impression upon her heart, ever since the day when they met at my door, and had taken that walk together, as Mary said, for the purpose of discussing important matters.

Now the letter which I received opened to me another chapter in Mary’s life, which without the gift of prophecy I might have easily predicted. Elder Shrewsbury’s patience and perseverance met with their due reward, and Mary at length promised to become his wife; but fascinated though she was, and herself almost as deeply in love as he was, she nevertheless made one condition which showed that she had not entirely lost that prudence and determination which she had shown in the early days of their courtship.

“When he spoke to me in that way—you know how, Sister Stenhouse”—she said in her impulsive way, “How could I persist in saying No to him? It wasn’t in my heart to do so. I didn’t say ‘Yes’ in so many words, but I simply said nothing, and he took my silence for consent. Then—but no, I won’t even tell you everything.... I know he thought he was going to have it all his own way; but I didn’t think so. I told him then that I had firmly resolved upon one thing—that I never would marry him unless he made a solemn vow and promise before God that he would never enter into Polygamy. I could not hide from him that I loved him—he knew it and could see it; but I said I never would go to Utah alone, and I certainly never would marry at the risk of my husband taking another wife. No; I was willing to give him my heart, my all—it was only fair for him to do the same by me.... He was very near me then, and my hand was in his; and he was looking into my eyes. Then he whispered the promise I had asked of him, and, dear Sister Stenhouse, I know I can depend upon his word. We shall be happier in this world by ourselves, and we feel quite sure that God will not ask us to do anything in heaven that would make us miserable. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say this, but I’m so happy that I cannot allow myself one single wretched doubt about the future or my husband, such as I used to have.... We were married on the 27th of January....

“And now we are getting ready for Zion, and are busy day and night. Of course you have heard of the “Divine Plan”—the Hand-Cart Scheme. Oh, Sister Stenhouse, I am so very, very much ashamed of myself for all the wicked things that I used to say about the Apostles and the Elders. Since our marriage, Elder Shrewsbury has explained everything to me, and set things in their right light. It is a glorious privilege for us to be permitted to gather to Zion, and now that I know my dear husband will never even think of another besides myself, I glory in the thought of leaving the Gentile world and all its wickedness....

“We go with the first company this season.

“I will tell you all the rest of the news when I meet you, dear.”

So Mary Burton was married, and coming with the Hand-Cart Company. “Why,” I said, turning to my husband, “they’ll be here in a day or two now.”

“Perhaps to-day,” he replied.

They did not, however, arrive either that day or the next; but towards the end of the week we were told that their vessel was in the river, and I accompanied my husband to Castle Gardens to see them.

A strange spectacle was presented to our view. More than six hundred Mormon emigrants were gathered there, all on their way to Zion, and burning with zeal and enthusiasm worthy of a better cause. There were aged men and women, whose heads were hoary with the snows of many a winter, and whose tottering steps had borne them to the verge of three score years and ten; there were stout-hearted fathers and families, and matrons with sons and daughters growing up around them; there were young men in the pride and strength of manhood; and maidens in the modest blush of womanly beauty; and little toddling children, and babes in their mothers’ arms—all obedient to what they thought was the command of God Himself—all with their faces set steadfastly and anxiously Zionward.

Let not the reader smile at the blind infatuation of those poor emigrants. Would he or she have suffered so confidingly—so faithfully—for his or her religion? They might be mistaken; but truly theirs was a faith which “hoped all things, believed all things, endured all things.” Surely, in His sight—who judges the heart—the blind obedience of those men and women who were ready to suffer and to endure unto the bitter end, because in their child-like faith they thought that it was His holy will—such practical devotion was more truly acceptable than the formal professions of an untested faith.

I met at Castle Gardens many whom I had known in the old country; but it was one particular face which I was anxious to see. A man wrapped in a thick great coat, and with a fur cap upon his head, brushed against me; and before I had time to raise my eyes, my hand was grasped in his, and I heard Mary’s husband say, “Oh Sister Stenhouse, I’m so glad to see you; I knew we should meet you in New York. Come and see Mary. She’s my Mary now!”

I went with Elder Shrewsbury and I saw Mary. But oh, how greatly was she changed! When I returned from our Swiss mission and saw her after an interval of several years, I was, of course, struck with the alteration which had then transformed her from a pretty little fairy-like girl into a decorous young lady contemplating matrimony; but although I had now been absent from England only a few months, I observed a much more striking alteration in her than on the previous occasion. It was not now, I thought, so much an outward and personal change, as a new development of her inner consciousness—her soul itself. Her form was as graceful, and her eyes as bright as ever; but from those eyes there now shone forth another light than that which I had thought so charming in the by-gone time.

Her affection for me was as warm and demonstrative as when we first met. She recognized me in a moment, before her husband had time to say a word; and, throwing both her arms round me, she kissed me again and again with all the effusion of her childish days. Taking my hand she led me gently into a quiet corner and seated me beside her on a big trunk, and then she began to talk. It was the same soft sweet voice again, which used to be so dear to me when I was left all alone in Southampton, soon after my marriage, while my husband was on mission in Italy.

She told me all the story of her courtship—all, and much more, than she had told me in her letter. But it was when she came to speak of her marriage, of her husband, and especially of their pilgrimage to Utah, that I observed more especially the change which had taken place in her. She was no longer the light-hearted girl, half-doubting her strange religion, and rejecting it altogether when it did not coincide with her own ideas and wishes. No: Elder Shrewsbury—had he been ten times a Mormon Elder—could not have wished for a more obedient, a more earnest, I might say, a more fanatical believer than was now to be found in his young and beautiful wife. Her eyes really glowed with enthusiasm as she spoke of “the work of the Lord” and of “gathering to Zion;” and her voice, though soft and sweet as ever, had in it, now and then, a tinge of sternness which told of a determination and spirit which the casual observer would never have suspected.

I expressed some surprise that she and her husband, not being without funds, should have gone with the Hand-Cart Company when they might have waited and have gone with so much more comfort with one of the independent companies.

“Why, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “we have done it as a matter of faith. Certainly we could have afforded to go in any way we chose, but my husband said we ought to be an example to the poorer saints; so we gave away nearly all our money to help the emigration fund, and then we came, just as you see us, along with the rest.”

“But the danger and discomfort is so great,” I suggested. “Surely the Lord does not want us to sacrifice ourselves when no one is benefitted by it?”

“Not a bit,” said she; “there’s no danger, Sister Stenhouse, and if there were it would only please me all the more. As for discomfort, why we should have had that any way, and we both glory in making sacrifices. Besides which, we have been told by the Apostle that this will be the most pleasant and successful journey across the Plains that has ever been made.”

“I am a little doubtful of the promises of Apostles and Elders,” I said; “and I remember, Mary, when you used to agree with me.”

“I know I did,” she answered; “but Brother Shrewsbury has shown me how wrong I was—I never doubt now. But I think you have a wrong notion about this hand-cart scheme. It is not an ordinary plan such as any man might have made. God Himself revealed this plan to Brigham, and in fact we call it ‘the divine plan’ in our songs. Oh, you should hear our songs! They’re a little rough, but the singing is so earnest and the voices of the men and girls blend so well together, that I know you’d like them. There’s only one thing that I don’t like about this plan, and that I daresay is all right if only I knew it.”

“I think, Mary,” I said, “I could tell you a good deal that you wouldn’t like if you knew it.”

“No, dear,” she replied hastily, as if afraid to hear me, “don’t tell me unpleasant matters. I’ll tell you all I meant. The Prophet and Heber C. Kimball, and Jedediah Grant, counselled the richer emigrants to give as much as they could—all their property, if they had faith enough—to help the poor brethren to emigrate; but the American Elders had private instructions—so Brother Shrewsbury told me—to use the money to help out all the unmarried girls who are willing to go. I confess that this troubled me not a little; but my husband says that when we get to Zion we shall find all will be right, and of course I believe him.”

Mary’s conversation puzzled me a good deal at the time. She had formerly been so clear-sighted and so unbiassed by prejudice, and now she seemed ready to believe anything. All her husband’s enthusiasm was now her own; she saw with his eyes, and in the intensity of her love for him she believed all that he accepted as true. Long after, when I thought of that short interview, I called to mind her impulsive earnestness, and I felt that a secret misgiving, unconsciously to herself, was partly the cause of it. Unknown to herself her excess of zeal was the offspring of doubt.

Life in the future was in anticipation to my poor friend one long day of hope and happiness. She could not see the shadow of a cloud—no coming sorrow darkened her way. Zion, to her excited imagination, was the abode of peace, and sanctity, and unchanging joy.

I asked her whether the Saints in England had heard any of those strange reports about Brigham Young defying the Government, which had attracted so much attention in this country.

“Certainly,” she said; “it is because the day is so very near when all intercourse between God’s people and the Gentile world shall be cut off for ever that these great efforts are being made to gather the Saints to Zion. Of course you know this, but I don’t think you know all. Why, at the last general conference in Liverpool, the president had instructions from Salt Lake to propose Brigham Young as ‘prophet, seer, revelator, and King!’”

“King?” I said. “How can President Young ever be ‘king’? Utah is part of the territory of the States, and under their jurisdiction; it is not even a State itself yet, and Congress has refused to sanction the name of Deseret. This country will never suffer a kingdom to be set up in Utah; you must be misinformed, Sister Mary.”

“No, Sister Stenhouse,” she exclaimed, “I am under no mistake. My husband assured me that the conference accepted the proposition, and that it was received unanimously. The Saints are gathering in from all parts of the world, and when war is declared they will not be found unprepared. Why, here on board with us, the American Elders are all provided with swords and revolvers of the very best make that could be got for love or money, and I myself have heard them say that Brigham Young intends shortly to declare his independence of the United States. We didn’t know this before we left England, but we felt sure that he had some great purpose in view which had been revealed to him.”

“Before we left,” I said, “the Saints were all eager to emigrate.”

“Yes, dear,” she answered, “but nothing like they are now. You have no idea how excited and anxious everybody is. Some of the people, in order to obey counsel, sold their watches and jewellery, and even their best clothes, scarcely keeping enough for the journey, and every one who had any money gave it away. Brigham Young set a noble example in that; even the Gentiles would admire him if they knew all. Why, we had on board ship with us Brother Tenant, the rich new convert, who paid thirty thousand dollars for the property which Brigham Young so generously gave to help the Emigration Fund. He hardly had enough left to carry him and his family to Zion; and now he is going to cross the Plains with us, to settle in Salt Lake City. He is somewhere here among the emigrants, I believe, at the present moment, and you could ask him all about it if you liked. The brethren assure him that Brother Brigham is so liberal that he will get vastly more than the value of his thirty thousand dollars when he reaches Zion, and I hope he will, for I like both him and his wife.”

All this was thus far true, but it was with some misgivings that I heard Mary talk about it. Still I tried to persuade myself that it was a sin to doubt. How little did either of us imagine that after poor Mr. Tenant’s miserable death upon the Plains we should live to see his wife—destitute and defrauded of her property by generous-hearted Brigham—dragging out a miserable existence in Zion, and dependent even for a crust of bread upon the kindness of the brethren. And yet, as I have previously stated, this was how the Prophet, under the mask of liberality, contrived, for his own purposes, to cheat this unfortunate and too-confiding Saint.

Then we talked of what more nearly interested ourselves, and Mary asked me when Mr. Stenhouse and myself were coming out. I told her that it was quite uncertain, but that we expected to before long. “At any rate you will come out before the season is over?” she said.

“Most likely so,” I replied; “but you will be safely there and settled before we arrive.”

How little did she imagine the fearful scenes she was to witness—the terrible sufferings she was to endure—before the season she spoke of had passed away. Could I at that time have known all, I would have prayed that sooner than set out on that fearful journey she might find refuge in the grave from the horrors which, unknown to her, were brooding over her way.

We talked long, and then my husband joined us—Elder Shrewsbury was called away by some necessary duty—and when we parted it was with many promises to write frequently to each other of our common religious interests, as well as the welfare of ourselves and those we loved. Then I spoke with several other old friends, and we exchanged greetings with all sorts of people, for my husband wherever he goes is always sure to be upon speaking terms with almost everybody he meets.

The Hand-Cart Company left New York for Utah—a long and formidable journey at best—but in that instance, through mismanagement and neglect, one of the most fatal expeditions that imprudent man has ever undertaken; and it was not until months and months had passed away, and another season had come round, that we heard anything of their fate.

And time went on, but my troubles did not lighten. My husband still continued to work at the Mormon office, and after a while his salary was slightly increased from time to time; but still his earnings were altogether inadequate for the support of a family, and I found it absolutely necessary to obtain some employment for myself. It cost me many a long and weary day of search and inquiry, and many a battle with my pride, before I could get anything to do; but at last I was successful, and although my little ones required constant attention, I contrived to add a very decent quota to the scanty family purse.

And thus matters continued until the following year—our life of uncertainty and care unchanged. Little in my life at that time is worth recording: to me it was one long, painful struggle, and any change which could come I felt must be for the better. My experience of Mormonism was of course enlarged as new facts presented themselves to my observation, and by nothing was my faith so much shaken as by the discrepancies between the written and spoken Mormonism which was presented with fair face to the European Saints and the world at large, and the actual conduct of the Elders.

From the first moment when Polygamy was announced, the leaders had strictly forbidden the missionaries to enter into any alliances with the sisters abroad, or to make any proposals of marriage to them, or to enter into any matrimonial covenants. In the language of Heber C. Kimball—Brigham’s first counsellor—they were “not to pick out from the flock the young, fair, and tender lambs,” but were to bring them all safely home to Zion.

This counsel was all very well, for it tended to keep the Elders out of mischief, and afforded an opportunity to the brethren at home to select more and more youthful wives from the fair converts who were gathered in to Zion. But the missionaries found it very irksome to obey this counsel, and in point of fact those who did so formed a very small minority.

One of the missionaries who had just returned from Europe came one day to our house in New York, and brought a youthful sister with him. He was by no means a handsome man or prepossessing in his appearance, but I saw at once that he had succeeded in obtaining considerable influence over the young sister’s mind. He said she was not very happy, and he wanted her to stay with some respectable family for a week or two until they set out for Utah, and I agreed that she should stay with us.

She began to play with the children, and took one of them in her arms in a way which attracted my attention, for I noticed that tears were in her eyes, and she excited my sympathy. I asked her as gently and as delicately as I could what was the matter with her, and what her sorrow was, and she told me that she herself had two little ones at home and was wretched at being parted from them. She had obeyed counsel, and had left her husband and a happy home to go to Zion. She loved them all dearly; but, deluded by false teachings, and promises that she should soon have her children again, she had stolen away and left them all.

I reasoned with her, tried to make her see how wrongly she had acted, and persuaded her to return to her husband and seek his forgiveness. But it was all in vain. The salvation of her soul she thought was beyond all earthly considerations; she must stifle the suggestions of her heart within her; she must hasten to Zion. Thus she left me, and like many another victim, I never expected to see her again.

One morning, a few months later, I was astonished to receive a visit from her. After expressing my pleasure at seeing her once more, she told me that what I said had so impressed her that when the emigrants had arrived at St. Louis she had refused to proceed any further on the journey, had written to her husband, had made everything right with him, and was now on her way back to her home in England.

My story is so full of painful reminiscences, that it is with pleasure that I record this incident—one of the rare cases in which folly was not succeeded by utter ruin and misery. Alas, how many instances I might mention, which fell beneath my own personal observation, of wives and mothers led away by the delusive doctrines which they mistook for inspiration, and who sought vainly, through years of misery, for peace and rest, until at length they found it in the darkness of the tomb.

Towards the end of the year 1857, the difficulties in Utah, and a financial panic in New York, resulted in the discontinuance of the Mormon. My husband was thus thrown out of employment, and to add to our difficulties the people for whom I worked suspended operations. This new trial of our faith, however, was not long; out of apparent evil good came. Released from his obligations to the Apostle and the Mormon paper, my husband now set earnestly to work to obtain a living without the crippling influences of “counsel” or the dictates of those whom his religion taught him to respect.

I had always believed that if suffered to act for himself, his energy was such that he would certainly carve his way to a respectable position in the world. In this I was not deceived, either at the time of which I speak or at a later period when, in Salt Lake City, he engaged in active business on his own account. In New York, where he had been, by this time, appointed President of the Eastern Mission, and was actively engaged in advocating the claims of the Mormon Church, he sought and found employment on the staff of the Herald, and in connexion with other daily papers; and such was his success, that from a condition of misery and poverty we were very soon raised to a position of comfort, and surrounded by every luxury suitable to our station in life; and this position we enjoyed until called upon to leave all and journey across the Plains to Zion.

Our own journey to Zion was postponed for a while; but not long before we set forth, I received the long-expected letter which Mary Burton had promised me; and as it contains a vivid picture of a mode of transit—the only mode which could then be used—across the Plains, and shows what people were forced to endure so recently as a few short years ago, I shall give it in the following chapter; for I feel sure that if the reader did not peruse the story in the exact words of my unfortunate friend, he never would believe that in this country and in our own times such a terrible tragedy could have been enacted.

---

“I promised to write and tell you all about our journey across the Plains, but I little expected to have such a terrible tale to tell.

“You have heard so much of the journey to Salt Lake Valley that you know pretty well how we must have travelled to Iowa City, where it was necessary that we should wait until the whole company was quite ready for the long journey which lay before us.

“Our life up to a certain point was much the same, and we met with the same difficulties as all other emigrants who had gone before us. But there the comparison ends. Privation, and toil, and weariness, and not infrequently sickness and death, wore out many of the companies that went before us, but they never suffered as we did. It is utterly impossible for me to tell you all that we went through. And when I finish this letter and lay down my pen, and even when you read the fearful story of my own experience during that journey, you will still have but the faintest idea of the horrors and sufferings which we endured.

“At Iowa City we found nothing prepared for us. When we left Liverpool we were told that hand-carts, provisions, and all that we needed, should be provided before we arrived. If this had been done we should have had just fairly time enough to travel over the Plains and reach Salt Lake before the terrible cold of winter set in. As it was, everything went wrong. The Elders who had been sent out before us to buy tents and carts and all that we wanted had either been unfortunate or very careless, for, as I said, when we arrived in Iowa City not the slightest preparation had been made.

“You know how strong my faith was when we left New York, and how Brother Shrewsbury and myself were ready to sacrifice everything. I can assure you that we were fully tested, and I do think that but for our strong faith not a single soul of all that company would have survived that journey.

“Three companies had, after a long delay, been sent out before we reached Iowa City. As it was then early in the season, they completed their journey before the cold of winter set in. I afterwards heard that Brigham Young and the Elders, when they saw those companies arrive safely in Salt Lake City, spoke of the scheme as a successful experiment. We had been taught that the scheme came directly from heaven, and was neither speculation nor experiment, and when I heard that, after all, the Prophet himself spoke of it as a matter of doubtful issue, I asked myself—Whom, then, can we believe?

“We waited three weeks in Iowa Camp while they were making the hand-carts. They were very lightly made, and I think not at all suitable for such a long and wearisome journey; and being so hastily put together, and most of the wood unseasoned, they were utterly unfit for the rough work for which they were constructed. Twenty of these carts—one to every five—were allowed to every hundred persons, who were also allowed five good-sized tents and one Chicago waggon, with three yoke of oxen, to transport the baggage and provisions. We were only allowed seventeen pounds of bedding and clothing each, which, with cooking utensils, &c., made up about one hundred pounds to each cart, and that was quite as much as the cart (itself only sixty pounds in weight) could carry. You can see, Sister Stenhouse, how difficult it must have been out of every hundred persons—men, women, and children—to find twenty who were strong enough to pull even such frail things as those hand-carts were. The married men and the young men and boys did the best they could, but they could do no more, and some of the carts were drawn by young girls alone.

“The girls and women who had no husbands used to occupy a tent by themselves at night; but in the other tents, whole families, without respect to age or sex, together with the young men who assisted them during the day, used to find shelter. This you will see at once was exceedingly inconvenient; but we had no choice, and we had been so long associated, and had suffered so much together, that we did not feel it as much as we otherwise must have done.

“What weary days we spent! Hour after hour went by, mile after mile we walked, and never, never seemed to be a step the further on our way. Sometimes I recalled to mind a hymn which we used to sing at Sunday School, when I was a child—an evening hymn in which we returned thanks that we were—

“But day after day went by—wearily, hopelessly—and when each night came on, and, tired and footsore, we lay down to rest, we seemed no nearer to our home in Zion.

“Do not think, Sister Stenhouse, that we gave way to despondency. What we felt, God alone knows; but our poor weary hearts were full of confiding faith in Him, and we placed undoubting confidence in the promises and prophecies which we had received through His chosen servants. The young folks were light-hearted and gay, and with all the enthusiasm of youth they pressed on, thinking not of the way but only of the end; and their example was most encouraging.

“My husband was one of the bravest and truest of all that band. He drew the cart which we shared with another Elder and his wife and their grown-up daughter. They were old people—I mean the Elder and his wife—and the daughter was an old maid, unpleasant, thin, and sour, and too feeble to do anything. There were reasons why I was excused from taking any share in hard work; but I felt as zealous as the rest, and day after day walked beside my husband, thinking that, if nothing more, my companionship might cheer him. The old folks walked behind, and so did the children; but sometimes, when the little ones were very weary indeed, the parents would place them on the top of the bedding in the hand-cart, and give them a lift. But some of the elderly people who were unused to walking far, and whom it was impossible to carry, suffered a great deal; and sometimes mothers with children at their breasts would trudge on mile after mile in all the heat and dust without a murmur or complaint, until they almost dropped down with fatigue. What some of those poor creatures suffered, no words could tell.

“The sun shone down upon us with intense heat as we travelled through Iowa, and the people from the farm-houses and villages came out to see us, and wondered at our rashness in undertaking such a journey. They were very kind to us, and came and visited us in our camps, and offered some of the men work and good wages if they would stay there instead of going on to Zion. A few of the people accepted these offers; but the Elders, as you may suppose, watched carefully every company and every man; and in the evening, when meetings for prayer and preaching were held, we were earnestly exhorted to obedience, and the sin of acting upon our own judgments was set forth in the very plainest terms. The kindness of the Iowa people, however, encouraged us, and they freely gave to those who most needed whatever they could to help us on our way.

“And we needed help and sympathy.

“Of course, with only one waggon to carry all the provisions for a hundred persons, besides five tents, our supply of food was very limited. At that period of the journey the grown-up people were allowed ten ounces of flour a day and a little—and but a very little—coffee, sugar, rice, and bacon. This was a very scanty allowance for people who all day long had to draw the hand-carts or to trudge mile after mile in all that burning heat and dust—but we never complained. Some of the men ate all their rations at breakfast, and went without anything more until the next morning, unless they were able to beg a little of some friendly farmer by the way. The little children received just half as much as the others. With a very small amount of management this inconvenience might certainly have been avoided, for provisions of all sorts were very cheap in the districts through which we passed. Some of the more thoughtful saints, I know, felt very bitterly the injustice of this; for, as you are aware, we had paid all our expenses in full—even to the uttermost farthing; and we had been promised in return a safe and sufficient outfit with plenty of provisions, and in fact all that was necessary. Had we been left to ourselves, we should of course have provided for every contingency; but we came in obedience to counsel under the direction of the Church, and after we had paid for everything; the Church even ‘took care’ of our money, so that we therefore could not procure necessaries by the way, as otherwise we might have done.

“Thus wearily, and suffering not a little privation, we travelled all through Iowa, until we came to the Missouri river and encamped at Florence, a place about six miles north of Omaha, and there we remained about a week, preparing for our journey across the Plains.

“It was the middle of August when we arrived at Florence, and we had been delayed so much on the way that it appeared to many of the more experienced that it would now be the height of imprudence for us to cross the Plains at that season. With old people, delicate women, and little children, and without carriages of any sort—except the frail hand-carts that carried our bedding—it would be a weary, long time, before we could reach Salt Lake. Every step must be trudged on foot, and it was quite impossible that we could walk many miles a day, while there was before us a journey of over a thousand. Some of the Elders proposed that we should settle where we were, or somewhere near by, until the following spring, and then go on to Zion; but others who were more confident urged that we should proceed at once. The Elders called a great meeting to settle the matter, at which we were all present.

“I should tell you that when we first started our whole company was placed under the guidance of Elder James G. Willie as captain; and we were again subdivided into five parties of about one hundred each, and over every hundred was placed an Elder or sub-captain. The first hundred was headed by Elder Atwood, the second by Levi Savage, the third by William Woodward, the fourth by John Chislett, and the fifth by Elder Ahmensen. About two hundred of the people were Scotch and Scandinavians; nearly all the rest were English. All were assembled at the meeting. You know, Sister Stenhouse, how meetings were held at home. Well, it was just the same there. We, of course, had nothing really to say—we had only to obey counsel and sanction the decision of the leading Elders. I used to feel annoyed rather at that sort of thing in London, as you may remember; but now, when life and death depended upon the wisdom of our decision, with all my faith, I felt worse than annoyed, wicked as I have no doubt it was for me to feel so. My husband never uttered a word, but I know he felt much as I did, and in that he was not alone among the Elders.

“We had neither vote nor influence—the Elders held our destiny in their hands. In all our company there were only three or four men who had been out to Salt Lake before, and of course they could not be overlooked, so they gave their opinion at the meeting. They must have fully known the dangers and difficulties of the way, and what hardships must overtake a company so scantily provided for as was ours, if we continued our journey. But, for all that, they not only spoke slightingly of the danger which threatened us, but prophesied, in the name of the Lord, that we should pass through triumphantly and suffer neither loss nor harm.

“One man alone—Levi Savage—dared to tell the truth. People well-mounted, or even with good ox-teams, could safely and easily make the journey, he said; but for a band of people like ourselves, with aged folks, and women, and little children, to attempt it so late was little short of madness. He strongly urged that we should take up our quarters there for the Winter, when, he said, as soon as spring came on, we could safely and successfully perform the remainder of our journey.

“The other Elders thought that he was weak in the faith, and plainly told him so; and one of them even said, ‘he’d eat all the snow that fell between Florence and Salt Lake City.’ The people, of course, believed without question what they were told to believe, for they had long ago made up their minds that the leaders were inspired, and therefore they dared not doubt them, and the prudent counsel of Brother Savage was rejected accordingly. I was not near enough to hear his words, but I was afterwards told that he said, ‘What I have said, I know is the truth; but as you are counselled to go forward, I will go with you; I will work, and rest, and suffer with you; and, if God wills it so, I will also die with you.’ Never was man more faithful to his word than was Brother Savage, and often after that, when sickness, and weariness, and cold, and hunger, and death, overtook us—as he had foreseen—he never for one moment forgot the promise which he had so solemnly made.

“Then—the middle of August being passed—we left Florence behind us, and began our weary journey across the Plains in much the same fashion as we had already travelled through Iowa. We had, however, taken fresh provisions to last us until we reached Utah, and as the oxen could not draw so much extra weight, one sack, weighing about a hundred pounds, was placed on each of the hand-carts, in addition to the other baggage. This was a severe tax upon the endurance of the people, but most of them bore it without a murmur. On the other hand, we fared a little better in the matter of provisions, for we were allowed a pound of flour a day each, and also, occasionally, a little fresh beef, and besides that each hundred had three or four milch cows. As we continued our journey, and the provisions were consumed, the burdens on the carts, of course, grew lighter.

“But this was only the beginning of our pilgrimage;—the end we could not foresee. Every evening, when we pitched our tents, we endeavoured—by songs, and jests, and interesting stories—to beguile the tediousness of the way. The days were not quite so warm now, and the nights were more chilly; but altogether, it was much more pleasant travelling than it was in the earlier part of the journey, and no one seemed to remember the almost prophetic remonstrance of Brother Savage.

“Still we travelled very slowly, for the carts were always breaking down; the wheels came off, and we had nothing to grease them with. The boxes of the wheels were made of unseasoned wood, and the heavy pressure upon them, and the dust that got into them, soon wore them out. Some of the people cut off the tops of their boots and wrapped them round the axles, and others cut up their tin plates and kettles for the same purpose; and for grease they used soap, and even their pitiful allowance of bacon. But as the days passed, and the flour began to be used up, these accidents became less frequent.

“Upon an average, they said, we travelled about fifteen miles a day, which I think was very good. Some few days we even made a little over twenty miles, but they were balanced by the shortcomings. We tried to feel happy and hopeful, and even the aged and infirm tried to make light of their toil and privations, for we did not see that heavy cloud which was looming across our way. I frequently talked with the old and weakly among the people, to whom both my husband and myself were able to offer little kindnesses, and they all spoke cheerfully of our prospects. Such faith had they in the promises of the Elders.

“Just before we reached Wood river, vast herds of buffaloes appeared in our vicinity, and one evening all our cattle stampeded, and the men had to go in search of them. About thirty were lost, and after hunting after them for three days, we gave them up. We had only one yoke of oxen now for each waggon, and as the waggons were loaded each with three thousand pounds of flower, the teams could not move them. So they yoked up the beef-cattle, and cows, and heifers, but they were unmanageable; and at last we were obliged again to place a sack of flower upon each hand-cart.

“This sorely tried us all. Some of the people even complained, but the greater part of us bore up bravely, believing that it was the will of the Lord. We still had faith that all would yet be well. This was, however, a hard blow. Our milch cows were useless to us, our beef-rations were stopped, and the burdens which we drew were doubled. Every one did his or her best, but many of us began to be disheartened, and could hardly get along.

“One evening there was quite a commotion in the camp. We had pitched our tents for the night on the banks of the Platte river, I think, when suddenly quite a grand turn-out of carriages and light waggons came up from the east and joined us. Each carriage was drawn by four horses, and the outfits were in first-class style. Nothing could be too good for Apostles and other ‘distinguished’ servants of the Lord, I was anxious to know who they were, but was not long in finding out. There was the Apostle Franklin Richards, and Elders Webb and Felt, and Joseph A. Young, the son of the Prophet, and Elders Dunbar, and Kimball, and Grant—all returning Missionaries. They stayed with us all night, and in the morning called a great meeting, and the Apostle Richards delivered a speech, which since has troubled me not a little, and made me very sorrowful.

“He had heard of what Brother Savage had said, and then and there, before us all, he rebuked him. He then exhorted us to remember the hope set before us, and told us to pray and work on, and especially to be obedient to counsel; and he finished by solemnly prophesying, in the name of the God of Israel, that the Almighty would make a way for us to Zion; and that though the snow might fall and the storm rage on the right hand and on the left, not a hair of our heads should be hurt.

“Some of the people wept with joy as they heard these words. My own heart was full. To me, this was the voice of inspiration—the voice of God—how could I doubt again?

“Sister Stenhouse, before a month was over, I saw with my own eyes that prophecy, those promises, falsified to the very letter; and yet at the time they came to me and to all else as the word of the Lord from heaven. Tell me, if men can thus deceive themselves—for I do not doubt for a moment that the Apostle believed his own prophecy—and if we could be so sadly deluded as to believe that what was said was divine—what surety have we for our religion at all? I strive against these sinful doubts, but they will sometimes creep into my heart unbidden.

“The Apostle and the Elders with him told Captain Willie that they wanted some fresh meat, and the Elders killed and gave them of our very best. What could be denied to the Servants of the Lord? We were then more than four hundred in number—aged men and feeble women, with babes and poor little children too young to walk; many of them infirm and sick, all of them footsore and weary. We were far away from home, travelling slowly hundreds and hundreds of miles, worn out, and without sufficient provisions for the way, or the remotest chance of obtaining any. And yet, oh God! I shame to tell it; these servants of Heaven—our leaders, our guides, our example—these chosen vessels who came to us, riding comfortably and at ease in their well-appointed carriages, took of our poverty—took the very best we had!

“As they left the camp, I looked up into my husband’s face, and our eyes met. We said not a word, but in our hearts there was the same thought. Sister Stenhouse, there must have been that self-same thought in the mind of many another poor soul who watched those Elders depart after they had lectured us on faith and patience and obedience!

“They crossed the river pleasantly enough, and pointed out the best fording-place, and then they watched us wade through—the water there being nearly a mile in width, and in some places two and even three feet in depth—and though many of the heavy-laden carts were drawn by women and girls they never so much as offered to lend us the aid of their handsome teams. One sister told me that they watched the poor people crossing, through glasses, as if it were an entertainment; but I did not see that, and can hardly believe it was true. All that they did, however, was to promise that when we reached Laramie we should find provisions and bedding and other necessaries ready for us, and that they would send help from Salt Lake Valley to meet us.”

---

“It was early in September when we reached Laramie, but we found nothing awaiting us there. We were all very much discouraged at this, and Captain Willie called another meeting for consultation. We knew of course, beforehand, that our position was very bad; but figures, when stated plainly, become startling facts. We now learned that if we continued at the same rate as that at which we had previously been travelling, and received each the same allowance daily, we should be left utterly destitute of provisions when we were yet three hundred and fifty miles from the end of our journey. Nothing remained but to reduce our allowance; so, instead of one pound, we were rationed at three-quarters of a pound a day, and at the same time were forced to make incredible exertions to travel faster.

“Not long after this, Captain Willie received a message from the Apostle Richards. It is the custom, you know, for people who want to send messages to emigrants who come after them to write a note on a scrap of paper, and tie it to a stone or a piece of wood, and leave it on the way. No one disturbs it, as no one but the emigrants travel along that road, and they are sure to find it. It was from a rough post-office like this that Captain Willie got his letter. In it the Apostle told him that we should receive supplies from Salt Lake when we reached the South Pass; but that we knew would be too late. So our allowance was again reduced, and after that we were rationed at an average of ten ounces for every person over ten years of age. The men who drew the carts received twelve ounces, the women and aged men nine ounces, and the children from four to eight ounces according to age. Before this, the men with families had done better than the single men, as they had been able to save a little from the children’s rations, and of course they did not like this new arrangement so well.

“Picture to yourself these men—in the cool air of September, drawing after them each one a loaded cart, with one or more children most frequently superadded to its weight, trudging wearily every day, ten, fifteen, or twenty miles over the rough desert, wading across streams with the women and children, setting up tents at night, working as they never worked before in all their lives, and withal keeping soul and body together upon twelve ounces of flour a day. This is but one side of the picture—the physical toil and endurance of the working men. Think what the feeble and aged, the sick, the women and children, must have endured!

“By this time many of those who had hitherto held out bravely began to fail, and the people in general were greatly discouraged. Captain Willie and the Elders who assisted him did their best to keep up the spirits of the people, and to get them over as much ground as they could each day. The captains over the hundreds had also no little work to perform in distributing provisions, helping the sick and infirm, and, in fact, superintending everything.

“For some time the nights had been getting colder and colder, and by the time we arrived at the Sweetwater river we suffered considerably from that cause; we felt that winter was fast approaching. In fact, it came on earlier and more severely last year than at any time before since the Saints settled in Utah. Does it not seem strange that at the very time when they were offering up special prayers for us in Zion, that we might be defended from cold and storm, the terrors of a more than ordinary winter overtook us and proved fatal to so many of our company? The mountains were covered with snow; and it was soon quite evident, even to those who had prophesied most loudly that the Lord would work a special miracle in our behalf, that the storm-clouds of winter would soon burst upon us.

“You have never seen the Sweetwater river, so I may as well tell you that it is a very irregular stream, and we had to cross it again and again upon our way. As usual we had to wade through the water each time, and though the men helped over the women and children as well as they could, many of us got very wet indeed, and quite chilled, and we were all cold and miserable. Still, our faith never gave way—some, I know, began to doubt a little, but they had not yet lost all faith, and discouraged and wretched, as indeed we were, the greater number bore up with heroic resolution. I noticed, however, on the faces of some poor souls—men and women—a peculiar expression which it is quite impossible for me to describe. Later on I was led to believe that at that time they, perhaps unconsciously, felt the presentiment of that fearful death which so soon overtook them.

“We suffered much at night. You may remember that I told you we were only allowed seventeen pounds of clothing and bedding, and that, of course, was of little use. Sleeping in a tent, under any circumstances, is not generally pleasant to those who are accustomed to the shelter of a house; but sleeping in a tent, exposed to the keen night air of a wilderness, and with scarcely a rag of covering, was almost sufficient to prove fatal to the stoutest and strongest. During the summer time, although our fare was scanty and our labour incessant, we rose each morning refreshed and strengthened, and ready for the toils of the day. But now we crept out of our tents cramped and miserable, half-frozen, and with our eyes red and tearful with the cold. We seemed to have no life left in us.

“These things soon began to tell upon the health of every one of us, especially upon the aged and those who were sickly. Hope at last died out in their poor weary hearts. One by one they fell off—utterly worn out. Poor things! how they had longed to see the promised Zion, and now all expectation of peaceful rest on earth was over—the bitter end had come.

“We dug graves for them by the wayside in the desert, and there we laid them with many tears, scarcely daring to look one another in the face, for we felt that our own time might perhaps be nearer than we thought.

“One by one at first they fell off, but before long the deaths became so frequent that it was seldom that we left a camp-ground without burying one or more. This was, however, only the beginning of evil.

“Soon it was no longer the aged and sickly who were taken off, but the young and strong, who under other circumstances would have set disease and death at defiance. Cold, hunger, and excessive toil brought on dysentery; and when once attacked by that there was little hope for the sufferer, for we had no medicine, and it was quite out of our power to give them relief in any other way. I now began to fear for my husband, for I had noticed for some time an expression of extreme weariness in his face. Our trials had not hardened our hearts; on the contrary, I think, as death seemed to be drawing near, our affection for each other grew more pure and devoted, and in my heart I often prayed, that if it were His will, God would let us die together and rest in the same grave. We never spoke a word to each other on this subject, but we felt the more. I exerted all my strength, and day after day toiled along at his side, helping him all I could; but although he never complained, I saw in his eyes a dull and heavy look which, more than any words, told of failing strength and the approach of disease, and my heart sank within me.

“But my own troubles did not alone engross my attention; there was too much wretchedness around us to allow any one to be absorbed entirely in his own griefs. Acts of devotion on the part of both parents and children came before me daily such as would have put to shame the stories of filial and parental piety which we used to be taught at school.

“I saw one poor man, whose health had evidently never been strong, draw the cart with his two little ones in it, as well as the baggage, mile after mile, until he could hardly drag his weary limbs a step further; his wife carried a little five-months old baby in her bosom. This they did day after day, until disease attacked the husband, and it was evident that he could bear up no longer. The next morning I saw him, pale as a corpse, bowed down, and shivering in every limb, but still stumbling on as best he could. Before the day was half over, the poor wife lagged behind with her babe, and the husband did not seem to notice her. This was not the result of heartlessness on his part; I believe that even then he had lost all consciousness. He did not know it, but he was dying. Still he stumbled on, until the short wintry day came to a close, and we pitched our camp, and then I missed him. There was no time to inquire, and a chill came over my heart as I thought of what might be his fate. Presently my husband came to the tent and told me all. The poor man had dragged the cart up to the last moment, and, when the company halted for the night, he had turned aside, and sitting down he bowed his head between his knees and never spoke again. Later still, the poor wife reached the camp, and I saw her then. There was no tear in her eyes, and she uttered neither cry nor moan, but there was upon her features a terrible expression of fixed despair which I dared not even look upon.

“A few days after this, one morning as we were almost ready to start, I saw that poor mother in her tent, just as they had found her. She was cold and still—frozen to death—her sorrows were over at last, and her poor weary spirit was at rest; but on her bosom, still clasped in her arms, and still living, was her little child, unconscious of its mother’s fate.

“Most of those who died, as far as I could tell, seemed to pass away quietly and with little pain, as if every feeling of the heart were numbed and dead. But my own sufferings and fears at that time were so great that I could not be a very close observer. Strange as it may seem, the fear of death did not so much appear to terrify these poor victims as the thought that their bodies would be buried by the wayside in the desert, instead of in the sacred ground of Zion. Poor souls! the absorbing passion of their life was strong in death.

“As death thinned our ranks, the labours of those who survived were increased, until at last there were hardly enough left with strength sufficient to pitch our tents at night. A great deal devolved upon the captain of our hundred, Elder Chislett. He is a very good man, and a devoted Saint; and I am glad to say that both he and a lady to whom he was betrothed, and who was also with our company, escaped with their lives. I have often seen him, when we stopped for the night, carrying the sick and feeble on his back from the waggon to the fire, and then working harder than a slave would work in putting things straight for the night. He showed a great many kindnesses to my husband and myself.

“But individual efforts availed nothing against fatigue and hunger, and the fearful cold. To the minds of all of us, the end was fast approaching. Nothing but our faith sustained us; and foolish as many people would think that faith, I am quite sure, that but for it, no living soul of all our company would have ever reached Salt Lake.

“At last the storm came, and the snow fell—I think it must have been at least five or six inches deep within half an hour. The wind was very keen and cutting, and it drifted the snow right into our faces; and thus blinded by the storm, and scarcely able to stand, we stumbled on that day for fully sixteen miles. What we suffered it would be useless for me to attempt to describe. Some of the scenes we witnessed were heart-rending.

“There was a young girl, with whom I was very well acquainted, and whom I saw struggling in the snow, clinging to one of the hand-carts, and vainly trying to help in pushing it on, but really doing just the contrary. She is now in Salt Lake City, a helpless cripple, her limbs downwards having been frozen during that storm, and subsequently amputated. A poor old woman, too, whom I think you must have known in London, lingered behind later in the day. When night came on it was impossible for any one to go back to search for her, but, in the morning, not very far from the camp, some torn rags—the remains of her dress—were found, a few bones, a quantity of hair, and at a little distance a female skull, well gnawed, and with the marks of the wolf-fangs still wet upon it;—the snow all round was crimsoned with blood.

“We halted for a little while in the middle of that day, and to our surprise and joy, Joseph A. Young and Elder Stephen Taylor drove into the camp. We found that when the returning missionaries, of whom I have already told you, left us by the Platte river, they made their way as speedily as they could to Salt Lake City. Joseph A., who felt deeply for our sufferings, although he had been away from home for two whole years, hastened to his father, and reported to him the condition in which we were. Brigham Young was of course anxious to undo the mischief which had resulted from the people following his inspired counsel, and at his son’s earnest entreaty allowed him to return with provisions and clothing to meet us. Joseph A. lost no time, but pressed on to the rescue, and having told us that assistance was on the way, hastened eastward to meet the company that was following us.

“I cannot tell you what a relief this intelligence was to the minds of all, and how much the poor people felt encouraged by it. But as for me, at that time my heart was sad enough. For some time my husband’s strength had evidently been failing, and for the last two days I had felt very serious apprehensions on his behalf. He had been overtasked, and like the rest of us he was starving with cold and hunger, and I saw that he could not hold out much longer. My worst fears were speedily realized. We had not journeyed half a mile from the place where we rested at noon, when, blinded by the snow, and completely broken down, he dropped the rail of the cart, and I saw that he could go no further. How I felt, you, as a wife and mother, only can guess. In a moment my own weakness was forgotten; my love for my husband made me strong again. To leave him there or to delay would have been death to one if not all of us. So I called to those who shared the cart with us, and they helped me as well as they could to lift my husband up, and put him under part of the bedding. It was the only chance of saving his life; for, as I before mentioned, some, previous to this, who had been overcome, and had lingered by the way, had been frozen to death or devoured by the wolves.

“I then took hold of the cross-bar or handle of the cart, and numbed with the cold, and trembling in every limb, it was as much as I could do to raise it from the ground. To move the cart was impossible, so I appealed to the old folks again, and they exerted all their strength to push it from behind, and our combined efforts at length succeeded; but the chief weight fell upon me. How gladly I bore it; how gladly I would have borne anything for the mere chance of saving my dear husband’s life, your own heart can tell.

“The snow drifted wildly around us, and beat in our faces so blindingly that we could hardly proceed. The greater part of the train had passed on while we delayed on account of my husband, and now every one was making the most desperate efforts to keep up with the rest; to be left behind was death. Had I been asked whether under any circumstances I could have dragged that heavy cart along in all that storm, I should certainly have replied that it would be utterly impossible; but until we are tried we do not know what we can bear. It was not until the night came on, and we pitched our tents, that I realized what I had passed through.

“They helped me to carry my husband to the tent, and there we laid him, and I tried to make him as easy as was possible under the circumstances, but comfort or rest was altogether out of the question. All that night I sat beside him, sometimes watching, sometimes falling into a fitful sleep. I did not believe that he would live through the night. In the morning he was by no means improved, and then I felt too truly the abject misery of our position. It is a painful thing to watch at the bedside of those we love when hope for their recovery is gone; but think what it must be to sit upon the cold earth in the tent, upon the open desert, with the piercing wind of winter penetrating to the very bones, and there before you, the dear one—your life, your all on earth—dying, and you without a drop of medicine, or even a morsel of the coarsest nourishment, to give him. Oh, the bitterness of my soul at that moment! I tried to pray, but my heart was full of cursing; it seemed to me as if even God Himself had forgotten us. The fearful misery of that dark hour has left on my soul itself a record as ineffaceable as the imprint of a burning iron upon the flesh.

“The morning broke at last, dark and dreary, and a thick heavy mantle of snow covered all the camp; but we contrived to communicate with each other, and soon it was whispered that five poor creatures had been found dead in the tents. Want, and weariness, and the bitter cold, had done their work, and we did not weep for them—they were at rest; but for ourselves we wept that we were left behind—and we looked at one another, wistfully, wondering which of us would be taken next.

“We buried those five poor frozen corpses in one grave, wrapped in the clothing in which they died, and then we comforted each other as best we might, and left the dead who were now beyond our reach, that we might do what we could for those who were fast following them to the grave. A meeting of the leaders was held, and it was resolved that we should remain where we were until the promised supplies reached us. We could not, in fact, do otherwise, for the snow was so deep that it was impossible for us to proceed, and the sick and dying demanded immediate attention. That morning, for the first time, no flour was distributed—there was none. All that remained, besides our miserable cattle, was a small quantity of hard biscuit which Captain Willie bought at Laramie, and a few pounds of rice and dried apples. Nearly all the biscuit was at once divided among the whole company, and the few pounds which remained, together with the rice and apples, were given to Elder Chislett for the use of the sick and the very little children. They also killed two of the cattle and divided the beef. Most of the people got through their miserable allowance that very morning, and then they had to fast.

“Captain Willie set out that morning with another Elder to meet the coming supplies and hasten them on, and as we saw them disappear in the distant west we almost felt as if our last hope departed with them, so many chances there were that we should never see them again.

“The whole of that long, long day I sat beside my husband in the tent—and I might almost say I did no more. There was nothing that I could do. The little bedding that was allowed for both of us I made up into a couch for him; but what a wretched makeshift it was! And I got from Elder Chislett a few of the dried apples which had been reserved for the sick; but it was not until nightfall that my husband was capable of swallowing anything—and then, what nourishment to give to a sick man! The day was freezing cold, and I had hardly anything on me, and had eaten nothing since the day before; for my mind was so agitated that I do not think the most delicate food would have tempted me. God alone knows the bitterness of my heart as I sat there during all that weary day. I never expected to see my husband open his eyes again, and I thought that when evening came I would lie down beside him, and we would take our last long sleep on earth together.

“When night came on and all was dark I still sat there; I dreaded to move lest I should learn the terrible truth—my husband dead! I looked towards the place where I knew he was lying, but I could see nothing. I listened, and I fancied that I heard a gentle breathing—but it was only fancy. Then, louder than the incessant moaning of the wind, I could hear in the distance a fearful cry—a cry which had often chilled our hearts at midnight on the plains—it was the wolves! The darkness grew darker still—so thick that one could almost feel it; the horror of death seemed stealing over all my senses. Oh that there might be one long eternal night to blot out for ever our miseries and our existence. I threw my hands wildly above me, and cried bitterly, ‘Oh God, my God, let me die!’

“God was nearer to me than I thought. As my hand dropped lifelessly to the ground it touched some moving thing—it was my husband’s hand—the same hand which I had watched in the twilight, stiffening, as I thought, in death. The long, thin fingers grasped my own, and though they were very, very cold, I felt that life was in them; and as I stooped down to kiss them I heard my husband’s voice, very weak and feeble, saying in a whisper, ‘Mary.’ I threw myself upon his bosom. In a moment the fear of death—the longing for death—the wild and terrible thoughts, all had gone; the sound of that voice was life to me, and forgetful of his weakness, forgetful of everything but him, I threw myself upon his bosom and wept tears of joy.

“Very carefully and gently I raised him up, and, in the darkness, every whispered word conveyed more meaning to my mind than all his eloquence in by-gone times. After some time I persuaded him to take a little nourishment—miserable stuff that it was—and presently he fell asleep again. I laid his dear head upon the best pillow that I could make of some of my own clothes, and then I slept a little myself—not much, but it was more refreshing than any sleep that had visited my eyes for a long time past—hope had come again.

“The next morning my husband was evidently better, and I knelt down beside him and thanked God for the miracle that He had wrought; for was it not a miracle thus to raise my dead to life again? How many stronger, stouter men than he had I seen fall sick and die; but to me God had shown mercy in my utmost need.

“We waited three long days for the return of Captain Willie. My heart was so full of thankfulness that my husband had been spared that I certainly did not feel so acutely the misery with which I was surrounded as I otherwise should have done; I was like the prisoner who feels happy in a reprieve from death, but whose situation is nevertheless such as would appear to any other person the most wretched in which he could be placed. The misery that was suffered in that camp was beyond the power of words to describe. On the second day they gave us some more beef-rations, but they did us little good. The beef was, of course, of the poorest, and, eaten alone, it did not seem to satisfy hunger, and those who were prostrated by dysentery, although they ate it ravenously, suffered much in consequence afterwards.

“The number of the sick rapidly increased, and not a few died from exhaustion; and really those seemed happiest who were thus taken from the horrors which surrounded them. Had it not been for the intense frost, we should all probably have fallen victims to the intolerable atmosphere of the camp. I would not even allow my mind to recall some of the scenes which I witnessed at that time: scenes, the disgusting and filthy horrors of which no decent words could describe. When you consider the frightful condition in which we were, the hunger and cold which we endured, you may perhaps be able in a small degree to conjecture—as far as a person can conjecture who has not himself suffered such things—what we then passed through. I saw poor miserable creatures, utterly worn out, dying in the arms of other forlorn and hopeless creatures as wretched as themselves; I saw strong and honest, honourable men, or who had once been such, begging of the captain for the miserable scraps which had been saved for the sick and the helpless children; I saw poor heart-broken mothers freezing to death, but clasping as they died, in an agony of loving woe, the torn and wretched remnants of clothing which they still retained, around the emaciated forms of their innocent babes—the mother-instinct strong in death; and sometimes at night when, all unbidden, I see again in dreams the awful sufferings of those poor God-forsaken wretches, I start in horror and pray the Almighty rather to blot out from my mind the memory of all the past, than to let me ever recollect, if but in fancy, that fearful time.

“The third day came, and still no relief. There are mysterious powers of endurance in human nature, weak as we often deem it, but there is a point beyond which the bow, however flexible, will not bend. It was evident that if no help arrived speedily, the end was not far off.

“The sun was sinking behind the distant western hills, in all the glory of the clear frosty atmosphere of the desert, and many who gazed upon its beauty did so with a mournful interest, believing that they would never again behold the light of day. But at that moment some who were anxiously watching with a last hope—watching for what they hardly dared expect to see—raised a shout of joy. We knew what it was! Men, women, and children rushed from their tents to welcome the approaching waggons and our friends in time of need. Captain Willie and the other Elder had found the rescue from Salt Lake overtaken by the storm just as we were, but he had told them of our terrible situation, and they had hastened on without a moment’s delay. It was he and they, convoying good supplies, who now approached us. The poor creatures shouted wildly for joy; even the strong men shed tears; and the sisters, overcome with the sudden change from death to life, flung themselves into the arms of the brethren as they came into the camp and covered them with kisses. Such happiness you never saw—every one shaking hands and speaking joyfully—every one saying ‘God bless you’ with a meaning such as is seldom attached to those words.

“The supplies were to us more than food and clothing—they were life itself. Elder John Chislett was appointed to distribute the provisions and clothing, and everything was placed in his hands. He gave out to us all that was immediately necessary, but strongly cautioned us to be very moderate in what we ate, as it was dangerous to go from the extreme of fasting to a full meal. After supper the clothing and bedding was fairly divided, and we felt more thankful for those little comforts than a person, who had never endured as we had, would have felt had he become suddenly the recipient of boundless luxury.

“Two of the Elders who had held forth such delusive hopes to the company, not long before, as I have already told you, were with the brethren who came to our relief. I have never ventured to ask how it was that they could hold out to us in God’s name such promises, when they must have known after a moment’s reflection, that they were utterly baseless; but I think that probably they left their comfortable homes in Salt Lake City and came across the stormy desert with supplies to meet us, only to show practically how anxious they were to atone for having led us astray. Next morning Elder Grant went on east to meet the company following us, but Elder W. H. Kimball took command of our company for the rest of the way.

“We could now journey but very slowly, for the road was bad; the sick and weakly were, however, able to ride, and altogether we suffered less. To some this change for the better arrived too late—the mental and physical sufferings which they had endured were too much for them. Poor souls! they alone and their Father in heaven knew what they had passed through. They seemed to have lost all consciousness, as if their faculties had been numbed and stultified. We talked to them of the past, but they looked at us with unmeaning eyes, as if we spoke of something in which they had no interest; we tried to lead their thoughts to Zion, and the promises of the Lord; but it was all in vain. They turned from us with a look of terrible apathy; and one or two, who partly seemed to understand, only replied with an indifference painful to witness—‘Too late, too late!’

“As we journeyed, the weather every day grew colder. Many of the unfortunate people lost their fingers and toes, others their ears; one poor woman lost her sight, and I was told of a poor sick man who held on to the waggon-bars to save himself from jolting, and had all his fingers frozen off. Few, if any, of the people recovered from the effects of that frost. One morning they found a poor old man who had vainly tried the evening before to keep up with the rest. His corpse was not far from the camp, but it had been sadly mangled by the wolves. Then there came another snow-storm, only worse in proportion as the weather was colder, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could be kept from freezing. We wrapped blankets and anything else we could get around us, but the cold wind penetrated to our very bones. I was told that some of the people, even women and children, who lagged behind, were whipped so as to make them keep up, and to keep life in them. I did not see this myself; but I believe, if the story was true, it was an act of mercy and not of cruelty, for to delay a moment was fatal. The captain of our hundred more than once stayed behind the company to bury some unfortunate person who died on the road: how he ever got up with us again I cannot tell, but he seemed to be as indefatigable in his labours as he was wonderfully preserved.

“Sometimes the carts came to a dead stand-still, and several had to be fastened together and drawn by a united effort, and in more than one instance the poor people gave up altogether;—they were carried on, while they lived, as well as we could; but their carts were abandoned. The stragglers came in slowly to camp the night of the storm—the people from the Valley even went back to fetch some in—and it was nearly six o’clock in the morning before the last arrived.

“The next day we remained in camp, for there were so many sick and dying that we could not proceed. Early in the morning Elder Chislett and three other Elders went round to see who was dead, that they might be buried. They found in the tents fifteen corpses—all stiff and frozen. Two more died during the day. A large square hole was dug, and they were buried in it three abreast, and then they were covered with leaves and earth, every precaution being taken to keep them from the wolves. Few of the relatives of those who were dead came to the burial—they did not seem to care—death had become familiar to them, and personal misery precluded sorrow for the dead.

“As we drew nearer to Salt Lake Valley we met more of the brethren coming to our assistance. They supplied us with all we needed, and then hastened on to meet those who followed us. The atmosphere seemed to become sensibly warmer, and our sufferings were proportionately less as we approached Zion.

“What the feelings of others might have been when they first saw the goal of our hopes—Zion of our prayers and songs—I cannot tell. Weary, oh so weary I felt, but thankful, more than thankful, that my husband’s life had been spared. He was pale and sick, but he was with us still.

“I have written too much already, Sister Stenhouse. I cannot tell you more now, but I may as well add that when we left Iowa City we were about five hundred in all. Some left us on the way. When we left Florence, and began the journey across the Plains, we were over four hundred and twenty, of which number we buried sixty-seven—a sixth of the whole. The company which followed us, and to which I have frequently alluded, fared worse than we. They numbered six hundred when they started, but they buried one hundred and fifty on the journey—one in every four. May God grant that I may never again see such a sight as was presented by the miserable remnant of that last company as they came on slowly through the Cañon towards Salt Lake Valley.”

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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 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.

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.

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When I arrived in Salt Lake City, a great many improvements had been effected; and expecting, as I did that this would be our future home for many years, perhaps for life, I was interested in everything that I saw.

The first Sunday I went to the Tabernacle I was greatly amused at the way in which some of the sisters were dressed. Quite a number wore sun-bonnets, but the majority wore curious and diverse specimens of the milliner’s art—relics of former days. Some wore a little tuft of gauze and feathers on the top of the head, while others had helmets of extraordinary size. There were little bonnets, half-grown bonnets, and “grandmother bonnets” with steeple crowns and fronts so large that it was difficult to get a peep at the faces which they concealed. As for the dresses, they were as diversified as the bonnets. Some of them presented a rather curious spectacle. I noticed two young women who sat near me: they were dressed alike in green calico sun-bonnets, green calico skirts, and pink calico sacks. On inquiring who they were, I was told that they were the wives of one man, and had both been married to him on the same day, so that neither could claim precedence of the other. Outside of Utah such a thing would seem impossible; but so many of the young girls at that time came out to Zion without father or mother or any one else to guide them; and left to their own inexperience and afraid to disobey “counsel,” it is no wonder that they soon yielded to the universal custom.

The two young women whom I have mentioned did not appear to me to be overburdened with intelligence; they looked like girls who could be made to believe anything; but after that I met with two well-educated women who, like these foolish girls, thoughtlessly tried the experiment of two or more marrying the same man on the same day, agreeing with their “lord” that that would be the best way to preserve peace in their household. But they were terribly mistaken; and even before the marriage-day was over, the poor bewildered husband had to fly to Brother Brigham for counsel.

The Tabernacle services seemed to me as strange as the women. There was no regular order in conducting the proceedings, but the prominent brethren made prayers or “sermons” as they were called upon to do so. The “sermons” would be more properly called speeches; they are nothing but a rambling, disconnected glorification of the Saints, interspersed with fearful denunciations of the Gentiles, and not unfrequently a good sprinkling of words and expressions such as are never used in decent society. More unedifying discourses could hardly be imagined. As for the spirituality and devotional feeling which characterized our meetings in England, they were only conspicuous by their absence, and many devout Saints have told me that when they first went there, before the erection of the great organ, the free-and-easy manners of the speakers and the brass band which was stationed in front of the platform, made them feel as if they had come to witness a puppet-show rather than to attend a religious meeting.

There was one lady at the Tabernacle service whom I regarded with considerable interest. This was no other than Eliza R. Snow, one of the Prophet’s wives. I was told that she was the first woman married in Polygamy after Joseph Smith received the Revelation, and I believed it was so. People who lived in Nauvoo, respectable people, and not one or two either, have assured me that for four years before Joseph is said to have received the Revelation, he was practising Polygamy, or something worse, and that the Revelation was given to justify what was already done. However this might be, it is generally understood that Miss Eliza Snow was the first plural wife of the Prophet. Her principal occupation at the present time is converting rebellious wives to obedience to their husbands, and convincing young girls that it is their duty to enter into Polygamy. Unhappy husbands derive great consolation from her counsels. In matters of religion she is a perfect fanatic, and in connexion with the Female Relief Society she reigns supreme; but otherwise there are many excellent traits in her character, and I could tell of many acts of loving-kindness and self-denial which she has performed, and which will surely have their reward. As the chief poet of the Mormon Church, and as the Representative of Eve in the mysteries of the Endowment House, she enjoys a reputation such as would be impossible to any other woman among the Saints.

Another of the late Joseph’s wives is a Mrs. Doctor Jacobs, who was actually married to the Prophet while she was still living with her original husband, Jacobs. Under the same circumstances she married Brigham Young, after Joseph’s death. For some time her husband knew nothing of the whole affair, but Brigham very soon gave him to understand that his company was not wanted. The sister of Mrs. Jacobs—a Mrs. Buel—was another of Joseph’s wives, and she married the Apostle Heber C. Kimball, but does not appear to have made a very good bargain.

Besides these there is another lady, a Mrs. Shearer—or, as she is familiarly called—“Aunty Shearer.” She is in every respect a unique specimen of womanhood, tall and angular, with cold yet eager grey eyes; a woman of great volubility, and altogether grim-looking and strong-minded. She was an early disciple, and is said to have sacrificed everything for Mormonism. She lived in Joseph Smith’s family, and, of course, saw and heard a great deal about Polygamy, and at first it was a great stumbling-block to her. She was, however, instructed by the immaculate Joseph, and so far managed to overcome her feelings as to be married to him for eternity. Like the others, she is called “Mrs.,” and I suppose there is a Mr. Shearer somewhere, but upon that point she is very reticent. Her little lonely hut is fitted with innumerable curiosities and little knick-knacks, which some people are for ever hoarding away in the belief that they will come into use some day. She is a woman that one could not easily forget. She wears a muslin cap with a very wide border flapping in the wind under a comical-looking hood, and is easily recognized by her old yellow marten-fur cape and enormous muff: her dress, which is of her own spinning and weaving, is but just wide enough, and its length could never inconvenience her. Add to these personal ornaments a stout pair of brogues, and you will see before you “Aunty Shearer,” one of the Prophet’s spiritual wives.

I may as well explain what is meant by “spiritual” wives and “proxy” wives.

Marriages contracted by the Gentiles, or by Mormons in accordance with Gentile institutions, are not considered binding by the Saints. That was partly the cause of my indignation and the indignation of many another wife and mother. We were told that we had never been married at all, and that our husbands and our children were not lawfully ours: surely that was enough to excite the indignation of any wife, whatever her faith might be. For a marriage to be valid it must be solemnized in the Endowment House in Salt Lake City, or the persons contracting it can never expect to be husband and wife in eternity. Should the husband die before he reaches Zion, and if the wife loves him sufficiently well to wish to be his in eternity—when she arrives in Salt Lake City, if she receives an offer of marriage from one of the brethren, and does not object to him as a second husband in this world, she will make an agreement with him that she will be his wife, for time, but that in eternity she and all her children shall be handed over to the first husband. A woman thus married is called a “proxy” wife.

Now “spiritual” wives are of two classes. The one consists of old ladies who have plenty of money or property which of course needs looking after; and generous Elders marry them, and accordingly “look after” the said property, and the owner of it becomes the Elder’s spiritual wife. She will only be his real wife in eternity when she is rejuvenated.

The other kind of “spiritual” wife is one who is married already, but who does not think that her husband can “exalt” her to so high a position in the celestial world as she deserves—perhaps some kind brother who takes a great interest in her welfare has told her so—she then is secretly “sealed” to one of the brethren who is better able to exalt her—perhaps to this same brother; and in the resurrection she will pass from him who was her husband on earth to him who is to be her husband in heaven—if she has not done so before.

This is what is meant by “proxy” and “spiritual” wives. I think it will be evident even to the dullest comprehension that under such a system, “the world, the flesh, and the devil” are far more likely to play a prominent part than anything heavenly or spiritual.

All this is so repugnant to the instincts and feelings of a true woman, that I feel quite ashamed to write about it. And yet the working out of this system has produced results which would be perfectly grotesque were it not that they outrage every ordinary sense of propriety. Let me give an example. One of the wives of Brigham Young—Mrs. Augustus Cobb Young—a highly educated and intelligent Boston lady with whom I am intimately acquainted, requested of her Prophet husband a favour of a most extraordinary description. She had forsaken her lawful husband and family and a happy and luxurious home to join the Saints, under the impression that Brigham Young would make her his queen in heaven. She was a handsome woman—a woman of many gifts and graces—and Brigham thoroughly appreciated her; but she made a slight miscalculation in respect to the Prophet. He cares little enough for his first wife, poor lady, and few people who know him doubt for a moment that he would un-queen her and cut her adrift for time and eternity too, if his avaricious soul saw the slightest prospect of gain by doing so; he did not care for her, but he never would allow himself to be dictated to by any woman. So when the lady of whom I speak asked him to place her at the head of his household, he refused: she begged hard, but he would not relent. Then finding that she could not be Brigham’s “queen,” and having been taught by the highest Mormon authorities that our Saviour had, and has, many wives, she requested to be “sealed to Him!” Brigham Young told her (for what reason I do not know) that it really was out of his power to do that, but that he would do “the next best thing” for her—he would “seal” her to Joseph Smith. She was sealed to Joseph Smith, and though Brigham still supports her, and she is called by his name on earth, in the resurrection she will leave him and go over to the original Prophet.

The reader will be certainly shocked at this terrible burlesque of sacred things, but I felt it my duty to state the truth and place facts in their right light. It is not generally known that the Mormons are taught that the marriage at Cana of Galilee was Christ’s own nuptial feast, that Mary and Martha were his plural wives, and that those women who in various parts of the New Testament are spoken of as ministering to him stood to him in the same relation.

Malicious first wives, especially if they are rather elderly themselves, frequently call the proxy wives “fixins;” and the tone in which some of them utter the word is in the last degree contemptuous. These poor “fixins” are seldom treated as real wives by the husband himself. He may think sufficiently well of the “proxy” wife to make her his for time and to raise up children to his friend, as the Elders say, but he never forgets that in eternity she will be handed over to the man for whom he has stood proxy, and he expects that she also will bear that in mind, and do all she can for her own support, and never complain of his want of attention to her. Some men, after having married a young proxy wife, have become so enamoured that they grew jealous of the dead husband, and have tried to get the wife to break faith with him, and be married to them for eternity as well as time. This was certainly rather mean. Very few Gentile husbands would fret themselves about possibilities in the world to come, if in this world they had the certainty of enjoying the undivided affections of their wives.

Mormon husbands are so influenced by their religion that they neither act nor think like other men. I am thinking of one wretched family that I knew soon after I went to Utah. There was a man and his wife and four children, all living together in a miserable, poverty-stricken hut. I had heard that the man was paying attentions to a young girl with a view of making her his second wife, and I frequently watched the first wife as she went in and out, doing her “chores,” and wondered how she felt about it. The poverty of the man, of course, was of no consequence; living in the primitive style in which necessity then compelled the Saints to live, one, or even half-a-dozen extra wives made very little difference, and Brigham and the leading Elders have always represented it as a meritorious act, for the young especially, to “build up the kingdom,” without regard to consequences, or the misery of bringing up a family in a destitute condition. I never can see children without loving them, and in this case it was not long before I contrived to make acquaintance with the little ones. One day, while I was talking to them, the mother came out. She seemed pleased to see me, for she had heard of me that I was not too strong in the faith, and she told me that her husband had said, in speaking of such women as myself, who did not like the celestial order of marriage, that their husbands ought to force them right into it, and that would show what they were made of: if they were true-hearted women, seeking their husband’s glory and “exaltation” in the world to come, they would bear it well enough; and if not, the sooner it killed them the better; for if they were dead their husbands could save them in the resurrection, but if they lived they would only be an incumbrance.

This, I found, was the general opinion among the Mormon men. Even in England the American Elders had taught us that the man was the head and “saviour” of the woman, and that the woman was only responsible to her husband. It was necessary, we were told, that the woman should keep in favour with her lord, otherwise he might withdraw his protection and refuse to take her into the celestial kingdom; in which case when she got to heaven she would only be an angel! To be an angel is not considered by the Saints to be by any means the highest state of glory. Those who do not obey the “Celestial Order of Marriage” will, like the angels, neither marry nor be given in marriage; they will be located, the men in one place, and the women in another, and will serve as slaves, lackeys, and boot-blacks to the Saints. Brigham Young once publicly said of a certain President of the United States, that he would clean the boots of the Mormon leaders in heaven. He did not say this as a figure of speech, but meant it literally. Those who have obeyed the Gospel of the new dispensation, but who have failed to enter into Polygamy, will be as upper servants; but the rebellious—the “vile apostates” and the “wicked Gentiles”—will join the angels and do all the drudgery for the men of many wives. Thus I learned in Zion that my youthful notions about the glory of the cherubim were quite a mistake, and that it was not such a fine thing to be an angel after all.

But I have run away from my story, and had almost forgotten my poor acquaintance. She was a woman who was likely to preserve a painful place in the memory of any one who once saw her. Her face was pale as death, and her jet-black eyes glistened with an unearthly lustre; it was easy to perceive that she was very unhappy, although she tried hard to exhibit a cheerful disposition, and when our conversation turned to that subject which to women here is all-absorbing, the nervous twitching of her pale face showed how deeply painful such thoughts were to her. She told me that her husband was soon to be married to a young girl about fourteen years of age. “Do you see,” she said, “that he is building for her?” And sure enough he was, at odd hours, adding another hut to the miserable hovel in which they already lived; and thither, when it was finished, he intended to take his bride. As I looked at the poor wife, I felt little doubt that ere that time came, her troubles on earth would have ended, and her little ones would be motherless.

The Mormon women, as well as the Mormon men, are noted for attending to their own business—they do not care to tell their sorrows and trials to strangers or to people who are not of their own faith. In this way visitors to Salt Lake who have gone there with the intention of “writing-up” the Saints in the newspapers or in a book, have generally been misled. My own experience as a Mormon woman leads me to form anything but a flattering opinion of the Mormon stories told by Gentile pens. The following instance will show that the sisters are not quite so free in giving their experience as some writers would suggest.

One day, while passing through the city, I saw a young woman running across the road with a little child in her arms. The child was crying piteously, for the water was running from its clothing, and I saw in a moment that it had fallen into the stream which ran in front of the house. I followed, to see if I could be of any assistance, but fortunately found that the little creature was not seriously hurt, but would soon recover from the fright and cold. I helped the mother to change its clothing, and while she was lulling her baby to sleep we entered into conversation. At first she appeared to be very shy of me, and avoided speaking of anything in the slightest degree personal; but growing more interested, she said at last,—

“Are you a Mormon?”

“Certainly,” I answered; “but why do you ask me?”

“Because,” she said, “we have had one or two Gentile women among us, and they go round among our people and question the women, and get them to tell their troubles, which God knows are heavy enough; and then they go and write about it, and Brigham Young finds it out, and their husbands are called to account for allowing their wives to speak to the Gentiles. You are sure you are a Mormon?” she added, “and you are not deceiving me?”

“I’m sorry you should think such a thing,” I said; “but if you suppose I would deceive you, I will not trouble you with my company.” And I rose up to leave.

“Do not go yet,” she said, “and pray forgive me, if I have wounded your feelings; it is simply the fear I have of getting into trouble. Brigham Young and the Elders have frequently told us to have nothing to do with the Gentiles, for they are enemies to the kingdom of God, and are seeking our overthrow—and I suppose it is true.”

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Over two years,” she replied, “and it seems almost twenty—time has passed so slowly. I left father and mother, sisters and brother, for the Gospel’s sake, and I do not regret it, because it is right; but it was a very great sacrifice to make. Yet I believe that God blesses us for the sacrifices we make, and I shall get my reward.”

“You have it already,” I said, “in that pretty child on your knee; and your husband, I hope, is a good man and kind to you.”

“Yes,” she answered, “my child is a very great source of happiness to me, and I love my husband very much, but—” (hesitatingly) “are you in Polygamy?”

“No, not yet; but I do not know how soon my husband may take it into his head to get another wife.”

“Are you first wife?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “and I suppose you are also?”

“No, I am third wife,” she said, “I wish I were first wife.”

“But why,” I suggested, “do you wish that? If Polygamy is the true order of marriage, I do not see that it makes much difference whether one is the first or the twentieth wife?”

“Oh dear, yes,” she replied, “it does make a great deal of difference; for the first wife will be queen over all the others, and reign with her husband. If I had known that before I was married, I should have made my husband promise to place me first. Men can do that if they like.”

“But do you think you would be doing right in trying to gain the position of first wife in that way?”

“Why not?” she said; “didn’t Jacob obtain his brother’s birthright by deception—and was he ever punished for it? Do you think that Brother Brigham, notwithstanding that he is the inspired servant of God, could have obtained his position, and all his money, by simple honest dealing? If you think so, I don’t; and it is just as proper and right for us women to secure a position for ourselves by such means as it is for Brigham Young—the end justifies the means.”

“If that is so,” I said, “it is a wonder to me that any woman should consent to become second, third, or fourth wife—seeing they cannot be queens.”

“I can see that you have not yet had your ‘Endowments,’” she said, “or you would understand more about these things; but as you are a good Mormon, I can speak freely to you. You see it is not always those who are first wives in this world who will be first in the celestial kingdom. It all depends upon the amount of sacrifice the wife is capable of making for her husband, her faithfulness to him, and the number of children she has borne him. If she pleases him in every particular, and is good, patient, and above all things obedient to all his wishes and commands, then she is almost certain to be made queen, unless the first wife is just as good, and then I don’t know how they would fix that. And so you see it is safer to be first wife at once.”

“Well, but,” I asked, “knowing all this, I am surprised that you consented to be third wife!”

“But I did not know it then,” she continued. “My husband told me that all the wives were queens—all equal—and he says so still when I talk to him about it. But he can’t deceive me. I have spoken to some of the old Nauvoo women who know all about it, and they tell me that all the Polygamic wives will be subject to the first wife; but the first wife, having suffered most, will be the one who has gone through the fire and been purified, and found worthy.”

“But do you think that your husband would wish to deceive you about such an important matter?” I said.

“Wait till you have lived a little longer here,” she replied, “and you will be able to answer that question yourself, or else your experience will be very different from that of the rest of the people here.”

Just then the husband made his appearance, and put an end to the conversation. He was a tall, dark-looking man, with grey hair, old enough to be her father. He appeared to be well educated and to have seen better days, though everything about their home indicated poverty—the room in which we were sitting had no carpet on the floor, there was a plain white-pine table in the middle, a small sheet-iron stove, four wooden chairs, a small looking-glass, and some cheap pictures. This was the sitting-room for the whole family—three wives, eleven children, one husband. He asked me if I had seen the rest of the family.

I replied negatively, and he said he would see if any of them were about. Presently he returned accompanied by an elderly woman whom he introduced as Mrs. Simpson. Then came another, not quite as good-looking as the first, but a great deal younger, and he introduced her as “My wife Ellen. And this one,” he said, turning to the one with whom I had been conversing, “is my wife Sarah. Don’t you think I have got three fine-looking women?” Then, after a pause, he added, “And they are just as good as they are good-looking—good, obedient wives. I have no trouble with them; my wishes are law in this house. Here you have a family in which the Spirit of God reigns. We are not rich in worldly goods, as you see, but we are laying up treasure in heaven. We all live in this little home of four rooms. My wife Ellen here, has given up her room for a parlour for us all to meet together in, and she sleeps in a waggon-box; it is not the most comfortable, but she never grumbles. Then, here is our Sarah; we are obliged to humour her a little, and give her a room all to herself. She is young and inexperienced, and doesn’t like to put up with the inconveniences that the Saints have to bear with; while old mother here has got to have half-a-dozen children in her room, but she never complains.”

“Why did you not wait,” I said, “until you had a larger house?”

“Then where would my kingdom be?” he answered, “Young men may wait, but old men must improve their time.”

There came in now a troop of children of all ages. They had been playing in the lot, were miserably clad, barefooted, and some looked gaunt and hungry:—manners to match. “These,” he said, with all a father’s fondness—“these constitute my kingdom, and I am proud of them.”

I felt thankful that I was not destined to be queen over such a kingdom, wished them good-bye, and with a sad heart went home to my own darling little ones, not knowing what might be their fate.

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Shortly after our arrival in Salt Lake City we visited President Young, who received us very graciously and appointed an early day for us to dine with him.

On that occasion he invited some of the Apostles and leading men to meet us at his table, and we passed an exceedingly pleasant evening. The Prophet made himself very affable; talked with us about our missionary life and other subjects of personal and general interest; and expressed a high opinion of the energy and ability which my husband had displayed. His wives, too,—whom I found, as far as I could judge from such a casual acquaintance, to be amiable and kind-hearted ladies,—made every effort to render our visit agreeable.

I was much pleased with the manner and appearance of Brigham Young, and felt greatly reassured; for he did not seem to me like a man who would preach and practise such things as I had heard of him while I was in London. This I was glad to see, for it encouraged me to think that, perhaps, after all, matters might not be so bad as I had anticipated. We were, in fact, very kindly received in Salt Lake City by every one with whom we came in contact; for having been Missionaries for so many years, we were, of course, well known by name, and had a wide circle of acquaintances among the chief Elders and emigrants.

Fifteen years have, of course, worked a great change in the appearance of Brigham Young; but though he is now nearly seventy-three years of age, he is still a portly-looking—I might almost say handsome man. His good looks are not of the poetic or romantic kind at all; he is very common-place and practical in his appearance, but long and habitual exercise of despotic authority has stamped itself upon his features, and is seen even in the way he carries himself: he might without any stretch of the imagination be mistaken for a retired sea-captain.

When I first knew him, in appearance he was little over fifty years of age, was of medium height, well built, upright, and, as I just stated, had the air of one accustomed to be obeyed. His hair was light,—sandy, I suppose I ought to call it,—with eyes to match; and the expression of his countenance was pleasant and manly. I, of course, regarded him from a woman’s stand-point; but there were others who were accustomed to study physiognomy, and they detected—or thought they detected—in the cold expression of his eye and the stern, hard lines of his lips, evidences of cruelty, selfishness, and dogged determination which, it is only fair to say, I myself never saw.

The lines on his face have deepened of late years, as what little of gentleness his heart ever knew has died out within him; but still he presents the appearance of a man who would afford a deep study to the observer of human nature. In early life he had to work hard for a living, and according to his own statement he had a rough time of it. He was, by trade, a painter and glazier, and has frequently said in public that in those times he was glad to work for “six bits” a day, and to keep his hands busy from morning to night to get even that. Whether or not the privations of early years fostered in him that avaricious and grasping spirit which of late years has been so conspicuous in him, I cannot say, but it is certain that it cropped out very early in his career as a Saint. An old Nauvoo Missionary,—a Mormon of the Mormons once, but now, alas! a “vile apostate” as Brigham would politely call him,—once told me that when the Prophet Joseph Smith sent the Apostle Young on Mission, a good deal of discontent was shown that the said Apostle did not account properly for the collections and tithings which passed through his hands. Brother Joseph who was then “the Church” suggested in a pleasant way—for the Prophet Smith was a big, jovial fellow, six feet two or three inches in height, and withal somewhat of a humorist—that the said Apostle Brigham would appear in his eyes a better Saint if he displayed a little less love for filthy lucre. Thereupon the Apostle, like somebody else who shall be nameless, quoted Scripture, and reminded the Prophet that Moses had said, “Thou shalt not muzzle the mouth of the ox that treadeth out the corn.” “True, Brother Brigham,” said Joseph, “but Moses did not say the ox was to eat up all the corn.” Brother Brigham made no reply, but is said to have “sulked” for two or three days.

I have often heard intelligent Gentiles remark, “Well, Brigham Young may be a wicked man and an impostor, but there must be a great deal of talent in him, to manage those people for so many years.”

From this opinion I altogether dissent; and those who know Brigham best, think with me, though many of them would not dare to say so. I do not think Brigham Young a wicked man or an impostor in the sense in which those words are ordinarily used; but experience, and a careful study of his life and doings, have convinced me that he is certainly not a great man or a man of genius in any sense of the word. There can be no doubt that he has been guilty of many and great crimes, but I believe that in the early part of his career he was so blinded by fanaticism that those crimes appeared to him actually virtues:—the force of habit and the daily associations of his life have so completely taken from him all sense of right and wrong; while the devotion of his people has made the idea that he could possibly do the slightest wrong so utterly inconceivable to him and to them, that his perceptions of justice, truth, honour, honesty, and upright dealing are as utterly stultified as they ever were in the mind of the wildest savage who prowled among the cliffs and cañons of the Rocky Mountains.

People think that Brigham Young attained to his present position by the exercise of ability, such as has been displayed, only on a greater scale, by all those men who, not being born to power, nor having it thrust upon them, have by the force of their genius seized it and held it—unlawfully it might be, but, nevertheless, with talent and moral energy.

Of the Prophet’s moral character, the less said the better. He has been remorseless and cruel in his enmities, and he has connived at and even suggested, if nothing more, some of the most atrocious crimes that have ever been perpetrated on the face of the earth. In business matters, in the payment of money—to use a popular phrase—his word is as good as his bond, but in the accumulation of wealth he has evinced an amount of dishonesty which can scarcely be credited. Brigham always meets his obligations, and pays his debts, and gets a lawful receipt:—the prophetic business could not otherwise be carried on; but the way in which he has obtained his wealth would put to the blush the most dishonest member of any “ring” in New York, or elsewhere. When he attended his first Conference, he says he had to borrow certain masculine garments and a pair of boots before he could put in an appearance. Now it would be difficult to estimate the value of his property. He has taken up large tracts of land all over the Territory, he has the uncontrolled and unquestioned command of all the tithing and contributions of the Saints, and from gifts and confiscations, and innumerable other sources, his revenue pours in. It was once rumoured that he had eighteen or twenty millions of dollars in the Bank of England; but Brigham said that the report was not true. “The Church,” he added, had a little money invested abroad. The difference between “The Church” and the individual Brigham Young has yet to be determined.

In the year 1852 the “Prophet of the Lord” found that he had borrowed an inconveniently large sum from the funds of the Church. He is “Trustee in Trust” and, of course, legally responsible; but he never renders an account of his stewardship, and no one ever asks him for it. His sense of honesty was, however, so strong that he resolved to have his account balanced, and he went down to the Tithing-Office for that purpose. There he found that his indebtedness amounted to two hundred thousand dollars, and he proceeded to pay it after his own fashion: the clerk was instructed to place to his credit the same amount “for services rendered.” In 1867, he owed very nearly one million dollars, which he had borrowed from the same fund, and he balanced his account in the same way. His contract for the Pacific Railroad is said to have yielded him a quarter of a million, and his other contracts and mining speculations, purchases and thefts of lands, houses, &c., have been very profitable. The expenses of such a family as Brother Brigham’s must be something enormous, but the contributions which by honest and dishonest means he has levied have been so large that he must still be one of the wealthiest men in the States.

Brigham is not a generous man. He has given occasionally, as for instance at the time of the Chicago fire, when he presented a thousand dollars for the sufferers, but even then his motive was evident—the affairs of “Deseret” were under discussion in Congress. Without the certainty of a profitable return, Brigham never gave a cent. The story of his sordid avarice and his contemptible meanness in the accumulation of money would fill a volume.

Morally and physically the Prophet is a great coward. When he and other Church leaders were arrested a year or two ago, charged with the very gravest crimes, the effect upon the Prophet was most distressing. He had solemnly sworn in the Tabernacle that he would shoot the man who attempted to arrest him; but when Judge McKean opened court and placed him under arrest, he swallowed his threats and played the coward’s part. Before this the world has seen wretches who were notorious for their cruelty and tyranny, and who were also remarkable for their cowardice. For many years he has imitated royalty and has had a strong body-guard to keep watch and ward around his person every night. No man has less cause to apprehend personal violence than Brother Brigham, but the voice of conscience, which, as the poet says, makes cowards of us all, suggests his fears.

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The wives of Brigham Young have always been subjects of interest to Gentiles who visited Zion; and having spoken of their husband, I think it is only fair that I should say a few words about them.

For many years I have known personally all the Prophet’s wives who reside in Salt Lake City, and I wish to speak of them with kindness and respect. They are women whom any one would esteem—conscientious, good, earnest women; faithful, true-hearted wives, who have devoted their lives to the carrying out of what they believe is the revealed will of God.

When I first knew Brother Brigham, poor man, he had only sixteen living with him in Salt Lake City; and even now he has no more than nineteen! Perhaps I ought to say eighteen, since Eliza-Ann has run away from him, and left the poor old gentleman desolate and forlorn. The three whom he took after I came to Utah, were Amelia Folsom, Mary Van Cott Cobb, and Eliza-Ann. But the reader will perhaps be interested in hearing about them all, and so I will state the names and order of the ladies as they at present stand—according to the date of their marriage; making mention of the proxy wives last of all, for the sake of convenience and without reference to date. Of course Brother Brigham has had many more than nineteen wives, but the following are the living ladies; others are dead or have strayed away, no one knew whither, and perhaps, as Brother Heber once said to me, nobody cared.

Allow me to introduce the Mrs. Young.

First in order is Mrs. Mary Ann Angell Young, but she is not the first wife that Brother Brigham ever had. Once upon a time, Brother Brigham was a Methodist; but after listening to the preaching of the Mormon Missionaries he became a vile apostate—as he loves to call those who leave his present faith—and he forsook Methodism. In those days, before he apostatised, and long before he ever dreamed of Polygamy, he had but one wife—one only! It must seem strange to the Prophet to look back to that period of solitary existence. His second wife was Mrs. Angell Young; and I call her his first wife because she is the first of those living now. As she was married to him after the death of his first wife, she is, of course, his legal wife, and would be recognized as such in any civilized country. She is a very fine-looking old lady and very much devoted to her unfaithful lord and master, firmly believing in his divine mission. She lives by herself and is seldom troubled with a visit from her affectionate spouse. Once in a while Brigham brings her out to a party when he has invited any Gentiles, just for appearance sake. Quite a number of persons in Utah believe that she is dead, so very little is seen and known of her. She lives in the White House—Brigham’s first residence in Salt Lake City—and is much thought of by those who do know her. Her children are greatly attached to her, and show her a great deal of attention, making up in this way, to a certain extent, for her husband’s neglect; her three sons, Joseph A. Brigham—who it is expected will succeed his father as President of the Church—and John W., as well as her two daughters, Alice and Luna, are all in Polygamy. Each of the sons has three wives; and each of the daughters has a half-sister as a partner in her husband’s affections. Brigham has not the slightest objection to giving two of his daughters to the same husband.

Lucy Decker Seely Young was his first wife in Polygamy. Her former husband was a Mr. Seely. She is short and stout, a very excellent mother and a devoted wife.

Clara Decker Young is the third wife. She is a sister of Lucy Seely, and like her is short and stout, but otherwise good-looking. She is more than twenty years younger than her lord, with whom she was once quite a favourite, but like many others, she has “had her day”—to use Brigham’s own expression—and is now, as a matter of course, neglected.

Harriet Cook Young is tall, with light hair and blue eyes, and is an intelligent but not at all a refined woman. She is said to have given a great deal of trouble to Brother Brigham, of whom she has frequently said very hard things. In times past she had the reputation of being a good deal more than a match for her husband when she had any cause of offence against him, but in her quiet moments she is a very sincere Mormon. She has only one son—Oscar Young—now about twenty-five years of age. When he was born, Brigham kindly announced to her that because she was not obedient she should have no more children, and during more than a quarter of a century he has kept his word. Why she has remained with him so long is a mystery, for she makes no secret of her feelings towards him.

Lucy Bigelow Young is quite a fine-looking woman—tall and fair, and still quite young. She has three pretty daughters. Brigham has recently sent her to live in southern Utah.

Mrs. Twiss Young has no children, but she is a very good housewife, and Brigham appreciates her accordingly, and has given her the position of housekeeper in the Lion House. Women have two great privileges in the Mormon Church—they may ask a man to marry them, if they chance to fancy him, and if they don’t like him afterwards they are able to obtain a divorce for the moderate sum of ten dollars, which sum the husband is expected to pay. Mrs. Twiss exercised the first privilege in reference to Brother Brigham, but has not yet availed herself of the last. There are other ladies who thought it would be a great honour to be called the wives of the Prophet, and they have requested him to allow them to be called by his name. This he has done, but he has never troubled them with his society.

Martha Bowker Young is a quiet little body, with piercing dark eyes, and very retiring. Brother Brigham acts towards her as if he had quite forgotten that he had ever married her, and she lives in all the loneliness of married spinsterhood.

Harriet Barney Seagers Young, the eighth wife, is a tall, fine-looking woman. She was another man’s wife when Brigham made love to her. It is not supposed to be the correct thing for a Saint to court his neighbour’s wife, but the Prophet did so in the case of Harriet Barney, and in several other cases too. Harriet was married to a respectable young Mormon gentleman, but after she had lived with him some time and had borne three children to him, the Prophet persuaded her to join his ranks, and she did so, believing that the word of the Prophet was the revelation of the Lord to her, but she has since had bitter cause to repent of her folly. To a Gentile mind such an infatuation must appear very strange, but the Mormon people personally understand the powerful influence which their religion exercises over them, and to them there is nothing very singular in all this.

Eliza Burgess Young is the only English wife that Brigham has. She fell in love with the Prophet, wanted him to marry her, and even offered to wait, like Jacob, for seven years if she might be his at last. So she served in the family of her lord for the appointed time, and he finally took her to wife as a recompense for her faithfulness. She has added one son to the Prophet’s kingdom.

The tenth wife on my list is Susan Snively Young. She is a German woman—smart, active, and industrious. She has no children, but has been quite a help-meet to her husband in making butter and cheese, in which she excels. Smart Mormons have always had an eye to business, and while living up to their privileges have not invariably sought for wives who were only fair and pleasant to look upon, but have frequently taken them for their own intrinsic worth: one as a good dairymaid, another as a good cook, a third as a good laundress, and a fourth as a lady to grace the parlour—perhaps even two or three of this last kind, if the Saint were wealthy. There is a good deal of practical wisdom in this. Brother Brigham has gathered of all sorts into his net, and has then sorted them out, placing each lady in the position where he considered she would be most useful and profitable to himself.

Margaret Pierce Young is very lady-like, tall, and genteel. She has the appearance of being very unhappy, and it is certain that she has been very much neglected, but not more so than many of the other wives. She has one son.

When first I went to Utah, Emmeline Free Young was the reigning favourite, and she was really the handsomest of Brigham’s wives—tall and graceful, with curling hair, beautiful eyes, and fair complexion. Brigham was as fond of her, at the time, as a man of his nature, with such a low estimate of woman, could be. But a younger, though not a handsomer, rival soon captivated his fickle heart, and he left poor Emmeline to mourn in sorrow. She has never been herself since then, and probably never will be—she is a broken-hearted woman. She is the mother of quite a numerous family, and doubtless, as she had been the favourite for so long a time, she had come to believe that her husband would never seek another love. But, if this was so, she sadly miscalculated Brigham, for when his licentious fancy was attracted to another object of affection he cast off Emmeline as ruthlessly as he would an old garment. What decent person could refrain from loathing such a man! How often has my heart gone out in sympathy towards that poor, wrecked woman whom he had forsaken; what a pity I deemed it that so much love should be wasted upon a creature who could never understand or appreciate it. And yet Emmeline’s fate has been no worse than that of the others; but I was more with her, and saw how keenly she suffered, and I sympathized with her when her sorrows brought her nearly to the point of death.

Amelia Folsom Young is now the favourite, and it is supposed that she will continue to be so, for at last poor Brother Brigham has found a woman of whom he stands in dread. It is doubtful whether he loves her, but nobody in Zion doubts that he fears her. It is said that the Prophet has confided so many of his secrets to Amelia that he is obliged to submit to her tyranny, for fear of her leaving him, and exposing some of his little ways which would not bear the light. Be that as it may, it is generally believed that after all his matrimonial alliances he has at last found his master in the person of Amelia. Even good Saints—friends of the Prophet—secretly enjoy the idea of him being at last brought under petticoat government, for it is believed that Brigham used unfair means to obtain her, and that at last he only gained his object by deluding her into the belief that the Lord had revealed to him that it was her duty to become his wife. One thing is very certain—he was as crazy over her as a silly boy over his first love, much to the disgust of his more sober brethren, who felt rather ashamed of the folly of their leader. At the theatre a seat was reserved for her at his side, and in the ball-room the same special attention was shown to her. He would open the ball, and, after dancing with each of his other wives who might be present—simply for appearance sake—the remainder of the evening was devoted to her. For all that, his inconstant heart could not remain faithful to her, and old habits and feelings, to all appearance, have come over him again, and he has gone astray.

Julia Dean, the actress, was the first to draw him from Amelia’s side, and it would have been a sorry day for Amelia if Julia had favoured the Prophet’s suit. Then the charms of Mary Van Cott touched his sensitive heart, to say nothing of Eliza-Ann, his last but yet not his best-beloved.

With all this experience, and the constant evidences of the fickleness of Brother Brigham’s heart before her eyes, there is no wonder that poor Amelia feels compelled to hold tight the reins, now that they are in her own hands, for, if it is not much to be known as Brigham’s wife, it is a great deal to be known as his favourite. As for the future, it is whispered that Brother Brigham has lately been “setting his house in order,” and in the ordinary course of nature, Amelia is almost certain to outlive for many years her aged lord, she, therefore, can afford to wait for the good time coming. But Amelia knows that she would sink into oblivion if he were to cast her off for another before his death.

Mary Van Cott Cobb—who became Brigham’s wife after his marriage to Amelia—is a very handsome woman, about twenty-eight years of age. She is tall, slender, and graceful, and has been married to the Prophet about six years. At first he appeared to be very devoted to her, but Amelia soon put a stop to that. Nevertheless, she has since her marriage presented a little daughter to her lord, greatly to the annoyance of Amelia, who has no children. She is said to be very unhappy, and though Brigham has provided her with a fine house and every comfort, yet she seldom sees him—not perhaps more than once in three months, or so—though it is generally believed that his spirit is willing, but Amelia won’t allow it.

Eliza-Ann Webb Dee Young, commonly known as his “runaway wife,” is his last wedded and nineteenth living wife. If his deceased wives were taken into consideration she would probably be his thirtieth. In this list I have put all the living wives who are sealed to Brigham for eternity first, and thus I count Eliza-Ann fifteen, but had I placed the proxy wives—who are only Brigham’s “for time,” in the list, she would, of course, be the “nineteenth,” as she is generally called.

“Miss” Eliza R. Snow I mention here as I have not followed the order of date. She and the three ladies whose names I shall presently give, are the proxy wives of Brigham, living with him.

Zina D. Huntington Jacobs Young is another proxy wife, and a widow of the Prophet Joseph. She, too, will have to be handed over in the day of reckoning. She has one grown up daughter, of whom I shall presently speak under rather interesting circumstances.

Emily Partridge Young is a tall, dark-eyed, handsome woman, and she also is a “proxy” wife—a relict of Joseph. When Joseph died, Brigham told his wives that they were at liberty to choose whom they would for husbands; and some of them showed their appreciation of his generosity by choosing him himself. Thus it was that Emily Partridge became Brigham’s wife. The Prophet has dealt kindly to his brother Joseph Smith, through her, for she has quite a family of children to be handed over with her. She was young and handsome when the Prophet died, but perhaps it would be wrong to suppose that that had anything to do with Brigham’s generosity to his brother, for it is generally believed that he took all those wives of Joseph, from pure principle.

Augusta Cobb Young is a very fine-looking woman, and must have been quite handsome in her youthful days. As I before stated, she formerly lived in Boston, but hearing Brigham preach, she fell in love with him, abandoned her home, children, and husband, and, taking her youngest child with her, went to Salt Lake City, and was married to the Prophet. It was she who, when Brigham began to neglect her, wanted to be sealed to Christ, but was ultimately added to the kingdom of Joseph Smith.

Now these are the Prophet’s wives—his real, living wives—nineteen in all. How many spiritual wives he has had it would be impossible to say. Probably he himself does not know their number.

In his habits and mode of living, Brigham Young is very simple, or at least was so until recently. When I first knew him he dressed in plain, home-spun, home-made, and every article about his person and his houses was as plain and unostentatious as could possibly be. But the importation of Gentiles and Gentile goods, since the opening of the railway, has worked a great change. His wives, who once carried simplicity of dress almost to the verge of dowdyism, have now acquired a taste for Eastern fashions.

The Prophet’s first home in Utah was a little cottage which is now known as the White House.—The same house, I believe, which was valued at sixty thousand dollars, and which Brother Tenant supposed he bought:—a more scandalous and barefaced robbery never was perpetrated.

This is on the hill-side, north of the Eagle Gate, and is now the residence of his first wife, Mrs. Angell Young. The Bee-Hive House is the official residence of Brother Brigham. There he used to reign supreme as “Governor” Young; and thence he now issues secular and ecclesiastical edicts to all who acknowledge his sway. There is one lady resident in this house—Mrs. Lucy Decker Young—and no one else is permitted to intrude upon its privacy. Here the prophet has his own private bedroom, and here he breakfasts when he has been at home over night.

The Lion House is what ought to be the home of the Prophet, for here nearly all his wives reside. (He has, however, many other houses in the city.) On the basement floor is the dining-room, kitchen, pantry, and other general offices. The first floor is divided by a long passage with doors on each side. On the right hand, about half-a-dozen wives with small families find accommodation. On the left, at the entrance, is the parlour, and the other rooms on that side are occupied by mothers with larger families, and ladies who have a little more than ordinary attention. The upper floor is divided into twenty square bedrooms.

There is no extravagance in the furniture or apparel of these wives, but they are comfortable and are kept neat and clean. Again and again, the Prophet has declared that the ten-dollar fees which are obtained from the divorces provide his wives with pin-money. I do not believe a word of this, as the amount thus obtained is far more than the avaricious soul of the Prophet would allow to pass out of his hands for feminine vanities. But I know of another source of income which is open to the wives. They are allowed all the fruit—peaches especially—which they or their children, can gather or dry. This, in fact, is pretty nearly their only “pin-money” their “lord” is not a generous man, and they have to make the most of trifles.

The Prophet usually dines in the Lion House at three in the afternoon. Mrs. Twiss Young, as I mentioned before, acts the part of housekeeper, and she acts it well. At three punctually the bell rings, and the mothers with their children move down to the dining-room. They are all seated at a very long table which is lengthened by turning round at the end of the room. Each mother has her children around her. Brigham sits at the head of the table, with his favourite—when at home—vis à vis, or on his left, and if a visitor is present he sits at the Prophet’s right hand. The repast is frugal but ample, for Brigham is a sober and exceedingly economical man. This is the first time he sees his family. In the evening at seven o’clock the bell again rings, and the mothers and the children again fill the sides and end of the parlour. When they are all seated, the patriarch enters, takes his seat at the table and chats quietly with those who chance to go in with him to prayers. When all the members of the family are assembled, the door is closed. All kneel down and the Prophet prays, invoking special blessings upon Zion and “the kingdom.” This is the last that his family see of him for the day, unless they have occasion to seek him privately.

With his family Brother Brigham is said to be kind; but it is supposed to be more the awe which his position as Prophet inspires, than the love which they bear him as a man which renders him successful in managing them. At the same time, that sweet familiarity is destroyed which should exist between husband and wife, father and children. With such a number of wives, he cannot possibly wait upon them in visiting, and in the ball-room, and other places of amusement. With the exception of his reigning favourite, whoever for the time she may happen to be, no one expects his attentions. At the theatre a full number of seats are reserved, and his wives attend, or remain at home, as they please. They sit in the body of the parquette, among the rest of the people; but one of the two proscenium boxes is reserved for him, and beside him is a chair for the favourite Amelia.

When he goes to the ball, the same special attention is shown. He dances first with the favourite, and, if half-a-dozen more of his wives have accompanied them, he will dance with each of them once in the course of the evening; but with the favourite he dances as frequently as any youth in the ball-room with his first maiden love. The Apostles and leading men of the community, who dance attendance on him and desire his favour, are sure to seek the pleasure of her hand and place her in the same cotillion with Brigham, who is thus able all the evening to enjoy her company.

Some of the Apostles and Elders look with pain upon this boyishness of the Prophet, and deplore it. Many of them are attached to their first wives, and have shown them consideration and attention which has not always pleased Brother Brigham. I have heard more than one of them, express a wish that the Prophet had been a little more attentive to his own first wife.

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When I arrived in Utah I found that nearly all the Elders with whom I had formerly been acquainted had more than one wife there. Many of these brethren called to see me, and kindly insisted that I should visit their families; but this I felt was almost an impossibility.

My whole nature rebelled at the thought of visiting where there were several wives; for, in defiance of all the teaching that I had listened to, and the tyranny to which we had submitted, human nature would assert itself, and my womanly instincts revolted against the system. I could not endure the thought of visiting those families in company with my husband. I thought that perhaps sometimes I might venture alone; but, oh, not with him,—no, not with him. It was bad enough and humiliating enough for me to witness by myself the degradation of my sex; but to do so in the presence of my husband was more than I could calmly contemplate. I knew that I should not be able to control myself, and might probably say some very unpleasant things, which I should afterwards regret; for I so thoroughly loathed even the idea of polygamy at that time that I was filled with a desire to let every one know and understand just what my feelings were on that subject.

I had left New York against my will, although I had not openly rebelled. I had never reproached my husband about it, for I felt that his lot was irrevocably cast with the Mormons: I knew that when I married him, and it was of no use now for me to repine. I must go on to the end—there was no help for me. The journey across the Plains, and all the discoveries which I had made, had not tended to soothe my rebellious heart, and I am not quite sure that I did not sow by the way a little discontent among the sisters. The idea, however, that such was the case did not, I must admit, fill me with much repentance. To my husband I had said very little, but I think he would bear me witness that what I did say was said effectively. Now when I was brought face to face with practical polygamy and could observe it in its most repulsive phases, I hated it more than ever.

One day not long after our arrival, as we were taking a walk together, I saw across the road a man gesticulating after an eccentric fashion and beckoning to us. Mr. Stenhouse said, “That is Brother Heber C. Kimball;” and I looked again with interest to see what that celebrated Apostle was like. I had both heard and read a great deal about Brother Heber, and what I had learned was not at all of a character to impress me favourably—he had been so severe in his denunciation of every woman who dared to oppose polygamy. On the present occasion his conduct was, I thought, anything but gentlemanly; and when we crossed the road to him,—which on account of his position in the Church—next to Brigham himself—we, of course, were compelled to do,—my face must have betrayed my feelings I am sure, for almost his first words after shaking hands were, “Have you got the blues?”

My answer was ready in a moment. “I have had nothing else ever since I came here.”

“Well,” he replied, “it is time that you should get rid of them, and I am going to talk to you some day soon, for I rather like your looks.”

I did not like his looks much, however, nor was I at all pleased with his manner. I do not say that I was altogether without blame in feeling thus, for I was prejudiced. Of course I was prejudiced. From the first moment when I heard that polygamy was a doctrine of the Church, I was predisposed to be dissatisfied with everything: I was henceforth not myself, for the terrible apprehension of my own fate in the “Celestial Order” had changed my whole nature, and that change of itself was a great source of grief to me. I keenly realized that I was no longer the light-hearted, pleasant companion to my husband that I had been, and many a time and oft I wished for his sake that I could die, for I felt that I never could be happy in Mormonism again.

How many times have I knelt by my husband’s couch when he was unconscious of it, and have wept bitter tears of sorrow, earnestly praying to the Lord to subdue my rebellious heart, and, if it were necessary, rather than I should be a continual annoyance to my husband, whom I loved with all my soul, that every particle of love in my heart should be withered, so that I might perchance, if without love, be able at least to do my duty. I fully realized that in polygamy there could be no real love; and while my affections were still placed upon my husband, it was torture to live in a community where I was compelled to listen to the “counsels” which were given to him, day after day, regardless of my presence, to take another wife. I was too proud to notice any ordinary allusion that was made to the subject before me; but when the conversation was turned in that direction by those who professed to be sincere friends and to entertain a kindly interest in my welfare, I was compelled to listen and reply.

In my unhappy condition, I thought that perhaps I might derive some consolation from the sermons in the Tabernacle—something that might shed a softer light upon my rugged pathway. But instead of obtaining consolation, I heard that which aroused every feeling of my soul to rebellion, and kindled again within me the indignation which I had been so long struggling to conquer. I heard that woman was an inferior being, designed by the Lord for the special glory and exaltation of man, that she was a creature that should feel herself honoured if he would only make her the mother of his children—a creature who if very obedient and faithful through all the trials and tribulations in life, might some day be rewarded by becoming one of her husband’s queens, but should even then shine only by virtue of the reflected light derived from the glory of her spouse and lord. He was to be her “saviour,” for he was all in all to her; and it was through him alone and at his will that she could obtain salvation. We were informed that man was the crowning glory of creation, for whom all things—woman included—were brought into being; and that the chief object of woman’s existence was to help man to his great destiny.

Not a sentence—indeed, not a word—did we ever hear as to the possibility of womanly perfection and exaltation in her own right; and not only so, but, as if this were not enough to crush all ambition out of our souls, we were instructed in some new views of marriage. The great object of marriage, we were told, was the increase of children. Those diviner objects—the companionship of soul, the devotion of a refined and pure affection, the indissoluble union of two existences—were never presented to the yearning hearts of those poor women who listened to the miserable harangues of the Tabernacle: such aspirations had nothing to do with the hard, cruel facts of their life in polygamy.

And this I found was how the women of Utah were spiritually sustained. Seldom, indeed, was taught anything better, but frequently much that was worse. If Nature, asserting its right to a full return of love, should manifest itself, and inspire some of these poor wives to rebel against the lives which they were compelled to lead in polygamy, then it would be said, in the language of the Tabernacle, that the women were “filled with the devil,” and that unless they repented speedily, they would “apostatize and go to hell;”—an assurance which was scarcely necessary, for many of those poor souls were enduring as much as if they were there already. Or if some woman was found objecting to polygamy on account of its crushing and degrading effects upon women generally, then, as I just said, she was told in the coarse language of Brigham Young himself, that “such women had no business to complain; it was quite enough honour for them to be permitted to bear children to God’s holy Priesthood.”

I found, therefore; that the sermons in the Tabernacle were not calculated to help me much spiritually. I had neither friend nor counsellor on earth to whom I could turn for help—my God alone remained to me. But, ah, how different were my ideas of God then, from those which I entertained before and since. Once I could look upon the beauties of nature and the varied experiences of human life, and while my soul was lifted up with devotion and gratitude, I could see the loving hand of my Heavenly Father in everything around me. Now there was neither light nor beauty before my eyes—all was dark and dreary; there was nothing to draw away my heart from such sad thoughts as these. It was painfully clear to my understanding, then as now, that in Mormonism woman was to lose her personal identity. All that Christianity had done to elevate her was to be ruthlessly set aside and trampled under foot, and she was instantly to return to the position which she occupied in the darkest ages of the world’s existence.

I had at that time the daily and hourly cares of a family devolving upon me, and had not therefore much leisure to spend in visiting my friends even if I had desired to do so. Notwithstanding that, however, I had abundant opportunities of observation; and thus my experience of Mormonism and polygamy in Utah is much the same as that of any Mormon woman of ordinary sense; I only tell what others could relate if they had the inclination to do so. It was not possible for me to live in Salt Lake City without being brought face to face with polygamy in some shape or other every day of my life. Had it been otherwise, and if remaining at home would have kept it from my view, I probably never should have had the courage to enter a house where it was practised. To those who know nothing of that degrading system this may seem rather an exaggeration of feeling; and yet, even at that early day, I had seen so much of the folly and weakness of the Mormon brethren, both in London and New York, before we went to Utah, and had witnessed so many evil results of their teachings, that it was with the greatest difficulty that I could control my feelings sufficiently to call upon any family where there was more than one wife. And yet what I knew then was nothing in comparison to what I afterwards witnessed—yes, that I myself endured.

During the winter, although I visited very little, I attended a good many parties at the Social Hall; but I did so more from a wish to be agreeable to my husband than from any pleasure that they afforded me, for life had long since been losing almost all its charms for me. How many times have I gazed wistfully at those lofty mountains which surrounded the city, and felt that they were indeed my prison walls. How bitterly have I realized that I should never be able to go beyond them. But in a new country, with a family to provide for, a mother has not much time to waste in pining, even if it be for liberty itself, and I would willingly draw the veil over that portion of my life.

As my husband had been on mission for so many years and had spent all his time in the service of the Church, with the exception of a few brief months before we left New York—when he was engaged on the staff of the New York Herald—I naturally enough thought that when we reached Zion his occupation would be gone. There would be no need of preaching to the Saints: on the contrary they would be able to teach us; and we should have to find out what we could do in this new country to support ourselves and our children. In this I was not mistaken.

Now among the “absolutely necessary” things which I had brought with me from New York, were about three hundred dollars’ worth of millinery goods, which I had secreted among our other properties, thinking that they would very probably come in useful to the fair daughters of Zion—notwithstanding that the Elders had told me of fiery sermons, delivered by the Prophet himself, condemning all feminine display, and that the sisters would scorn to wear Gentile fashions. I knew my own sex too well to believe that all this was strictly true, and I felt certain that I should find, even among the Saints, some weak sisters who would appreciate my thoughtfulness in bringing such articles for their use. I had also noticed that the American Elders themselves would frequently inquire where they could buy the best gloves and the prettiest ribbons and laces, and that looked a little suspicious.

Quite a number of such articles, therefore, found their way into my list of “absolute necessaries,” and I know that my husband was secretly quite at a loss to know what had become of a certain sum of money which he was aware I had obtained from the sale of some of our things in New York. But my foresight in this instance was very useful to us when we arrived in Zion.

One day when Mr. Stenhouse was absent seeking employment, I thought I would make a display of my treasures and surprise him on his return. Accordingly, with the assistance of our faithful domestic, whom I had brought with me across the Plains, and who had also lived with me in Switzerland, we contrived to place two or three planks in such a way as to make a rough table on which to display the goods. I had been secretly at work for about two weeks, trimming the bonnets and hats, and making a number of head-dresses, such as were worn in New York when we left; and, although we had been three months on the Plains, and quite a month in Utah, yet those bonnets and head-dresses were of the very latest style to the ladies of Salt Lake City.

My Swiss girl was quite a carpenter, and when my temporary table was arranged, I placed a pretty-looking cloth over it to hide its defects, and then began to arrange the various articles. I found that I had a much finer assortment than I had imagined, for I had bought them at different times, and had packed them away hurriedly, lest Mr. Stenhouse or some of the other Elders—for there were generally one or two in the house—should object to my taking them. When my table was filled, and I found that I had still more to display, I was very much pleased, for I saw in my hats and bonnets, flour, meat, and potatoes for my children, and I felt hopeful, for one of the sisters had assured me that I should be certain to sell them. The next thing to do was to advertise my stock. After some reflection, I remembered another of the sisters, who was quite a good talker, and who felt very kindly towards me. I had known her in England—she had been in Utah about three years, and her husband had by that time been blessed with two other wives. She used to say that she had no patience with a set of grumbling women, who did not know what was good for them. I do not think that the blessedness enjoyed by her husband was shared by the two wives, for more forlorn-looking women I never saw. My husband, however, told me that this was none of my business, and I believed him, of course, after the fashion of all good wives.

But to return. This good sister, besides being an excellent talker, had really nothing else to do except visiting her neighbours, for the other wives now took entire charge of all the household duties. So I made her a present of a new bonnet, as I knew that then in two days my goods would be quite sufficiently advertised; and in this I was not mistaken.

Almost the first visitors who called to see me were a lady and her daughter. I talked freely to her and answered her inquiries, and she told me that she herself had had some experience in the business. “In Salt Lake City,” she said, “I think you will not be able to sell those goods; they are too fashionable for the people here, and there is no encouragement given to any one in this business. I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

I believed every word she said, and felt all my airy, hopeful castles begin to crumble away. Before she left, however, she very kindly offered to purchase all my goods at a low figure and thus relieve me of the anxiety and trouble of selling them. But I had had a little experience in the world,—although probably I appeared to her somewhat innocent,—and I thought that if she could sell them, there was a chance at least that I also might be able to do so. At any rate, I resolved to try, and I told her so, when she left me with many kind wishes for my success. But what she had said during her visit had chilled my enthusiasm, and I pictured all my pretty newly-made articles becoming soiled and faded, with no one to buy them; while the little ones, barefooted—like so many children in Utah then—were running about crying for bread which I could not buy them. I felt sad, and, if I must confess it, I sat down and had a good cry.

Just at that moment I heard a knock at the door, and hastily drying my eyes, I opened it, and there stood my talkative friend.

“Stop crying!” she exclaimed. “What is the matter, my dear? Oh do stop crying. I don’t like crying women: we see so many of them among the Saints of God that it is really a shame and a disgrace. Tell me what is the matter? Has your husband got another wife? or are you afraid he won’t be able to get one? Come, tell me!”

All this was uttered in a breath, and without the possibility of my putting in a word by way of reply or remonstrance. At last I told her that I had just had a visit from one of the sisters and her daughter, whom I described.

“I know,” she said; “I met her as I was coming here. Do you know who she is?”

“No,” I replied, “I do not think she told me her name; she simply came to look at the goods.”

“And did she tell you that they would sell well, and that they are the best investment that you could have made?”

“Quite the contrary,” I said, “she discouraged me so much that I could not help shedding tears.”

“Well now,” she answered, “that was Mrs. C——, one of our milliners here; and you suppose she was going to encourage you to set up an opposition shop, do you? If you do, why, you’ve got something yet to learn.” Indeed I felt that I had got a great deal to learn.

“Now I have come to tell you quite a different story,” she said. “This very afternoon you will have at least a dozen ladies here; and ladies, too, who have got the money to pay for what they have, and who won’t pay you in salt chips and whetstones.”

“Do they ever pay in such things?” I inquired.

“Why certainly they do. That is the kind of pay that the good Saints generally expect their poor brethren and sisters to be satisfied with, and to feed their hungry children upon. But I say that this is wrong. Not that I want to set myself up as a judge in Zion, or that I should criticize the actions of the brethren, God forbid! But when I see the rich brethren grinding the faces of the poor in that way, why, I say that it is wrong. But you must not take any such pay as that. You may not always get money, but you can at least get flour, potatoes, and molasses. Now, I tell you that you are going to sell every article that you have got, and I shall take pleasure in recommending you and talking about it. Why, I’ve been to about two score people already; but, there! I see your husband coming, and I must go!” My husband, indeed, was there. He was not very fond of my talkative friend, and passed her by with a polite salutation only; but when he saw what I had been doing, the light dawned upon his mind, he no longer wondered what had become of the dollars in New York, and, astonished at my success, he congratulated me upon the good use to which I had put them.

After this interview I felt quite encouraged, and I very soon found that my friend’s predictions were correct. I had no difficulty in selling, and I created quite a little business, although we lived a considerable distance from Main Street. And what with my efforts, and some employment which my husband obtained, we contrived to get through our first winter in Salt Lake City.

But I anticipate.

One day my husband informed me that there was a house about to be vacated shortly, and that Brigham Young had told him we had better take it. It was pleasantly situated near the Tabernacle, and, as houses then were, it was quite a desirable residence. We had it thoroughly cleaned, and then moved in. When I arrived in the evening I found that Mr. Stenhouse, with the assistance of our faithful Swiss girl, had arranged everything as the goods arrived from the other house; and the place looked so clean, and there was such a bright fire burning that I felt that we now had really something like a home, and my heart was filled with gratitude.

Soon after our establishment in our new home, Brigham sent for me and asked me to make a handsome bonnet for his then favourite wife Emmeline. He left it entirely to my taste; I was to make just what I pleased, so that it suited her and gave satisfaction.

I made my bonnet; and when I presented it, Brigham Young was so pleased that he immediately gave me an order to make one for each of his wives. I was very much pleased at this, for we needed furniture and many other necessaries very badly, and I thought that this would enable me to get them. I expected, of course, that my account would be paid in money, for I did not suppose that the Prophet of the Lord would offer me chips or whetstones: he could afford to pay cash, and, of course, would do so. He had furnished me with some material out of his own store—for Brigham Young had a dry-goods and grocery store of his own at that time—and I was to furnish the remainder. It was very little indeed that he supplied, and therefore my account was likely to amount to a considerable sum, for almost every wife had at least one bonnet which she wished made over with new trimmings, besides the new one.

I worked constantly for three weeks, with the assistance of two girls, to each of whom I paid six dollars a week besides board. This was a difficult thing for me to do at that time in Utah, for money was seldom seen there then; but I was rejoicing in the prospect of the comfortable new furniture which I should have when it was all done. Furniture at that time was very expensive; there was nothing better than white pine articles, stained or painted. The commonest kind of wooden rocking-chair cost fifteen dollars, and common painted wooden chairs were six dollars a piece, with everything else in proportion. This being our first winter, we had not been able to get much, and I thought I would devote the proceeds of the work I was doing for Brigham to fitting up the house a little; and, with what I earned from my other customers, I contrived to pay my help, so as to have all the rest clear.

All was completed, and great satisfaction expressed at the result of my labours. So I asked my husband to present my account and, if possible, get it settled; it amounted to about 275 dollars, although I had dealt very liberally with the Prophet, and had charged for the goods but little more than they cost me. When he returned, I hastened to meet him, for I had partly selected the furniture and I wanted to go and purchase it. But I was like poor Perrette, the milkmaid, who counted her chickens a little too soon; for Mr. Stenhouse told me that Brother Brigham had given orders that the amount should be credited to us for tithing! What a shock this was to me; for that sum, small as it may appear, was my whole fortune at the time, and it was gone at one sweep! “Can it be possible,” I said, “that he can be so mean as that? Where can his conscience be? or has he any; to deprive me of my hard earnings in this way? He shall not do it—I will make him pay me.”

My indignation was so great that I did not reflect how imprudent I was to talk thus of the Prophet of the Lord; but my husband said, “What can you do? You cannot help yourself. You can do nothing but submit. Let us try to forget it; or, if not, it will perhaps be a lesson to us.” But I did not forget it and never could, although I tried very hard; and when many months had passed, and I no longer suffered from the effects of my loss, I still remembered it, and I always shall remember the way in which Brigham paid for his wives’ bonnets.

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Not many weeks after our arrival in Salt Lake City, my husband told me that we might now enjoy the privilege of going through the Endowment House.

This was intended as a great favour to us, on the part of the authorities, for most people have to wait a long while before receiving their Endowments; but my husband’s influence and position in the Church was, I presume, the reason why we were admitted so soon.

Now, I had heard so much of the Endowments and the Endowment House that I quite dreaded to pass through this ordeal. The idea of the whole ceremony was, that thereby we should receive the special grace of God; be united, man and woman, making one perfect creature; receive our inheritance as children of God; and, in fact, be made partakers of the plenitude of every blessing.

I knew well that no marriage was considered binding unless it had been celebrated in that place. I knew that the Saints, however long they might have been wedded, were under the necessity of being reunited there before they could be considered lawfully married and their children legitimate. According to the highest Mormon authority, no marriage is valid unless the ceremony is performed in the Temple. The Temple is not yet built, and as Joseph, the Prophet, said, “No fellow can be damned for doing the best he knows how,” the Saints, meanwhile, do “the next best thing,” and are married in the Endowment House. I knew that there and then the faithful were said to be “endowed” with their heavenly inheritance. I saw how absolutely needful it was that my husband and myself should become partakers of those mysteries; but I was influenced by the strange stories which I had heard of unhallowed and shameful doings in that same Endowment House, and consequently I feared to enter in.

My fears were not, however, altogether groundless or visionary. It has been whispered—falsely perhaps—that in that Endowment House scenes have been enacted so fearful that words would falter on the lips of those who told the tale concerning them. I have heard of such things from men of integrity and honour; but they were not eye-witnesses of what they related, and they could not, or would not, give me their authorities. One thing I am certain of; if such horrible deeds were ever perpetrated within those walls, there remains no living witness to testify of them. The lips of those who alone could tell the whole truth are sealed in a silence which the trump of doom alone shall break.

It was, of course, no fear of any personal violence or any painful disclosures in that respect, that made me reluctant to receive my Endowments, for at that time I was by profession apparently a good Mormon; if I had my doubts and misgivings, I had them in common with nine-tenths of the Mormon women, and had therefore nothing to fear. The true cause of my reluctance was of a more delicate and personal nature. I had been informed that, if I refused to go, my husband could not go alone; he would be compelled to take another wife, and go with her. This was not all. I found that it was quite common for the Elders to take a second wife when they took their first Endowments, and thus, as they coarsely expressed it, “kill two birds with one stone.” Moreover, I had heard of men who feared to introduce Polygamy into their households, presenting to their wives, while going through the House, a young girl as their intended bride, feeling sure that the wife would not dare to make a scene before the Assembly. How could I know that my husband also had not such an idea in his mind? True, I trusted him implicitly, and did not believe it possible that he could deceive me. But had not men who were universally known for their integrity and honour acted in the same way to their wives; and with so many evidences of the best and most honest natures being corrupted by the unrighteous teachings of their religion, could I be blamed for doubting him whom I loved best?

There was also another reason why I particularly objected to passing through the Endowment House. I had been told many strange and revolting stories about the ceremonies which were there performed, for it was said that in the Nauvoo Temple the most disgraceful things were done. About what was done at Nauvoo I can say nothing, as it was before my time, but still it is only fair to say, that people who in every other relation in life I should have deemed most reliable and trustworthy were my informants respecting those strange stories. Of the Endowments in Utah I can, of course, speak more positively, as I myself passed through them; and I wish to say most distinctly that, although the initiation of the Saints into “The Kingdom,” appears now to my mind as a piece of the most ridiculous absurdity, there was, nevertheless, nothing in it indecent or immoral—of which the reader himself shall presently be the judge.

It is an invariable rule among the Mormons, as I have before intimated, for every man or woman to mind his or her own business, and nothing else. Thus it was, that until I myself went through the Endowments, I was totally ignorant of what they were; although, of course, many people, with whom I had daily intercourse could easily have enlightened me if they had been thus minded. Besides this, every Mormon’s mouth was closed by the oath of that same Endowment House—the penalty of which was death, a penalty which no one doubted would be sternly enforced. Thus, totally in the dark, and remembering only the strange stories told about “washings” and “anointings,” and an imitation of the Garden of Eden, with Adam and Eve clothed in their own innocence alone, it can be no wonder that any modest woman should wish to evade all participation in such scenes.

I spoke to my husband about it, and he tried to reassure me, but what he said had rather a contrary effect.

Before we left England, when speaking of these ceremonies, my husband told me that they were simply a privilege and a matter of choice. But what a choice! I might go or refuse to go; but, if I refused, he must—if he went through it all—take another wife in my place, and, as I knew, there would be no difficulty in finding one. I should in consequence be known as a rebellious woman; annoyance and indignity would be heaped upon me; while within my own home I should be compelled to occupy the position of second wife—as the one who is married first in the Endowment House is considered the first wife, and has the control of everything.

My husband told me that now he was most anxious to go; he had already been notified three times that such was his privilege, and there were, he said, good reasons why we ought gladly to accept the opportunity. It was an honour, he said, for which many people had waited for years.

My husband reminded me that we had been married by a Gentile, and while living among Gentiles, and that, as I said before, our marriage was not valid, and our children were not legitimate. Only those children of ours who were born after the ceremony in the Endowment House would be legitimate; the others were outcasts from the “Kingdom” unless we adopted them after our initiation, and thus made them heirs. In any case, poor children, they could never be considered the real heirs; they could only be “heirs by adoption.”

So I agreed to go, trying to persuade myself that it was a sacred duty; for, although my faith in Mormonism had been roughly shaken, I still believed that its origin was divine.

The Temple robe, which is a long, loose, flowing garment, made of white linen or bleached muslin, and reaching to the ankle, had been placed upon us just before we took the oaths. It was gathered to a band about twelve inches long, which rested on the right shoulder, passed across the breast, and came together under the left arm, and was then fastened by a linen belt. This leaves the left arm entirely free. The veil consists of a large square of Swiss muslin, gathered in one corner so as to form a sort of cap to fit the head; the remainder falls down as a veil. The men wear the same kind of under garment as the women, and their robes are the same, but their head-dress is a round piece of linen drawn up with a string and a bow in front, something after the fashion of a Scotch cap. All good Mormons, after they have received their first Endowments, get whole suits of Temple robes made on purpose for them, so that they may be ready for use at any time when they are needed. All marriages in the Endowment House are performed in these robes, and in them all Saints who have received their Endowments are buried. Besides our robes we were instructed to take with us a bottle of the best olive oil.

At seven o’clock in the morning of the day appointed, we presented ourselves at the door of the Endowment House, and were admitted by Brother Lyon, the Mormon poet. Everything within was beautifully neat and clean, and a solemn silence pervaded the whole place. The only sound that could be heard was the splashing of water, but whence the sound proceeded we could not see. In spite of myself, a feeling of dread and uncertainty respecting what I had to go through would steal over my mind, and I earnestly wished that the day was over.

We waited patiently for a little while, and presently a man entered and seated himself at a table placed there for that purpose, upon which was a large book. He opened the book, and then calling each person in turn, he took their names and ages, and the names of their fathers and mothers, and carefully entered each particular in the book. Our bottles of oil were then taken from us, and we were supposed to be ready for the ceremony.

First we were told to take off our shoes, and leave them in the anteroom, and then to take up our bundles and pass into another room beyond. This was a large bath-room, which was divided down the middle by a curtain of heavy material placed there for the purpose of separating the men from the women. Here my husband left me—he going to the men’s and I to the women’s division. In the bath-room were two or three large bathing-tubs supplied by streams of hot and cold water. We were as much concealed from the men as if we had been in an entirely separate room, and everything was very quiet and orderly.

Miss Eliza R. Snow, the poetess, and a Mrs. Whitney, were the officiating attendants on that occasion. The former conducted me to one of the bathing-tubs, and placing me in it, she proceeded to wash me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. As she did this she repeated various formulas to the effect that I was now washed clean from the blood of this generation and should never, if I remained faithful, be partaker in the plagues and miseries which were about to come upon the earth. When I had thus been washed clean, she wiped me dry, and then taking a large horn filled with the olive oil which we had brought, she anointed me. The oil was poured from the horn by Mrs. Whitney into the hand of Eliza Snow, who then applied it to me. The horn was said to be the horn of plenty which, like the widow’s cruse of oil, would never fail as long as the ordinance should continue to be administered. In addition to the crown of my head, my eyes, ears, and mouth were also anointed; my eyes that they might be quick to see, my ears that they might be apt at hearing, and my mouth that I might with wisdom speak the words of eternal life. She also anointed my feet, that they might be swift to run in the ways of the Lord. I was then given a certain garment to put on.

Now this garment is one peculiar to the Mormon people. It is made so as to envelope the whole body, and it is worn night and day. I was told that after having once put it on, I must never wholly take it off before putting on another, but that I should change one half at a time, and that if I did so I should be protected from disease, and even from death itself; for the bullet of an enemy would not penetrate that garment, and that from it even the dagger’s point should be turned aside. It has been said that the Prophet Joseph carelessly left off this peculiar garment on the day of his death, and that, had he not done so, the rifles of his assassins would have been harmless against him.

When thus arrayed, I proceeded to put on a white nightdress and skirt, stockings, and white linen shoes. A new name was then whispered into my ear, which I was told I must never mention to any living soul except my husband in the Endowment House. This name was taken from the Bible, and I was given to understand that it would be the name whereby I should be admitted into the celestial kingdom. This was of course very gratifying. A circumstance, however, occurred which took from me all the pride which might have been mine in the possession of a new name. There was among our number a deaf woman; Mrs. Whitney had to tell her her name once or twice over, loud enough for me to hear, and thus I found that her new name, as well as mine, was Sarah. To make the matter worse, another sister whispered, “Why, that is my name too.” This entirely dispelled any enthusiasm which otherwise I might have felt. I could well understand that I might yet become a Sarah in Israel, but if we all were Sarahs, there would not be much distinction or honour in being called by that name. As a matter of course I supposed that the men would all become Abrahams.

Our washing and anointing being now over, we were ready for the initiation—there were about fifteen couples in all.

A voice from behind the curtain asked Miss Snow if we were ready, and was answered in the affirmative. We were then arranged in a row, the curtain was drawn aside, and we stood face to face with the men, who had, of course, on their side of the curtain, been put through the same ordeal. I felt dreadfully nervous, for I did not know what was coming next, and I could not quite dismiss from my mind the stories that I had heard about these mysteries. But in spite of my nervousness, curiosity was strong in me at that moment, as it was, I suppose, in the others; for, as soon as the curtain was drawn aside, we all cast our eyes in the direction of the men. They, as might be expected, were looking in our direction, and when I beheld them I must say that my sympathies were drawn out towards the poor creatures. However little vanity or personal pride they possessed, they must have felt it unpleasant to have to appear in the presence of ladies in such a dress—or rather undress; and notwithstanding the solemn meaning of the ceremony, there was just the ghost of a smile upon our faces as we looked at each other and dropped our eyes again. To any one who did not feel as we did the religious nature of the initiation, the scene must have appeared perfectly ludicrous. In fact, some of us felt it so. One sister, just as the curtain was drawn up and we came in full view of our lords, cried out, “Oh dear, oh dear, where shall I go? What shall I do?” This, as may be supposed, caused a laugh, which was, of course, immediately suppressed.

We could see how the men looked, but of our own appearance we could not so easily judge. Certainly, we must have looked anything but handsome in our white garments, and with the oil trickling down our faces and into our eyes, making them smart and look red. There was nothing, however, for us to do but to submit quietly and make the best of it we could. Ashamed as I was, I thought I might venture to look at my husband; there could be no harm in that; but when I saw his demure-looking countenance and his efforts to keep his clothing in order, I thought I should be compelled to laugh outright, for I could see that his thoughts were more occupied about his personal appearance than with the solemnity of the occasion. The men were all dressed in the same kind of garment as the women—drawers and shirt all in one, very much like those which are used for children to sleep in, and over that an ordinary white shirt, such as men always wear; that, with socks and white linen shoes, completed their toilet.

Clad after this interesting fashion, we sat opposite to each other for several minutes, and then my husband and myself were instructed to come forward and kneel at the altar while all the rest remained standing. It is the custom thus to select two persons, and we were either picked out by chance, or it might be, as my husband was thought a good deal of by the authorities, that they considered he would feel honoured by the preference.

Suddenly a voice was heard speaking to some one, who also replied. This voice from the unseen was supposed to be the voice of Elohim in conversation with Jehovah, and the words that were used were much the same as those contained in the first chapter of the book of Genesis, describing the creation of the world. Finally, Jehovah and Elohim declare their intention to come down and visit the earth. This they do, and pronounce all that they behold very good; but they declare that it is necessary that one of a higher order of intelligence than the brute creation should be placed in the world to govern and control all else.

Michael the Archangel is now called, and he is placed upon the earth under the name of Adam, and power is given him over all the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, and the fishes of the sea. Moreover, the fruits of the earth are all given to him for his sustenance and pleasure; but he is strictly charged, as in Bible story, not to eat of one particular tree which stands in the midst of the garden. This tree is represented by a small real evergreen, and a few bunches of dried raisins are hung upon it as fruit.

It is now discovered that it is not good for man to be alone; Elohim and Jehovah, therefore, hold another conversation upon that subject, and they finally determine to give a companion to Adam. They, therefore, cause a deep sleep to fall upon Michael—or Adam as he is now called—and they prepare to operate upon him. Here we were all instructed to assume the attitude of deep sleep by dropping our heads upon our breasts. Elohim and Jehovah then come down and go through the motions of removing a rib from the side of the sleeper, which said rib appears immediately upon the scene in the person of Eliza R. Snow. Elohim and Jehovah are generally represented by two of the Twelve Apostles. When Brigham is present he plays a prominent part.

And now the devil makes his appearance in the person of W. W. Phelps. Phelps used always to personate the devil in the Endowments, and the rôle suited him admirably. He is dead now, but whether it has made any difference in his status I cannot tell, nor do I know who has succeeded him in his office. The devil wears a very tight-fitting suit of black muslin, with knee-breeches and black stockings and slippers. This dress had all the appearance of a theatrical costume, and the man looked as much like what one might imagine the devil would look as he possibly could. He began by trying to scrape acquaintance with Eve, whom he meets while taking a walk in the garden. The innocent, unsuspecting woman is fascinated by his attentions. Father Adam—who seems to have had a touch of the Mormon about him—perhaps was not the most attentive of husbands; or he may have made the same mistake as that which so many of his sons have since made—neglecting to pay the same attentions after marriage as he was wont to before—and left his young wife to the mercy of the tempter. However that may be, Satan and Eve are soon discovered in conversation together, and Eve appears to be particularly pleased with Satan. At length he offers her some of the fruit of the forbidden tree, and after some little demur she accepts it and eats thereof.

Then the devil leaves her, Adam makes his appearance, and Eve persuades him also to eat of the fruit of the tree. After this they make a dumb show of perceiving their condition, and an apron of white linen is produced, on which are sewn pieces of green silk, in imitation of fig leaves, and in these they both attire themselves.

Then all the brethren and sisters produced similar aprons which they had brought with them on purpose, and these they put on, as Adam and Eve had already done. Elohim now appeared again, and called Adam; but Adam was afraid, and hid himself in the garden with Eve. The curse was now pronounced upon the serpent—the devil—who reappears upon his hands and knees, making a hissing noise as one might suppose a serpent would do. We were then all driven out of the Garden of Eden into another room which represented the world—and this ended the “First Degree.”

We were now supposed to be out in the world, earning our daily bread by the sweat of our brows, and we were informed that although we had been driven out from the presence of the Lord, yet a plan of salvation would be devised for us, by which we should be enabled to return to our first estate. We were to wait patiently until this plan should be disclosed to us.

There was here such a mixture of persons and events that I could not exactly follow the idea that was intended to be conveyed—if there was any idea at all. Men representing the ancient prophets entered, and gave instructions to the people to prepare themselves for the first coming of our Saviour upon earth. Then we were taught certain pass-words and grips; and then we were all arranged in a circle. The women covered their faces with their veils, and we all kneeled down, and, with our right hands uplifted towards heaven, we took the solemn oath of obedience and secrecy.[1] We swore that by every means in our power we would seek to avenge the death of Joseph Smith, the Prophet, upon the Gentiles who had caused his murder, and that we would teach our children to do so; we swore, that without murmur or questioning, we would implicitly obey the commands of the priesthood in everything; we swore that we would not commit adultery—which, with reference to the men, was explained to mean the taking of wives without the permission of the holy Priesthood; and we swore that we would never, under any circumstances, reveal that which transpired in the Endowment House.

The penalty for breaking this oath, which was worded in the most startling and impressive way, was then explained to us. His bowels were—while he was yet living—to be torn from him, his throat was to be cut from ear to ear, and his heart and tongue were to be cut out. In the world to come, everlasting damnation would be his portion.

Let not the reader think that this was merely an imaginary penalty, or that it was expressed merely for the purpose of frightening the weak-minded; for, as will be shown, punishments quite as horrible as that have been deliberately meted out to the Apostate, the Gentile, and the suspected Saint, by the Mormon Priesthood. The innocent blood which cries for vengeance against Brigham Young and some of the leaders of the Church is sufficient to weigh the purest spirit which stands before the throne of God down to the nethermost abysses of hell.

After these fearful oaths had been taken with due solemnity, we were instructed in the various signs representing those dreadful penalties; and we were also given a “grip” peculiar to this degree.

We were next entertained by a long address from the Apostle Heber C. Kimball.—Never in my life—except from Brigham Young—have I listened to such disgusting language, and I trust I never shall be compelled to listen to anything like it again. Brother Kimball always used to pride himself upon using “plain” language, but that day I think he surpassed himself; he seemed to take quite a pleasure in saying anything which could make us blush. The subject of which he discoursed was the married life in the “Celestial Order;” he also laid great stress upon the necessity of our keeping silence concerning all that we had witnessed in the Endowment House—even husbands to their wives, and wives to their husbands, were not to utter a single word. With the sermon ended our “Second Degree.”

We were now taken to another room for the purpose of passing through the “Third Degree” of the Order of the Melchisedec Priesthood. When we were all arranged on one side against the wall, a number of individuals entered who were supposed to represent the ministers of every denomination and religion upon the face of the earth. The devil also makes his appearance again. The ministers set forth the various claims of their respective creeds—each one striving to show that his is the purest and the best—but the devil sows division and hatred among them, and a good deal of confusion ensues.

Then came in personages representing Peter, James, and John, the Apostles; and they commanded ministers, devil, and all to depart. They then appeared to organize a new Church, in which the true principles of the Gospel were to be taught; our Temple robes were also all changed from the right shoulder to the left, indicating that we were now in the true Church, and that we were to be absolutely and in every way dependent upon the priesthood. Another grip was then given to us, and thus we received the third degree of the Order of Melchisedec Priesthood. In that room was a division made of bleached muslin; in the division a door and in the door a hole, with a lap of muslin over it, through which to pass the hand. Whoever was on the other side could see us, but we could not see them. The men first approached this door. A person representing the Apostle Peter appeared at the opening and demanded who was there. He was told that some one desired to enter. Hands came through the opening in the muslin curtain, and mysterious fingers cut a mark on the left breast of the men’s shirts—one mark also over the abdomen, and one over the right knee—which marks the women religiously imitated upon their own garments when they got home. The applicant was then told to put his hand through the opening, and give the last grip belonging to the “Third Degree,” and mention his new name. He was then permitted to enter. This was called “going behind the veil.” When the men were all admitted, the women were suffered to approach, and were passed through by their own husbands. When a woman has no husband she is passed through by one of the brethren, and to those who are not going to be married or sealed for eternity here the ceremonies end.

Now, as I before stated, according to Mormon ideas we had never before been legally married. It was therefore, necessary that we should now pass through that ceremony. We accordingly were conducted to a desk, where our names were entered, and we were then passed into another room. In that room was a long, low altar, covered with red velvet, and an armchair placed at one end of it, in which sat Brigham Young. My husband knelt at one side of the altar and I at the other, with our hands clasped above it in the last grip which had been given to us. Then the ordinary formula of marriage was gone through with, and we were informed that we were sealed for time and for eternity.

Thus we passed through the mysteries of the Endowment House, and at three o’clock in the afternoon we found ourselves at liberty to return home. The various ceremonies had occupied eight hours.

When we reached home, my husband said, “Well, what do you think of the Endowments?” But I did not dare to answer him truthfully at that time. Had I done so, I should have told him that I was ashamed and disgusted. Never in all my life did I suffer such humiliation as I did that day; for the whole time I was under the impression that those who officiated looked upon us as a set of silly dupes, and I felt annoyed to think that I dared not tell them so. So I told my husband that I would rather not speak about it, and we never have spoken of it to this day. What were his own feelings about the matter, I do not know, for Mormon wives are taught never to pry into their husband’s feelings or meddle with their actions. But notwithstanding all my feelings in reference to the Endowments, so foolish was I that when I afterwards heard the brethren and sisters talking about the happiness which they had experienced while going through, and saying how privileged we ought to feel at being in Zion among the Saints of God, secure in His Kingdom where we could bring up our children in the fear of the Lord, I began again to think that the fault was all in myself, and that it was I who was wrong and not the Endowments. I wondered how, with such a rebellious heart, I should ever get salvation, and I mourned to think that I had not accepted everything with the simplicity of a child.

Some time after our initiation I met the Apostle Heber C. Kimball, and he asked me how I felt upon the occasion. I frankly told him all, but added that I regretted feeling so. He said, “I shall see if you cannot go through again; it is not just the thing, and I shall try and make the opportunity.” Nothing more, however, was said about it. But that which troubled me most was the fact that while the oaths were being administered, I dropped my hand and inwardly vowed that I would never subscribe to such things, and at the same time my heart was filled with bitter opposition. This, although I did it involuntarily—my better nature rising within me, and overcoming my superstition—I thought at the time was sinful. I now, however, rejoice that such was the case; for not having actually vowed to keep secret those abominable oaths, I can say, without any cavil or equivocation, that I have broken no promise and betrayed no trust by the revelations which I have just made.

---

Not long after I had received my Endowments, my talkative friend, of whom I have already spoken, came to see me and to offer her congratulations. She was quite enthusiastic upon the subject, spoke of the honour which had been conferred upon us, and promised to call frequently “to build me up.” She was particularly anxious to learn whether I did not feel much better and happier now.

On that point I could say little, for to have answered her truthfully would have provoked discussion, into which I did not care to enter. I knew, too, that anything I said to her would soon be known to every one else. So I told her that I was feeling well enough.

“‘Well enough!’” she said. “Is that how you feel? Come now, I thought you would have got over all that when you had been through your Endowments. You remind me of what Brother Brigham says,—We have so many whining women in Zion that it is quite a reproach. I do hope that you are not going to become one of them. Let me give you a bit of advice: The wisest thing that you can do is to look out for another wife for your husband, and get him to marry her.”

“Oh my!” I said; “what are you talking about? You surely cannot be in earnest.”

“I never was more earnest in my life,” she answered. “If you had persuaded your husband to take another wife when you went through your Endowments, you would have got over all your troubles at one time. The anticipation is ten times worse than the reality.”

“I do not see it in that light,” I said. “My own opinion is that my troubles in that case would only then have begun. I do not think that you yourself are really happy.”

“Oh, nonsense!” she exclaimed. “Why you can see how happy I am. My husband has two other wives, besides myself, and a more comfortable family could not be.”

“You never told me,” I said, “how your husband managed to get those wives. I should like to hear.”

“My husband managed! Why he did not manage at all; it was I who arranged everything for him, and I’ll tell you how it was done.

“During the Reformation,” she continued, “you, of course, know the men were constantly urged to take more wives; but my husband was rather backward, and used to tell me there was plenty of time, and not the slightest occasion for him to be in a hurry. I had my own opinion of the matter and did not agree with him, for you see I was afraid that after all, he would pick up some young girl or other and fall in love with her, and all my plans would be disarranged. It is, you know much the best for the first wife to look out for some girl who will look up to her and respect her, but not love her husband too much, and then they are likely to get on well together. If the first wife selects the other wives, it has the effect of showing them that the husband thinks much of her judgment and is willing to abide by it, and that they will have to do the same. This, of course, is as it should be. But if she lets her husband choose his own wife, he is almost certain to take a fancy to some one whom the first wife does not like at all, and consequently her authority is undermined. The first wife ought to keep all the power in her own hands.”

“Well,” I said, “I should not care much, I think, who ruled in my home if another wife was there.”

“You think so now,” she replied; “but when you get used to polygamy you will feel quite otherwise. People get used to it—the women as well as the men—and then they leave off fretting and become less selfish. But I was going to tell you how I managed my husband.

“I was very anxious, as I told you, to find another wife for him, and I took into consideration all the suitable girls I knew. There was some objection to almost every one. Some were too pretty and I knew I should detest them; and others were not good-looking, and those my husband could not bear. So I waited patiently, but did not give up the hope of succeeding eventually. At last I met with a girl who I thought would do. She was certainly not bad-looking, but she was very young, and I thought I should be able to manage her. The name of this girl was Alice Maynard; she was a neighbour of ours, and one of a large family. She seemed to me to be a quiet modest little creature, and I knew that she had to work hard and received very little in return. In fact, she led at home a life of drudgery, and even her very clothing bore witness to the poverty of the family. Her mother had often told me that she felt badly for Alice, for Mr. Maynard had three other wives, and it was more than he could do to support them all properly.

“I called one day on Mrs. Maynard to broach the matter to her. She received me very kindly, and entered into my views at once. She was anxious, she said, for Alice to get married, for then she would be better off. I asked her how she would like her to marry my husband, and told her that we were very comfortably off—as you know we are—and that my husband owned his house and lot, and was doing a very good business, and, of course, ought to take another wife. Would she agree to my proposal, and let me mention Alice to him?

“She said she herself had no objection, but that perhaps my husband might not like Alice, or Alice might not like him.

“I felt indignant at the idea that any girl should hesitate to marry my husband, and I told Sister Maynard that there could not possibly be any hesitation on Alice’s part. ‘I’m sure I have no objection,’ she said, ‘if Alice has none. I should only be too happy to see my child in a more comfortable home.’

“Well, then, we’ll consider the matter settled, I said, and asked if I could see Alice; so her mother called her in, and I proposed to her for my husband. You can guess, perhaps, how astonished I was when she actually laughed in my face, and said she should like to consider the matter! I did not, however, show her what I thought, but assented to what she said, and invited her to come and take tea with us.

“My husband had often told me, when I was teasing him about taking another wife, that he would willingly marry any girl I might choose for him; and I felt pleased at this, for it showed confidence in my judgment. So when he came in, later in the day, I told him I had found a wife for him at last, and that I knew he would like her. ‘Why, Ann,’ he said, ‘I do believe you are going crazy over the wife question; but if you are, I do not want you to drive me crazy also.’ I really thought this was too bad, after all my trouble for him; but nevertheless I was resolved that the marriage should take place.

“Three days after that, in accordance with my invitation, Alice came to take tea with us, and I fixed her up to look nice. When she was ready, I took her into the parlour to introduce her to my husband, who was sitting there reading. Henry, I said, this is Miss Maynard—the young lady of whom I spoke to you the other day. He looked up from his paper, and, to my astonishment, said, ‘Why, Alice, my girl, how do you do? How are mother and father?’

“‘What, I said, do you know Alice, Henry?’”

“‘Certainly I do,” he answered; ‘Alice and I have met many times before this, haven’t we, Alice?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and, oh, so demurely. Why, Sister Stenhouse, I began to think that I had actually been deceived, and that while I had innocently supposed that I had found out the girl myself, it was the very one upon whom my husband had had his eye for a long while past. I watched them, however, very narrowly, for I was determined that if my husband had really taken a fancy for the girl he should never have her.”

“Why, that would have facilitated matters, would it not?” I said.

“Do you think,” she replied, “that I would have allowed them to marry if they loved each other? No, indeed! The Saints marry from principle and not from love, as Brother Brigham has often told us. I hope you believe me, dear, when I say that I am not at all a jealous woman, but if my husband dared to fall in love with a girl and to hide it from me, I could not stand it I am sure. No! principle is the only thing—there can be no love in Polygamy. If a man loved his wife, do you think he could have the heart to pain her by taking another? On the other hand, it is because of the love which still remains in their hearts, and which they weary themselves to crush out, that so many of the first wives are miserable. But I was going to tell you about Alice. I was mistaken in thinking that my husband had been paying her any attentions. It appeared that he was acquainted with her father and mother, and that at their house he had frequently seen the child Alice, but never supposed she was the Miss Maynard of whom I had spoken. But now they had come together at last he took to her kindly and she to him, and really I sometimes almost thought they wished to ignore me altogether.

“I did not let them waste much time fussing with one another, but they got on very rapidly, nevertheless; and before I had time to arrange matters properly, my husband told me that to please me he was going to marry Alice. Only fancy me being pleased at him marrying Alice! Why, it wasn’t to please myself that I introduced the child to him, but simply because, if he must have another wife, it was certainly best for me to choose one whom I could manage. However, they were married not long after, and really I think I never was more disgusted in my life than I was on that occasion. I was not jealous, but I do think he might have paid her a little less attention. In fact I quite regretted, when it was too late, that I had ever brought them together.

“The Mormon men always do make themselves silly over their new wives, and I did not expect my husband to be an exception to the rule; but I was perfectly astonished at the change that took place in Alice. Instead of the quiet, modest girl she used to be, she put on all sorts of airs, and treated me as if I were of not the slightest consequence. I couldn’t stand that, and I resolved, if it were only to take the pride out of her, I would get my husband to marry another wife still. He wouldn’t object, I knew, for he takes life very easily, and he has a great respect for my opinion. Besides which, he is quite well enough off to support three wives; and as a matter of duty, if nothing else, he ought to do so. That would soon bring Miss Alice to a proper state of mind, and she needed something of the sort; for, do you know, she had actually made that silly husband of mine think that she ought to be treated with the same consideration as myself.”

“Well, but,” I said, “if the principle of polygamy is of God, it is only just that all the wives should be treated alike. If my husband were to marry another woman, much as it would pain me, I should treat her as an equal.”

“Then,” she replied, “if you do so you will find that the first wives will have nothing to do with you. You will find, when you come to be better acquainted with the people here, that the first wives do not waste much love over the polygamic wives; and, of course, as a rule, the polygamic wives detest the first wives. Then the plural wives get together and talk all manner of evil about the first wives, who do pretty much the same in respect to them. It is only natural that they should do so.

“But I was going to tell you,” she continued, “how I selected the third wife. There was an emigrant-train expected in every day; and you know, when the emigrants arrive, all those women who want wives for their husbands, and all those men who want to choose for themselves, go down to the camping-ground, and if they see a girl who takes their fancy they ask her if she has got a place to go to, and if she has not they offer to receive her themselves. There are hundreds of young girls who arrive here without any one to look after them, and who are only too glad to accept a home for the winter. Now this was exactly what I did. I went down to the camp and looked round for myself, and at last my eyes rested upon a young woman of about thirty or thirty-five years of age, who I thought would be a more suitable wife for my husband than that giggling chit that I chose for him at first. I decided at once that she would do, so I went up to her and asked her if she had any friends. She said she had a brother living in the City; but when I explained to her how we were situated, and said that I should like her to come and stay with us till she could look round a little for herself, she agreed at once. Now—I thought—Miss Alice, we shall see whether you are going to have things all your own way any longer!

“I told her, however, as well as my husband, that I had brought home a sister to stay with us a while, and they received her very kindly, and she soon made herself very useful and agreeable to us all. The bishop came and talked to my husband, and he made no difficulty at all in acceding to my wishes, and before long he made our visitor wife number three; and Alice, as a matter of course, lost a good deal of her influence over him. For my own part, I am much more comfortable. The two plural wives do nearly all the work, and I have little else to do than superintend the household and enjoy myself. My husband is one of those quiet sort of men who never interfere with domestic affairs, and I have matters pretty much my own way now. The only thing that annoys me is his fondness for Alice, who makes herself appear most amiable to him, deceitful thing! I can’t break him of that, but I often tell him that he will find her out some day. He tells me that he looks upon her as a child, and feels like a father towards her; no woman, he says, can ever have his love but me. That sounds all very well; but as to believing it, that is quite another thing—I keep my eye on them, and watch them well.”

“But,” I said, “it appears to me that it would have been far better if you had never given him another wife at all, you would have been saved from annoyance, and the privacy of your home would not have been disturbed. I am the more surprised, as your husband did not himself desire it.”

“When you understand better the order of the kingdom, you will not speak in that way,” she said. “Do you suppose that I shall be satisfied to be the wife of a man who could not exalt me in the celestial kingdom—a man with only one wife? Why I have often told my husband that if he did not get other wives I would leave. It is necessary for a man to have two wives, at least, if he would enter into the celestial kingdom. That is why I have been so anxious to get wives for my husband. At the same time there is no necessity for him to fall in love, and act in a silly way over them. The only way in such a case is to set one to watch the other, and then they are pretty certain to keep the old man straight. You think, perhaps, that I don’t feel all this, but you must not be deceived by appearances. I try to do the will of heaven with a smile on my face; and the brethren have often told me that if the other sisters were more like me they would not have so much difficulty in establishing Polygamy. But, dear me, Sister Stenhouse, what a long talk we’ve had! I’ll come and see you soon again, but I must hasten away now, for my husband will be home to supper by this time.”

So she left me wondering over her strange story of a woman’s experience in supplying her own husband with wives.

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We had not been long in Salt Lake City before the ball-season commenced. These balls afford splendid opportunities to the men for flirting with the girls. No matter how old and homely a man is, he thinks that he has as much right to flirt and dance with the girls as the youngest boy; for they all look upon themselves and each other as boys and single men, even if they have a dozen wives. There is no limit to their “privileges.” They are always in the market. Brigham, in his public discourses, has said that the brethren “are all young men under a hundred years of age.” With such an extended privilege, it is here in Utah that hoary Winter and smiling May can be seen galloping forth in the dance together—a thoughtful subject for the artist’s pencil.

It is of no consequence how much a man may flirt in the presence of his wife or wives. They must not presume to say one word to him about it; for the husband is free to do whatever he likes. He is one of the lords of creation. He is master of his wives, of his children. Then, how can one of his own dare to call in question anything he may think fit to do? She may, it is true, do so; but she must take the consequences of that rash act.

Oh! how I loathe even the very remembrance of those hateful ball-rooms, where I have seen so many unhappy wives, and have heard so many tales of sorrow. For, while the wives would be sitting as “wall-flowers” along the sides of the halls, after having danced the first dance with their husbands, as a matter of form, I have heard them many times telling each other about what they had seen their husbands doing during the evening; and how they had been compelled to pay attention to some simpering girl that their husbands chanced to fancy; and how they had had to do it for peace sake, and appear to be satisfied.

I do not mean to say that I did not like these social amusements myself, for I did; and could, under other circumstances, have enjoyed them very much. But I had been told so many things of the unpleasantness of a ball-room in Salt Lake City—at least, to married women—that my apprehensions were aroused. But all that was ever told me never half came up to the truth; nor can I possibly myself give the reader any correct idea of the heartaches and sorrows which these scenes bring to the wives of Mormons.

It is quite a common thing for married men to go with young girls to these balls. The majority of the men, however, prefer to take their first wives with them at the same time; but it is not infrequent to hear a lady say in the ball-room, “My husband has brought his girl here to-night; but I have not spoken one word to her, nor will I do so.” Yet, if any one were to ask these same ladies if they believed that Polygamy was right, they would say, “Certainly I do; but I do not like her”—and this simply because their husbands had paid her attentions. This seems like inconsistency; but it serves to show what conflicting feelings Mormon women have to contend with.

The men should hear what their wives say about them in the ball-rooms, and the hatred they feel for them. I have seen some women sitting quietly eyeing their husbands, as they danced or flirted with their younger loves, till their cup of indignation was full. Then they would make for the dressing-rooms, where their anger would burst upon the ears of a group of eager listeners, who were seemingly pleased to learn that some one else was suffering as well as themselves. A half-repressed threat, “I will be even with him” has escaped the lips of those who, before that, had passed for being happily situated.

Where new matrimonial alliances are continually taking place, the arrival of a gentleman, with his wife, wives, or a maiden, in the ball-room, is never remarked; and, not infrequently, different wives arrive at different hours during the evenings, as it suits their convenience; and thus it would be difficult to say who came with their “lord.” Besides, no observation is made if a lady thus enters the ball-room alone, though it is expected that her husband is aware of her coming. This coming alone, however, is not a common habit; but, as it is admissible, it does occasionally happen that a husband is dancing or enjoying himself in the ball-room with his last fiancée, when a vigilant pair of eyes searches over the room and lights upon the happy “lord.” When eyes like these encounter the eyes they seek, a change is seen, and the youthful airiness of the gentleman vanishes, and sober looks follow the gaiety of the earlier hour.

I met President Heber C. Kimball at one of these balls, soon after my arrival. He said that he would introduce me to his wife. Every one liked Heber for his outspoken, honest bluntness. He took me up the hall and introduced me to five wives in succession! “Now,” said he, “I think I’ll quit; for I fancy you are not over strong in the faith.”

I asked, “Are these all you have got?”

“O dear, no,” he said: “I have a few more at home, and about fifty more scattered over the earth somewhere. I have never seen them since they were sealed to me in Nauvoo, and I hope I never shall again.”

I thought this was terrible; but it was only the beginning of worse things.

After this winter, I had very little peace; for the women were constantly talking to me about my husband getting another wife. He held out, however, for five years; but at last he “felt that it was his duty to do so,” and I was silly enough to allow that “he was not living up to his religion” unless he took an extra wife.

I shall never forget those ball-room scenes. Even to this day, when I chance to listen to tunes which I used to hear played in those times, they grate terribly upon my ear, and bring back so many sad recollections, that I want to get away from the sound of them as quickly as possible, for they are more than I can endure. Bygone recollections are often recalled by trifles such as this.

A few months ago I attended a ball in Salt Lake City. It was the first I had been to since I withdrew from the Church; and of course it was got up by the “Liberal Party.” I felt free and happy, for there was nothing to annoy or disturb me. Suddenly the band struck up a tune which I had heard while attending the Mormon balls. It sounded like the death-knell of all my pleasant feelings, and aroused memories of the past which were so intensely painful that I could not rally from the depression that I felt for the rest of the evening. I had heard that tune before, and many like it, and had even danced to it, while my heart was breaking.

Let me ask my lady readers—those, I mean, who have never been in Utah. Ladies, how do you think you would feel if you were kept waiting long after the hour of midnight, far away into the morning, until your husbands had got through with their dancing and flirting, while your own hearts were breaking? I think I hear you say, “I would not stand it.” You do not know, I assure you, what you would do under the circumstances. How can you possibly judge what the feelings of a Mormon woman are, who has been taught to believe that “her desire shall be unto her husband, and he shall rule over her.”

In very early days Brigham built a theatre, and a very fair amount of histrionic talent was developed among the Saints. The Social Hall, in which were held balls, public entertainments, and other amusements, was used for histrionic performances before the theatre was built. Brigham owned the theatre. Money was to be made out of it; and the chance of making money Brother Brigham never permitted to slip through his fingers. Brigham’s eyes were sharp enough to see that a theatre would be to him a source of profit, but he did not look far enough. That theatre—under the immediate direction of the Prophet, with his own daughters acting in it, with the plays which were performed under his own censorship—has been one of the many causes which have perceptibly, although perhaps indirectly, shaken the hold which Mormonism had upon many a woman’s mind.

A man would probably witness the performance of a play and return from the theatre with no other thought than the remembrance of an hour’s amusement. But not so a woman. To her the play suggested something more, and her daughters would share her thoughts. Daily and hourly, it might be, the effects of Polygamy would be brought under their notice as a matter affecting themselves personally. They might be firm in the faith, but the observant instincts of their sex could never be wholly crushed. They would notice the neglect which wives endured even from good husbands; they would see a man leaving the wife of his youth, the mother of his children, and, careless of the cruel wrong he did her, leave her in lonely sorrow while he was spending his time in love-making with some young girl who might have been his daughter. They would see a wife crushing out from her heart the holiest impulses which God had implanted there, striving to destroy all affection for him whose dearest treasure that affection should have been, because, indeed, Polygamy could not exist with love. They would see and know, and themselves personally feel, the degradation and misery of the “Celestial Order of Marriage;” and that to them would be the practical picture of life.

But in the theatre—short-sighted Brigham, to allow it to be so!—another picture would be presented for their consideration; a picture it might be, ideal in its details and surroundings, but true to the letter in the lesson which it conveyed and the thoughts which it suggested. The disgusting, the brutalizing cruelties of Polygamy, were never represented on the stage. Thoughts so coarse, so sensual, could never inspire the true poet’s pen. No; the tale of love, as the poet tells it, is all that is refined, and chaste, and delicate, and pure; the commingling of two souls, the unison of two loving hearts, the hopes, the aspirations, the tender joyful sorrows of two fond natures—of two alone! Such is the picture presented as the ideal of the beautiful and of the good. Then, too, the delicate attentions of the devoted lover, his happiness even in the shadow of a smile from her, the lofty pedestal upon which to his imagination she stands, a queen and peerless; or the confiding love of the heroine of the story; blushingly confessing to herself that there is one heart on earth which is all her own, and in which none but herself can ever rule or reign.

The Mormon women are not devoid of common sense, nor are they destitute of those quick perceptions which, under all circumstances, distinguish their sex. They see on the stage representations of the happiness attendant upon love and marriage, such as God ordained, and such as finds a response in every heart; and they compare such pleasant pictures with what they know and have witnessed of Polygamy, and they draw painful inferences therefrom. Their faith may be proof against apostasy, but the impression left upon their minds produces its effect notwithstanding.

The spring came on, and our prospects began to brighten. My husband not only found remunerative employment for his pen in Salt Lake City, but was also engaged as special correspondent to the New York Herald and several of the California papers.

One morning, a countryman, roughly dressed and looking the picture of care, called at our house and asked to see Mr. Stenhouse. I gazed at him for a moment, for I thought there was something familiar in the sound of his voice. He looked at me, and I at once recognized him; it was Monsieur Balif himself, in whose house we had lived in Switzerland. But, oh, how changed he was! Once a refined, handsome, gentlemanly man; now a mere wreck of his former self, careworn, rough-looking, poorly clad. He and his family had been in Utah six years, and had suffered all the ills that poverty can induce: the change which was wrought in him was so great, that for some moments I was so overcome by my feelings that I could not utter a word. In the few short years which had elapsed since I saw him in his own bright and happy home, he had become quite an old man. I hardly dared to ask about his wife, for I feared what his answer might be; but after a little while he told me that she had sent her love, and would like to see me whenever I could find an opportunity to call upon her. They lived some miles from the city, but I told him that I would not fail to visit them whenever it was possible for me to do so.

I talked a long while with Monsieur Balif, and was much interested in what he told me. He made no complaints; he had still firm faith in Mormonism, and said that if the brethren had not dealt fairly by him they would be answerable to God for what they had done. “Besides,” he added, “I do not blame them so much, for they are Americans, and would not be happy if they did not get the advantage in some way.”

I was anxious to ask him if he had been induced to take another wife, as he had been in Utah during the “Reformation,” and I did not see how it was possible for him to have escaped; but while I was thinking how I might put the question delicately, he saved me the trouble by himself telling me that he had married the young servant-girl, whom his wife had taken from Switzerland with her. This information was quite a shock to me, for I well knew the proud spirit of his wife, and I could realize what anguish this second marriage must have caused her; I did not, however, like to question him on the subject. So I turned the conversation into another channel, and when he went away I sent kind messages to Madame Balif, saying that I would seize the very first opportunity of hearing from her own lips the story of all they had gone through.

Here, again, I found the trail of that monster—Polygamy. This time in the home of my dearest friend. From the moment when she and I had mingled our tears together in Switzerland, over that abomination, life had been to me one long, weary, sickening battle with my own heart; one futile attempt to fully convince myself that Polygamy was right and that I was wrong. I certainly did believe, or thought that I believed, the doctrine was true. But at times nature prevailed in the struggle, and womanly indignation and anger rose in arms against faith. These feelings were, however, at once and unhesitatingly subdued; faith returned triumphant, and I was again convinced that the Revelation must have been the will of the Lord, and that my duty was to submit, but not to question. In moments of comparative self-control I had even tried, as a Missionary’s wife, to justify it to others, but only to witness an outburst of sorrow and anger, and to feel still more the weakness of my position. That had been my own experience; but how had the time passed with my dear old friend? She must, no doubt, have been as greatly disappointed as I was when she came to Zion and saw things as they really were, and not as they had been represented to us.

My own eyes had certainly been opened not a little since my arrival. Instead of finding the people enjoying the comforts and blessings of life, which we had been taught were strewn around them in profuse abundance, we found among all but the leading families the greatest poverty and privation. The majority of the people were living in little log or adobe houses, of one or at the utmost two rooms, of most primitive construction, and without the slightest convenience of any description. Their food was bread and molasses, and it might be an occasional morsel of meat; but many of them scarcely ever indulged in the latter, or in any article of grocery, for months at a time. Their floors and walls were bare, and their clothing poor and scanty; and yet, destitute as they were of all the comforts and conveniences of life, they were conscientiously endeavouring like good Saints to practise Polygamy, because, as they believed, the Lord had commanded it.

In respect to education they were in even a worse position. Books, pictures, and periodicals of any kind, there were none, with the exception of that dreary organ of the church, the Deseret News—the soporific influence of which some wicked Apostate has likened to a dose of Winslow’s soothing syrup. Brigham Young, himself an illiterate man, and the leading Elders, frowned upon every attempt to raise the intellectual status of the people; and so little encouragement was given, that no one could afford to keep school. The consequence was, that the boys and girls grew up with little more education than their own sense of necessity taught them to acquire for themselves; and it was not until very recently that any suitable efforts were made to supply trained teachers and to open schools in which a thorough education could be afforded.

I have already mentioned the sermons of the Tabernacle, and observed how little calculated they were to elevate the character or cultivate the minds of the people. I have before me as I write a choice morsel extracted from one of the sermons of Heber C. Kimball, which I think I must give for the reader’s benefit.

Fancy an “Apostle!” thus addressing a large and mixed congregation of men, women, and children:—

“Here are some edicated men jest under my nose. They come here and they think they know more than I do, and then they git the big head, and it swells and swells until it gits like the old woman’s squash—you go to touch it and it goes ker-smash; and when you look for the man, why he ain’t thar. They’re jest like so many pots in a furnace—yer know I’ve been a potter in my time—almighty thin and almighty big; and when they’re sot up the heat makes ’em smoke a little, and then they collapse and tumble in, and they aint no whar.”

This was Heber’s style in general. Next to making modest people blush, nothing pleased him better than to annoy or ridicule any one who had the smallest pretensions to education; and yet naturally Heber was a kind-hearted man. Brigham’s style is very little better, and the substance of his discourses quite as bad. I will give a very favourable specimen, taken from a sermon on Polygamy, delivered some years ago, touched up and corrected, and published in the official organ, the Deseret News:—

“Men will say, ‘My wife, though a most excellent woman, has not seen a happy day since I took my second wife.’ ‘No, not a happy day for a year,’ says one; and another has not seen a happy day for five years.

“I am going to set every woman at liberty, and say to them, Now go your way—my women with the rest; go your way. And my wives have got to do one of two things; either round up their shoulders to endure the afflictions of this world and live their religion, or they must leave; for I will not have them about me. I will go into heaven alone rather than have scratching and fighting around me. I will set all at liberty. ‘What, first wife too!’ Yes, I will liberate you all. I know there is no cessation to the everlasting whinings of many of the women in this territory; I am satisfied that this is the case; and if the women will turn from the commandments of God, and continue to despise the order of heaven, I will pray that the curse of the Almighty may be close to their heels, and that it may be following them all the day long. And those that enter into it (the celestial order) and are faithful, I will promise them that they shall be queens in heaven and rulers to all eternity.

“Now if any of you will deny the plurality of wives, and continue to do so, I promise that you will be damned.”

This was sweet language for a Prophet and a Saint to utter, and yet it is not half so coarse or improper as some whole sermons that I have listened to from the lips of Brother Brigham and the other leaders of the Church.

The Apostle Orson Pratt is the only one who has dared, in the presence of Brigham, to say that education was a proper thing, and that there were many books which would be of good service to the Saints, if they obtained and studied them. On one occasion, Brigham arose in ire, and said,—

“The professor has told you that there are many books in the world, and I tell you that there are many people there. He says there is something in all these books; I say each of those persons has got a name. It would do you just as much good to learn those somebodies’ names as it would to read those books. Five minutes’ revelation would teach me more truth than all this pack of nonsense that I should have packed away in my unlucky brains from books.”

But the Prophet has changed with the times, and there are now in Utah very good schools, both Mormon and Gentile, but none of them are free-schools. Bishop Taylor once said in a public lecture that they were “destructive to the best interests of the community;” and the bishop’s “lord” in the Lion-House is exactly of the same opinion, for he has repeatedly declared that “there shall be no ‘free-schools’ within his Saintly ‘Kingdom’ on earth.” Nevertheless, Brother Brigham and his “Infallible Priesthood” are at last beginning to discover that although the night of ignorance and superstition may hate the clear daylight of truth and knowledge, when the great Ruler of all commands the light to come forth it is not in the power of man, with all his boasting, to forbid the sun to shine upon the dark places of the earth.

Balls, parties, and the theatre provided amusement for the people in Salt Lake City itself; but in the Settlements there was little else in the shape of recreation than idle gossip or the harangues of the Tabernacle.

At the time when we went to Utah, Mormon society was slowly recovering from that terrible marrying mania which had set in during the “Reformation,” and a season of divorce was the result.

The authorities at that time, as I have already observed, had urged every person, without distinction, into Polygamy. Men and women had been forced to marry one another without any respect to affection or fitness, and the result was that hundreds of marriages were entered into which made those who contracted them miserable for life, but the consequences of which they could not avoid. At the same time not a few were divorced almost immediately after they were married, and these things were a matter of daily occurrence. Brigham Young, with his eye perpetually on the dollar, finding that his marrying scheme, like many other of his “divine” plans, was a failure, saw at once that quite a nice little sum might be realized by charging a fee for divorces. Nothing was charged for marrying; but if the people insisted on having divorces, why, the best, and certainly the most profitable thing, was to make them pay for them. When we first went to Utah, the Prophet was doing quite a flourishing business in that line. Any one could get a divorce for ten dollars; and Brigham publicly in the Tabernacle jested about it, and said that the money thus obtained came in very conveniently as pin-money for his wives, though I doubt if they ever received a dollar of it. He added, that so far as “eternity” was concerned, these divorces were not worth the paper they were written on; the people had married for eternity, and in eternity they would have to live together, whether they liked it or not. He says the same to-day; but still he sells his divorces, and gathers in the ten dollars.

As I have written so much of the troubles of the sisters, perhaps it will be as well to give the reader an idea of the trials and difficulties which the brethren had to contend with when they first attempted the introduction of Polygamy. To do this, I shall give the correspondence of Miss Martha Brotherton, formerly of Manchester, England, relating to a very interesting courtship between herself and Brigham Young. I would have the reader remark that this correspondence distinctly proves that Polygamy was taught by the heads of the church before the Prophet received the professed revelation.

This account was published just a year, lacking one day, before the revelation on Polygamy was given to Joseph Smith. It was published in Boston, in book form, in 1842. The revelation was given at Nauvoo, on the 12th of July 1843.

The following is the letter referred to:[2]—

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The popular idea of Mormonism is that the peculiar feature which distinguishes it from all other Christian sects is Polygamy. To a certain extent this is, of course, true; but it is only a partial statement of the truth. If Polygamy were to be relinquished, it would still be found that Mormonism had really very little in common with other sects, and very much that was completely antagonistic to them.

The confession of faith published by Joseph Smith during his lifetime would certainly deceive an uninitiated person; and it was in consequence of the ambiguity of that very document that so many unsuspecting persons were from the beginning of Mormonism led astray by the teachings of the Missionaries. The convert was told that the Mormon faith proclaimed the existence of one true God, but he was not told that Father Adam was that deity, and that he is “like a well-to-do farmer.” He was told that Christ was the Son of God, but he was not taught that the Virgin Mary was “the lawful wife of God the Father,” and that “He intended after the resurrection to take her again, as one of His own wives, to raise up immortal spirits in eternity. He was told of faith in a Saviour, he was not told that men were the only saviours of their wives, and that unless a woman pleased her husband, and was obedient and was saved by him, she could not be saved at all. He was told that the Saints believed in the Holy Ghost, but he was not told that “The Holy Ghost is a man; he is one of the sons of our Father and our God.... You think our Father and our God is not a lively, sociable, and cheerful man; He is one of the most lively men that ever lived!”

And yet, although such fearful and shocking blasphemy was, of course, hidden from the convert whom it was desirable to impress with the idea that Mormonism was only a development of Christianity, it was openly taught in the sermons in the Tabernacle before thousands of people, and inculcated in the writings of the highest authorities. The passages which I have just quoted, were preached in public, were taken down in shorthand were revised under the superintendence of Brigham Young or one of the chief leaders, were then printed and published in Salt Lake City, and afterwards reprinted in another form.

The verbal repetition of such blasphemy as this would be simply painful and disgusting to any right-minded person. I shall therefore endeavour to give an idea of some of these outrageous doctrines without entering too closely into details. Should the reader, however, wish to search and see for him self, I refer him to the Journals of Discourses, the files of the Church papers, and the publications of the Mormon writers generally.

One of the first innovations upon the received faith of ordinary Christians was the doctrine of Polytheism. There can be no doubt that, even in Joseph’s time, that doctrine was taught, although, as in the case of Polygamy, all knowledge of it was kept from every one but the initiated—the “strong men” who could be entrusted with the inner secrets of the church leaders. That such a doctrine, however, was beginning, even then, to form part of the faith of the Saints, may be seen in the following lines upon the occasion of the Prophet’s murder:—

Many other instances, even stronger than this, could easily be given.

The Mormon idea of the other world, while in some respects it differed from the teachings of certain modern “Spiritualists,” was not altogether dissimilar. The soul was said to be immortal, and it had three stages of existence. The first was purely spiritual—the state of the soul before it came into this world. Spirits in that condition were not perfect, they must first take a fleshly body, and pass through the trials of life, before they could attain to the highest state of existence. Hence it was a solemn duty, as well as their highest privilege, for men to practise polygamy:—their duty, as by this means, and by this alone, the yet imperfect souls now waiting to come into this world could ever hope to be admitted into the “Celestial Kingdom;”—and a privilege,—as all the souls whom they thus assisted to emigrate would form their own “Kingdoms” in eternity, over which, as kings and priests, they would reign for ever and ever.

The second stage of the soul’s existence is the mortal; with which we all are sadly well acquainted. The third is the condition subsequent to the Resurrection, when they believe the flesh and bones will form the raised body, but the blood will not be there; for the blood is the principle of corrupt life, and therefore another spirit supplies its place in heaven. That Christ partook of some broiled fish and part of a honeycomb is evident from Holy Scripture; the Mormons therefore teach that heaven will be very much the same as earth, only considerably improved. We shall not marry there or be given in marriage; hence it is necessary for us to marry here, and to marry as much as we can, for then in heaven a man will take the wives whom he married on earth, or who have been sealed to him by proxy; they will be his queens, and their children will be his subjects. We shall eat, and drink, and feast, and spend a happy time generally. We shall henceforth never die; hence we shall ourselves be gods!

It was in the pre-existent state, the Mormons teach, that the work of salvation was first planned; but not after the fashion believed by all Christians. A grand celestial council was held, at which all the Sons of God appeared. Michael, the father of all, presided, and stated that he proposed to create a new world, of which he proceeded to give some details. His first begotten then arose, and made a speech, in which he proposed that Michael, his father, should go down to the world, when created, with Eve, his mother, and do there much after the fashion of what is related of our first parents in the Book of Genesis; he himself would descend some thousands of years subsequently, and would lead his erring brethren back, and save them from their sins. Lucifer, the second son, then stood forth and unfolded his plan. Jealous of the popularity of his elder brother, he proposed to save men in their sins.

Great discussion ensued, in which the unnumbered family of heaven divided into three parties; one under each of the two elder sons, and the third standing neutral. After a terrible conflict, Lucifer, the second son, was defeated, and, with all his followers, was driven out of heaven. They descended into the abyss, where they founded the infernal kingdom, of which Lucifer became the chief. He was henceforth known as the Devil. Adam created his world, and carried out his part of the plan; and in due time the eldest son, who conquered in heaven, took upon him the form of flesh, dwelt among men, and was known as their Redeemer. The spirits who stood neutral during the fight subsequently took upon them forms of flesh, entering into the children of Ham, and were known as negroes. Therefore it is, that although the American Indians and all other races are eligible for the Mormon priesthood, the negro alone could never attain to that high dignity.

On the 9th of April, 1852, Brigham Young publicly announced that,—

“When our father Adam came into the Garden of Eden, he came into it with a celestial body, and brought Eve, one of his wives, with him. He helped to make and organize this world. He is Michael the Archangel, the Ancient of Days, about whom holy men have written and spoken. He is our ‘Father and our God,’ and the only god with whom we have to do.”

This public declaration gave great offence, and led to the apostacy of many. Nevertheless, Brigham Young thinks that just as Adam came down to Eden and subsequently became a god, in like manner he also himself will attain to the godhead. Heber C. Kimball, zealous to go a step further, declared that Brigham was “God,” and that he, Kimball, stood toward him in the same relation as the Third Person in the Blessed Trinity does towards the First.

It will hence be seen that subordination is one of the first principles of the Mormon faith, and this even in the Church organization of the Saints has been distinctively shown. For the purposes for which it exists the Mormon hierarchy could not be surpassed. Of the Priesthood there are two orders—the Melchisedec and the Aaronic; of which the former ranks first and highest. The lowest rank in the Church is the “Deacon;” he looks after the places of meeting, takes up collections, and attends to other similar duties. Next comes the “Teacher.” He visits the Saints and takes note of their standing, and reports the same: weakness of faith, or backwardness in paying tithing, is never overlooked by him. After him is the “Priest,” and above him is the Elder whose office it is to preach, baptize, and lay on hands. All these belong to the order of the Aaronic—or the Levitical priesthood. “Bishops” are simply Church officers having local jurisdiction.

The lowest grade in the Melchisedec Priesthood is the “Elder.” He administers in all the ordinances of the Church. Above him there is no higher rank as respects the priesthood, but in respect to office there are various gradations, as, for example, the “High Priests,” the “Seventies,” and “Bishops,” who occupy positions of authority, although both go on missions, and also the Apostles. The “Apostles” were chosen in imitation of the “Twelve” appointed by Christ; and in the same way the “Seventies,” in imitation of the seventy disciples sent forth to preach and work miracles. They claim rank next to the Twelve. The “Quorum of the Apostles” is presided over by the eldest of their number; the “Quorums of Seventies” are each composed of seventy Elders with a “President” and six “Counsellors.” The number of “quorums” is unlimited; and over them all collectively is another president and six counsellors.

The highest authority in the Church is the “First Presidency;” the three members of which at present are Brigham Young, George A. Smith, and Daniel H. Wells,—who are said to represent on earth the three Persons of the Blessed Trinity!

As, from “President” Young down to the most illiterate “Elder,” every one is supposed to be specially inspired, and to be immediately guided by the gift of the Holy Ghost, education is utterly unnecessary to the members of the Mormon priesthood; in fact, it has always been looked upon as an impediment to its possessor. Obedience is considered the highest qualification, and it was the strict enforcement of obedience on the part of the ordinary people and the lower grades of the priesthood towards the higher that alone could have made possible that state of affairs which existed during the “Reformation.” Hence also it is that Brigham Young and the leaders are rightly held responsible for the deeds of violence and fanaticism which their followers may perpetrate; for it is well known that no Mormon, in a matter of grave importance, would dare to act upon his own responsibility, and without he felt sure that what he did would meet with the approbation of those in authority.

There is another class of Church officer which I had very nearly forgotten—the Patriarchs. The chief of these is called “The Presiding Patriarch over the Church;” the rest are “Patriarchs in the Church.” The office of these dignitaries is to bless the people and to be paid for their blessings. The price of good blessings is variable. Not long ago, when money was scarce and payments were made in produce, two dollars was considered reasonable; and if several were wanted for the same family, a reduction was made. Hyrum Smith, the original Prophet’s eldest brother, was the first Patriarch; and to him succeeded “Uncle John,” as he was popularly called, the eldest brother of Brigham. The present Patriarch is the son of Hyrum; still a young man, who obtained his office by inheritance—and this, I believe, is about the only office in the Church which Brother Brigham has permitted the Smith family to inherit or enjoy.

The idea of reviving the old Jewish polity was always uppermost in the minds of the Mormons. Hence they revived the Priesthood and High-priesthood in their various forms; a magnificent temple was built in Nauvoo, just as another temple is now being erected at Salt Lake City; and so far did they go that it was even determined that the ancient sacrifices should eventually be restored.

It is alleged that in Nauvoo, among the Mormons, a secret body of men had been chosen, who were enrolled, under the most frightful oaths, to avenge every wrong which might be perpetrated against the Saints. This band was said to have originated with Sidney Rigdon and Dr. Sampson Avard, and, as I have somewhere else mentioned, Thomas B. Marsh and Hyde the present chief of the Apostles both made affidavit that such was the case, and that the band was sworn to commit the most shocking acts of vengeance,—and surely Marsh and Hyde ought to know. Various names were chosen for this “death society.” First the members were called Daughters of Zion [from Micah iv. 13]. But as it sounded rather ridiculous to speak of bearded ruffians as “daughters,” that name was abandoned, and the title “Avenging Angels” substituted; and that, with some other names then temporarily used, were subsequently dropped for the name “Danites” [from Genesis xlix. 17], which has since been retained;—not by the Mormons, for they have ever denied the existence of any such band, but by the Gentiles.

It matters very little what the name of such a society might be, so long as it existed at all; and that it does, and has, existed in some form cannot reasonably be denied. There probably is not at the present time any formally enrolled society, but it is quite certain that for many years past if “The Church” had only dropped a hint that any man’s blood ought to be shed, that man would have had a very short tenure of his life. Even Brigham himself said publicly:

“If men come here and do not behave themselves, they will not only find the Danites, whom they talk so much about, biting the horses’ heels, but the scoundrels will find something biting their heels. In my plain remarks I simply call things by their own names.”

It is beyond a doubt that, notwithstanding all the social changes and improvements of late years, the secret police of Salt Lake City are in matters of crime, as well as in fact, though not perhaps nominally, the successors of the original “death society;”—many of its members are known to have committed grievous crimes and to have repeatedly dyed their hands in blood. The shocking deeds that every now and then are divulged to the world are all of their doing, and no resident of Salt Lake City, whether Mormon or Gentile, although he might prudently decline to state his opinions, would in his mind question the fact that it is fear of consequences, and only because the Saints are “on their good behaviour” in the sight of the Federal Government, that the hands of these wretches are withheld from a continuance of their old enormities.

As might be supposed, the establishment of a secret band of men professedly ready at a moment to steal, to shed blood, or commit any crime at the command of their leaders, created great excitement in the whole State of Missouri, and especially in the vicinity of the Mormon Settlements.

Like the Ishmaelites of old, the hands of the Saints were against every man, and every man’s hand was against them. They were taught that they were “a chosen nation, a royal priesthood, a peculiar people”—the “Sword of the Lord and of Gideon” was to be theirs; they were to go forth conquering and to conquer; and the Gentiles were to be trodden down beneath their feet.

As might be expected, trouble immediately arose; the people of Missouri outraged the Mormons, and the Mormons in return outraged them. Murders, thefts, and the most shameful atrocities were of daily occurrence, and the history of those terrible doings would fill a good-sized volume. Suffice it to say, that the excitement continued and increased, reprisals being made on both sides; finally the mob was triumphant, and after committing many fearful excesses it was organized into a militia—the leading men in authority declaring that the Mormons must either leave the State or else they must be extirpated by the sword.

Notwithstanding all this, the Mormons, at all times an industrious people, were in one sense successful and prosperous; the morality, however, of some of their leading men was to say the least very questionable. It was openly argued that the silver and gold were the Lord’s, and so were the cattle on a thousand hills. The Scripture says that God has given His people all things richly to enjoy. The Saints were the people of God:—He had given them all the wealth and substance of the earth, and therefore it was no sin for them to help themselves; they were but taking their own. To overreach or defraud their enemies was facetiously called by the Mormons “milking the Gentiles.”

Their city called Nauvoo—The Beautiful,—a name given by the Prophet Joseph and supposed to be of celestial origin, was well laid out and well built, a costly Temple was nearly complete, and the leaders, at least, began to show signs of wealth and prosperity. This however was but a lull before the storm. Writs upon various charges against Joseph and the leading Elders had always been floating about, and the serving of some of the later ones had only been prevented by technical difficulties or the personal fears of the Sheriff. To enter Nauvoo for the purpose of arresting the Prophet was like bearding the lion in his den; for by this time a splendidly equipped and drilled militia regiments under the name of Nauvoo Legion had been organized, and Joseph had been elected Lieutenant-General. The regiment consisted solely of well-tried Mormons who were devotedly attached to their leader; besides which, the whole of the population of the city was at his call at a moment’s notice.

Into the city of the Saints, as far as was possible to prevent it, no Gentile was allowed to intrude. It was at risk of life and property that any one ventured. One oddly original mode of driving out the devoted stranger is worthy of mention—it was called “whittling a man out of the town!” Opposite the victim’s door a number of men and overgrown boys would take up their quarters, each armed with a stout stick of wood and a huge knife. No sooner did the Gentile appear than the whole horde gathered in a circle round him. Not a word was uttered, but each man grasping firmly his stick in his left hand, pointed its other end to within a few inches of the victim’s face, while with the knife in his right hand he sliced a shaving out of the wood in such a way as to bring the point of the knife almost against the face of the unfortunate man. Wherever he turned they attended him, always preserving the strictest silence, and never actually touching him. The intolerable sensation caused by the “whittling” of this strange body-guard, who were in attendance day and night, and the unpleasantness of seeing half a score of sharp knives flashing perpetually within an inch of his nose, generally subdued the strongest-minded Gentile;—few could endure it for more than a day or so at the utmost: they were glad to leave—“Whittled out of the town!”

The evil day, however, at last came. The Prophet, fearing arrest, fled, but was persuaded to return and deliver himself up. The charge against him was one for which reasonable bail could be taken; bail was offered, accepted, and the prisoners discharged. Before leaving court, however, the Prophet and his brother Hyrum, the Patriarch, were arrested upon a trumped-up charge of treason, a charge for which it was impossible that bail should be taken; they were therefore committed to custody in Carthage jail, under solemn promise from Governor Ford of Illinois that the State should be answerable for their personal protection. The same day, however, a mob of over one hundred men, assisted, it is said, by the militia who were left in charge, burst into the jail and assassinated the Prophet and his brother.

As might be supposed, this outrage by no means weakened the Mormon cause; their Prophet was now a martyr, and his name became more powerful after death than it could possibly have been had he lived. It was, however, clearer than ever that nothing could now reconcile the people of Illinois to the Mormons, and the latter seriously began to think of leaving that State in a body as they had formerly left Missouri.

The terrible doings of those times I have no idea of relating just now; I simply allude to them in order that the reader may understand how, in the excitement produced in that border-warfare, it was possible for such strange events as afterwards transpired in Utah to originate. I may simply add, that the Temple being completed, and the first “Endowments” given there, the people gathered up what little property they could rescue from the mob, and under the guidance of Brigham Young, and amidst privations, sufferings, and outrages of the most painful character, left the city which they had founded in Illinois, and set out for the Rocky Mountains, where, beside the Great Salt Lake, they founded their modern Zion.

Free now from the violence of mobs and Gentile enmity, it might have been supposed that the hatred which had so long been part of the Mormon faith would have died a natural death. The contrary, however, was the case. The Mexican war was then raging, and, en route to the Rocky Mountains, the Mormons had received a proposal from the Federal Government that they should supply a regiment, upon highly advantageous conditions, to join the United States troops which were then operating in California. This suggestion was kindly made, for it was thought that the Mormon regiment thus raised would in reality be only marching their own way in going to California, and that the outfits, pay, arms, &c., which were to be theirs, after the year for which they were enrolled had expired, would be of essential service to them. It was like paying men liberally for making a journey for their own benefit.

Notwithstanding all this, Brigham Young and the leaders represented the transaction in quite another light, and the people were taught that an engagement, into which they had entered of their own free will, and from which they had derived substantial advantages, was an act of heartless cruelty and despotic tyranny on the part of the Government. This feeling was fostered, until at length the Saints as a body regarded themselves as a wronged and outraged people, and considered every Gentile, in fact the whole nation, as their natural enemies. This was perhaps all the more singular, since, after the vast tract of country, of which Utah forms a part, had, at the end of the war, been wrested from Mexico, Brigham Young had been appointed by President Millard Fillmore the first Governor and Indian Agent of the territory; he was therefore in Federal pay, and bound, as long as he retained office, to support the Government, or at the very least not to stir up disaffection.

Trouble soon arose between Governor Young and the Mormons on one side and the Judges and United States courts and officials on the other. Once an armed mob burst into the Supreme Court, and forced the Judge then sitting to adjourn; at another time a bonfire was made of the books and papers of the District Courts; then a Judge on the bench was threatened with personal outrage; and subsequently a posse summoned by legal(!) process “encamped” for a whole fortnight over against another posse summoned without legal process, the two bodies burning with bitter hatred and breathing out threatenings and slaughter. Such a state of affairs could not, of course, last long. On the one side the wildest statements were publicly made against the Government; threats which, uttered by a little band of pioneers against a mighty nation, were perfectly ridiculous, stirred up the hearts of the Saints. On the other hand it was pretty certain that Federal troops would have to be sent out to Utah to preserve the peace of the Territory. The Federal Government was nevertheless defied, abused, and derided, and the people, thoroughly blinded by their fanaticism, did not for a moment doubt that, should Governor Young “declare war,” the United States troops would vanish before the “Armies” of the Saints like chaff upon the threshing-floor. So absurd does all this appear that I should really hardly venture to repeat it were it not that every one in Utah—Mormon and Gentile—knows that I am really understating facts rather than otherwise. Very soon came a crisis in Mormon history, for which all the wild sayings and unlawful doings had been so long paving the way:—“The Reformation” was destined to be the crowning point of Saintly folly and Saintly sin.

---

The people were now thoroughly excited. Their religious antipathy, their political hatred—two of the most powerful passions which move individuals or bodies of men—had been appealed to, and both in public and private they had been stirred up to a pitch of frenzy which it is hardly possible at the present time to comprehend.

There were whisperings now of a most fearful doctrine, calculated not only to strike terror into the hearts of those whose faith was weakening, but even to shock with a sense of horror those who only heard of it from afar—I mean the doctrine of the Blood Atonement.

The Saints had all along been taught to distinguish between murder and the shedding of innocent blood—the former being spoken of as a crime for which atonement might be made, but for the latter there was no repentance on earth—it was an unpardonable sin. They were also taught to distinguish carefully between sins which might be forgiven, and sins for which pardon was impossible. Now the difference between murder and shedding innocent blood is this:—the latter is the crime of killing a Saint, which can never be forgiven, but by the death of the transgressor; but the former is of quite a different character. To murder a Gentile may sometimes be inexpedient, or perhaps even to a certain extent wrong, but it is seldom if ever a crime, and never an unpardonable sin.

A friend of mine was in a state of apostacy. The Bishop went to her to expostulate, and told her that, if he were her husband, he would get rid of her and take away her children as well—he would not on any account live with her.

“Perhaps,” she said, “you would not allow me to live at all?”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “I would think about as much of killing you or any other miserable Apostate as I would about killing a cat. If Brigham Young were to tell me to put you to death, I would do it with the greatest of pleasure;—and it would be for your good, too.”

Thus, when the famous Revelation on Polygamy says that a man cannot be pardoned for shedding innocent blood, it does not mean that he cannot be pardoned for murdering a Gentile or an Apostate; for that, under some circumstances, might even be meritorious; but that the murder of a Saint by one of the brethren cannot under any circumstances be forgiven on earth, and that his only chance of forgiveness lies in his own blood being shed as an “atonement.”

Certain sins cannot be forgiven here on earth—shedding innocent blood, divulging the secrets of the Endowment House—marital unfaithfulness on the part of the wife—Apostacy;—these are unpardonable. All other crimes which Gentiles abhor may become even virtues, if done in the cause of the Church. I do not, of course, mean to say that the mass of the Mormon people act up to such atrocious doctrines; for although, when among themselves, they would admit that the theory was correct, the better instincts of their nature keep them from ever putting that theory into practice. But what I do mean to say is, that such doctrines have, over and over again, been distinctly taught in the plainest words in the public hearing of thousands; that they have been printed and reprinted by authority; that they have been practised, and the very highest of the Mormon leaders have applauded; and that, even at the present moment, these doctrines form part of the dogmas of the Church. It is this day a matter of fact, and not a matter of question, that if any Mormon Apostate were to commit any of the unpardonable sins which I have mentioned, and if he or she were to be assassinated by a private individual, all zealous Mormons—all the leaders—would maintain that not only was the deed justifiable but even meritorious!

This may seem bad enough, but it is not the worst. The doctrine of the “Blood Atonement” is that the murder of an Apostate is a deed of love! If a Saint sees another leave the Church, or if even he only believes that his brother’s faith is weakening and that he will apostatize before long, he knows that the soul of his unbelieving brother will be lost if he dies in such a state, and that only by his blood being shed is there any chance of forgiveness for him; it is therefore the kindest action that he can perform toward him to shed his blood—the doing so is a deed of truest love. The nearer, the dearer, the more tenderly loved the sinner is, the greater the affection shown by the shedder of blood—the action is no longer murder or the shedding of innocent blood, for the taint of apostacy takes away its innocence—it is making atonement, not a crime; it is an act of mercy, therefore meritorious.

These were the terrible teachings which the “Reformation” brought to light:—they had been whispered before among the elect, and had been acted upon by the “Avenging Angels,” but before this they had never been publicly and intelligibly explained.

Jedediah M. Grant, an enthusiast of the wildest kind; a man without education or mental discipline of any description; one of the First Presidency and high in authority among the Saints, had occasion to attend a meeting which was held at Kaysville, a place about twenty-five miles distant from Salt Lake City, and he invited some of the Elders to meet him there to take part in the proceedings. To one of these “Jeddy,” as he was familiarly called, obligingly lent a mule; he himself did not accompany the party, but went on before. These elders were pretty well mounted, and one of them, being a good horseman, made the rest keep up with him. In consequence of this, when they arrived at Kaysville, the beasts were heated and tired. The Apostle “Jeddy” watched them but said nothing.

Up to a certain point, the meeting passed off pleasantly enough; the Elders present were “good at testimony” and strong in exhorting the hearers to faithfulness. Jeddy was the last speaker. He began in his usual way, but presently warmed up until he became quite excited, and then proceeded to accuse every one present of all sorts of wrong-doing. The Elders who had preceded him came in for their full share; he denounced them for their inconsistency and hypocrisy, and bitterly upbraided them for running his mule and their own beasts in such a manner. The Bishop of the place and his counsellors he accused of inactivity and carelessness; and he called loudly upon every one present to repent and do their first works; threatening them with the speedy judgments of Heaven.

All this was well enough if it had stopped there, for it might have been taken for just what it was—an ebullition of temper on the part of “Jeddy,” who was naturally vexed that his mule had been over-heated. But, like many other manias and epidemics, this Mormon movement began with a most insignificant trifle, and the spirit of fiery denunciation became perfectly contagious. Another meeting was held in the course of a few weeks, and then the mutual accusations of those who were present became, if possible, more bitter than before; the “Saints” were denounced as the vilest of sinners, and they were all commanded to be re-baptized. Accordingly, after the meeting, although it was night and the weather was cold, a considerable number were immersed by the Elders, and Jeddy himself was so enthusiastically engaged in the performance, and he remained in the water so long that he got a thorough chill, and contracted the disease of which he died.

Sunday after Sunday similar scenes were repeated in the Tabernacle, until, had it not been painful, the whole affair would have been ludicrous in the extreme. Every one had strayed from the path of duty, and the fact was announced in the strongest terms. People were called upon by name to publicly confess their sins, and many were then and there pointed out and accused of crimes of which they were entirely guiltless, but which they dared not deny. In the midst of all this, the duty of implicit obedience to the Priesthood and the payment of tithes was loudly insisted upon.

The Missionaries were sent out all over the territory, armed with the full authority of the Priesthood, and also a catechism which, on account of its obscene character, has since been bought up so successfully by Brigham that it is doubtful if there is a copy in existence. The Mormons have a curious way of appointing Missionaries. If a man is weak in the faith—a depraved, bad man—or if a youth exhibits a disposition to sow his wild oats a little too luxuriantly, he is sent on his travels to preach the Gospel; nothing strengthens a man’s faith, it is thought, more than having to defend it from the opposition of unbelievers, and the enforced good example which the Missionary is obliged to set will, it is said, produce a salutary effect upon the exuberance of youth or the depravity of more mature years. In the present instance many of the Missionaries thus sent forth were known to be as immoral as they were grossly ignorant.

There was one terrible meeting at which Brigham himself was put to the blush. Men of note were there; no one was present who did not belong to the Priesthood. “Jeddy” held forth, and Heber and Brigham were strong upon the occasion. In the midst of the proceedings, Brother Brigham, full of confidence, in the plainest words called upon all who could not plead guiltless of certain crimes to stand up. Three-fourths of those present immediately arose. Utterly shocked, the Prophet entered into explanations; but self-convicted these three-fourths of his hearers stood conscientiously firm. Even Brigham saw the necessity of taking some stringent measures. The Saints were told that if they were re-baptized their sins would be washed away, and they could then say they were not guilty of the crimes suggested in the catechism. Subsequently the catechism itself was, as I said, bought up and burnt.

The burden of every sermon was unquestioning obedience, repentance, payment of tithing, and above all the taking of more wives. The Missionaries, without the slightest ceremony, would visit the houses of respectable Saints, examine them out of the abominable catechism, and question husbands and wives in the presence of their children about even their very thoughts, in a manner, and upon subjects, which would amply have justified their being hung up to the nearest tree; Lynch law was in fact too good for such atrocities. Wicked ideas, the utterance of which would have called forth a blush, even if heard from the lips of a drunken rowdy in a pot-house, were suggested and explained to young children; while it would have been literally at the risk of life for their parents to have expostulated; to do so would have shown want of faith, and want of faith would have justified some fanatical scoundrel in using his knife or his pistol for the loving purpose of cutting off his brother’s soul from earth in order to save it in heaven!

Meanwhile Jedediah did not for a moment cease his exhortations; the work must be done thoroughly: the Blood-Atonement must not be forgotten. On one occasion, in the Tabernacle, this crazy fanatic said:—

“I would advise some of you men here to go to President Young, and confess your sins, and ask him to take you outside the city and have your blood shed to atone for your sins.”

...

“There are men and women that I would advise to go to the President immediately, and ask him to appoint a committee to attend to their case; and then let a place be selected, and let that committee shed their blood....

“I would ask how many covenant-breakers there are in this city and in this kingdom? I believe that there are a great many; and if they are covenant-breakers, we need a place designated where we can shed their blood.”

...

“We have been trying long enough with this people, and I go in for letting the sword of the Almighty be unsheathed, not only in word but in deed.”

Lest he should be mistaken, he said:—

“What ought this meek people who keep the commandments of God do unto them? ‘Why,’ says one, ‘they ought to pray the Lord to kill them,’ I want to know if you would wish the Lord to come down and do all your dirty work?.... When a man prays for a thing, he ought to be willing to perform it himself.... Putting to death the transgressors would exhibit the law of God, no matter by whom it was done.”

Heber C. Kimball, the “model Saint,” after a speech to the same effect, in which, as usual, he made use of the most disgusting language, added:—

“Joseph Smith was God to the inhabitants of the earth when he was among us, and Brigham is God now!”

But more shocking than any other was the language of Brigham Young himself. On the 21st of September, 1856, in a discourse delivered in the Bowery, Great Salt Lake City, and afterwards reprinted by authority in the Journals of Discourses, vol. iv., pp. 53-4, he said:—

“The time is coming when justice will be laid to the line and righteousness to the plummet; when we shall take the old broadsword and ask, ‘Are you for God?’ and if you are not heartily on the Lord’s side, you will be hewn down!”

...

“There are sins that men commit for which they cannot receive forgiveness in this world or in that which is to come; and if they had their eyes opened to see their true condition, they would be perfectly willing to have their blood spilt upon the ground, that the smoke thereof might ascend to Heaven as an offering for their sins, and the smoking incense would atone for their sins; whereas, if such is not the case, they will stick to them and remain with them in the spirit world.

“I know, when you hear my brethren telling about cutting people off from the earth, that you consider it is strong doctrine; but it is to save them, not to destroy them....

“I do know that there are sins committed of such a nature that, if the people did understand the doctrine of salvation, they would tremble because of their situation. And, furthermore, I know that there are transgressors who, if they knew themselves, and the only condition upon which they can obtain forgiveness, would beg of their brethren to shed their blood, that the smoke thereof might ascend to God as an offering to appease the wrath that is kindled against them, and that the law might have its course. I will say, further, I have had men come to me and offer their lives to atone for their sins.

“It is true that the blood of the Son of God was shed for sins through the fall and those committed by men, yet men can commit sins which it can never remit. As it was in ancient days, so it is in our day; and though the principles are taught publicly from this stand, still the people do not understand them; yet the law is precisely the same. There are sins that can be atoned for by an offering upon an altar, as in ancient days; and there are sins that the blood of a lamb, of a calf, or of turtle doves cannot remit, but they must be atoned for by the blood of the man.”

One would have supposed that even Brigham had now reached the culminating point of horror and blasphemy. But no;—a month or so later he even surpassed himself when in a Tabernacle sermon he said:—

“When will we love our neighbours as ourselves? In the first place, Jesus said that no man hateth his own flesh. It is admitted by all that every person loves himself. Now if we do rightly love ourselves, we want to be saved, and continue to exist; we want to go into the kingdom where we can enjoy eternity, and see no more sorrow nor death. This is the desire of every person who believes in God. Now take a person in this congregation who has knowledge with regard to being saved in the kingdom of our God and our Father, and being exalted, one who knows and understands the principles of eternal life, and sees the beauties and excellency of the eternities before him compared with the vain and foolish things of the world, and suppose that he is overtaken in a gross fault, that he had committed a sin that he knows will deprive him of that exaltation which he desires, and that he cannot attain to it without the shedding of his blood, and also knows that by having his blood shed he will atone for that sin and be saved and exalted with the gods, is there a man or a woman in this house but would say, ‘Shed my blood that I might be saved and exalted with the gods?’

“All mankind love themselves: and let those principles but be known by an individual, and he would be glad to have his blood shed. This would be loving ourselves even unto an eternal exaltation. Will you love your brothers or sisters likewise when they have a sin that cannot be atoned for without the shedding of their blood? Will you love that man or woman well enough to shed their blood? That is what Jesus Christ meant. He never told a man or woman to love their enemies in their wickedness, never. He never meant any such thing; His language is left as it is for those to read who have the spirit to discern between truth and error; it was so left for those who can discern the things of God. Jesus Christ never meant that we should love a wicked man in his wickedness.

“I could refer you to plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain in order to atone for their sins. I have seen scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance (in the last resurrection there will be) if their lives had been taken and their blood spilled on the ground as a smoking incense to the Almighty, but who are now angels to the devil, until our elder brother, Jesus Christ, raises them up and conquers death, hell, and the grave.

“I have known a great many men who have left this church, for whom there is no chance whatever for exaltion, but if their blood had been spilled it would have been better for them.

“The wickedness and ignorance of the nations forbid this principle being in full force, but the time will come when the law of God will be in full force. This is loving our neighbour as ourselves; if he needs help, help him; if he wants salvation, and it is necessary to spill his blood on the earth in order that he may be saved, spill it.

“Any of you who understand the principles of eternity, if you have sinned a sin requiring the shedding of blood, except the sin unto death, should not be satisfied or rest until your blood should be spilled, that you might gain that salvation you desire. That is the way to love mankind.... Light and darkness cannot dwell together, and so it is with the kingdom of God.

“Now, brethren and sisters, will you live your religion? How many hundreds of times have I asked that question! Will the Latter-Day Saints live their religion?”

And so, according to Brigham Young, their Prophet, this was the religion of the Saints! And the people acted up to the “religion” thus taught: and the story is so terrible that one dare not even whisper all its details.

It is no secret that all this was understood literally. The wife of one Elder, when he was absent on a mission, acted unfaithfully towards him. Her husband took counsel of the authorities, and was reminded that the shedding of her blood alone could save her. He returned and told her, but she asked for time, which was readily granted. One day, in a moment of affection, when she was seated on his knee, he reminded her of her doom, and suggested that now when their hearts were full of love was a suitable time for carrying it into execution. She acquiesced, and out of love he cut her throat from ear to ear.

In many instances the outrages committed against persons who were known to be innocent were so revolting that no woman—nay, even no right-minded man—would venture to more than just allude to them. A few, however, and only a few, and they by no means the worst, of the milder cases I will just mention.

There was the murder of the Aikin party—six persons—who were killed on their way to California. The same year a man name Yates was killed under atrocious circumstances; and Franklin McNeil who had sued Brigham for false imprisonment and who was killed at his hotel door. There was Sergeant Pike, and there was Arnold and Drown. There was Price and William Bryan at Fairfield; there was Almon Babbitt, and Brassfield, and Dr. Robinson; there was also James Cowdy and his wife and child, and Margetts and his wife; and many another, too—to say nothing of that frightful murder at the Mountain Meadows.

Besides these there is good reason to think that Lieutenant Gunnison and his party were also victims, although it was said that they were shot by “Indians.” The Potter and Parrish murders were notorious; Forbes, and Jones and his mother, might be added to the same list; the dumb boy, Andrew Bernard; a woman killed by her own husband; Morris the rival Prophet, and Banks, and four women who belonged to their party; Isaac Potter, and Charles Wilson, and John Walker. These are but a few. The death list is too long for me to venture to give it.

One instance I can give from my own personal knowledge. A sister, who occasionally does a little work at my house, on one occasion said to me: “Mrs. Stenhouse, when first I came to this country I lived in the southern portion of Utah. One day I saw a woman running across the fields towards our house, pale and trembling. When she came in she looked round her as if she were frightened, and she asked if any one besides our own family were present. On being assured that there was no one present whom she might fear, she said:—‘Two men came to our house late last night and asked to see my husband, who had already retired. He was in bed, but they insisted that he must get up, as they had a message from “the authorities” for him. When they saw him they requested him to go with them to attend, they said, to some Church business. I became very much alarmed, for my poor husband had been known to speak rather freely of late of some of the measures of the Church, but he tried to reassure me, and finally left the house with the two men. In about an hour after they came back, bearing between them his lifeless body. They laid him upon the bed, and then one of them pulled aside the curtain which constituted our only cupboard, and took therefrom a bake-kettle and stood it beside the bed, in order to catch the blood that was flowing from a fearful wound in his throat. They then left the house, telling me to make as little noise about it as possible, or they might serve me in the same way. The men were masked, and I cannot tell who they are, but I spent a fearful night with my poor dead husband.’” This sister added: “Sister Stenhouse, in those more fearful times we dared not speak to each other about such things for fear of spies.”

These were all well-known and notorious instances. I say nothing of those of whose fate nothing—not even a whisper—was ever heard; and I say nothing of the frightful “cuttings off” before the Reformation and in recent years.

Gentile men and women were killed, for hatred; and that “killing” was no murder, for theirs was not innocent blood. Apostates, and Saints of doubtful faith, and those who were obnoxious, had their blood shed—all for love—and that “cutting off” was also no murder, because to secure their salvation by cutting their throats was an act of mercy. Can it be possible that men should thus act and say—and believe—that Jesus, the gentle and merciful Saviour, commanded it when He said: “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself”?

All through this Reign of Terror, marrying and giving in marriage was the order of the day. It mattered not if a man was seventy years of age, according to Brother Brigham he was still a boy—“the brethren are all boys until they are a hundred years old”—and some young girl of sixteen, fifteen, or even younger would be “counselled”—that is, commanded—to marry him. She might even have a sister no older than herself, and then as likely as not he would take the two to wife, and very probably both on the same day. The girls were told that to marry a young man was not a safe thing, for young men were not tried—it was better to marry a well-tested patriarch, and then their chances of “exaltation” in the kingdom of heaven were sure and certain. In this way the life-long happiness of many a girl—little more than a child—was blighted for ever. At the time of which I speak, every unmarried woman, or girl who could by the utmost stretch of possibility be thought old enough to marry, was forced to find a husband, or a husband was immediately found for her, and without any regard to her wishes was forced upon her. Young men, and even boys, were forced, not only into marriage, but even polygamy, and none dared resist. The marrying mania, in fact, was universal and irresistible—everyone must marry or be given in marriage. So evidently was this the case that women in jest said that, if one were to hang a petticoat upon a fence-pole, half a dozen men would flock at once to marry it! Absurd as this may seem, it was not very far from the truth. Young men and maidens, old men and children, widows, virgins, and youths—in fact, every one, whether married or unmarried, it mattered not, was “counselled”—commanded—to marry.

There is above fanaticism a stronger law which, despite every effort of the deluded victim, will occasionally make itself heard—the voice of Nature. Even during that strange time in which every Saint seemed to have gone stark crazy mad, the frightful anomaly of men of fifty, sixty, and even seventy, marrying mere children—girls of fourteen, and even thirteen—forced itself upon the attention of some of the leaders. The question arose—an odd question to Gentile ears—“At what age is a girl old enough to marry?” Considerable discussion ensued, and even in the Tabernacle the subject was taken up. The voice of authority, however, eventually answered the matter, but not in the way that any ordinary civilized person would expect.

In those times, unmarried girls were very scarce—in the settlements it was difficult to find any at all. Not infrequently it happened that a brother was “counselled” to marry, but could not obey, as there was no unmarried woman in the place where he lived. In that case he generally paid a visit to Salt Lake City. But business at the Endowment House nevertheless was pretty lively; in fact, so much so that it was deemed necessary to set apart certain days for the various Settlements. Once, when the “Provo day” was fast approaching, two old brethren from that town who had been counselled to enlarge their families, but who had been unsuccessful in finding partners, began to despair of being able to obey “the word of the Lord!” The day before that appointed for the Endowments and Celestial Marriage arrived, and they were as far from success as ever. Being neighbours, the two old gentlemen met and mingled their griefs, and considered what might be done. It then occurred to them that there was a certain brother who had two daughters, respectively twelve and fourteen years of age, and they resolved to call upon him about these children. As might be supposed, the father at first refused them, giving as a reason that the girls were too young. The old men explained that if they could not marry the children it was impossible for them to “obey counsel,” and the father then agreed. The next morning the marriage ceremony was performed in the Endowment House. One of these wretches was sixty years of age, and the other a few years younger. The father of the children was about forty. I am really afraid that the reader will think that I exaggerate or misrepresent facts. I wish it were so, for the case is so outrageously atrocious; but I am sorry to say that scores and hundreds of instances similar to this, which occurred during the Reformation, might be given.

There are before me as I write, letters, papers, documents of various sorts relative to marriage and the matrimonial affairs of the Saints, at the time of which I speak, that I wish the reader could peep at. I would not like him to read them—in fact, I dared not read them all myself, for some of them are so shameful that the mere knowledge of having read them through would make any right-minded person blush. Taking more wives was the order of the day—how, was of little matter.

The work of “Reformation” was in full progress; the people were excited to frenzy; the Federal troops were expected; men were marrying and maidens were given in marriage; every one in Utah was looking forward to the time when the Prophecies of Joseph, the Seer, should be fulfilled, and the Son of Man should come:—and then, when one would have supposed that every man would have wished that his hands should be pure, was perpetrated a deed which is unparalleled in modern civilized times—a deed at which angels and men have stood aghast with horror.

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I feel myself utterly incompetent to tell the story of the Mountain Meadows Massacre—it is so shocking, so fiend-like. And yet it must be told.

While the work of “Reformation” was going on, and when the United States troops were constantly expected in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, a large train of emigrants passed through Utah on its way to California. The train consisted of one hundred and twenty or one hundred and thirty persons, and they came chiefly from Arkansas. They were people from the country districts, sober, hard-working, plain folks, but well-to-do, and, taken all in all, about as respectable a band of emigrants as ever passed through Salt Lake City.

Nothing worthy of any particular note occurred to them until they reached the Valley—that was the point from which they started towards death.

My old friend Eli B. Kelsey travelled with them from Fort Bridger to Salt Lake City, and he spoke of them in the highest terms. If I remember rightly he said that the train was divided into two parts—the first a rough-and-ready set of men—regular frontier pioneers; the other a picked community, the members of which were all more or less connected by family ties. They travelled along in the most orderly fashion, without hurry or confusion. On Sunday they rested, and one of their number who had been a Methodist preacher conducted divine service. All went well until they reached Salt Lake City, where they expected to be able to refit and replenish their stock of provisions; but it was there that they first discovered that feeling of enmity which finally resulted in their destruction.

Now it so happened that the minds of the Saints in Salt Lake City were at that time strongly prejudiced against the people of Arkansas, and for a most unsaintly reason. The Apostle Parley P. Pratt was one of the earliest converts to Mormonism, and who so ably defended his adopted creed with his pen and from the platform, had not very long before been sojourning in Arkansas, and had there run away with another man’s wife. This was only a trifle for an “Apostle” to do, and the husband—Mr. McLean—might have known it. But he was a most inconsiderate man, and was actually offended with the amorous Apostle for what he had done. He pursued him and killed him, for in those rough parts it was considered that the Apostle did wrong in marrying the man’s wife. Nobody, however, took any notice of the matter or brought the murderer to trial. The Mormon people, of course, took the side of the Apostle Parley P. Pratt. Sensitive themselves to the highest degree concerning their wives and daughters, they considered McLean a sinner for doing just exactly what any Saint would have certainly done. Their opinion, however, would have been a matter of consequence only to themselves, had not such fatal consequences resulted from it. Reasoning without reason, they argued that McLean was the enemy of every Mormon, and every Mormon was the enemy of McLean; McLean was protected in Arkansas—therefore every man from Arkansas was an enemy of the Mormons;—an enemy ought to be cut off—therefore it was the duty of every Mormon to “cut off”—if he could—every Arkansas man.

This appears to have been the tone of thought which actuated the minds of the leaders of the people at the time when this emigrant train arrived in the City.

Weary and footsore they encamped by the Jordan River, trusting there to recruit themselves and their teams, and to replenish their stock of provisions. The harvest in Utah that year had been abundant, and there was nothing to hinder them from obtaining a speedy and full supply. Brigham Young was then Governor of Utah Territory, Commander-in-Chief of the Militia, and Indian Agent as well: he was therefore responsible for all that took place within his jurisdiction. It was his duty to protect all law-abiding persons who either resided in or travelled through the country. The emigrants, so far from being protected, were ordered to break up their camp and move on; and it is said that written instructions were sent on before them, directing the people in the settlements through which they would have to pass to have no dealings with them. This, considering their need of provisions, was much the same as condemning them to certain death.

Compelled to travel on, they pursued their journey slowly towards Los Angeles. At American Fork they wished to trade off some of their worn-out stock and to purchase fresh—they also desired to obtain provisions. There was abundance of everything from the farm and from the field, for God had very greatly blessed the land that year; but they could obtain nothing. They passed on, and went through Battle Creek, Provo, Springville, Spanish Fork, Payson, Salt Creek, and Fillmore, and their reception was still the same,—the word of the Mormon Pontiff had gone forth, and no man dared to hold communion or to trade with them. Now and then, some Mormon, weak in the faith or braver or more fond of money than his fellows, would steal into the camp, in the darkness of the night, bearing with him just what he was able to carry; but beyond this they could procure nothing. Their only hope now lay in the chance of holding out until they could push through to some Gentile settlement where the word of the priestly Governor of Utah was not law. Through fifteen different Mormon settlements did they pass, without being able to purchase a morsel of bread. With empty waggons and on short allowance, they pushed on until they reached Corn Creek, where, for the first time in saintly Utah, they met a friendly greeting from the Indians, and purchased from them thirty bushels of corn, of which they stood very greatly in need.

At Beaver they were again repulsed, and at Parowan they were not permitted to enter the town—they were forced to leave the public highway and pass round the west side of the fort wall. They encamped by the stream, and tried as before to obtain food and fresh cattle, but again to no purpose. The reason why they were refused admission to the town was probably because the militia was there assembled under Colonel Wm. H. Dame—which militia afterwards assisted in their destruction, for which preparations were even now being made.

They made their way to Cedar City, the most populous of all the towns of Southern Utah. Here they were allowed to purchase fifty bushels of tithing wheat, and to have it ground at the mill of that infamous scoundrel John D. Lee, upon whose memory will rest the eternal curses of all who have ever heard his name. It was, however, no act of mercy, the supplying of this corn. The sellers of it knew well enough even then that it would return to them again in the course of a few days. After all, they had but forty days’ rations to carry them on to San Bernardino, in California—a journey of about seventy days. Scanty kindness—miserable generosity!—fifty bushels of corn for a seventy days’ journey, for men, women, and young children, and at least one little one to be born on the road.

They remained in Cedar City only one day, and so jaded were their teams that it took them three days to travel thence to Iron Creek, a distance of twenty miles; and two days were occupied in journeying fifteen miles—the distance between Iron Creek and the Meadows.

The morning after they left Iron Creek, the Mormon militia followed them in pursuit, intending, it is supposed, to assault them at Clara Crossing. That this was no private outburst, and that, on the contrary, it was done by authority, is evident from sworn testimony to the effect that the assembling of those troops was the result of “a regular military call from the superior officers to the subordinate officers and privates of the regiments.... Said regiment was duly ordered to muster, armed and equipped as the law directs, and prepared for field operations.” A regular military council was held at Parowan, at which were present President Isaac C. Haight, the Mormon High Priest of Southern Utah, Colonel Dame, Major John D. Lee, and the Apostle George A. Smith.

No military council, whether of the militia or the ordinary troops of the line, would dare to determine upon such an important matter as the cutting off of an emigrant train of one hundred and thirty persons without receiving permission from superior authority. Brigham Young was in this case the superior authority—he was the Commander-in-Chief of the Militia:—the inference is obvious. I do not, of course, say that he gave the order for this accursed deed, but that it was his business to bring the criminals to justice no one can doubt or deny.

The regiment, which started from Cedar City under the command of Major John D. Lee, the sub-agent for Indian affairs in Southern Utah, was accompanied by baggage-waggons and the other paraphernalia of war excepting only heavy artillery, which in this case would have been useless. But, at the same time, a large body of the Piede Indians had been invited to accompany them.

An order came from head-quarters to cut off the entire company except the little children. The emigrants were utterly unprepared, and the first onslaught found them defenceless. Accustomed, however, to border warfare, they immediately corralled their waggons and prepared for a siege—their great misfortune was that they had not any water—Major John D. Lee, finding the emigrants resolute, sent to Cedar City and Washington City for reinforcements, which duly arrived.

The next morning, Major John D. Lee assembled his troops, including the auxiliaries which he had summoned, about half a mile from the entrenchment of the fated emigrants, and then and there informed them, with all the coolness which such an infamous scoundrel alone could muster, that the whole company was to be killed, and only the little children who were too young to remember anything were to be spared.

The unfortunate emigrants did not know who their foes were. They saw Indians, or men who were so coloured that they looked like Indians, and they saw others who were more than strangers to them, but they had no clue to the cause of their detention. To them all was mystery. That Indians should attack them was quite within the bounds of probability, although there was at that time no cause for such an outrage; but that such an attack should be persistent, and should be carried on under the peculiar circumstances in question, was, to say the least, highly improbable.

Who could rightly tell a story so fearful as this? The emigrant train—men, women, and children fainting and famishing for want of bread and meat. In their pockets was money wherewith the necessaries of life might have been bought, and the generous hand of the Almighty had that year been open so wide, and had scattered those necessaries so liberally, that nothing but the wickedness of man towards his fellow could have created a dearth. But so it was that darkness and the fear of death—a fearful death even at the door—was all those poor emigrants had standing before their eyes. What right had the Mormon militia to be pursuing, to be hanging about the skirts of any body of emigrants? Their very presence was in itself unauthorized—criminal. The emigrants supposed that they were surrounded by Indians, and expected the cruellest treatment in case of resistance not only death, but the outrage and shocking atrocities of savages. They did not know that the red men who threatened their lives and the lives of their helpless wives and infants were brought together at that spot for that same purpose by the counsel of Mormon authorities. They did not know that so many of the appearing red-skins were only painted devils, mocks of humanity, wretches who under the mask of a red-skin’s colour were eager to perpetrate the foulest of offences—scoundrels a thousand times damned in the opinion of men, and by the decree of God.

Day after day went by, and the poor creatures began to despair—who can wonder? The brave men cared little for their own lives; but there was something fearful in the thought that their darling ones would be scalped, and torn in pieces, and brutally outraged! Who can wonder that they resolved to sell life as dearly as they possibly could? They might at least die in defence of those they loved.

So day followed day. The agony of the unhappy men and women who were thus besieged, and were in daily, hourly peril of the most frightful of all deaths, can be imagined—not told. Meanwhile, what were those atrocious scoundrels doing who were lying in wait for their blood? Some of them were tricked out as Indians; some were in their own proper dresses; and, moreover, real Utes were there. The unhappy victims could not possibly escape—there was time for the murderers to do their work leisurely. Between chance shots, which were intended to, and did, carry death with them, they amused themselves with “pitching horse-shoe quoits:”—such heartlessness is almost beyond conception.

In terrible need of water, they thought that even the Indians, who they supposed were their assailants, might possibly respect a token of truce; so they dressed two little girls in white and sent them down to the well. But the fiends—the Mormon militia—shot them down. In the day of doom, the blood of those babes will testify more heavily against Major John D. Lee, and Isaac C. Haight, and Colonel Dame, and George A. Smith, and the other wretch who plotted and contrived that fearful iniquity, than any of the base and cowardly crimes which have for years and years blackened their contemptible and miserable souls.

They could not possibly advance. Their corn would not last long. They were famishing for water. How long they could hold out was evidently only a matter of time. Had the train consisted only of men, they might certainly, if with loss, have cut their way through their besiegers and escaped; but with wives and children, and others bound to them by the tenderest ties, such a thing was impossible. They looked and waited. Savage Indians they supposed were their only enemies. Coldly, strangely as they had been treated at the Mormon settlements, they never for a moment supposed that white men could be in league against them or could meditate their destruction.

Up in the meadows—in the distance—there was a white dusty cloud as if of some person or persons approaching:—the hearts of the emigrants leaped for joy. Was help coming at last? It was evident that a waggon was coming near, and the waggon was filled with armed men;—here was hope. After all the misery of that waitful watching, they were overjoyed, and shouted aloud with gladness, and sprang with open arms to welcome their visitors. Little did they suppose that the fiends who then came down, with pale faces and the manners of white men, were the same as those who, painted and decked out like Indians, had been leaguered about their camp with murderous intentions for so many days.

The waggon came near, and was found to be filled with armed men. Surely now, the unhappy emigrants thought, substantial help had come—the authorities of Utah in the neighbourhood, whether Gentile or Mormon, had come out in the cause of civilization and humanity, and succour was at hand.

A white flag was waved from the waggon as an emblem of peace, and in order that the emigrants might know that it was white men and not the red demons of the hills who approached. They did not, indeed, know that these themselves were the monsters who had wronged them all this time, and who were even now compassing their death.

Inside that waggon was President Haight, the infamous Mormon Bishop John D. Lee, and other authorities of the Church in Southern Utah. They professed to the emigrants that they came upon the friendly errand of standing between them and the Indians. They said that the Indians had taken offence at something that the emigrants had done, that they were thirsting for their blood, but that they, the Mormon officials, were on good terms with them and had influence, and would use their good offices in the cause of mercy and of peace. After some discussion they left with the professed view of conciliating the Indians. Then they returned and said that the Indians had agreed that, if the emigrants marched back to Salt Lake City, their lives should be spared; but that they must leave everything behind them in their camp, even including the common weapons of defence which every Western man carries about his person. The Mormon officials then solemnly undertook to bring an armed force and to guard the emigrants safely back again to the Settlements.

The emigrants were not cowards, and would doubtless have preferred to cut their way through to the south, but they could not leave their wives and little ones, and any terms, however disadvantageous, were better than leaving those they loved to the tender mercy of those wretches.

This agreement being made, the Mormon officials retired, and after a short time again returned with thirty or forty armed men. Then the emigrants were marched out—the women and children in the front, and the men following, while the Mormon guard followed in the rear. When they had marched in this way about a mile, and had arrived at the place where the Indians were hid in the bushes on each side of the road, the signal was given for the slaughter. So taken by surprise were the emigrants, and so implicitly had they confided in these murderers, that they offered no resistance. The Mormon Militia, their guard, immediately opened fire upon them from the rear, while the Indians, and Mormons disguised as Indians, who were hidden among the bushes, rushed out upon them, shooting them down with guns and bows and arrows, and cutting some of the men’s throats with knives. The women and children, shrieking with mortal terror, scattered and fled, some trying to hide in the bushes. Two young girls actually did escape for about a quarter of a mile, when they were overtaken and butchered under circumstances of the greatest brutality. The son of John D. Lee endeavoured to protect one poor girl who clung to him for help; but his father, tearing her from him by violence, blew out her brains. Another unhappy girl is said to have kneeled to this same monster Lee, entreating him to spare her life. He dragged her into the bushes, stripped her naked, and cut her throat from ear to ear, after she had suffered worse at his hands than death itself. About half an hour was probably occupied in the butchery, and every soul of that company was cut off, excepting only a few little children who were supposed to be too young to understand or remember what had taken place. The unfortunate victims were stripped, without reference to age or sex, and then left to rot upon the field. There they remained until torn and dismembered by the wolves, when it was then thought prudent to conceal such as lay nearest to the road. An eye-witness subsequently visiting the spot said:—

“The scene of the massacre, even at this late day, was horrible to look upon. Women’s hair in detached locks and in masses hung to the sage bushes and was strewn over the ground in many places. Parts of little children’s dresses and of female costume dangled from the shrubbery, or lay scattered about, and among these, here and there on every hand, for at least a mile in the direction of the road, by two miles east and west, there gleamed, bleached white by the weather, the skulls and other bones of those who had suffered. A glance into the waggon, when all these had been collected, revealed a sight which never can be forgotten.”

The remains were subsequently gathered together by Major Carleton, the United States Commissioner, who erected over them a large cairn of stones, surmounted by a cross of red cedar, with the inscription thereon: “Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord;” and on a stone beneath were engraved the words:—

“Here 120 men, women, and children were massacred in cold blood, early in September, 1857. They were from Arkansas.”

It is said that this monument was subsequently destroyed by order of Brigham Young, when he visited that part of the territory.

The little children, while their parents were being butchered, had clung about their murderers’ knees, entreating mercy, but none of them finding it save those who were little more than infants. Their fears and cries the night after the murder are said to have been heart-rending. One little babe, just beginning to walk, was shot through the arm. Another little girl was shot through the ear, and the clothes of most of them were saturated with their mothers’ blood. They were distributed among the people of the settlements, and when finally the Government took them under the protection of the nation, the people among whom these little ones lived actually charged for their boarding. Two of them are said to have uttered some words from which it was presumed that their intelligence was in advance of their years. They were taken out quietly and buried! This happened some time after the massacre.

Most of the property of the emigrants was sold by public auction in Cedar City: the Indians got most of the flour and ammunition, and the Mormons the more valuable articles. They jested over it and called it “Spoil taken at the siege of Sevastopol.” There is legal proof that the clothing stripped from the corpses, blood-stained, riddled by the bullets, and with shreds of flesh attached to it, was placed in the cellar of the tithing office, where it lay about three weeks, when it was privately sold. The cellar is said to have smelt of it for years. Long after this time, jewellery torn from the mangled bodies of the unfortunate women was publicly worn in Salt Lake City, and every one knew whence it came. A tithing of it all is reported, upon very conclusive evidence, to have been laid at the feet of Brigham Young.

This is the story, most imperfectly told, for I dare not sketch its foulest details, of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. Brigham Young, who was at the time Governor of the Territory and also Indian Agent, made no report of the matter. Let that fact of itself speak for his innocence or guilt. Would any other governor or agent in another territory have been thus silent? John D. Lee, and Dame, and Haight, and the other wretches have never been brought to trial or cut off from the Church, although their monstrous crime has never been a secret, nor have any endeavours been made to conceal it.

This fearful deed was one of the unavoidable results of the teachings of the Mormon leaders during the Reformation. There were crimes then perpetrated in secret which will never be known until the day of doom; and there were horrors which have been known and recorded, but for which no one has been brought to trial or has suffered inconvenience. There are men in Salt Lake City, who walk about unblushingly in broad daylight, but who are known to be murderers, and whose hands have been again and again dyed with blood under circumstances of the most atrocious cruelty.

There was one cruel murder, but by no means the worst—which came under my own personal observation, and which I have alluded to elsewhere—the murder of Dr. John King Robinson in Salt Lake City, which attracted more than ordinary attention. This gentleman was a physician of good standing, who came out as assistant-surgeon with the United States army, and afterwards began to practise in Salt Lake City. He was known as a man of unimpeachable moral character, and there are to this day hundreds of responsible people who would testify to his fair fame and rectitude; although he had by some means incurred the dislike of many of the Mormon leaders. He formed the idea of taking possession of some warm springs on the north of the city, and proposed to erect there baths, an hospital, &c. A small wooden shanty was erected for the purpose of holding possession, but the city authorities claimed the spring, and, after some very unpleasant proceedings, the matter was referred to the law courts, and Judge Titus decided against the doctor.

After this verdict had been rendered, Dr. Robinson seems to have acted very prudently, and to have remained in-doors as much as possible during the succeeding days. Between eleven and twelve o’clock on the night of the third day, however, after the family had retired to rest, a man called at the house, and stating that his brother had broken his leg by a fall from a mule and was suffering very much, he, after some earnest persuasion, induced the doctor to accompany him. Anxious as he might be to remain in-doors at such a time, no professional man would refuse to perform an act of mercy. He accordingly went. At a distance of about a couple of hundred steps from the house he was struck over the head with some sharp instrument, and immediately after shot through the brain. His wife, a young girl, to whom he had only been married a very short time, heard the report of the pistol, and witnesses saw men fleeing from the spot. The police were sent for, and the body was carried to Independence Hall, and afterwards to the victim’s house. The Mayor of the city was not informed of the murder until ten o’clock the next day, and the chief of police, who was sitting round the fire with his men when news of the murder arrived, went to bed immediately, and did not visit the scene of the outrage for three days.

The following Sunday, Brigham Young, in the Tabernacle, publicly suggested that the doctor had probably been murdered by some of the soldiers from Camp Douglas, who were dissatisfied with his treatment when they were under his hands, or else that he had fallen in some gambling transaction—both of which statements, however, were known by every one present to be utterly false. No one was ever prosecuted for this cruel murder. It did not occur during the Reformation, but was the natural result of the teachings of those times.

I simply mention these facts without any comment of my own. Let the reader form his own conclusion. More of these frightful stories I do not care to relate; and I should not even have presented these to the notice of the reader had it not been impossible otherwise to give any adequate idea of that terrible “Reformation.” The Gentile army came in. The Union Pacific Railroad was opened. Changes and chances altered all that had been, and brought into being that which might be, and that which finally really was. Instead of looking to the events of three or four thousand years ago, men began to act up to things which were—to think and act in the present, not to dream of the past. The day has gone by, but not far, when the perpetration openly of such deeds was possible; but it is still boasted that, when “Deseret” becomes a State, the “Saints” will “show still greater zeal for the Lord!”

In concluding this too brief sketch of the most tragic episodes in Mormon domestic history, I must warn my readers against the inference that the ghastly facts and details there presented came to my knowledge either immediately or soon after my arrival in Utah. No, it was only after many years’ residence there, and by very slow degrees, that they became known to me, and the effect which they produced on my mind was necessarily broken and impaired by the gradual and disconnected way in which they oozed out, the horrible and bewildering travesty of biblical argument urged in their defence, and by my utter isolation from the outer and higher world, and communication with the heart and brain ennobling influences of a wholesome and invigorating public opinion.

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One bright summer morning, about six months after our arrival in Salt Lake City, I was sitting in the work-room, busy with my girls, when a light tap was heard at the door, and the next instant a lady entered, and, coming straight up to me, was about to kiss me.

I started back a step, held out my hand, looked her full in the face, and in a moment we were in each other’s arms. It was my old friend, Mary Burton!

I could with difficulty find words to express my astonishment when I recognized her, so greatly was she changed in every respect. From the very first, whenever we met after a long separation, I had noticed a more than ordinary alteration in her appearance. But it must be remembered that at the time of our first re-union she had grown out of childhood into womanhood; when I met her again in New York, she had passed through the most interesting phase of a woman’s life—she had forsaken maidenhood for matrimony; and now I met her once more after she had endured those horrors on the Plains—of which the reader has already heard—and she had entered into a life of sorrow worse than any she had known before. No wonder, then, that now, as upon previous occasions, I noticed quite a startling change in her appearance. Her dress was of the coarsest and plainest kind, but neat, as was everything she touched; yet not so carefully arranged as in the old time in England. She used formerly to have a way of adjusting a dress or a bonnet so that it set her off ten times better than it would a girl who had not naturally the same taste; but now, although, as I said, her clothes, if coarse, were neat, she evidently had not taken any pains to set herself off to the best advantage; and in a woman what a story did that simple fact tell! But it was in her features and manners that the change was most remarkable. In looking at her face you would have been puzzled to say in what the alteration consisted. Her cheeks were thinner and sadly pale, but that was not the cause of her appearing as she did. Had she been older, I verily believe the anguish she had passed through would have blanched her hair and left upon her brow deep marks of thought and suffering. As it was, however, though no one feature in particular was very greatly altered, the whole expression of her face was that of one whose heart was utterly crushed and broken; and when her eyes met mine, I could hardly refrain from tears as I saw the mournful look of subdued pain, which told in them the terrific conflict which her heart had endured.

I took her to my own room—poor girl, how my heart bled for her!—and again and again I held her in my arms and tried to comfort her, for she was very weary; and at last she wept. I was glad to see that passionate flood of tears, for I knew it would relieve her, and in that I was not mistaken. She threw her arms round my neck, and, kissing me repeatedly, sobbed out, “Don’t blame me, Sister Stenhouse; don’t blame me very much; I cannot help it.”

“There, there, Mary,” I said; “be calm and you will soon be better. You must tell me all your troubles, and I will do all I can to help and comfort you.”

“There is no help, Sister Stenhouse, no comfort for me; I’m past all that,” she answered.

“Don’t say that, Mary,” I said; “I know that you have passed through a terrible amount of suffering, and have had much trouble in every way; but your husband is still alive, is he not?—and there may be many years of happiness before you.”

“It is the thought of him that makes me so wretched,” she said; “oh! I could have borne death a thousand times rather than this. I would gladly have seen him die rather than see him changed as he is now. You do not know, Sister Stenhouse, how my whole soul was wrapped up in that man, how I almost worshipped him. When we suffered so much together on the Plains, I felt happy in comparison with what I feel now. I remember that terrible night when I believed he was dying—I remember the anguish that I felt; but, oh! I knew then that he loved me and that his heart was all my own. Had I lost him, if I could myself have lived, I should have felt that he had never loved another beside me; I should have known that we would meet together again in heaven and be happy in each other’s love. After all we went through together, I loved him more and more; we seemed to live with one life; we had the same thoughts, and hopes, and pleasures; I leaned upon him, and I loved him—ah, so fondly! and, Sister Stenhouse, I know he loved me then. We were getting over the effects of our sufferings on the Plains, and I was gaining strength and was looking forward to the time when my child should be born. It was then that they came and taught him that devil’s doctrine and led him away from me. Oh dear! I cannot bear it, Sister Stenhouse, I cannot bear it; it will drive me mad!”

She buried her face in her hands, and sobbed again.

“Mary, dear,” I said, “don’t talk like that; he cannot have ceased to love you, I am sure; he used to almost worship you, dear.”

“It is because I know that he did once, that drives me crazy. You do not know what I feel, and what I have to bear!”

I did not utter a word; my own sorrows were hidden in my own heart. The heart knoweth its bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not in the matter. “You have been through the Endowments?” she asked. “So have I. We went through, Sister Stenhouse, about three months after we came to Utah, and never since then have I known a moment’s peace. I do not know what they said to my husband, but, whatever it was, it produced a great effect upon his mind, and changed him altogether; he has been an altered man from that very time. I have no doubt that they told them that it was his duty to take another wife, and they would say that no promise made to me before our marriage was binding if it comes in opposition to our religion. You know how devoted he is, how firm his faith is. Why, I do believe that he would obey counsel even if it broke his heart, and cost him his life. Did they say nothing to you or your husband, dear?”

“Certainly they did, Mary; we have heard it daily and hourly, and my husband is constantly being counselled about it. I am wretched, Mary, you know I must be; I feel just as you do, but how can we help ourselves?”

“No, we cannot help ourselves, there is no hope,” she said; “but it is a cruel wrong. You know well enough how determined I was never to marry a man who would take another wife. When I thought that Elder Shrewsbury might be influenced by his religion, I made him go to the Apostle and get counsel, and then he solemnly vowed to me that he never would enter into polygamy without my consent; which, of course, was the same as saying that he never would do so at all. Until we went through our Endowments, he never even hinted at such a thing. But they spoke to him then; and one day, after he had been having a long consultation with the Bishop, he came and spoke to me. He was not unkind in the least. In fact he seemed to be as much pained at all mention of the subject as I was. He said that the Bishop had been urging him to live up to his privileges, and had explained to him how great a loss in the celestial world it would be, both to him and to me, if he did not take more wives. He was told that now while he was young was the time, and that I would soon get over any pain that I might suffer. Yes, they actually said so. Fancy tearing out the very affections of one’s heart, and blasting every hope and happiness in life, and then saying that I should soon ‘get used to it!’ I tell you, Sister Stenhouse, a true woman never can ‘get used’ to this hideous system. If the hearts of some are dead and cold, it is a curse to them and a curse to their husband and children; and if a wife seems careless or callous, as the case may be, it is because love for her husband has first died out in her heart. She feels no jealousy because she has no love; but if a woman has but a spark of love for her husband, she will hate with a deadly hatred any other woman whom that husband loves.”

“But what did Elder Shrewsbury say when they told him to enter into polygamy?” I inquired.

“At first he told them it was utterly impossible,” she replied, “and he mentioned his promise to me, and said we were very happy together, and that he wished for nothing more. But they knew his weakness, and that he would do anything for his religion, and they urged him on that point. It was even a sin against me they said, for if he had no more than one wife he could never exalt me in the celestial kingdom; that I ought to be treated like a child—a very dear, but spoilt child; and if I refused what was for my own and my husband’s benefit and everlasting welfare, he ought to act up to what he knew was right, and leave the consequences with the Lord, who would order all things for the best. My husband told me all this very sadly at first, but I could see that it had an effect upon his mind. They saw it, too, and did not let the subject drop. Every day they spoke to him of it, and at last he gave way—for my sake, he said! This was the cruellest wrong of all. Then one day he told me very firmly and very coldly, as if he had steeled his heart to do so, that he had made up his mind to take another wife.”

“What!” I exclaimed, “after the solemn oath he swore never to do such a thing? Why, I could not have believed it of Elder Shrewsbury!”

“I reminded him of his promise,” she said, “but he told me that the Revelation justified him in breaking it; that it said in the second clause that ‘All covenants, contracts, and oaths not sealed by him who is appointed on earth to hold this power in the last days are of no force after the resurrection;’ that for this cause we had been married again for eternity, and that now he was free from his oath. I knelt down before him, and I wept and prayed as if for life itself; I entreated him, if no more, to wait and put off all thoughts of another marriage for a few months, until he had time to consider the matter carefully. He had already thoroughly thought it over, he said, and could not go back now, for the Bishop had chosen a wife for him, and had arranged everything. He even told me who it was—a young girl named Wilbur, about fourteen years of age—a mere child. I prayed him if he would be so wicked as to perjure himself and wrong me so foully, at least not to add to his sin by injuring a poor innocent child. He was very indignant with me for that, said that he was doing the child the greatest good he possibly could by marrying her; that he was ensuring her salvation as well as mine; and that he expected to receive the blessing of God.”

“Mary,” I said, “this system is a fearful curse.”

“Curse!” she exclaimed, “curse is a heavenly word to apply to such a system. Why there is nothing in hell so hateful, so vile, so detestable. It is blight and ruin to everything that is fair and good. I never pass a day but I curse with the bitterest hatred the men who devised it. Women can hate bitterly when they choose; but I hate them more than ever woman hated before.”

“Hush! hush, dear!” I said; “you mustn’t talk so, Mary!”

“I mustn’t say it perhaps—it’s dangerous, I know; but I may think so. There is not a true-hearted woman in Utah who does not feel as I do this day. Do you think that when they have ruined all our hopes for time and for eternity we shall love them still? Here, but for this wretched system, I should have been a happy wife and mother, and now see what I am—husband, child, all lost—all lost!”

“Is the child dead, Mary?” I asked very gently, for I feared to pain her.

“Yes, dear,” she replied, “in fact, I believe it never lived—the one I was thinking of. I was ill, very ill indeed, after what my husband had told me. They thought I should die, and I think he was sorry, for he became very kind and tender to me, but that only made me feel worse. Then my child was born, but I never saw it, for I was unconscious for more than a week after, and then they told me that it was not alive, but my husband would never speak to me about it. As I grew better, his cold, stern manner returned, and then at last he married that girl Wilbur, and since then he has married two more, for he is doing very well in business. I think that all his love for me has gone. At first he thought of marrying again because it was a religious principle; and as it was the time of the Reformation he did not dare to refuse; but now his heart is grown hard and cold. You see a change in me, Sister Stenhouse, but I think you’d see a greater change in him. I know, of course, that I used to look at him with the eyes of love, and of course did not see him as other people did; but that is not the only change—it isn’t in his face alone; his whole nature is altered. It quite pains me sometimes to see him.”

“Do you feel any happier now—any calmer, Mary?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, and no. I do not love him as I used to; how could I? But when I look into my heart I find, if I tell you the truth, that a little love does remain there. If only I could quite cease to love him I think I should be happy; but when I pet and play with my little girl—for we have had one child since that dreadful time—some of my love for him comes back again, and I sit down and have a good cry. Sometimes that isn’t enough to calm me, and I shut the door and walk up and down the room and swear. There! don’t look so horrified, Sister Stenhouse, I cannot help it; if I did not give way to my feelings now and then I should die outright; and sometimes I break a few things, but he never knows it, and it does me good. We came into the city yesterday on a visit, and we shall stay for a few days. He brought me, I believe, as a matter of form; but I found out where you lived, and I came to see you. You never answered my letter, and I did not know whether you had left New York yet. I really am glad to see you, Sister Stenhouse. And is it true that Brother Stenhouse has not taken another wife yet?”

“Not yet,” I said; “but, as I told you, he has been spoken to about it, and I cannot tell what he may do. As you say, Mary, the Mormon women have not much to make them happy.”

Mary gave me a great deal of information. In that she was quite herself, as I knew her in by-gone days. Nothing escaped her observation. She sat down with me and told me all her troubles, and I need hardly say how deeply I sympathized with her. So I tried to comfort her, and spoke about her child, but even respecting that poor little thing she felt no hope. “Why, when it grows up,” she said, “it will be as miserable as I am—I can see no prospect of happiness in the future for it.” We agreed that the only way whereby we might prevent our children from experiencing sorrow and misery similar to our own was to teach them from the very first that Polygamy was the natural and proper, as well as the revealed order of marriage; in fact to “bring them up” in the system. What a miserable resource was this for a mother who loved her children!

“One thing, Mary,” I said, referring to her own personal experience in Polygamy; “one thing I do not quite understand. You, of course, had made your husband specially promise, before you married him, that he would never take another wife, and he was therefore bound, as a man, by every moral obligation, not to do so. But other women have not been situated as you were, and they have exacted no promises from their husbands. Yet it always seemed to me that your doing so was quite superfluous, for you must be aware, Mary, that the Revelation says that, before a man can take a second wife, he must have the full consent of the first. The elders in Europe used to make a great deal of that point, as you may remember, for they said that this provision took from the Revelation any harshness or injustice which it might otherwise appear to show. I know many women who submitted on this account, for they argued that, if their permission was necessary, they could always, by refusing, save themselves from any further trouble. Now if that was so, how came your husband to take another wife against your will? I say your husband, because I should have no difficulty in many other cases. I have been repeatedly told that husbands never troubled themselves about the Revelation when they wanted another wife, unless it was to silence the first wife with it, if she rebelled. But I always regarded Elder Shrewsbury as a conscientious man, and I firmly believed that he would never willingly give you a moment’s pain. When he made that promise to you, he had the Revelation before him, and had also the Apostle to go to if he needed the ‘Word of the Lord.’ He was therefore bound by that promise, notwithstanding anything that the Revelation might say to the contrary; and even had he made no promise, the Revelation was on your side. We are told that every woman must first give her consent.”

“That is all very true, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “to a certain extent. The theory is as you say, but you have not heard the whole. I know the Revelation pretty nearly by heart, and so I can tell you exactly what it does say. The first wife is said to hold the keys of this power, by which is meant that she can refuse. But then it goes on to say that when her husband has taught her the law of the Priesthood—that is Polygamy—‘she shall believe or she shall be destroyed, saith the Lord your God, for I will destroy her.’ You see there is no loophole of escape for the woman. Her husband is to teach her the law, and she shall believe; and if she does not—and of course people have no power to make themselves believe what they please—she is to be destroyed, and God will destroy her! Do you know, Sister Stenhouse, there are stories whispered here of women who did refuse, and who stood in their husbands’ way; and it is said that the Priesthood did not wait for the Lord to destroy, but carried out the law themselves. But we have wandered sadly from your question. You were talking about the first wife giving her consent?”

“Yes,” I said, “and you were about to tell me whether it was really and practically necessary in every instance. You have been here longer, and have seen more, than I have.”

“The wife’s consent is by no means necessary, Sister Stenhouse. It may be asked sometimes as a mere matter of form, and, of course, in the Endowment House, when she gives the other wives to her husband, she may be said to give her consent to his marrying them. It is nothing but a piece of folly to talk about women having the power to withhold their consent, and it is simply an insult and a mockery for their husbands to ask it; they well know before they ask that their wives dare not refuse to give it. But it enables them to boast to the Gentiles that they do not take other wives until their first wife gives her consent. This is what is meant by ‘the liberty of the Gospel,’ I suppose, about which Brother Brigham talks so much. But every one knows perfectly well that this is all a farce. Without President Young’s consent there can be no marriage at all; but if it is the will of Brigham, the refusal of the first wife, and the parents, and the girl herself do not for a moment signify.”

“But did your husband, Mary, act in this way?”

“Well, not quite. He told me that, if I refused, it would make not the slightest difference; and as I believed him, I, of course, went, and did not make a scene. It would have only made matters worse. Some of the older sisters came round and talked me over, and explained and insisted, and ‘laboured’ with me as they called it, until I hardly knew what to think or do; my mind was quite unsettled. Eliza R. Snow is quite great at that sort of work. When my husband took his other two wives, he did not consult me at all, but simply told me that on a certain day I must go with him to the Endowment House. We went, and he married two sisters on the same day, but it did not do him much good. They are handsome girls, but have very bad tempers, and we often have a very unpleasant time. The second wife, poor child! suffered most when he married the other two. She did not seem to like me very well at first, which was quite natural; but, when the other two were brought home, she seemed quite to cling to me, and I have, strange to say, taken quite a fancy to her. In all our disputes she always sides with me, and in return I always stand up for her, as a matter of course. I am getting used to this wretched life; I try to stifle my love; and I am sorry to say that sometimes I almost hate every one around me, including my husband. Now and then the old longing for some one to love, for some one to confide in, comes over me. I felt like that this morning when I came here, and that is what made me act so badly.”

“Say nothing of that, Mary,” I replied. “I wish you would stay with me while you are in the city.”

“No,” she said, “we shall be here for a day or two, but I do not think my husband would like me to stay here altogether. He knows that you are aware of his attachment to me once, and his promises in the old times, and very likely he would be a little ashamed to meet you. He’ll make business an excuse, and in fact he is busy all the day. So I’ll come round alone as much as I can, and we’ll have a good talk again.”

I saw her to the door, and then she turned and said, “I’ll come again and see you, Sister Stenhouse, before we leave the city.”

Thus saying, she kissed me, laughed with the ghost of her former merry ways when I first knew her, and said good-bye. I watched her till she was lost to sight, and then I closed the door, saying to myself, with a sigh, “Ah, me! can this be the Mary that I once knew?”

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Not long after this, I was enabled to visit my Swiss friend, Madame Bailiff. Ever since her husband had called upon me in Salt Lake City, I had watched anxiously for an opportunity of seeing her, for I felt much interested in learning how time had passed with her since we parted in Geneva.

I found her in a little log-cabin of two rooms, with bare walls, bare floor, and miserably furnished; and in this wretched abode poverty and polygamy had wrecked the life of my poor friend, whom I had known under such different circumstances. Here, together with their five children, lived also the second wife, with her two children. It was with difficulty that I could recognize in the poor, careworn, broken-spirited, and ill-clad woman who stood before me, the once gay, light-hearted, happy, and elegantly-dressed lady whom I had known in Switzerland. Mormonism had in her case utterly blighted her existence. It seemed to me hardly possible that so great a change should have been wrought in her in such a few years as had elapsed since last I saw her. What suffering she must have endured, I thought, what mental agony, what physical pain, to write those wrinkled lines of care upon her once handsome face; and, ah! what a pang I felt at the remembrance that I myself had been instrumental in leading her into Mormonism and Polygamy. Self-reproach I did not feel, but sorrow I did. I had thought to lead her into the way of holiness and heavenly peace by winning her to the religion of the Saints, but that which I in my enthusiasm had believed would be the greatest blessing which one poor mortal could communicate to another, had turned to a curse, and, instead of the happy wife and mother which she once had been, she had become a victim to that faith which in its very existence is an insult to womanhood.

In temper and disposition she was, however, just the same; her affectionate nature was unchanged. No doubt she read in my features the painful surprise which I experienced in witnessing her altered circumstances; but she met me with not a single word of reproach for my being the cause of her leaving her own dear country. I should not have blamed her had she hated me, though she knew, of course, that I had wronged her innocently.

She told me of the difficulties which they had had to contend with after their arrival in Utah, and how they had been compelled to part with almost everything they had, in order to provide bread for their children. When they left London, they took with them several handsome carpets, china, glass, and a large quantity of silver ware, besides bedding and clothing of every description; for they were well-to-do in the world, and had quite enough for themselves, after they had liberally assisted the poorer Saints to emigrate. Upon their arrival in Utah, the husband—good man that he was—was willing to come down to the level of his brethren and go to farming among them. A brother who knew him in his own country, and imagined, I suppose, that he could afford to lose, sold him a farm that he himself had become disgusted with, though, of course, he did not say so; and when my inexperienced friend, Monsieur Bailiff, found that nothing could be done with it, he supposed that the land was good enough, but that he himself was not competent to work it. No one ventured to hint that he had been cheated, as it was one of the Church authorities who had sold him the land. After spending upon it all that he possessed, he was finally compelled to abandon it. They were now very much straitened in circumstances, and my poor friend told me that she had frequently been compelled—as they were entirely destitute of money—to take a silver spoon or fork to the butcher’s market to trade with, and there they drove a hard bargain with her, and she obtained next to nothing in exchange for her silver. Her crystal and plate now grace the table of a certain rich man in Utah. Every article they possessed went in this way at a most ruinous sacrifice, until nothing remained; and then the husband was forced to engage in manual labour, while the poor wife employed herself in whatever feminine work she could obtain; they receiving in return just what people chose to pay them. In the midst of their troubles the husband was “counselled” to take another wife.

“But why did he not refuse to do so?” I asked.

“If you had been here during the Reformation, you would not ask me such a question as that. Sister Stenhouse, you ought to thank God that you were not here then. There were shocking things done at that time, and the men were all crazy about marrying. They married every woman who was single, and even little girls who had scarcely reached their teens; it was a time of terror, and no one dared to rebel.”

She then told me that her husband had been, as one might say, compelled to marry a young Swiss girl whom they had brought out to Utah with them as a domestic. This girl had been a very faithful servant, and Madame Bailiff had become very much attached to her. During the Reformation the Bishop visited them, and “counselled” Monsieur Bailiff to take a second wife. The girl was also “counselled” to marry, and when she said that she did not know of any one to whom she would like to be married, the Bishop told her that he himself would find a suitable man.

“My husband told me what the Bishop had urged him to do,” said Madame Bailiff, “and we talked the matter over in a practical way. We knew that the girl would be forced to marry somebody, and that then she would have to leave us, which would put us to the very greatest inconvenience, for, situated as we were, we could hardly get on without her assistance. At the same time, he also would be compelled to obey counsel, and we came to the conclusion that as there was no way of evading the difficulty altogether, it would be better for him to marry the girl than to bring a stranger into the house. So he asked her, and she accepted him, and they were married. She is a good girl, and tries to do her best, but it is a great trial to me, and one which I trust you may never be called upon to bear. My husband is as kind and gentle a man as ever lived, and he has done all he could to keep me from feeling unhappy; had it been otherwise, I dare not think what I should have done—I believe I should have gone mad or died. In our household arrangements, of course it made very little difference, but it was inexpressibly painful to me, and though I suppose I shall remain a Mormon till the day of my death, I have learned to hate Mormonism.”

Poor Madame Bailiff! Hers was a life of privation and sorrow of late years. Happy as woman could be in her youthful days, she little dreamed what Providence had in store for her ere her earthly course had run. With a faithful and devoted husband; with a charming little family growing up around her; with all that could make life fair and beautiful. But that accursed thing—Polygamy—came and poisoned all her happiness, and blighted all her hopes; and when, but a few months ago, worn out and weary of life, she left behind her all her sorrows and all her misery, I could not weep that she had gone to a better land beyond the veil, but I thanked God that at last, poor soul, her days of trial were for ever over, and she had entered into her eternal rest.

One day Brother Brigham sent me word that he wished to see me.

I went to him, and he told me that he wanted me to become acquainted with a certain young girl in whom he took a great interest. She was the daughter, by his first wife, of Jedediah M. Grant, the famous Apostle of the “Reformation”—her name was Carrie, and she was now an orphan. Brother Brigham wished me to have her with me every day, for she was not “feeling well,” he said, and he thought I might do her some good. This “not feeling well” I afterwards discovered meant that she was almost ready to apostatize. If she desired it, I was to teach her my business; not that she needed to follow any profession, for, as President Young explained, she had a good home; but her mind needed occupation, and he did not care how she employed her time, so long as she was with me every day and could be made to “feel well.”

I listened to all that Brother Brigham said, and accepted the trust in good faith—not only to please him, but because the girl was an orphan, and my heart went out towards her even before I had seen her.

Before I returned home I called at the house where Carrie was stopping, and arranged that she should come every day to see me, under pretext of learning the business. Now it so happened that we each conceived a liking to the other the very first moment we met; we made friends together at once, and she wanted to begin coming to me the very next day. She was a sweet-looking and intelligent girl, fair, but fragile, and with a peculiar expression of melancholy sadness dwelling upon her features, which gave her a painfully interesting appearance. I never before, or since, met with a young girl who habitually looked so unhappy; and I thought that perhaps physical weakness might be the cause, for it was evident that in constitution she was extremely delicate—I almost feared consumptive.

The first day we spent together she told me that her parents had been among the pioneers to Utah, that her only sister had died on the Plains, and that she had lost her mother soon after they had arrived in Salt Lake City. As the only remaining child of her mother, she had been a great pet with her father, but he too had died about four years previous to the time of which I speak, and she had never been happy since. “I often long to die,” she said, “that I might join my mother and father; no one loves me here, and I have nothing to live for.” Her father had married four wives after her mother’s death, and they were all very kind to her, but she did not feel that she had a home. She told me that about six months before she came to me she had started to go east, to her mother’s friends, for they had frequently written to her, urging her to come to them, and that when she was about two weeks’ journey from Salt Lake City, Brigham Young sent after her, and she was brought back. “But,” she said, “I shall never be happy here, Sister Stenhouse, I know I never shall; and why should they not let me leave and go to my relatives?”

I knew very well that it was of no use for her to try to get away, for we had no railroad then, and escape was almost impossible. I therefore tried to make her more cheerful, and told her that a girl as young as she was—for she was scarcely seventeen—had much to live for. But her unhappiness had become almost a settled melancholy, and she seemed to be interested in nothing. Besides which, the task I attempted was all the more difficult as I was not at all happy myself.

One day the conversation happened to turn upon Polygamy, and in a moment I saw that all her trouble arose from that miserable doctrine, and from that alone. We had not exchanged many words upon the subject when she exclaimed: “Oh, how I hate Polygamy! God forgive me; but I cannot help it, Sister Stenhouse! I do hate it; and yet I believe that it is true.” Poor child! I understood her too well, for her position was exactly mine. From that moment we were fast friends.

Here was the child of one of the greatest fanatics that Mormonism has ever known, one of the wildest advocates of the “Celestial Order of Marriage,” perfectly loathing the system; and yet, poor girl, believing it firmly, and believing too that she could not obtain salvation unless she entered into it. How I pitied and loved that poor girl!—and yet what strength or consolation could I offer her, being myself as painfully situated as she was? Our mutual sorrow united us still more painfully in loving companionship. I had rarely met among the Mormon girls with one so thoughtful and observing, so kind and gentle. She had not been with me many weeks before she had entwined herself so completely round my heart that I was lonely when she stayed away, and I tried to keep her with me altogether. I tried in every way to make her feel at home when at my house; and noticing her delicate health, and thinking that she did not always get those little things to tempt her appetite which an invalid should always have, I found out many trifles which I believed would please her, and always tried to get them for her. She seemed to think much of these little attentions, and I have always believed that she loved me very dearly.

Some of my neighbours began to whisper pretty plainly to me that Brother Brigham had an object in view in asking me to interest myself in Carrie’s welfare. They told me they believed that my husband, if he had not already been counselled to marry her, would be before long. Knowing, as I did, Carrie’s aversion to Polygamy, these suggestions did not trouble me very much; but I begged my informants not to speak of the matter in my young friend’s presence, as it would only disturb and annoy her. I was the more anxious on this point as her health had by that time began very perceptibly to improve, and sometimes she seemed to be almost joyous and light-hearted. Sometimes she would sew, and sometimes she read or played with the children, of whom she was very fond, and I always allowed her to do just as she pleased.

One day my talkative friend called to see me. She had not been near the house for several months, and I think, at her last visit, she must have taken offence at my telling her that I thought she had not acted wisely in procuring wives for her husband. She had, however, now an object in coming which I soon discovered.

She was shown in, and as soon as she was fairly seated, I observed that, while talking to me, she was inquisitively scrutinizing Carrie’s face, as if trying to discover her character or read her thoughts. Suddenly—she did everything impulsively—she interrupted the conversation, saying: “Sister Stenhouse, I want to speak to you privately.” I asked her to come with me into the next room, and she did so, but before I had time to close the door, she exclaimed: “Allow me to congratulate you; you have done very wisely!”

“Congratulate me upon what?” I asked.

“Upon the excellent choice you have made for your husband,” she replied; “I knew very well you would ponder over my good counsel and seek another wife for Brother Stenhouse, and I am certain that my example and my faith and prayers have helped you, for I have asked the Lord to strengthen you to do just what you are doing.”

“Doing!” I said, “what am I doing? I really don’t understand what you mean.”

“Oh, nonsense!” she exclaimed; “but I understand, if you don’t. You wish to keep it a secret, I suppose, until the happy event takes place. And you are quite right in that, for there are so many busybodies here, and they do interfere so much in their neighbours’ affairs that it isn’t pleasant. But of course you needn’t fear me—I shouldn’t think of breathing one single word of the matter, unless you wished me to do so.”

“I am really at a loss to know what you mean,” I said, very much annoyed with her.

“Oh,” she said, “if you think that I am interfering, I will not say another word, for I should very much dislike to be considered meddlesome. But you know, my dear Sister Stenhouse, the great interest I have always felt concerning you; from the very first when I knew you in England I always prophesied great things of you, but I was a little afraid when I saw your opposition to Polygamy, and I cannot tell how happy I felt when I heard yesterday that you had found a wife—and a good wife too—for your husband.”

“I find a wife for my husband!” I exclaimed. “That I never would. I dislike Polygamy far too much to do so. No; if he ever wants another wife, I shall never help him to find her; he’ll have to get her himself.”

“Who is that young girl, then, that I saw just now?” she asked; “is that not Miss Grant?”

I replied that it was.

“Well,” said she, “I was told that you had asked her to marry your husband.”

“There is no truth in the report,” I said; “I am sure that she has never thought of such a thing, nor have I, nor has my husband; and I would not have such a thing spoken of for the world.”

“Well,” she replied, “I am really quite disappointed. You have a splendid opportunity, and I do believe that that was what Brother Brigham meant when he asked me to see after her. In fact, I was told that it was his only motive, all along.”

“Then Brother Brigham will soon find out his mistake, I can assure you,” I answered, “for I never will ask her; and, moreover, if I thought for a moment that she would ever wish such a thing, much as I love her, I should then hate her.”

“My dear Sister,” she said, “how do you expect ever to get salvation? I suppose you think that is none of my business, and that I should leave you in the hands of the Lord. But before I go, let me ask you to see Eliza Snow as soon as you have an opportunity. She will build you up, and do you a world of good.”

I told her I needed no “building up;” all I wanted was that my husband and myself should be left alone, and that people should not meddle with our affairs.

After she had gone, her conversation troubled me a great deal. What did it all mean? Had the busybodies been trying to bring about an alliance between my husband and Carrie? Had Brigham Young been working all along to this end? However it might be, I resolved that, at least, Carrie should know nothing of the matter from me.

One morning, the Apostle Heber C. Kimball called in his carriage. It was very early, being only about seven o’clock. Mr. Stenhouse went out to see him, but in his blunt way he said: “I do not want you, I want Sister Fanny to take a ride with me.” My husband brought him into the house and he told me he wanted to have a talk with me. “You must not fix up,” he said, “or I won’t ride with you. Come along in your wrapper and slippers, and just put on your sun-bonnet.”

I told him that I never went out in a sun-bonnet. “Well, then, do it for the first time,” he said.

I suggested that I had had no breakfast, and asked him if he would wait and have some with us.

“No,” said he; “I have plenty of wives around this town, and we will find breakfast somewhere.” So I started just as I was, and he told the driver—who, I think, was one of his own sons—to call round and see “the folks”—meaning his wives. Then, turning to me, he said: “You never looked prettier, Sister Fanny; you ought always to wear a sun-bonnet, but you like dress a great deal too much—you will keep your husband poor, and then how will he be able to carry out the commands of God? Did you ever think of that? Then, again, you dress your children too much; it must take pretty well all your time to make their clothes; and see what it must cost. Now, I’m going to give you some good advice. Do what my folks do. I tell them to make a linsey dress for each of the children in the spring, and let them wear it all the summer; and then, when the winter comes, it will be so full of grease and dirt that it will be sure to keep them warm. Now I’m sure you won’t consent to do that with your children, so it is good counsel thrown away.” I knew well enough that Brother Heber was only jesting, for apparently he provided very well for his family, although he allowed them no luxuries. He went on to say: “But that isn’t what I wanted to speak to you about; I had something else to say. When is your husband going to marry Miss Grant? That girl has got to be looked after by some good man and woman, and I think that you and Brother Stenhouse will do first-class. What do you think?”

“I should not like my husband to marry her,” I said.

“And why not, Sister Fanny?” he asked.

“Because I myself love her,” I replied.

“Why, that is the very reason why he ought to do it the sooner,” he said, “and you would continue to love her, and love her all the better too, when she belonged to your husband, and when you saw how much he loved her.” He laughed outright as he said this, and told me not to look so solemn. “Why,” he said, “it’s the finest thing in the world to develope love in the women; a man never gets so much attention in his life as when he has got several wives all trying their best to please him.”

“That may be,” I said; “but who is to pay attention to their wives?”

“Things have been all upside down in the world, Sister Fanny,” he answered, “and the Priesthood is going to set them all in order. It is the women’s place to minister to the men, and the men, in return, will save them in the Kingdom, if they are good girls.”

By this time we had driven round several of his fields in the lower part of the city, and at last we stopped at the house of one of his wives. She very kindly prepared breakfast for us; after which we called to see two or three other wives, and then returned home. On the way back he tried to get me to promise that I would persuade my husband to marry Miss Grant. This I positively refused to do, although it would have been dangerous for me not to acquiesce had it not been that Brother Heber was attached to me and allowed me to say what I liked against Polygamy, laughing at me and telling me to “hold on” when I became too much in earnest.

This constant reference to Carrie began to trouble me seriously, although, so far, I had not yet spoken about it either to her or to my husband, and did not intend to do it. I felt sure that Carrie, poor child, was perfectly innocent; she had refused to go to several parties with us, and had otherwise declined to accompany my husband, and I believed that I had no cause for uneasiness.

Thus time passed, and more than a year flew by, and Carrie still remained with me. Lately I thought that her manner was changed, and that she was a good deal altered. I noticed that she was shy when in the presence of my husband, and that she rather avoided him. For a long time I had not suspected that anything was wrong between them, and the knowledge that Carrie was troubled, and that my husband was the cause, came upon me suddenly. She began by staying away for several days at a time, and at last she told me that she was going away for a while to visit a friend in the country. She looked so unhappy that I felt sure that all was not right, and begged her not to go, but she would not listen to me. It was necessary for her to go, she stated, and would say no more. She bade me good-bye, and for two months I heard nothing of her, supposing that she was in the country, and then I was surprised to learn that she was visiting with a friend in another part of the city, and that she was very ill indeed. I immediately went to call upon her, and she was very much pleased to see me, and then I discovered that she had not been in the country at all, but had been there in the city with her friend. I could not at the time understand her conduct; but as she, in common with most other delicate people, was rather capricious, I allowed it to pass without any comment. She told me that as soon as she felt a little better she would come and see me; but she never came, and I was somewhat offended at her supposed neglect, and thought that before I visited her again I would wait and see whether she first came up to our house.

All this time, a friend of Carrie’s was in the habit of looking in very frequently upon some trifling errand or other, and I noticed that she always waited for the return of my husband, and then made some excuse to go out with him, and they had long conversations together. There was some mystery, I clearly perceived, and as a wife and a woman I determined that it was my duty to find out what that mystery was.

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I did not presume to ask my husband what it was that he had to talk about with Carrie’s friend, but I instinctively felt what it might be, and I was so much troubled in mind that I thought I would never go to see her again.

By that time I had learned, as every Mormon wife does learn, never to ask questions. The wife of a Saint never dares to ask her husband whither he is going or when he will return. She is not expected to know or care what business her husband may have on hand when he leaves home in the evening, after making a most elaborate toilet, with frequent admiration of himself in the mirror. If the poor wife feels that she must say something, to give vent to her overwrought feelings, she simply asks in a conscious, guilty way, when he will be home again; wishing too often in her secret heart that he might say—Never. Her duty is to be silent and unobservant; and though some poor women have, when their outraged feelings were overcharged, inadvertently betrayed curiosity respecting the movements of the absent ones, they have soon been sternly taught their duty, and those loving husbands have given them good cause to repent of their inquisitiveness.

And who can blame these disconsolate, lonely women, if thus they feel? Their religion alone is to blame. It has been the destruction of that sweet confidence which should exist between husband and wife, and it has divided hearts and interests which should inseparably have been for ever one. This, slowly but no less painfully, I was beginning to understand. However earnestly I might try to combat the idea, my life was wretched with the one continual fear of what I might see or hear of my husband. I tried to drive away such thoughts, and I called to mind all the acts of kindness and devotion which he had shown to those whose love my heart held dear. Sometimes, arguing with myself, I said: “No, my husband will not deceive me; no matter what other men may do or be with their wives, my husband will be frank and true with me.”

So I thought then; but I was destined to realize in my own experience how utterly impossible it is for any man, no matter how honest and truthful he may naturally be, to practise Polygamy without becoming a hypocrite; and the more he loves his wife the greater hypocrite he will become, trying to deceive her with the foolish notion that half his cruelty is done in attempting to “spare her feelings.”

My husband thought that he was acting kindly to me when he said nothing of all that transpired between him and Carrie; but when I saw the visit of Carrie’s lady-friend so frequently repeated, I began to suspect the truth, and was much troubled. I was, however, too proud to question him on the subject, at the risk of getting an evasive answer, and it was evident that the two persons most intimately interested in the matter intended that I should be kept in the dark. I saw through all this, and it did not tend either to restore my peace of mind or to make me more pleasant in my intercourse with Carrie or my husband. In their conduct I could see nothing but deception, however good their intention might be, and I felt that they were treating me as a child. The thought was very painful to me, and it was only with a great effort that I suppressed it.

These painful feelings, of course, had a marked effect upon my daily life. I grew weary, and my health failed, I became thin, and my features were marked with care and anxiety. When people came to see me, I said little to them, and their very presence I felt irksome. Mechanically I went through the daily routine of duty, but my heart was in nothing that I did. I dared not even trust myself to speak to any one, for fear of becoming the subject of conversation and attracting the attention of the authorities, which was not at all desirable, for the position of a “rebellious woman” in those days was anything but pleasant. I stood alone. Upon my husband I looked with suspicion; my children were too young to understand me; Carrie—whom I had taken to my heart, to whom I had confided my sorrows, whose own welfare had been so dear to me—had, as I thought, turned against me, like an adder, and there was no one in whom I could trust. It seemed to me too cruel for Carrie to treat me so, and yet I could not doubt that she was acting unfaithfully towards me.

Surrounded by my children, living under the same roof with my husband, my heart was, nevertheless, filled with a sense of utter loneliness and desolation. There was no one in whom I could confide, to whom I might tell my sorrows, and from whose counsel or strength I might derive comfort. I dared not even go and lay my griefs before God, for I had been led to believe that all my suffering was caused by an arbitrary decree which He willed to be enforced. How false a notion of that loving heavenly Father whose tender care is so manifestly shown in His gentle dealings with the weakest of His creatures!

It was now about six months since Carrie left my house, and I was under the impression that all that time certain well-intentioned sisters had been doing all they could to bring about a marriage between her and my husband. Her health, however, was so bad that sometimes for weeks together she did not leave her room. At the time, of course, I knew nothing of this, but I afterwards heard of it. When I called upon her, which I did when I found that she was too ill to come to see me, I thought she was greatly changed in her manner; but when I thought of her lonely position, my heart warmed towards her, and I forgot all my suspicions. Certainly, I wanted to ask her one plain question relative to my husband, but my pride would not allow me to speak to her on that subject unless she first mentioned it to me. One day I thought that she was about to make a confession. Talking indifferently of ordinary matters, she suddenly said, “I am surprised you ever wished to see me;” but when I asked her why, expecting that she would now explain what had so long troubled me, she answered evasively, and nothing more was said.

With Carrie’s absence from our house the rumours about her which had troubled me so much somewhat subsided. Nothing could silence the secret apprehension which continually held my soul in dread; but the fear of my young friend’s influence once removed, I was comparatively at peace. It was, however, but the lull before the storm. I soon learned that in losing Carrie I did not lose Polygamy, and from about that time I can date my husband’s desire to sustain his brethren in the performance of their duty, and his wish to act as they did, especially in reference to the “Celestial Order of Heaven.” Just at that time the “Morrill Bill” for the suppression of Polygamy was presented to Congress, and all true Mormons were made to feel that it was their duty to stand by their leader; and though, in itself, they might see nothing desirable in Polygamy, yet, if they had not already multiplied wives, it was their duty to do so without any delay.

Ever watchful as I was, I noticed little changes in my husband, which under ordinary circumstances would have escaped my observation. By this time one all-absorbing idea had taken possession of my mind, and my husband’s thoughts, I believe, were turned in the same direction—only our wishes did not exactly coincide. Polygamy was the thought common to both, but upon its desirability we entertained dissimilar views.

A man with Polygamy upon his mind was then a creature which I did not understand, and which I had not fully studied. Some years later, when I had a little more experience in Mormonism, I discovered several never-failing signs by which one might know when a man wished to take another wife. He would suddenly “awaken to a sense of his duties;” he would have serious misgivings as to whether the Lord would pardon his neglect in not living up to his privileges; he would become very religious, and would attend to his meetings—his “testimony meetings,” singing meetings, and all sorts of other “meetings,” which seemed just then to be very numerous, and in various other ways he would show his anxiety to live up to his religion. He would thus be frequently absent from home, which, of course, “he deeply regrets,” as “he loves so dearly the society of his wife and children.” The wife, perhaps, poor simple soul! thinks that he is becoming unusually loving and affectionate, for he used not, at one time, to express much sorrow at leaving her alone for a few hours; and she thinks how happy she ought to feel that such a change has come over her husband, although, to be sure, he was always as good as most of the other Mormon men.

My husband was a good and consistent Mormon, and very much like the rest of his brethren in these matters; and the brethren, knowing themselves how he felt, sympathized with him, and urged him on, and, by every means in their power, aided him in his noble attempts to carry out “the commands of God!”

One evening, when he came home, he seemed pre-occupied, as if some matter of importance were troubling his mind. This set me thinking, too. I saw that he wanted to say something to me, and I waited patiently. “I am going to the ball,” he presently remarked, “and I am going alone, for Brother Brigham wishes me to meet him there.” I knew at once what was passing in his mind, and dared not question him. He went and saw Brigham. What passed between them I do not know; but, when my husband returned, he intimated to me that it had been arranged that he should take another wife.

The idea that some day another wife would be added to our household was ever present in my mind, but, somehow, when the fact was placed before me in so many unmistakable words, my heart sank within me, and I shrank from the realization that our home was at last to be desecrated by the foul presence of Polygamy.

Almost fainting, now that the truth came home to me in all its startling reality, I asked my husband when he proposed to take his second wife.

“Immediately,” he replied; “that is to say, as soon as I can.”

We were silent for some time. My mind was troubled. Had I been able to consider the whole affair as an outrage upon humanity in general, and an insult to my sex in particular, I should have replied with scorn and defiance. Had I implicitly believed in the divinity of the Revelation, I should have bowed my head in meek submission. But I did neither of these. The feelings of my heart naturally led me to hate with a most perfect hatred the very mention of the word Polygamy, while at the same time I still believed, or tried to make myself believe, that the Revelation was from God, and must therefore be obeyed. Such was the strange and contradictory position in which I was placed.

“Are you not satisfied that it is right for me to take another wife?” my husband asked.

“I have never yet really doubted that the Revelation was from God,” I replied, “for I cannot believe that any man would be so blasphemous and wicked as to set forth such a revelation in God’s name, unless he received it as he said he did. If it is from God, of course you are right to obey it; but if I were to consult my own feelings I would never consent to live in Polygamy. I would rather risk salvation, and tell the Lord that He had placed upon me a burden heavier that I was able to bear, and that I regarded Him as a hard taskmaster. But when the salvation of my husband and children, to say nothing of my own, is at stake, my wishes and happiness go for nothing, and I can only consent.”

From that moment I felt like a condemned criminal for whom there was not a shadow of hope or a chance of escape. Could I possibly have looked upon the sacred obligations of marriage as lightly as Mormonism taught me to regard them, I believe I should have broken every tie and risked the consequences. But I had vowed to be faithful unto death, and if this second marriage was for my husband’s welfare, and for the salvation of us and of our children, I resolved to make the effort to subdue my rebellious heart, or die in the attempt. For the first time in my life, I thanked God that I was not a man, and that the salvation of my family did not depend upon me; for if fifty revelations had commanded it, I could not have taken the responsibility of withering one loving, trusting heart. I felt that if such laws were given to us, our woman’s nature ought to have been adapted to them, so that submission to them might be as much a pleasure to us as it was to the men, and that we might at least feel that we were justly dealt with.

Not long after this, my husband brought me a message from Eliza R. Snow. She wanted me to take tea with her, and he urged me to accept the invitation. I did not want to go, for I knew too well her object in sending for me. She had been talking with my husband about me, I felt sure, and that was how she came to send the message by him. I went, however, and, as I anticipated, she wanted to talk with me about Polygamy, and to try to convince me that it was for our best interests that my husband should take another wife, and that it was quite time he did so.

I told her that he was not yet in a position to do so. “We have quite a family,” I said, “and I think he should at least be allowed to wait until he has accumulated a little before he embarrasses himself with new responsibilities.”

“And where would the kingdom of God be,” she asked, “if we had all talked in this way? Let your husband take more wives, and let them help him, and you will feel blessed in keeping the commands of God.”

“There would be no good in my husband taking another wife,” I said, “while I feel as I do now. To be acceptable to the Lord, a sacrifice should be made willingly and in a proper spirit, and I do not think that under present circumstances it is proper for him to do this thing.”

“Let him be the judge of that,” she replied; “do not seek to control him; he alone is responsible, and therefore let him do as he thinks best.”

“But,” I said, “he himself does not want another wife yet.” But I spoke with hesitation, for my heart misgave me.

“You are mistaken,” she answered; “your husband is a very good man, and desires to live his religion, and it is a great grief to him to know that you feel as you do, and you really must try to overcome your opposition. If you had a loaf of bread to make, and you made it, and it was pronounced good, do you think it would be of the slightest consequence what feelings agitated your mind while you were making it, so long as it was well made? So it is with the Lord. He does not care with what feelings you give your husband another wife, so long as you do so.”

This was a miserable attempt at reasoning, to say nothing of its falsity; and notwithstanding all she said, I still felt that no blessing would ever attend an unwilling sacrifice, and I told her so. She spoke to me very kindly, however, and tried to encourage me, and suggested that Carrie would be a very proper person for my husband to marry. I had now no longer any doubt in my mind that it had been all “arranged,” and that opposition on my part would be all in vain. I was indignant at this, for I believed that, as the Revelation itself said, I—the first wife—ought first to have been consulted. This, however, I subsequently found was as false as the system itself.

I returned home, pondering over what had been said to me, with a feeling of intense weariness oppressing my heart. I did not know what to think. It appeared to me that every one had determined that Carrie should be my husband’s second wife; and I now believed, with my talkative friend, that Brigham Young had certainly intended it from the beginning. I felt that I would rather that he should marry almost any one else than her; for I felt certain that I should hate any woman whom he might marry, no matter how much I might have loved her before.

But my mind was soon relieved of its trouble respecting poor Carrie; for, as I before mentioned, her failing health forbade all thoughts of marriage, and my husband, after a short time, never spoke to me about her. The real cause of my distress, however, was by no means removed; it was determined, without appeal, that my husband should, notwithstanding any impediment to the contrary, take another wife, whoever that chosen one might be. My apprehensions, therefore, were not removed; they were only turned in another direction.

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It is a custom among the Mormon married men—those at least who make any pretensions to doing what is right, and who wish to spare the feelings of their wives as much as the degrading system will allow—to make it appear as if the second wife were chosen by the first, and they go through the form of consulting with her as to who shall be selected. The husband will mention the names of several eligible young ladies, among whom is sure to be the one upon whom he has already set his affections. If the wife should try to make herself agreeable by suggesting one or another of these young ladies, some objection is sure to be raised. One is too thoughtless; the relations of another are not quite so agreeable as they might be; and the temper of a third is said to be not very good. In this way, one after another is taken off the list, until only one remains—the bright particular star of whom all along the husband has been thinking—and if the wife should make any objections to this one, the husband, of course, has a ready answer. In most cases her extreme youth is an excuse for everything; she will have plenty of time to learn, and will be the more ready to be taught.

When once they have obtained the reluctant consent of their wives, it is astonishing how bright and cheerful these Mormon husbands become. Notwithstanding all that they have said to the contrary, it is evident that Polygamy is no trial to their faith. They say that it is as great a cross to them as it is to their wives, but somehow or other they take very kindly to it.

It was soon settled who should be the honoured maiden to whom my husband should pay his addresses. Her name was Belinda, and she was the daughter of the Apostle Parley P. Pratt. I of course was not expected to ask any questions or evince any curiosity respecting the girl or my husband’s relations towards her. I had given my consent, I had acted my part, or at least all the part that was expected of me; I had fulfilled my duty as a Mormon first wife when I agreed to another wife being taken; and, henceforth, all that transpired was—so the Elders would have said—no business of mine.

My husband’s intended certainly was very young—almost too young for a bride she would have been considered in any other community—and I must in fairness allow that she was very handsome. It is of the utmost importance that a Mormon girl should marry young. Women everywhere are never anxious to grow old, but among the Mormons age is especially dreaded by the women; for when years have robbed them of their personal attractions, in most cases they lose all hold upon their husbands’ affections, and find themselves obliged to give place to prettier and more youthful rivals. A woman’s position in the world to come, as I have before mentioned, depends, so the Elders say, very much upon the number of children she has borne in this; it is, therefore, a consideration of the very first importance that she should marry as early in life as possible, and this obligation is never for a moment overlooked by the refined and pure-minded Mormon men.

And now began the “painful task” of wooing the young lady. My husband told me that it was “a very painful duty,” and as an obedient wife I felt bound to believe him. It was, of course, no pleasure to him to pay his addresses to an interesting young girl; it was no anxiety to be with her which made him hasten away to the damsel’s house of an evening. Oh, dear, no! it was pure principle, love for the kingdom of God, and “a very painful task!” He seemed, however, to bear it remarkably well, and manifested a zeal which was perfectly astonishing to me, considering the circumstances. In fact, I felt it my duty to restrain him a little for the sake of his health, for he seemed so anxious to perform his “task” properly that he could scarcely spare time to take his meals; but, regardless of his own feelings, he did not pay much attention to my suggestions.

But, deeply as I sympathized with my husband, there were times when I felt that mine was indeed no imaginary sorrow, and that nothing could lull the storm that had gathered in my breast. The affliction which I had so long dreaded was now right at my door, and the most painful feelings agitated my mind. Sometimes I shut myself up in my own room and tried to reason with myself; then I would kneel, and pray, and weep with passionate emotion; and again I would pace the floor, my heart overflowing with anger and indignation. I never, at that time, knew what it was to be happy, for I felt that I was a burden and hindrance to my husband, and I longed to die. I had loved him so devotedly that I could not even now cast him from my heart, and, though I felt bitterly my position, I believed that he would not willingly wound me, and that he was acting from the purest of motives. But it was all in vain. I could not change my nature, and my heart would rebel.

It would be impossible for me to tell the thousand annoyances and indignities to which I was forced to submit—trials which might appear too trifling even to name, but which to a wife, under such circumstances, were crosses which she found it hard enough to bear. My husband knew nothing of these things, and, had he done so, it is more than probable that he would have considered it weakness in me to be troubled about matters of such small consequence—little actions and foolish words which he would have said I ought to have treated with contempt. It was easy to say that, but not so easy to do. Let any wife picture to herself how she would feel, if, after schooling her heart to submission, after realizing that she was no longer to be first and dearest in her husband’s affections, she were to be constantly hearing the friends and relations of the young girl to whom her husband was engaged, boasting of his devotion to her, and openly expressing their belief that he had never loved before! How would any wife be pleased if, whenever her husband’s intended received a valuable present from him, she were particularly informed of the fact, and a thousand little aggravating details were added to make her, if possible, more miserable?

A woman can nerve herself to endure almost anything, and outwardly she may conceal her feelings, but there are limits beyond which endurance is not possible. A chance meeting with the girl who has superseded her in her husband’s love,—or worse still, should she chance to surprise the affectionate couple tête-á-tête,—is sufficient to dispel all her good resolutions and to destroy that tranquillity of mind which she finds it so difficult to preserve. She becomes sick at heart, nervous, and entirely unfitted for her duties. I have frequently heard Mormon women say that, notwithstanding their husbands had been for many years polygamists, they could never see the other wives without a feeling of anger and indignation arising in their hearts. I know that in my own case I never became reconciled to the system.

My husband was called away to the Eastern States upon business, and his marriage was postponed. I thought that the present would be a good time to show her some little attentions, which I believed it was my duty to do. The idea of coming in contact with her was certainly not at all pleasant; but I felt that it was only right for me to act in a friendly manner towards her, however painful it might be. She was the cause of much sorrow to me, but I could not blame her, for she had been born and brought up in the system, and, of course, supposed it true.

Belinda was a very nice girl, and, under other circumstances, I believe I should have liked her very much. I looked upon her as little more than a child, and my husband has frequently told me that he also regarded her in that light; but to me it was of small consequence that he thought of her as a child, so long as he acted towards her as a woman. Now that he was away from home, there was no danger that she would meet him, so I invited her in a friendly way to call upon me. She came, and I had one or two other ladies present, for I was not like my husband in that particular—I had no anxiety to be alone with her. My effort to cultivate a friendly feeling towards her was not very successful. There was a coldness and restraint on both sides which we could not overcome, and I felt not a little relief when the evening was over. Subsequently I renewed the attempt, but to no purpose; her very presence in my house, and among my children, seemed in itself an insult to me.

During my husband’s absence my poor friend Carrie Grant had been daily growing worse in health. I had once asked my husband if there was any truth in the rumours that I had heard of his attachment to her, but he had assured me that there was no foundation for them.

Poor Carrie! Hers was a short and unhappy life; even her little dream of love was overclouded by disappointment. She was now constantly confined to her room, and whenever it was possible I used to call upon her, and attempted to make her feel more happy and cheerful. She used to ask me to talk with her about Mormonism. “You know,” she said, “that I have never known any other religion, and I believe that this is right, though it does not make me happy. My father loved Mormonism so much that I feel it must be right; the fault is in my own evil nature, that does not bend to the will of Heaven.”

One day she said to me: “I am getting worse, Sister Stenhouse, and I am glad of it, for I shall die. I am of no good here—there is nothing for me to do; if I lived, I should only cause trouble; it is better as it is.”

“Carrie,” I said, “you must not talk like that. You are still very young, and probably will live for many years, and you do not know what future may lie before you.”

“Do not blame me too much,” she replied, “for I am not the only unhappy girl in the city. I know many girls who are very miserable. Married women think that they are the only ones who suffer, while we girls know that nowhere upon the face of the earth can be found such an unhappy set as we are. Why did Brigham Young keep me from going to my friends in the East? I should have been happier then; I should have felt better. But now I want to die, and I am weary waiting for death.”

In this melancholy mood I found her one day, when she appeared particularly sad. She had been ill then about ten months; but her loving blue eyes were just as bright as ever, and I could see very little change in her, except that she was not able now to leave her couch without assistance, and she spoke as if it fatigued her very much. It was quite impossible to arouse her from the state of melancholy into which she had fallen, and it seemed to me that she could not last long. I offered to take her to my house, and said I would nurse her there and take care of her; but she said she was very kindly treated by her father’s family, and did not wish to change. She seemed to cling to me as if she could not bear that I should leave her, and she told me she had something on her mind that troubled her; she wanted to have a long talk with me about it, but not that day, she said.

As the end was fast approaching, she one day said: “I want to tell you now, Sister Stenhouse, what I spoke of before, if you are willing to listen and will not be angry with anything I say. Remember, I am dying, or I never would speak to you as I am going to.”

I told her of my great love for her, and that nothing that she could say would change that love.

“You do not know what I want to ask you, or you would not say so,” she replied; “and I so dread to lose your love that I am afraid to tell you what is in my mind. But you know that I am dying, and you will not be very hard with me.”

She was then silent for some time, as if too much fatigued to continue the conversation. “No, I cannot tell you to-day,” she said at last; “I want you to love me one day longer.”

I urged her not to doubt that my love towards her could never change, and told her that it was better for her to speak at once and relieve her mind. She took my hand, and looked long and tenderly at me, and then she said: “I will tell you all; and if your love can stand that test, then indeed you do love me.”

I encouraged her, and she began: “Would you hate me if I told you that I loved your husband?”

“No,” I replied, “I would not hate you, Carrie.” I said no more, for it seemed to me that it would be wrong of me to tell her of my suspicions, and all that I had suffered at the thought that my husband had conceived an affection for her.

“Can you possibly answer me as calmly as that?” she said. “I thought that the very mention of such a thing would almost kill you, for I saw how much you loved your husband, and, ah! how I have suffered at the thought of telling you! But that is not all I wanted to say, or I need never have spoken to you at all. I wanted to ask you to do me one last kindness, and then I think I shall die happy. You know that we have been taught that Polygamy is absolutely necessary to salvation, and if I were to die without being sealed to some man I could not possibly enter the celestial kingdom. My friends wished me to be sealed to one of the authorities of the Church, but I cannot bear the idea of being sealed to a man whom I do not love. I love your husband, and I want you to promise that I shall be sealed to him. If I had thought that I should recover, I never would have let you know this, for I would not live to give you sorrow. But, when I am gone, will you kneel by your husband’s side in the Endowment House, and be married to him for me? Will it pain you much to do that for me, Sister Stenhouse?”

I felt so strangely as I listened to all this, that I could not utter a single word, and she continued: “We shall then be together in eternity, and I am happy at the thought of that, for I think I love you even better than I love him. And then I believe we shall have overcome all our earthly feelings and shall be prepared to live that celestial law, and perhaps we may prefer it, for no doubt we shall know no unhappiness there.”

The exertion of talking seemed to be too much for her, and she remained silent for some time. I felt ashamed that I had allowed my feelings to influence me at such a moment, for while she had been speaking I had allowed my thoughts to travel back over the past year; and now that she admitted her love for my husband, very many circumstances came painfully to my recollection and confirmed all that she said. I resolved, however, not to question her, but to allow her to tell me just what she pleased. So I knelt down by her side and whispered into her ear a solemn promise that I would do all that she desired. Poor girl! how I felt for her! When I had given her this pledge, she appeared much relieved and told me freely all that had passed between my husband and herself, and she said she had left my house simply because she could not endure to cause me any sorrow. I told her of my husband’s contemplated marriage with Belinda Pratt, and she appeared a good deal troubled at it. “Let me be second,” she said, “for then I shall feel that I am nearer to you, and I want you always to think that, when you die, if I have the power, I shall be the first to meet you and take you by the hand.”

Thus we talked together for a long time, and it was with painful interest that I listened to what she said. It was a singular interview—a wife receiving from a young girl the confession that she loved her husband; that he had fully returned her affection, and had even talked with her about marriage; the girl requesting the wife to be married for her to her own husband; and the wife, full of tender love towards the girl, freely giving her a promise that she would do so. In my sorrow at parting from her, and the great affection that I felt towards her, all feelings of jealousy were utterly forgotten. Before I left I said: “Carrie, whether you live or die, you shall be married to my husband, if he ever enters into Polygamy; and I say this although I do not doubt that he will do so, and at the same time I think that you will live.”

I really believed that she might recover; for now this burden was off her mind, I thought she would have strength to subdue her sickness, and at first it seemed as if this would really be the case. The next day she appeared so much better that her friends all became hopeful, and when I told her that I had written to my husband and had told him, that since he had made up his mind to go into Polygamy, I wished him to marry her, she appeared so happy, and showed her joy in so many innocent ways, that I could not be angry.

“How do you think he will feel,” she said, “when he gets your letter? Do I look pretty well to-day? And do you think that if I continue to get better I shall have regained my looks before he comes home?”

“Oh,” I said, humouring her, “you will look quite pretty by the time he returns; I shall be really jealous of you.”

In an instant the thought of how much all mention of her in connexion with my husband must be painful to me, occurred to her mind, and she begged me to forgive her for her carelessness. “No,” said she, “I will try never to give you pain, and you must always love me.”

For some days this improvement in her appearance continued, and I thought and hoped that we should soon have her round again. I really wished her to live now, for if it was absolutely necessary that Mr. Stenhouse must practise Polygamy, I would prefer that, rather than any other woman, he should marry her, for I felt that she would understand me as no one else could.

Thus, after all, I really had selected a second wife for my husband!

But the change in poor Carrie’s looks was altogether deceptive. News came to me one morning that she was very much worse, and I hastened to see her. As I entered the room, her eyes brightened, and she said: “I am glad that you have come, Sister Stenhouse, for I feel that I am going soon.” Then, after a pause, she added, holding up her hands—“Do you know what that means?” The fingernails were turning blue.

“That means death,” she said; “and it is better so.”

After this we conversed together for some time upon various topics of special interest to her in the position in which she then was, and presently she said, as if asking a question, “You will keep your promise, I know.”

“Carrie,” I answered, “if there is anything that I can say or do that will make you feel more certain that I will keep my promise, if I live to do so, tell me, and I will do it.”

“I am afraid,” she said, “that, after all, he never loved me. He pitied my lonely situation and was so kind and good to me, that I learned to love him, and those meddlesome sisters tried to get him to marry me, but I would not be false to you. Then we both thought it was best not to tell you, as it would make you grieve, although it never could take place. Even now, had I not known that I was dying, I never would have told you. But you will not love me less when you think of me after I am gone?”

I told her that my affection for her would never change, and I talked with her, and tried to soothe her dying moments, and to make her feel less lonely; and thus the morning passed away. In the afternoon she was silent and apparently unconscious, and before another day dawned she had passed away to her rest.

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The following evening I went round again to the house, to gaze once more at the form of my dear friend. She was lying in her coffin, dressed for the grave, and I looked at her long and tenderly as she rested sleeping there. Her features were peaceful and natural as if in slumber; an expression of calm tranquillity hovered around her countenance, and in the repose of death she seemed almost happy. Poor girl! her life had been short indeed, and she had known but little pleasure; but I believed that she was now beyond the reach of earthly sorrow and earthly disappointment, happy in that land where suffering and tears are all unknown. “There shall be no night there,” the Lord of that other life had said. Sorrow and sighing shall flee away from that bright and glorious land; and the grief and pain, which on earth are the portion of so many tried and weary hearts, shall find no entrance into that eternal rest which our Father in heaven has prepared for us beyond the floods of death.

Oh, better far! I thought, it is that thus she should pass away. True, she has seen but little of life, and has not tasted many of its joys; but, as a compensation, how much has she been spared! She was so gentle and so sensitive, so unfit to battle with the stern realities of existence, that I felt she had gained rather than lost in being taken away in the morning of her life.

I now expected very soon to be called upon to undergo the most painful ordeal that any wife can be required to pass through: I was to give my husband another wife—such is the sacrifice demanded of every Mormon woman.

The thought of doing this was worse than death to me. I felt injured, humiliated and degraded by it, and yet I still tried to believe that it was the will of God, and must therefore be right. To me, this outrage upon all the purest feelings of womanhood seemed more like the will of men—men of the basest and most unholy passions. It was repulsive to me in whatever form it was presented, but still I reproached my own rebellious heart for feeling so, for I had been told that the ways of the Lord were past finding out, and, however unlike Him this Revelation might appear, we Mormon women had been taught that it was our duty to bend our wills and to suffer in unquestioning and uncomplaining silence.

As the time approached, I felt like a condemned criminal awaiting the day of execution. A sense of apprehension, a dread of coming evil, was ever present to my mind, and everything appeared to me through the medium of my griefs. To a certain extent, my husband also suffered, for it would be impossible, I think, for any man to see his wife suffering so intensely without feeling for her, and I sometimes believed that his sympathy for me was so great, that, if he had dared, he would even then have refused to obey the counsel of the Priesthood.

Then, too, he had a little trouble of his own, for he began to realize that this innovation upon the sanctity of our home would make a great change in his future—his freedom would be gone.

However gratifying it may be to a man’s feelings to know that there is no limit to his privileges, and that he is always at liberty—no matter how many wives he may already possess—to fall in love with every pretty girl he meets, and marry her if she consents; yet every intelligent man must be conscious that it can be no easy matter to keep peace between many wives in one house, and that, if he wishes to act rightly by all, he must train himself to be scrupulously just, never showing any partiality in look or deed, or even by a word. There are many such men among the Mormons. They are conscientious and good men, who try to live their religion, but who at the same time desire to act kindly towards their wives. My husband began to realize the great responsibility that he was about to take upon himself, and, seeing his thoughtful and troubled look, I tried to hide my own feelings; for every true wife knows that nothing so powerfully arouses a woman to struggle with her own sorrows as the knowledge that her husband is unhappy.

The dreaded day at length arrived, the day which for so long, and with such painful forebodings, I had anticipated. I had spent a very wakeful and unhappy night, and felt very sick and nervous, for I was about to become a mother, and my health was anything but strong. I hardly felt as if I should have courage to go through that day. I was, however, compelled to nerve myself to the task, and I began to make my preparations for going to the Endowment House. The only thing that gave me strength was the thought that my husband had consented that I should go through the ceremony of being married to him that day for Carrie; for even then I supposed that those who would be married in heaven must first be married on earth, and that, too, by those who had received authority from on high.

Ever since I had first embraced Mormonism I had been entirely cut off from Gentile society, although living in the Gentile world. Abroad, and also when in New York, the cares of a family kept me very much at home, and the continual state of apprehension in which I was rendered me averse to visiting among friends. Thus it was that I never conversed freely with any one who could have informed me truthfully of the origin of Mormonism, and consequently I brooded over my religion as a melancholy fact; but, though with moments of weakness and wavering, I never thoroughly doubted its divine origin. The terrible sacrifice which was about to be required of me might, I thought, be painful to make, but it was no less the will of God. I must submit, whatever the effort might cost me.

The morning was bright and lovely—a morning calculated to inspire happy hopes and pleasant feelings; but to me it brought nothing but fear and trembling. Even the innocent prattle of my children annoyed me, and they, not knowing how deeply I was suffering, looked at me with wonder in their eyes. Oh, I thought, surely my husband will at length comprehend the greatness of the love I bear him? surely he will now appreciate the sacrifice I make for his sake and for my religion? Even now, if I did not know that he believes this doctrine to be true, and he would feel condemned if, through any opposition of mine, he were not allowed to practise it, I would at the last moment dash this bitter cup from my lips and take my chance of the consequences in a future state!

Utterly cast down and broken-hearted, I felt almost as if the Lord Himself had forsaken me, and there was no one to whom I could look for aid. I could not go to my husband in that hour for sympathy; for I well knew that his thoughts must be with his intended bride, and that my sorrows would only trouble him at a time when he must desire to be at peace. Besides which, I was too proud to plead for love at a shrine that I felt should rightfully be all my own. And then, too, I knew not but what he might tell her of my feelings; and it would be too great a humiliation for me should she think me jealous of the position which she now occupied, and her influence over my husband.

With such feelings I went to the Endowment House. There at the altar I was to give proof of my obedience and of my faith in my religion, by placing the hand of the new wife in that of my husband. The thought was almost madness. To have followed my husband to the grave would have been a terrible blow to me, but to live to see him the husband of another woman was something that seemed to me beyond endurance. Notwithstanding every effort of faith, doubts would arise, and in bitterest anguish I thought—this is more like the work of cruel man than of God. Why should man have this power over woman, and she so helpless? Surely a just and impartial God can have nothing to do with this! There was a darkness before my eyes, and, struggle as I might, I could see no ray of light—no glimmering of hope.

First, my husband was married to Miss Pratt; and then to me for Carrie! Thus I fulfilled my pledge to my departed friend. I had found, before going to the Endowment House, that I could not have Carrie sealed to my husband next to me, for Belinda had objected, and her mother had appealed to Brigham Young about it. They told me that he had said that the living had claims before the dead, although my own feelings would have led me to think otherwise. Brigham Young performed the ceremony. He sat at the end of the altar and we three knelt down—my husband on one side, and Miss Pratt and myself on the other. Speaking to me, Brigham Young asked: “Are you willing to give this woman to your husband to be his lawful wife for time and for all eternity? If you are, you will signify it by placing her right hand within the right hand of your husband.”

I did so; but what words can describe my feelings? The anguish of a whole lifetime was crowded into that one single moment. The painful meaning of those words, “for all eternity,” withered my soul, and the unending contract which my husband had made with another woman was practically a divorce from me. I had now laid everything upon the altar of sacrifice, for I had given away my husband. What more could the Lord require of me that I was not prepared to do?

I was bewildered and almost beside myself, and yet I had to hide my feelings. Hope was for ever banished from my life. To whom could I look for sympathy among those who were around me? They were most of them men who had ruthlessly wrecked the lives and lacerated the hearts of hundreds of women before my turn came, and the sight of an unhappy wife was so common in their experience that it was more likely to awaken their anger than their pity. I felt this instinctively, and I resolved that they should never know how much my poor heart was torn. My husband, it is true, was there. My husband! Was he not now the husband of another woman, and therefore no longer belonging to me? I knew that I never could overcome my early teaching sufficiently to feel that this was right, though such was my wretched fanaticism that I mentally and verbally assented to it. I felt that now I stood alone—our union was severed, there could never be any copartnership between that other wife and myself—no, never! Salvation or no salvation, it was impossible that I could ever love her. From that day I began to hide all my sorrows from my husband, and it was but very seldom that I uttered a word of discontent, and when I expressed what I felt, it was in anger; but never in sorrow seeking sympathy.

I remember when we returned home—that home which had now lost its charm, for the young wife was to live there—my husband said to me: “You have been very brave, but it is not so hard to bear, after all, is it?” I had hidden my feelings so well that he really thought that I was indifferent. But during the remainder of the day, how I watched their looks and noticed every word! To me their tender tones were daggers, piercing my heart and filling me with a desire to revenge myself upon the father of my children. Oh, what fanatics we Mormon women have been ever to have believed for a single moment that a just and loving Father and God would have given a command that in almost every instance has produced such fearful results upon those who should have been happy wives and mothers, and consequently upon their children! Indeed, even then it made me feel that there was no justice in heaven, if this love which is the best part of woman’s nature—this love that we had always believed was a part of divinity itself—this principle, without which there would be nothing worth living for—if this was to be our greatest curse, and the woman who showed herself most actuated by this gentle influence was to be the greatest victim.

I felt that day that if I could not get away by myself alone and give expression to my overcharged feelings, I should certainly lose my reason. I was utterly miserable. It was only in the dead of night, in my own chamber, that I gave way to the terrible anguish that was consuming me. God and my own soul can alone bear witness to what I suffered in that time of woe. That night was to me such as even the most God-forsaken might pray never to know; and morning dawned without my having for a moment closed my eyes.

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I was now to realize personally, in my own home life, what Polygamy actually was. Hitherto I had observed how other women suffered, and how other men treated their wives; but now the painful reality had come to my own door, and I was to experience the effects of the system upon myself, and, instead of noting the conduct of other men, I should be able to observe the change which Polygamy might work in my own husband.

How little do the Mormon men know what it is in the truest sense to have a wife, though they have so many “wives” after their own fashion! Almost imperceptibly to the husband, and even to the wife herself, a barrier rises between them from the very day that he marries another woman. It matters not how much she believes in the doctrine of plural marriage, or how willing she may be to submit to it, the fact remains the same. The estrangement begins by her trying to hide from him all her secret sorrows; for she feels that what has been done cannot be undone now, and she says: “I cannot change it; neither would I if I could, because it is the will of God, and I must bear it; besides, what good will it do to worry my husband with all my feelings? He cannot help me; and is he not another woman’s husband?” Then comes, perhaps, the painful thought, “I have no longer any desire to confide in him.” Or it may be that she detects some familiarity between her husband and the other wife; and she feels bitterly towards both, for, strive as she may, human nature cannot be altogether crushed out.

That was a time of great misery to me, much as I tried to control my feelings. Day by day I strove to hide from my heart even the knowledge of my own unhappiness; and when I could no longer endure, I would lock myself in my room and give vent to the anguish that was consuming me. I realized, however, that this continual conflict of feeling was unfitting me for my duties. Everything was becoming a trial to me. I could not bear to be spoken to; the prattle of my children, that had always been so dear to me, was now discordant to my feelings; and all their little questionings were irksome. I determined that this should no longer be the case; I would battle with my own heart; I would henceforth devote my whole life—worthless as that life appeared to have become—to the welfare of my little ones. This was a conclusion that hundreds of wretched Mormon wives have arrived at; and when this is the case, there is some hope for them. But many give way to despair, and go down broken-hearted to their graves.

How terribly these Mormon men deceive themselves! When peace, or rather quiet, reigns in their homes, they think that the Spirit of God is there. But it is not so. It is a calm not like the gentle silence of sleep, but as the painful stillness of death—the death of the heart’s best affection and all that is worth calling love. All true love has fled, and indifference has taken its place. The very children feel it. What do they, what can they, care about their father, whom they so seldom see?

Some wives, afraid of creating a prejudice against themselves and of being forsaken altogether, deceive their husbands, and make them believe that they are satisfied. It must be admitted that, in acting thus, these wives are not always actuated by a fear of losing the society or love of their husbands, for, in Polygamy, love dies a natural death; but it is galling to a woman’s pride to have it said that she has been cast off for another. Then, too—and some women would consider this the most important reason of all—the best provision is usually made for the home where the husband stops most frequently; and the wife, if not for her own sake, at least for her children’s, will be anxious to have a well-provided house. This is only natural. The “divine” plan has always been worked out in a very human way.

When a man has several wives, there is, of course, no necessity for him to stay with an unhappy or mopish one, as he can always find a more pleasant reception elsewhere. Men who can really believe that women are satisfied and happy under such a system must be entirely ignorant of human nature.

When a man has more than one wife, his affections must of necessity be divided; he really has no home in the truest sense of the word; his houses are simply boarding-places. Should he have all his wives in one house, as is often the case, they are then all slaves to the system; each one is watching the others, and they know it—trying to discover something that can be secretly told to the husband to draw away his affections from the rest. What more miserable position could be imagined?

There is, however, no fixed principle regulating Mormon men in the management of their families; every one is at liberty to do as he thinks best, and scarcely two families are governed alike. When Salt Lake City was first settled, the people had to live as best they could, and a man was glad to get even one roof under which he and all his wives might be sheltered. Now, when the husband is wealthy, he generally provides separate homes for his wives. Some wealthy men, however, still have all their wives and families together.

I have in my mind, as I write, a very prominent Mormon, who has half-a-dozen wives; and he divides his time among them after this fashion. The first week he stays with the first wife; the next week he is with the second; then he goes back to the first. The fourth week he passes with the third wife; then he returns for another week to the first. And thus he continues to give one week to the first wife, and the next to one of the other five in turn, until he has blessed them all with his presence. Now, it would at a casual glance appear that this first wife has by far the largest share of her husband’s society; but if the truth must be told, it must be admitted that the husband is not quite so generous as he appears. The last wife of this good man is a young and pretty girl, and she lives with the first wife, and thus his devotion to the latter is rewarded by the presence of the former. Each of the other wives has one week of his society and attentions in every eleven—about five weeks apiece of companionship with their husband in the course of a whole year. Other men with the same number of wives pass constantly between one house and another; they can never be found when wanted; their lives are one eternal round, and they may be said to have no real abiding place.

In every settlement in Utah, long, low-roofed houses may be seen with a row of doors and windows alternating. Even in Salt Lake City, much as it has changed of late years, such houses may still be found. To every door and window there is, of course, a wife; and the furniture of her room consists of a bed, three chairs, and a table. Then, if the man is a very devout Mormon and wishes to increase his kingdom by adding another wife to the inhabitants of the long many-doored house, a waggon-box is so arranged as to form a sleeping apartment for the new comer; or, what is more likely, one of the old wives is put into the waggon-box, and the new one takes her place.

A house with two wings is rather a favourite style with those men, who, to silence their conscience and the priesthood, conclude to take “just one extra wife,” and no more. The wives, with their children, occupy, respectively, each a wing; and the entrance-door opens into a parlour, which serves as a reception-room for both families. The husband in this case spends a week on one side of the house and a week on the other, alternately; and thus, by an impartial division of his attentions, he preserves peace in his family. A man who is comfortably off can, of course, arrange his domestic affairs so as to avoid, as far as is possible, the inconveniences of the system, but a poor man is forced to submit to circumstances. Many men have entered into Polygamy, with two, three, and even four wives, all, with their children, living together under one roof—in one room—in the most disgraceful and barbarous manner; but even for this the leaders were really more to blame than the poor deluded men themselves; for the command to “Build up the Kingdom!—build up the Kingdom!”—in other words, take many wives and raise up large families—has been so constantly and imperatively insisted upon that good sense and propriety have at last been entirely overlooked.

In a very large house, with many wives, there is greater safety and peace for the husband than in a small house with only two wives. When there are only two apartments, the husband, if not in one, is supposed to be in the other, and the neglected wife frequently expresses her opinion of her rival in the opposite room in very powerful language. Scenes may be witnessed in such households which are too shocking to disclose. Brigham Young was conscious of this when he said he “would stand no more fighting and scratching around him”; and yet, in the face of all this, he dares to tell the people that this is the “Order of Celestial Marriage.” With many wives living together in a large house there are many advantages. The whereabouts of the husband is not so easily discovered, and the unhappy or jealous wife is at a loss to know upon whom to vent her ire. On this account even men with small means prefer to have three wives instead of two, as each wife, not knowing which of the other two she ought to hate the most, divides her jealousy. It takes, however, a wise man to know how to live in Polygamy, so as to balance all the conflicting interests and obtain a little peace, if happiness is out of the question.

Where the husband is a rich man and has abundant wealth wherewith to supply the wants of his numerous wives and children, and to furnish all the necessary accommodation that a growing family demands, much of the jealousy and ill-feeling inseparable from Polygamy can, to a certain extent, be avoided.

It would be quite impossible, with any regard to propriety, to relate all the horrible results of this disgraceful system. It has debased the minds and degraded the lives of good and honest men and women, while those who naturally had a tendency towards evil have become a hundred times worse. Marriages have been contracted between the nearest relatives; and old men tottering on the brink of the grave have been united to little girls scarcely in their teens; while unnatural alliances of every description, which in any other community would be regarded with disgust and abhorrence, are here entered into in the name of God, and under the sanction of a “Revelation” supposed to proceed from the pure and holy Saviour.

I was much shocked and disgusted when first I went to Utah, to find a man whom under other circumstances I had known in London, living with two sisters whom he had married in the manner I have just described, and, strange as it may appear, it was not with them a matter of necessity. When I knew the husband in Europe, I considered him a man of education and refinement; but I certainly was mistaken, for no man whose nature was at all sensitive would have lived as he did. His wives, too, who had been considered highly respectable English girls, were not ashamed of their degraded position; they professed to believe in bringing the world back to its primitive purity and innocence.

It is quite a common thing in Utah for a man to marry two and even three sisters. I was well acquainted with one man who married his half-sister, and I know several who have married mother and daughter. I know also another man who married a widow with several children; and, when one of the girls had grown into her teens, he insisted on marrying her also, having first by some means won her affections. The mother, however, was much opposed to this marriage, and finally gave up her husband entirely to her daughter; and to this very day the daughter bears children to her step-father, living as wife in the same house with her mother!

In another instance, a well-known man in Salt Lake City, who has several wives and married daughters, married a young girl of fifteen years of age whom his wife had adopted and brought up as her own.

Quite a number of the leading Mormons have wives in the various settlements; and this is very convenient to them if they have to travel much. If the wives are old and experienced, as wives who are sent into the country generally are, they can then look after and manage a farm; and if they have growing boys, the farm can be worked upon a very economical plan. The younger wives in the city can be supplied from them with all the butter, cheese, vegetables, &c., that they require. It takes considerable shrewdness to manage women in such a way as to turn all their abilities to good account and to make them profitable.

Let me ask the good brethren who read this to act for once impartially, and try to put themselves in a woman’s place; and let me for their benefit draw a little picture for them to contemplate.

It is evening, and the family are all assembled in their pleasant home—a home made happy by the kind and thoughtful care of a loving father. Peace and tranquillity dwell in every heart, and the father is happy in being surrounded by his children, to whom he is fondly attached. He listens to the prattle of the little ones, or the music and songs of the elder children; and for a time he is forgetful of everything save the happiness of the hour.

Suddenly his wife, the mother of his children, whom he dearly loves, rises from her seat beside the fire and retires to her own apartment. There she arranges her toilet with irreproachable care, sees that every straying curl is in its place, and gives every touch to her appearance which she thinks is likely to render her attractive in the eyes of a man. She now descends the stairs, ready to leave the home of this, her first husband, for she is going to see her second husband, or some young man to whom she has taken a fancy, and who she thinks would be suitable for a third. She kisses her children good-bye, and is about to take an affectionate farewell of their father, when she suddenly discovers that he is not looking happy. “What is the matter now?” she says; “is not your home a pleasant one? have I not taken pains to train your children in a proper manner, and have I not remained an hour longer than usual with you? What folly it is for you to be moping in this way! this is not the way to live our religion, if we expect to get the blessing of God. You know very well it is very painful for me to leave you and my children; but we must be obedient to the commands of God, and I owe attentions to my other husband as well as to you!”

Can any man be supposed who would for a moment endure such an outrage upon decency and common sense, such a violation of all that is sacred in the human heart? And yet this is only reversing the case; and just as any Mormon man can suppose he would feel, if the wife he loved were to act in the way I have described, so do Mormon wives feel, only as much more acutely, as women are more sensitive in their affections than men.

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My life was now one continued series of deceptions, as was also that of my husband, and we began habitually to wear the mask when in each other’s presence.

It may have been wrong, perhaps, but I confess that for my husband’s intended bride I felt such a detestation that I could not endure her presence, although I knew that she was not to blame. I believed that I should not have felt it so much if she had been a little older; but to have a mere child placed on a level with me, and to be compelled to treat her with all the respect due to a wife, was so terribly humiliating to me that at times I thought that I could not endure it another day. She, of course, expected to be treated with all the consideration which is proper to a wife, and to be consulted in everything by my husband, as a wife should be. She was not, however, competent to undertake any household duties or wifely cares, and was herself an additional responsibility to me. Young and inexperienced as she was, she had everything to learn; but, at the same time, she stood so much upon her dignity that it was anything but a pleasant task to teach her. It of course devolved upon me to instruct her in everything, and I found it anything but a congenial task. I soon began to look upon her simply as a boarder, and expected nothing more from her than I should if she had really been such.

She took very kindly to this position, and would spend her days in her own room, reading and otherwise amusing herself, and of course was always pleasant and well-dressed to receive her husband. But this did not suit me. In fact I do not know what would have suited me at that time, for I was disposed to be displeased with everything. And yet a visitor to our house would, I have no doubt, have, said, “How very pleasantly those two wives get along together!” This has been said of scores of women in Utah by casual observers—Gentiles, who thought they “understood” the system. How little do they know the aching void and the bitter hatred which exists in the hearts of those wives—the detestation which they have of one another! How little can they know, when everything is so carefully hidden, even from their husbands! It is a shameful thing that women, faithful wives and mothers, should be placed in such a position.

How many times during the day have I been compelled to leave everything and rush to my chamber, and there on my bended knees supplicate for strength to endure, thinking all the time that, in ordaining this Revelation, God had given us a burden greater than we could bear!

Then in the evening, when we were assembled together in our cosy parlour, as we were wont to be, all traces that remained of the terrible struggle which I had endured were a sad countenance and perhaps the deepening lines upon my brow, which contrasted unpleasantly with the bright and cheerful face of the young wife, and made my husband feel that I was getting very sour in my disposition, as indeed was probably the case.

Things and actions, which at another time I should have considered too trifling to notice, had now a painful significance to me. On one occasion, not long after the wedding, my husband asked me to take a walk with him, and I consented. Among the Mormons it is a custom to take their wives out together very frequently. Their object, I presume, is to display the “jewels” in their crowns before the eyes of their less fortunate brethren. I had resolved that I would never submit to this; if my husband would not take me out alone, I would stay at home. On the occasion I mention, when I came out of my room ready dressed, I found him and his wife, Belinda, waiting and chatting pleasantly together, and looking unutterable love at each other—at least, so I thought—and I felt greatly insulted and annoyed, and told them I did not wish to go. I carefully avoided showing any outbursts of temper before the young lady, which I thought would be undignified, for I desired at least that she should respect me, though I did not want her love. If I had expected that they would urge me to accompany them, I should have been greatly mistaken, for my refusal appeared to be just what they wanted. They tripped off together as light-hearted and happy as children, while I remained rooted to the spot, tearing my pocket-handkerchief to pieces, and wishing I could do the same with them.

I used sometimes to wonder whether it would be the same in the Mormon heaven, where this Celestial Order of Marriage is expected to be carried out in all its fullness, and I felt troubled for myself. These dreadful feelings would, I believed, be the ruin of my soul, and I thought it was impossible for me to obtain salvation until I had entirely subdued them—and that I had not power yet to do. I had, however, so concealed what I felt, that my husband believed that I was becoming used to this new life.

Day after day my rebellious soul was agitated by the same troubled feelings. There was no rest for me—nothing upon which I could stay my mind. My husband was painfully aware that there was a coldness and restraint existing between his young wife and myself, and I know that he was grieved by it, for he had tried in every way to create a friendly feeling between us. I felt, however, that it was utterly impossible that I could ever be affectionate towards his other wife, much as I might strive. I would do my duty, but I could not love her, or, in fact, him either for that matter, when he was associated with her. I regret to be obliged to confess such a truth; but from that time, and as long as I remained in Mormonism, the sentiment that was uppermost in my mind was an utter detestation of the whole system. I despised myself for being the abject slave that I was. Why could I not have the moral courage to set everything at defiance—Revelation and all—and free myself from the bondage that enthralled me?

I know this day scores of women in Utah who think and feel exactly as I did then, who suffer wrongs against which their hearts daily and hourly rebel, but who, like me, dread to cast aside the yoke of the oppressor.

At that time, in respect to pecuniary matters, we were very comfortably off. Almost immediately after our arrival in Utah, Mr. Stenhouse had found employment on the staff of the Deseret News. Before long he obtained the appointment of postmaster for Salt Lake City, and before his marriage with Miss Pratt he had started the Telegraph, the first daily paper that was ever published in Utah. From the beginning it had been remarkably successful; for Brigham had counselled the people to sustain it, knowing very well that he himself would in return be supported by my husband. Brigham had no more devoted follower than Mr. Stenhouse was then, for the scales had not yet fallen from his eyes, and he believed the Prophet was really what he claimed to be—a faithful servant of God. True, we had frequently talked together of his very mean actions; but my too generous, or perhaps too credulous, husband had attributed all that to the weakness of his human nature, and would not believe that it affected his priesthood. He therefore sustained him strongly and consistently before the public; not for gain, for he had given too many instances of his devotion to be suspected of that; but I may say from pure attachment, for I know too well that at that time he was almost ready to lay down his life for the sake of his religion.

The Telegraph soon became the leading journal in Utah, and in a little while we were surrounded by every comfort and luxury which at that time could be procured in Salt Lake City. No family in the Territory was better provided for than was ours, not excepting Brigham Young’s. I had always believed that if my husband were left alone, untrammelled by the Church, to make his own way, he would do so successfully. In this I was not mistaken. We now owned a fine dwelling-house, a valuable city lot and house, where the paper was printed, and also another very desirable lot, near to Brigham Young’s residence. This last lot was my own; it was very beautifully situated, and we expended on it upwards of three thousand dollars. Everything that my husband undertook at that time seemed to prosper—not excepting his love affairs.

Just then a great deal was whispered privately about certain murders which had been committed, all knowledge of which was strenuously denied by the authorities. When any case was so notorious that it could not possibly be altogether hushed up, we were told that the murdered persons were dangerous people, and had been killed in self-defence by those whom they in the first instance had attacked.

My husband, like hundreds of others, was never in the confidence of the Church authorities in these matters. He believed firmly in the divine mission of Joseph Smith, and shut his eyes to the actions of Brigham Young, thinking that he alone would be responsible to the Lord for his misdeeds. When I drew his attention to the inconsistency of Brigham’s conduct, as on more than one occasion I did, he said we had enough to do to look at home and see that we ourselves did what was right. This, of course, was true; but I thought, nevertheless, that a little more consistency on Brigham’s part would not be amiss.

My talkative friend called one day to speak of a very serious subject.

“I have come, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “to talk to you about a matter of great importance, but I don’t want to offend you, and you must promise beforehand to forgive me.”

I readily promised, and she added: “I thought I should find you very unhappy, Sister Stenhouse, about poor dear Carrie Grant, and I think if you are so you deserve it, but I don’t like you to be miserable, and so I came to comfort you.”

“But, Sister Ann,” I said, “I don’t want to be comforted in the way you seem to mean. I have been very sad indeed at losing Carrie; but you know I did everything I could for her, poor girl, and I have nothing to blame myself for.”

“Nothing to blame yourself for?” she exclaimed. “Why, Sister Stenhouse, you have everything to blame yourself for. If poor Carrie has less glory, it is all your fault.”

“How so?” I said.

“Why,” she answered, “if you had not held back and expressed your dislike, Carrie would have married your husband, and would most likely have been alive now. She would have had her family, and would have added to your husband’s glory; while now, although she is your husband’s wife, she has no children, and, of course, must have less glory in the Kingdom.”

“Well, Sister Ann,” I said, “I never thought of it in that light. I loved Carrie very much, and I tried to make her love me. It was not until almost the last that I knew of her love for my husband; but if I had known before, I am sure my own heart would have rebelled against my husband taking another wife. I did, however, ask him to marry her, and after she was dead I was married to him for her.”

“That’s all very well, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, “but for all that I think you have committed a great wrong against that poor orphan girl. You ought to be thankful that at last you were able to repair a little of the mischief which you did. I don’t want to vex you, but I am really sorry that you had such an antipathy to your husband having Carrie. However, I suppose, now he has really got another wife, you are not so much set against Polygamy. You must find it quite a blessing to have Miss Pratt—I beg pardon, I mean Mrs. Stenhouse number two—with you now.”

I did not answer her, for I had my own opinion about the matter. She went on without hesitation: “Well, you must not be vexed with me, dear; I say it all for your good, you know; but I do wish you felt a little more as I do about these matters. Why, do you know, I have been trying to show my faith and zeal in every possible way ever since we came to Utah. It was only last week I was baptized for Queen Anne.”

“Queen Anne!” I exclaimed. “What can you possibly mean?”

“Exactly what I say, Sister Stenhouse; I was baptized for Queen Anne, and if you like I’ll tell you all about it. It is only just what every one else has been doing, only they were baptized for other people. I don’t think you’ve ever thought much of this, and so I’ll explain myself. You see, Sister Stenhouse, the Elders teach us that the whole world is lying in darkness and sin, and has been so ever since the apostolic gifts were lost ages ago. Now there is no salvation outside the Church, and you may remember that Christ Himself went and preached to the miserable souls in Paradise.”

“In Paradise?” I said, “why I thought that was a happy place.”

“Oh, no, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “not very happy. The souls of those who have not heard the gospel, and have not been baptized, go there, and it’s a sort of prison for them until they are brought out again through the kindness of some believer. The thief on the cross went there, and Christ went there and preached to the spirits in prison; and when the Elders die, they go on mission to Paradise and preach to them also. All your people and my people, our fathers, and mothers, and grandfathers, and so on, right up to the apostolic times, are waiting in Paradise with millions and millions of souls to be released and be admitted into the Celestial Kingdom. All the good brethren and sisters have been doing their best to get out their relations and friends, and I know many of them who have sent over to England and have spent large sums of money in tracing their pedigrees and genealogies, in order to find out the right names and to be baptized as proxies for the dead who owned those names. I have been baptized for a good many of my own relations, and I mean to be baptized for scores more; and many of the brethren, too, have been married as proxies for their own friends, and for distinguished people besides, so that they might be admitted into the Celestial Kingdom, and raise up patriarchal families of their own. The poor souls, if they were released from Paradise by a proxy baptism, could not, of course, have been married in heaven, as there is no giving in marriage there; so some one was married for them as proxy to some one else, and now they can begin to establish their own celestial kingdoms.”

“And have you been proxy in this way, Sister Ann?” I asked.

“No, and yes,” she replied; “I haven’t yet been proxy in marriage for any one, but I was proxy in baptism. When we were children, I remember we used to have some rhymes about Queen Anne, and, as it was my own name, I always thought a great deal of her. It seemed to me that it would be very nice, and at the same time very charitable, if I were to help her out of Paradise. It quite struck my fancy, for it was no small thing to have a real queen thankful to you for so much. So I went and was baptized for her, and now she is out of Paradise and has entered the Celestial Kingdom. But that isn’t all. There was my old friend, George Wilford, who heard all about the matter, for I see him frequently, and he at once said that he would be baptized for Prince George of Denmark, Queen Anne’s husband, and he means to do so; and after that we’ll be married by proxy for them here on earth, and then they’ll both be happy.”

“Why, Sister Ann, what a droll idea!” I said.

“Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, quite seriously, “it’s very wrong of you to talk so. Some of the best Saints have stood proxy in this way. There was one lady who stood proxy for the Empress Josephine, and her son stood for Napoleon, and some one else for Washington. Queen Elizabeth, too, has been baptized by proxy. And now Napoleon and Washington are both Mormon Elders, and I suppose some one will be married for Queen Elizabeth, and she’ll enter into Polygamy. Do you know, Sister Stenhouse, there was one brother who, out of pure kindness, said he would be baptized for the thief on the cross, for he supposed that no one else would take pity on him, and a sister who was present said she would be baptized for his wife, if Brother Brigham thought he ever had one. I’ve been persuading my Henry to be baptized for Henry the Eighth, for I’m sure he needed baptism for the remission of sins; and he—I mean my Henry—has promised me to do so; but he says that he means to ask Brother Brigham first before he is married for him—if ever he is—as King Henry was almost a polygamist in his way, and my husband thinks there is not much need to be married for him at all.”

“I can’t help being amused,” I said. “Of course I have often heard of being baptized for the dead, and I know the Elders say that St. Paul spoke of it in one of his epistles, but I never thought of it in that light; I always thought we should have to wait till the Temple was finished.”

“That’s true, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied; “all the marriages of all the Saints—of every one, in fact, on the face of the earth—ought to be solemnized in the Temple here in Salt Lake City, and every one ought to receive their Endowments in it; but as it is not yet finished, the Lord permits us to be married, and everything else, in the Endowment House. But you know yourself that there’s a record kept, and that, when the Temple is finished, the ceremony will be all gone through with again. I’ve heard it said that many of the Elders and their wives will live there, and that day and night perpetually the ceremonies will be going on. You ought to be baptized, however, now for as many relations as you can think of.”

“I think I shall wait, Sister Ann,” I said, “until I can find a Queen Fanny, and then I’ll be baptized for her.”

She did not like me saying this, for she evidently thought I was jesting. I was not jesting, however, but I felt greatly amused, for this peculiar doctrine of the Saints had never struck me in such an odd light before. Sister Ann was shocked at the way in which I viewed her strange stories, but “I’ll come again in the course of a day or two, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “and put you all straight.”

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After I had consented, and in reality had given my husband a second wife, my status in Mormon polygamic society was very considerably improved. First wives who lived in, and firmly believed, this “Order of Celestial Marriage,” tried in every way to make me feel that I was one with them; and those who had not much faith felt more kindly towards me, because I had been caught in the same snare with themselves.

Every polygamic wife, whether first, second, third, or tenth, no matter how much or how little she may believe in “Celestial Marriage”—no matter how refined or how coarse and degraded her nature may chance to be—must feel that her position is inferior to that of a monogamic wife. On this account, many of the Mormon women are never satisfied until they have drawn every woman of their acquaintance down to their own level. The influence of this supposed “Revelation” is by no means elevating or refining.

I was now upon an equal footing with other first wives. They had, therefore, no hesitation in confiding to me their griefs; and, situated as I was, I had abundant opportunities of hearing stories of cruelty, wrong, and suffering, under the “Celestial” system—many of them so utterly revolting that I would not dream of relating them again. Polygamy among the Mormons is so full of disgusting and disgraceful details, that a modest woman would not dare to relate all she knew. In this book I have endeavoured to be true to my title and to “tell all,” as far as such a thing is possible. But there are thousands of horrible incidents, which form part and parcel of the system of Polygamy, but which no woman who had any respect for herself would think of putting upon paper.

Previous to the time when my husband took his second wife, although I had learned too much, I had to a certain extent been kept in the dark respecting some of the vile and loathsome practices of Polygamy; but after that, by slow degrees, I was thoroughly initiated into the system.

Visitors to Utah would perhaps notice in the faces of the Mormon wives a dull, careworn, weary expression, altogether the reverse of that contented look which is seen among “Gentile” women. But those very women would never disclose to the stranger the depth of that sorrow which is wearing away their lives. Some few, indeed, have been led to speak of their troubles; but they have afterwards found that the very persons in whom they confided most distorted and exaggerated every word that they had uttered, for the sake of making a good story for the press. In many cases the names of those who were thoughtless enough to expose their sorrows, together with little personal matters which should never have been made public, were put into print; and when the matter came before the Church authorities, as in course of time it was certain to do, there was a great deal of trouble and unpleasantness. Women, consequently, as a rule, tell nothing; and book-makers and people connected with the press, while they give to the world astonishing stories of what they have heard, know really nothing of the truth. When a smart man, or a man connected with the press, comes to Utah, the Church authorities take him in hand at once. He is carried here and there, and treated with the utmost deference; a pair of Mormon spectacles is placed by Brigham, or one of his numerous factotums, upon the visitor’s eyes, and through them he looks at all that transpires. Then comes a glowing account in the papers, or else apocryphal stories appear in the visitor’s last new book; and unsophisticated people, who innocently suppose that all that is in print must be true, begin to think that the stories of the evil-doing of the Prophet, which from time to time have crept out, were only scandalous reports, and that Brigham Young—like somebody else who shall be nameless!—was, after all, not quite so black as he has been painted.

A gentleman, who had for five years resided in Salt Lake City, said to me a few months ago: “Mrs. Stenhouse, when I had been here about three weeks, I thought that I knew enough of Mormonism to write a book; when I had been here three months, I began to think that I did not know quite as much; and now, after five years, I have come to the conclusion that I really know nothing at all. I have lived in a Mormon family for the past year, but that has not increased my knowledge. They are constantly upon their guard. They treat me kindly, but they never let me know anything.”

This, I believe, has been the experience of nearly all the Gentiles resident in Salt Lake City. Gentlemen had no chance of learning anything, and the opportunities of ladies were only a trifle better.

Up to this time I had said very little to my children about my doubts and fears. With the exception of my daughter Clara, they were all too young. Clara was just budding into womanhood, and day by day gave promise of more beauty and interest in her future life. I dreaded to cast a cloud across her way by telling her of my own apprehensions in respect to Polygamy. If that were the “Order” of “Heaven,” she would certainly have to live in it; and in any case it was the “order” of Brigham Young, and my child could not escape from it.

We had lived together in Polygamy about a year, when my husband told me that his young wife desired to have a home of her own, and that he intended to provide her with one. This was very pleasant intelligence to me; for the sight of that other wife constantly before my eyes, sitting at my table, in the midst of my family, walking in the garden with my husband in the evening, or tête-á-tête with him in the parlour, was more than I could bear. I began to feel, whether justly or not, that my presence was a restraint to them, and that they felt annoyed when I was with them. This feeling was so strong with me that I constantly avoided them, and I finally concluded to spend the evenings in my own room with my children, for, being out of their presence, I should perhaps be at peace.

This, however, was all changed when my husband established a second home. I did not mind being deprived of his society so long as I could get rid of her: her presence was painful to me, and when she was near me I hardly felt able to breathe.

Just at that time the marriage of my daughter Clara first began to be talked about seriously. One day my husband being out driving with Joseph A. Young, the eldest son of the Prophet, the subject was discussed between them, and Joseph A. made a proposition of marriage. This, to me, was the cause of considerable uneasiness, as Joseph A. was a Polygamist, and at first I altogether refused to listen to the suggestion. At that time Clara was not fifteen years of age, and not only did I consider her altogether too young to think of marriage, but I was shocked at the bare idea of her becoming a polygamic wife. I almost hated Joseph for asking for her.

Personally I had no objection to Clara’s lover. I had known him for several years. He was an intelligent, generous-hearted, and handsome man, of very good standing among the Saints, and wealthy. As a friend, I valued and esteemed him; but that he, a polygamist, should wish to marry my darling daughter, was very repugnant to my feelings. Clara was then growing old enough to understand my more serious thoughts and sentiments, and her companionship was very precious to me. The thought of her marrying into Polygamy was to my mind almost as painful as the thought of her death would have been.

My husband agreed with me that she was too young to marry; but on that point he could not offer any great objection, as his own wife, although very womanly in appearance, was but very little older in years. I told Joseph A. of my reluctance to the proposed marriage, and he fully entered into my feelings. I could not absolutely refuse him, but I wished to gain time. Every day found me more and more weak in the faith, and I thought that, if I could only postpone my Clara’s marriage for a few years, something might transpire which would relieve me of my difficulty.

Joseph promised to wait just as long as we thought proper, if only we would allow him to speak to Clara and explain to her the sentiments with which he regarded her. In this he acted in a way very unlike the Mormon men generally, and I respected him accordingly. I promised him that I would not influence my daughter, but would let her decide for herself. This, after much careful consideration, I came to the conclusion was all that I could do. My mind at that time was in a very troubled state. Day by day my doubts respecting the plural wife system became stronger and stronger, and I felt that before very long some great change must take place, both in my fate and in my life. At the same time, outward circumstances gave no promise of any such change. My husband gave no signs of apostasy, and, as a Saint, I knew he would never think of undertaking anything without the permission of Brother Brigham. We did not even dare to leave the city without consulting the Prophet. In times, then very recent, it was at the risk, and sometimes, indeed, at the sacrifice of life, that any one left Salt Lake Valley without permission; and even at the present moment no good Saint who values his standing in the Church would dream of going East without first obtaining the approval of Brigham Young. I could not, therefore, at the time of which I write, foresee the great changes which have since taken place. To refuse my daughter to the Prophet’s son would, I knew, be utterly useless. By partial submission I might gain some advantages; and the longer I postponed the marriage, the greater chance there was that “something” might turn up, which we all more or less look for when we are placed in circumstances which admit of the exercise of very little choice or effort.

My only objection against Joseph A. was, as I just stated, that he was a polygamist; but so long as we remained in the Church I could not openly allege this in opposition to the proposed marriage. If my Clara married a single man, there was every chance, if not an absolute certainty, that after a while he would take another wife, or wives. This had been the case with other girls with whom my child was acquainted. They had married single men, trusting that their influence over them would be sufficient to retain their affections ever to themselves alone; but they had soon reason to see how groundless their expectations and hopes had been. If, on the other hand, I gave my daughter to a polygamist, there was certainly no reason why Joseph A. should be refused. I felt surrounded on every side by difficulties, and out of them all I endeavoured to choose the least.

One day my husband told me that Brigham Young had seriously spoken to him about the matter, and had “counselled” him to let the marriage take place at once, saying that my Clara was quite old enough. After this, objection on my part would have been utterly unavailing. Everything was settled at the fiat of Brigham; and the feelings and judgment of a father and mother in respect of their own daughter were, of course, of not the slightest consequence.

The wedding-day was therefore fixed, when the sweet flower of my own quiet garden was to be transplanted to another home.

We went to the Endowment House—my husband, myself, and our daughter, together with some friends of the family. There we met with Joseph A. Young, the expectant bridegroom; his father, Brigham Young; Joseph A.’s first wife, Mary Young; and several of the brethren. The bride and bridegroom, and the bridegroom’s first wife, were all dressed in their Temple robes. We then entered a small room where the altar, of which I have already spoken, is placed. At the end of the altar, Brigham was seated in a large armchair covered with crimson velvet. The altar was also crimson. Brigham officiated. Joseph A.’s first wife, Mary Young, knelt in front of the long crimson altar; and my daughter Clara knelt beside her on a sort of faldstool or ledge, arranged for that purpose. Behind the altar knelt Joseph A. Brigham said: “Joseph, are you willing to take Clara Stenhouse to be your lawful and wedded wife for time and for all eternity?” Joseph answered, “Yes.” Then Joseph’s first wife was told to place the right hand of my daughter in the right hand of her husband, in token that she was willing; and then Clara was questioned, as Joseph had been. When she replied in the affirmative, Brigham said, “I pronounce you man and wife in the name of the Lord. Amen.” They were now married; and Brigham Young, Joseph A.’s first wife, and a few other friends, came home to the wedding breakfast, after which my daughter went to her own pleasant home.

Thus my worst fears were realized. My own daughter had become a polygamic wife; she was the fourth wife of her husband, Joseph A. Young.

It is a source of sorrow to any mother who really loves her children to lose them, even if it be for their own good and happiness; but in my own case there were reasons why I felt the loss of my daughter more than I should have done under ordinary circumstances. I felt quite desolate without her; for when left all alone, when my husband took his second wife, and when I had no one else to turn to, my little daughter had entwined herself about my heart in a thousand sweet and loving ways. She knew how great an influence music had over me, and how much I loved to hear her play and sing; and when she saw how sad my heart was, or caught me in tears, she would go to her piano, and lure me to her side by some sweet song which she knew was dear to my memory. But with her went all that love and gentleness which in my time of deepest trouble sustained me and kept me from absolute despair.

I have often wondered whether Joseph ever realized how great, how dear a gift, I bestowed upon him when I gave him my little Clara. But in saying this I do not mean to cast the shadow of a doubt upon his true-heartedness and love towards her. He was always kind and thoughtful, considering her comfort in everything; and although they have now been married seven years, he has never changed, but is the same to her as on the first day of their marriage. A good, kind, and gentle husband he has ever been, anticipating her every wish, tenderly and carefully guarding her from even a painful thought. My only regret has been that he is a polygamist, and she a polygamic wife.

Not long after this, my husband one day told me that a select few had been chosen to receive their Second Endowments, and that we were to be honoured with the same privilege. This I was told was one of the highest honours that could be conferred upon us, as the Second Endowments had never been given to any one since the Mormons left Nauvoo.

The glory of this privilege I did not myself, however, feel; and, notwithstanding any respect which might be intended by our names being added to the list of chosen ones, I refused to see the slightest good in the whole affair. I am afraid I was naturally perverse—or was it that the light was now beginning to dawn more clearly upon my mind? I know not. But I raised every possible objection, feeling, though I did, that all opposition on my part was useless. I knew that I should have to go, but I felt a dismal satisfaction in letting every one know how much I hated the system.

“Our” second wife—I say “our,” because I had been taught that my husband and myself were indissolubly one, even in the matter of taking wives—“our” second wife seemed the happiest of us all when the day arrived, and I believe she considered that we were very highly favoured. After preparing our Temple robes, we started for the Endowment House. The reluctance which I felt caused me to lag behind, and I was gently reminded several times that I was making myself very disagreeable. I did not, however, feel much remorse, for my husband had still one good, obedient wife walking at his side, who I knew would sympathize with him; and that, as every one is aware, is more than falls to the lot of every man.

When we reached the Endowment House, we ladies were shown into one room and our husband into another. We then proceeded to array ourselves in our robes, caps, and aprons—the same as when we received our first Endowments—and when all was ready we were ushered into another room by one of the brethren, who was also dressed in his Temple robes. There we met our husband and several other brethren, all dressed in the same way. We sat down, and oil was then poured upon the head of our husband by two of the brethren—Daniel H. Wells and another—and he was then ordained a King and Priest to all eternity. After that, we two wives were anointed in like manner, and ordained Queens and Priestesses, to reign and rule with our husband over his kingdom in the celestial world.

Had I ever solaced myself with the notion, which some Mormon women entertain, that first wives are queens over all the rest, I should have been sadly disappointed when I heard “our” second wife ordained to the same high office as myself. As it was, however, my faith was so small that I should have been quite contented had they consecrated her alone queen for Eternity, so long as they would have allowed me to rule and reign by myself in my own home for Time.

The ceremony did not last long; but it all appeared to me such folly that I was anxious to leave the place, and, though I dared not say so, I was truly ashamed to be seen coming out of the House. While going through these Endowments I was filled with a thorough contempt for everybody and everything around me, and I suppose that my feelings were visible upon my countenance; for, after leaving the House, I remember the Apostle John Taylor asking me if I did not feel well, and I told him as plainly as I dared what really was the matter. He spoke to me very kindly, and tried to reassure me; but the scales were now falling from my eyes, and all his arguments availed nothing.

Notwithstanding all this, I was not ready yet to cast off the yoke, and a few months after our Second Endowments I again gave evidence of my faith. An event occurred in the other branch of my husband’s family which produced a strong impression upon my mind—a little daughter was presented to him by his second wife. I was, of course, expected to go and visit the young mother and child, and I thought I could never bring my mind to do that.

It would be impossible for me to define my feelings at that time—loathing and hatred for him and for her, and even for the poor innocent babe, on the one side; and, on the other, thoughts of what I considered was my duty towards God, my husband, and his other lawful wife. I was bewildered. My heart said, Do not go; but my conscience said, It is your duty to treat her kindly, for she believes she has done you no wrong. Then I thought, She is a young mother, and, without you frowning upon her, sorrow will come swiftly enough to her door.

I saw that my husband was troubled as to what my feelings might be, although he had not had courage to tell me himself of the interesting event. He was afraid of paining me, and sent a lady friend with the intelligence. I spoke to him myself, and told him that I would go and see Belinda and her child. He thanked me, and said, “God bless you for that.” Then I went to see her; but I was thankful when the visit was over; and although I went again many times, and tried my very best to treat her kindly and even affectionately, I could never get over the painful feelings which agitated my mind when in her presence.

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The position of the plural wives—second, third, fourth, or twentieth, it matters not—is but a mockery, after all; and in many respects they are more to be pitied than the first wives. The first wives have known, if only for a little while, a husband’s love and care; but that has never been felt by the second wives. They are, in fact, in many respects little better than slaves; and if they are sensitive girls, their position must be extremely painful, for they must realize at all times that they are receiving the attentions of another woman’s husband; and in many instances they are even afraid to be seen speaking to their husband for fear of bringing down the wrath of the first wife upon their heads. Others, who are not so sensitive, assert their own rights and are defiant.

I am well acquainted with a pretty young Welsh girl who was a second wife. Her husband had converted her to Mormonism while he was on a mission to Europe, and when they reached Salt Lake he married her. I saw her first two years after her marriage, when one day she came to me in the greatest distress. She asked me if I would give her some employment, and, greatly surprised at the request, I asked her how she came to need anything to do, as I knew her husband could well afford to support her.

“I have left my husband,” she answered, “for I could stand no longer the ill-treatment that I received. I endured it until, as you see, my health is failing and I am broken-hearted. The creature I married has no manhood in him. He has allowed me to be treated like a slave, and has himself half-starved me, and has acted towards me with the greatest inhumanity. When I married him,” she said, “I was willing to make myself useful in the family, and I did so. But one thing after another was given me to do, until I became a regular drudge; they would not have dared to treat a hired girl in the way they treated me. I was put into a miserable little back room, and was never allowed to see any of my friends; I had to work early and late. When at last my position would not admit of my working quite so much, they punished me with all sorts of petty unkindnesses, and nearly starved me, giving me only a little flour or a few potatoes every day.

“At last,” she continued, “I went to Brother Brigham to know what I should do. He sent for my husband and talked to him a long time, and he promised to do better if I would go back with him. Brother Brigham counselled me to do so, and try him again; and I went. Soon after that, my babe was born, and then they treated me with worse unkindness.”

“Who do you mean by they?” I asked.

“I mean my husband and his wife,” she replied. “They did not seem to look upon me as a wife at all, and even in the coldest mornings, and immediately after my child was born, they used to make me get up first and light fires and prepare breakfast and begin work generally, and I was only too glad if I escaped with a little fault-finding. I stood it as long as I could, because Brother Brigham had counselled me to do so; but now I have left them again, and do not mean to return.” This was the story of one poor girl’s troubles.

Now the man, Elder Jos. Bull, who did this is a good Mormon, in good standing in the Church to-day. He is employed by the authorities, and his poor young wife is now working for the Gentiles—a much happier woman, if her face speaks truly, since her separation, although she has to support herself and child. She, like hundreds of other young girls, came to Utah without friend or relative, and this is how a good brother “took care” of her.

But I must be permitted to relate a still more painful story—the story of a poor innocent girl allured from her happy home in England by one of the most distinguished of the Mormon Apostles; brought over by him to Utah as his wife, and there suffered to die in misery and neglect.

The Apostle Orson Pratt, who is called among the Saints “The Champion of Polygamy”—a man who has devoted his life to Mormonism, and whose writings have done more than the labours of all the other Apostles to win converts to Polygamy; a man who on more than one occasion has boldly stood up against many of the absurdities and blasphemies of Brigham Young; a man upon whom, on account of his independence, Brigham has frowned, and who has consequently never attained to the wealth of his more obsequious brethren; a man who in all the ordinary affairs of life would command the respect of every one around him. This was the man who perpetrated the atrocious villainy which I am about to relate; and much against my own personal inclinations I feel compelled to tell the story, as it shows how shockingly this debasing system can pervert an otherwise upright mind.

Orson Pratt married the young girl of whom I speak in Liverpool, by special dispensation from Brigham Young; and her parents—themselves devout Mormons—thought that their daughter was highly honoured in becoming the wife of an Apostle. She was very pretty and attractive, and for a time he paid great attention to her, and brought her over to Utah as his bride. Arrived there, he utterly neglected her, and she experienced all the horrors of polygamic life.

The Apostle was living in Salt Lake City. He had left his young wife and her children in Tooele—a place about forty miles distant. There they lived in a wretched little log-cabin, the young mother supporting her little ones as best she could. When her last child was born, she was suffering all the miseries of poverty, dependent entirely upon the charity of her neighbours. At the time when most she needed the gentle sympathy of her husband’s love, that husband never came to see her.

One morning there was literally nothing in the house for herself and her children, who, knowing nothing of their mother’s sufferings, cried to her for bread.

The poor mother quieted them with a promise that they should soon have something to eat, and then she went and begged a few potatoes from a neighbour; and upon these they subsisted for three days. She then took her children with her, for they were too young to be left alone—her babe was only three weeks old—and she went round to see if she could get work of any kind to do. In this she was not successful; and at length, worn out by continual anxiety and privation, and heart-broken by the neglect which she had experienced, she sank beneath a fever which promised very soon to prove fatal.

For some time the neighbours nursed her; but they, of course, had their own families to attend to, and could not give her quite all their time, and thus occasionally she was left alone. One evening, when such was the case, she got up in a state of delirium, and barefooted, and almost destitute of clothing, took her children, and wandered forth with them into the snow. The good people of Tooele went out over the prairie, anxious to find and bring back the poor maniac, but for a long time their search was in vain. At last, not knowing whither she went, she wandered to the house of Brother Eli B. Kelsey—a “vile apostate” as Brigham Young would call him; but known to every one else, Saint, Apostate, or Gentile, as one of the best and kindest-hearted men that ever lived. In Brother Kelsey’s house she and her little ones were kindly received by him and his good wife, and their wants attended to. They were clothed and fed, and were then carried back to the log-cabin which they called their home.

Next day the Mormon Bishop of Tooele assembled the people, and money was collected and sent to Salt Lake City, to Orson Pratt, begging him to come immediately, if he wished to see his wife alive. But the Apostle did not come. At that time he was actually engaged in taking another bride, and he wanted to hear nothing of his dying wife.

Then the good Bishop sent a young man, who rode all night, to compel him immediately to take the coach for Tooele—the young man paying his fare, so that he might have no excuse. Then, at last, he came.

Arrived at the little town where his poor wife lay dying, Orson conducted himself like the philosopher he professes to be. Before him stood the hovel, within which were his deserted little ones—wailing, as if sensible of the great loss of a mother’s care which they would soon have to sustain—and there, on her dying bed, was that poor wife and mother, tossing in wild delirium. But he, the cause of all that woe, passed by that wretched hovel and its death-scene to the comfortable home of a well-to-do brother, at whose house he first obtained his supper, and then, calmly returning, entered the place where his wife was lying, and for a moment surveyed the scene. Then he quietly remarked to one of the sisters present: “She has a good deal of fever.”

Another sister, who stood by, impulsively exclaimed, “Good God! Brother Pratt, this is more than fever; she is dying.”

“Oh dear no, sister,” he calmly replied; “she will recover.”

It was evident, however, to all but Orson that his wife was dying, and that no earthly power could save her.

The next day she was still raving, and it was told me that in her wild frenzy she even attempted to strangle her babe. Orson essayed to hold her, but she caught his gold chain and snapped it in two. His touch and the sight of the chain recalled her for a moment to her senses, and she said reproachfully, “You are puffed up with pride, Orson, with your gold chain and rings, while you leave me and my babes to starve. Poor little lambs! where are they?”

For a moment the yearning of a mother’s heart for her children conquered the fever that tortured her mind, and she listened to her husband’s attempted words of comfort, as he said, “I am with you now, Eliza, and I will take care of you.”

Steadily, for a moment, she looked up into his face, and, with tears in her eyes, said mournfully: “It is too late, Orson—it is too late!”

These were the last sane words which she uttered in this life, although she still lingered on insensible.

The next morning the Apostle Pratt resolved to leave for Salt Lake City and his young bride. The Bishop, however, called a council and summoned him to remain until his wife was dead. Nevertheless he did not wish to stay, and, being an Apostle, he overruled the council. At the last moment before his intended departure, one of the sisters said: “Brother Pratt, should she die, what shall we do with her?”

“Oh, she won’t die,” he replied.

“But should she?” the sister urged.

“Then bury her with her children,” he answered.

After much solicitation, he was prevailed upon to remain for a few hours, and the next morning his wife died. The language of her last moments, as she raved and tossed in mad delirium, showed how terrible had been her mental agony, and how much she had suffered from this frightful system.

But one might easily fill a large volume with stories quite as cruel as this. It is simply absurd to expect that it should be otherwise. Men and women can train and discipline their minds, they can crush out the affections of their hearts if they will; but no effort of man can change man’s nature entirely, or root out altogether humanity from the soul. Women may endure, as that poor woman did whose story I have just related, but they never can get perfectly adapted to the system of “Celestial Marriage.” The nearer they approach to its requirements, the further they recede from all that is held good and noble in womanhood; and as for the men, they are brutalized by every effort which they make to conform to it.

During the summer, about three years ago, a young-looking woman, very shabbily dressed, came frequently to my house with heavy baskets of fruit, which she entreated me to buy. One day she said: “You do not remember me, Sister Stenhouse, I think, and I do not wonder, for I am so changed. I have to work very hard now, for all I have to live upon is what I can make by selling fruit, or any little work that I can get my neighbours to give me to do; and if my husband could prevent even that, I believe he would. I am obliged to gather my fruit at night and hide it from him, and that is why I urged you so to buy, for I never know when I may meet him.”

I was very much surprised at this, as her husband, I knew, was getting a good salary, and appeared to be a most gentlemanly man. His first wife, I was aware, had left him, it was said, on account of cruelty and neglect, and he had married this one just after her arrival from England. I had every reason to believe that she had been a good wife to him, and a mother to his motherless children; but he had taken another wife since he married her, and had cruelly neglected this poor woman, leaving her his first wife’s children to take care of. She said that he was again paying his addresses to another still, and she expected that he would soon marry her. And yet this woman [his second wife] told me that all he had left for her and the children to live on was a sack of bran and about fifty pounds of corn meal. Everything else had been taken to the third wife, even to the best articles of furniture.

She said: “One evening I had been sitting in the porch in my rocking-chair, when he came in and remained about an hour. As soon as he left, I went out to bring in the chair, and was just in time to see him carrying it off. I knew where he was going with it.” I saw this poor woman frequently, and bought her fruit often when I did not need it, for it grieved me to see her carrying such heavy loads in her then delicate situation. After a time I lost sight of her, and then I heard that she was dead. One day her own daughter—for she was a widow when she married this man—came to me before leaving the city. “I am going away to some friends,” she said, “for I will never live near that man; he killed my mother; he kicked her so severely that she never recovered, and when her child was born, they both died from the effects of the blows which she had received—and I hate him.”

The first wife of “Brig.” Hampton, one of the Mormon authorities, told me how her husband whipped her because she would not consent to his stripping their home of everything that was either useful or handsome in order to furnish a house for his second wife. Finally, he shut her up while he took her entire parlour furniture away. She was a fragile little woman, and perfectly helpless when in the power of a strong man, and therefore was forced to submit, as there was no appeal to law in Utah.

It is a very difficult thing for a woman, after listening, day after day, to such tales of woe and misery, and knowing them to be true, to retain any respect for a polygamist, whoever he may be. For my own part I regard them all with such feelings of loathing that I can hardly speak civilly of them, and would prefer never to speak to them. I know scores of ladies—married ladies—Mormon ladies, who in secret feel and speak just as I do upon this subject.

For many years past the American Elders have derived a rich harvest from Britain and Scandinavia. After the introduction of Polygamy, an Elder was seldom known to return from Mission without bringing with him one, two, and sometimes three young girls, or else arranging in some way for their emigration. The Missionaries, however, preferred, whenever it was possible, to bring the girls with them; for if they trusted them to the care of a brother returning before or after, he very frequently turned traitor, and carried off the prize himself.

The Elders were not permitted to marry these extra wives while on or returning from a mission, unless they had special permission from Brigham Young. But quite a number of the poor weak brethren were so impulsive and so anxious to be married, that they could not wait for the ceremonies of the Endowment House. One conscientious Swiss brother, named Loba, who could find no one willing to take the responsibility of marrying him while crossing the Plains, said that as he was an Elder he could just as well marry himself, and be under no obligation to anybody; and he did so. He had fallen in love with a little miss—a mere child, about one quarter of his own age.

Many men have married wives, and have brought them home, before their first wives knew even that they were in love. They had not had courage to introduce the subject, but believed that when the wife found that it was done, and could not be undone, she would see the uselessness of feeling badly, and would soon get over it. But no wife who has been thus treated ever did “get over it.” What can a man know of woman’s nature who would dare to act thus towards her, and think that she would become reconciled to such treatment?

What strange ideas the Mormon men must have of woman’s nature if they believe that women can submit to such treatment as this and still love them! What folly to think even of love!

It would be very wrong for me to say that there are no men who try to be just in the practice of Polygamy, for I know many who try their very best to act impartially to all their wives; but this is not really the result of their religion, about which some of these men appear to care very little. I feel sure that if they are good men, notwithstanding the evil effects of Mormonism upon them, they would have been much better men without it.

On the other hand, I have known men who, before they became Mormons, were reputed good husbands and fathers, but who afterwards became cold and harsh in their natures, cruel to their wives, and neglectful to their children. It seemed as if they thought of nothing else but courting the girls and taking more wives, altogether regardless as to whether they could support them or not.

Some of the Elders, finding that they might not marry plural wives before they reached Utah, have bound the girls by solemn vows and covenants to marry them when they arrived in Salt Lake Valley; and the poor girls, believing that, because these men were Missionaries, all they said and did must be right, have often—in fact, in almost every instance—to their own great injury, kept their “covenants” and married the men to whom they were vowed. I have known personally and intimately several women who have in this way ruined their prospects and blighted the hopes of their whole lives, and sadder stories than theirs could not be told.

My husband had again left Salt Lake City, and had gone to “the States,” as we then called “going East;” for it was such a long journey that we felt ourselves altogether out of the pale of civilization. I felt, therefore, comparatively free; for I could now, whenever I desired to do so, walk out, or visit a friend, without the constant dread of meeting him and his wife. It always humiliated me to see them together, although I believed that it was perfectly right that my husband should show attentions to his other wife. It was not now jealousy that I felt—the day of jealous feeling was long past. I felt disgusted, and I was humbled at the sight of them. At one time, for nearly six months, I remained at home, never going further than my own garden, simply for the reason that I feared to meet her in the presence of any of my friends—particularly any of my Gentile friends; or worse still, with him.

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At one time I had almost begun to think that my husband had seen enough of the discomforts and heartlessness of polygamic life, and that his eyes were looking back wishfully to the time when, as the old Scotch ballad says:

My faith in my own acuteness and perception was, however, very considerably shaken when one day he told me that he thought it was about time for him to think of taking another wife. I suppose he expected that I should express some astonishment or offer objections, for he proceeded to give me excellent reasons for what he was about to do. His greatly improved circumstances; his desire to sustain his brethren; and, above all, the necessity that he should “build up a kingdom!”

There was no gainsaying all this. The Lord had certainly very greatly blessed him in basket and in store; it was, moreover, praiseworthy in him to wish to sustain his brethren; and nobody could deny that he ought to have a “kingdom!” To crown all, the young lady whom he proposed to honour this time could not possibly be objected to by any loyal Saint, for she was of the seed royal of the modern Israel—a daughter of the high-priestly house of Brigham Young!

I suppose, if I had been a right-minded woman, I should have felt the great glory that there was in the proposed alliance. But, in point of fact, such is the perversity of human nature, I did not feel at all pleased, although I could say nothing in objection. I had had some slight suspicion that my husband’s eyes, to say nothing of his heart, had lately been inclined to wander in a certain direction, for he had become so particularly regular in his attendance at the theatre. I mentioned the matter to him once or twice, but he answered that as an editor it was a matter of necessity for him to attend, and that he ought to be there always. This I might, perhaps, have believed, had it not been that it was now several years since his paper was first established, and hitherto his personal attendance at every representation had not been considered absolutely indispensable. Reporters had been able to do all that was necessary.

His proposal to marry this young lady, now it was openly stated, shed light upon many things which had before appeared to me rather obscure. Her name was Zina, and she was the daughter of Mrs. Zina D. Huntington Jacobs, whom I have already mentioned as one of the Prophet’s wives. She was one of the actresses in the theatre—for many of Brigham’s daughters at that time took part in the representations—and I had frequently observed very pretty little notices of her in the Salt Lake Daily Telegraph.

I did not much care now how many wives my husband took—he might as well have twenty, as the one too many which he already had—his marriage to another could not possibly make me feel any worse, provided I was not compelled to associate with her. I had resolved that I would never live on familiar terms with his other wives—not because I might disrespect or dislike them personally, but because I could not overcome the purer and better teachings of my early life.

My husband in due form proposed, and was accepted; and it was soon rumoured abroad that he was going to many one of the “President’s” daughters—Brigham is always spoken of as “President” Young among the Saints. In the course of a day or two they were formally “engaged,” and a more loving couple could not possibly have been found. The young lady herself afterwards told me that their love was of no ordinary kind, and I’m sure I did not doubt her word. But consider how pleasant such intelligence must have been to a wife!

Zina’s friends, who wished to cheer me up and make me happy, told me that my husband’s love for her was perfectly engrossing; they “thought he could never have really loved before”—“there was something very beautiful in their loves!”

Zina pitied us, I know, when she realized that we could never know the great depth of our husband’s love for her. She spoke and acted as if this were how she felt; and I have no doubt that she intended, after her marriage with our husband, to treat us with great kindness and consideration, as a sort of recompense for what we never had truly known, and never could know now—our husband’s love!

As is almost always the case when the husband takes a third wife, a better state of feeling was brought about between my own husband’s second wife and myself. Belinda no longer centred all her jealousy in me. She now, to a certain extent, began to realize what I had suffered when my husband courted her; she felt badly, and I really did sympathize with her when I remembered how young she was, and that she was the mother of three little children. She had her moiety of a husband, it is true; but, like all other polygamic wives, that was her misfortune rather than her comfort and strength. Many a wife would be happier were she a widow; in fact, widows are the happiest class of women in Utah, for they realize that it is far better to have a dead sorrow than a living one.

Now, our husband always maintained that he was not in love with Miss Zina, but that in making love to her he was acting entirely from principle. So all the brethren say, and I have never yet heard of any one of them ever confessing—except, of course, to the maiden herself—that he was in love. To the maiden herself he says, not only that, but a great deal more. But if our husband, at the time of which I speak, was not in love, the saints forbid that I should ever see him in that condition! I am sure when I heard his fiancée speaking of their devotion to each other, and of the fond attachment of her heart to him (for she felt no delicacy in speaking to me—his wife—about such matters), I came to the conclusion that I had never known what it was to really love, and that my nature was too crude and unrefined to understand the mysteries of the tender passion. There was no love in the case, our husband told us—all pure duty!

Long courtships had become quite fashionable among the brethren in Salt Lake City, and I dreaded a long courtship more than anything else, for there is so much that is humiliating, and I might even say disgusting, to a wife when her husband is engaged in love-making to another woman, that I hoped, as much as possible, to be spared passing through such an ordeal a second time.

As the accepted lover and affianced husband of Brother Brigham’s daughter, our husband was, of course, constantly in attendance at the Prophet’s house. But he was not the only good brother who spent his evenings in Brigham Young’s parlour; for it was then—and I suppose it is to-day—a regular rendezvous for middle-aged and young men, and even boys; and there the Prophet’s little girls, as well as those who were grown or growing up, obtained an excellent training in the art of flirting and courting.

It has always been said among the Saints that Brigham’s girls, and the daughters of Daniel H. Wells, were the boldest and least retiring maidens to be found in Salt Lake City, and that they presumed greatly upon their imaginary high position; which position nobody but themselves cared anything about. It is well known that the very people upon whom they look down are those who rightly should receive their warmest gratitude and respect, on account of the more than liberal support which they have given to their father, even to the detriment of their own children.

When first I heard that my husband had set his affections upon one of these girls, I felt convinced that he could not have made a very wise choice; and I could not help dreading that the mere fact of my husband having selected a daughter of the Prophet as his future wife would bring trouble upon us all. What shape that trouble would take I could form no conjecture, but I felt sure that a change of some sort was fast approaching. My faith was almost gone; I felt the degrading position in which the “Celestial” system placed me and my children, and it seemed to me that I could no longer endure it. My children I could not, and would not leave, but it was impossible for me to continue to live as I had been living; nor would I think of bringing up my children any longer to believe and live a religion which had so cruelly blighted my own life. It was for them that I feared now; I felt that for their sake I must break away from this horrible system.

My own life, I thought, was not worth caring for, but the idea of my little girls growing up and following in my footsteps and enduring as I had endured, was more than I could bear. Something must be done to save them from such a fate.

About this time I procured a copy of the “Revelation on Celestial Marriage,” and read it through carefully and calmly, from beginning to end. The reader may, perhaps, remember that when a copy of it was first given to me, in Switzerland, years before, I was so angry and indignant that when I had got only partly through it I cast it from me in disgust as an outrage upon all that was good and true. From that time, although I had heard portions of it quoted and read, I had never perused it as a whole. On two occasions, at least, my friend Mary Burton was very near reading it through with me, and had we done so, I have not the slightest doubt that my eyes would have been opened to the absurdity and wickedness of the whole system, and years of wretchedness would have been spared me.

Such, however, was not the case. It was not until I had almost drained the cup of sorrow and degradation that, at last, I found an antidote in the deadly thing itself which had been the source of all my unhappiness. I was acting upon the homœopathic principle—“similia similibus curantur”—and using a dose of poison to cure a disease caused by that poison.

As I read, I saw plainly, from the wording of the document, that if ever it was given to Joseph Smith—no matter by whom—it was given long after he had practised Polygamy—or something as bad—and to sanction what he had already done. I had read in the Book of Mormon:

“David and Solomon truly had many wives and concubines, which thing was an abomination before me, saith the Lord.... Hearken to the Word of the Lord: for there shall not any man among you have, save it be one wife; and concubines he shall have none.” [Book of Mormon, p. 118.]

In the Book of the Covenants, given through Joseph Smith, and held sacred by every Saint, I had read:

“Thou shalt love thy wife with all thy heart, and cleave unto her and none else.” [Book of Covenants, p. 124.]

And yet when I turned to the “Revelation” I found in the very first clause:

“Verily, thus saith the Lord unto my servant Joseph, that inasmuch as you have enquired at my hand, to know and understand wherein I, the Lord, justified [!] my servants Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, as also Moses, David and Solomon, my servants, as touching the principle and doctrine of their having many wives and concubines,” &c.

What could I possibly think of a “Prophet” who, after having the law laid down so clearly, and being told so distinctly that the doings of David and Solomon were an “abomination,” and that a man should have but one wife, should enquire of the Lord how He “justified” the very things which He had just declared were “an abomination” unto Him?—Then, too, what blasphemy to represent God as one day giving a “Revelation” declaring a thing sinful, and the next day “justifying” it! I felt perfectly humiliated with myself that I had never before had the courage to look the matter calmly in the face and discover, as I must have discovered, had I only used my unaided reason, the shameful imposture which had been palmed upon us. I now made careful enquiry, and it was soon clear to me that evidence was not wanting to prove that the doctrine of plural marriages originated in the licentious hearts of Joseph Smith and those associated with him. When once I was convinced of that, the whole fabric of my religion crumbled before my eyes; and from that time I can hardly say that I had faith in anything that had been taught me.

My husband’s second wife was also very unhappy now. She, too, after the general rule, had flattered herself that she was “his first and only love,” and it was not pleasant to have her dream of happiness dispelled; but now that another “jewel” was to be added to our husband’s crown, she could no longer deceive herself. She little knew, poor girl, when she married, that a Mormon’s heart is like a honeycomb—there is always a vacant cell wherein another may nestle.

Real trouble, too, she had. One of her children was taken very sick, and after a very severe illness died. I remained with her night and day, and did what I could for the poor child. Had it been possible for me to have felt a greater loathing and detestation for that vile system of Polygamy, that feeling would have been conceived while I watched at the bedside of my husband’s dying child. It was there that I vowed that no polygamists should ever marry another daughter of mine, and resolved that to my dying day my voice should be raised against the unholy and unnatural teachings of the Mormon Priesthood. I looked at that lonely young mother, who in her hour of trial ought to have had all her husband’s sympathy, all his attention, to support her; but who, instead, knew that, however kind he might be to her, he was contemplating a new marriage, and his thoughts must of necessity be more or less with his purposed bride. All unkind feeling was banished from my heart—I forgot that she was my husband’s wife, and remembered only that, like myself, she was a suffering woman, a victim to a false faith; and I felt very deeply for her in her time of sorrow and bereavement.

My husband, at this time, had been a member of the Mormon Church for twenty-five years. He had lectured, preached, written and published, in Great Britain, Switzerland, and the United States, in support of the Mormon faith. He had been a most earnest and consistent member of the Church, and devotedly attached to Brigham Young. This attachment to Brother Brigham he shared in common with all the staunchest of his brethren; for while the members of the Church retain unshaken confidence in the new revelation, they naturally acquire a great regard for the Prophet, and render him unquestioning obedience. I believe that my husband would willingly have laid down his life, if by so doing he could have shielded Brigham Young from harm or have been of essential service to him.

But causes were now in operation which, by-and-by, detached him from the Church, and made it possible for me also to leave the Mormon faith. Hitherto, for my children’s sake, I dared not leave the Church without my husband, and I therefore anxiously watched for anything which might rescue him from the bondage in which he was held.

As proprietor of a daily paper, his business had frequently called him to the Eastern States for several months at a time, and I observed that after those visits his editorials took a more liberal turn. My Mormon friends frequently said to me, “Brother Stenhouse is doing himself no good by his constant association with the Gentiles;” and subsequently, when he did apostatize, our secession from the Church was attributed to contaminating Gentile influences.

Then, too, we had frequent visits from strangers passing through Salt Lake City. I saw, with pleasure, that this intercourse with the outside world was gradually undermining my husband’s confidence in the teachings of the Elders, and it gave me courage to hope that, after all, the day of liberty might dawn at last. Feeling as I did thus, it will not surprise the reader that I regarded with more and more distrust the proposed marriage of my husband to Brother Brigham’s daughter; for I felt that then he would be deeper than ever in the toils of the Priesthood, and I sometimes almost believed that it was my duty to use every influence in my power to prevent it.

Putting my own feelings out of the question, it is probable that I might have done this simply for his own good; for I doubted not that some day the scales must fall from his eyes, and then he would be thankful that I had prevented the marriage. Our paths by this time had certainly diverged far asunder, and my husband had another wife and family; but I believed that he was sincere, though sadly mistaken, or I should not have felt so kindly towards him as I did.

At other times, and observing his devotion, I almost myself began to think that perhaps the nonsense that I had heard was, after all, true, and that this girl was the only one he had really loved; and, if so, of course he ought to marry her. In fact, so divided was my attention that I hardly knew what to think; I therefore resolved to act according to circumstances.

Brigham Young, in one of his sermons, says that “the first thing manifested in the case of apostasy was the idea that the Prophet was liable to make a mistake: when a man believes that, he has taken the first step towards apostasy; he need only take one step more, and he is out of the Church.” This was spoken of Joseph and his saints, but it suits just as well Brigham and his; I knew very well that my husband had taken the first step, and I sincerely hoped that he might soon take the second. For my own part, I had for some time not only believed that a Prophet might be mistaken, but, as Brother Heber would say, I knew it.

My husband and his bride elect, like all other lovers, had frequent little quarrels—I suppose for the purpose of making up again, and being then all the more ardent in their affection. But they now had a disagreement which lasted longer than all that had gone before; although I suppose that neither of them had, at that time, the slightest idea how it was going to end. They had been courting for fifteen months at least, and after so much devotion on the part of my husband, and so much fervent affection on the part of the young lady, it really did seem too bad that so large an amount of love should be thrown away. It was hard that after such a long strain upon their religious and devotional feelings—for they were both very pious lovers—all their labour of love should come to nought. Things had certainly taken a twist, for I knew well enough that at one time they both firmly believed that their marriage was pre-ordained in heaven, and that they were as completely one in feeling as mortals ever could be. The mother, too, who was a very pious woman, once told my husband that she had had a vision in which it was revealed to her that they were destined for each other in the eternal worlds:—the lovers of course firmly believed her. But, for all that, the estrangement still continued, and my husband was constantly making it wider by the articles which appeared in his paper, until at last certain of the sisters whispered that the heart of the lady had been attracted towards some brighter luminary.

Long courtships often end disastrously; but when I heard rumours of the lady’s presumed faithlessness, it seemed to me hardly fair, for the day had been fixed for the marriage and the wedding-dress actually made. Of course I sympathized with my husband. Would any wife like to see her husband disappointed in his love-affairs with another woman, I wonder?

While under these natural feelings of indignation, I one day told Brigham Young that I thought, after all the courting that had been done—and it was not a trifle—they certainly ought to be married. He said he was willing enough himself, if they wished it; but girls, he said, often changed their minds, and as they could but have one husband, it was only fair that their wishes should be consulted. “If Zina has really changed her mind,” he added, “I have plenty of other daughters, and they have all got to be married; let him take one of them—if one won’t another will!” The reader will see the liberal ideas which Brother Brigham entertains on the subject of marriage.

It may, perhaps, seem rather strange that I should be anxious to have them marry; but, after all that I had seen and endured in Polygamy, can it be wondered at that I should no longer regard the father of my children as my own husband? Had I thought him a bad man, or had he acted as I know many of the good brethren do act; had he brought home girl after girl with the hope of alluring one or more of them into Polygamy, or had he been utterly reckless of my feelings, I might perhaps have been able to cast him from my heart without a single regret. But I really believed that he was acting consistently with the teachings of his religion, and if I felt degraded by the life I lived, it was not his fault—it was the fault of the system. I therefore felt that if things came to the worst, and if I were driven to extremities, and forced to separate from him, I should like to know that he had a wife whom he loved. I felt certain that there was now but little love between him and his second wife, and that some day a separation was sure to take place. The idea of divorce was so repugnant to my feelings that it was only in moments when grief overpowered me, and my heart was wrung with anguish, and I felt utterly reckless, that I for one moment thought of anything like it. Even then I only entertained the idea of a separate life—not divorce.

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Mormonism had been, to my husband, everything. It had for years grown with his growth, until it had become a part of himself. Doubts had occasionally crept into his mind, it is true, but it required time to effect a change. The measures adopted by Brigham Young in the spring of 1869, for the purpose of controlling the commerce of Utah, as well as the property and faith of the people, caused great discontent. The teachings of the Tabernacle were wild and arrogant, and Brigham assumed that it was his right to dictate in everything, “even,” he said, “to the setting up of a stocking or the ribbons which a woman should wear.” Many of the people, when they heard these words and witnessed the fanaticism created thereby, were aroused to opposition, but Brigham only became more fierce in his denunciations and more harsh in his measures.

I could plainly see that all this had the, to me, much desired effect of alienating my husband from Mormonism, and I never allowed an opportunity of strengthening the impression thus produced to pass unimproved. The articles in his paper showed the condition of his mind, and brought down upon him the wrath of Brigham. At this also I rejoiced, and did not fail to make him feel that he ought to resent the Prophet’s interference. Brigham felt too certain of the submission of his slave, and accused Mr. Stenhouse of having published favourable notices of Gentile stores, also of having their advertisements in his paper, and otherwise aiding and abetting the wicked Gentiles—all which accusations my husband began to feel was an infringement upon his own private personal rights as a citizen and a man. One circumstance followed another, and I could plainly see that his confidence in Brigham’s inspiration was slowly but surely dwindling away, and that the day which I had so long anxiously watched for was breaking at last. Notwithstanding this, however, there was one bond which still united him by no weak tie to the Church—he was a Polygamist. The contemplated marriage between him and Brigham’s daughter could, I believed, never now take place; but, even allowing that, he still had another wife; and now that I had entirely lost faith in Mormonism generally, and the “Celestial Order of Marriage” in particular, I resolved that I would no longer have a partner in my husband’s affections—as if he were a “joint-stock concern!”—I would have the whole of my husband, or none. I had not yet, however, sufficient courage to speak to him of my feelings.

One Sunday evening, Mr. Stenhouse, when he came home, said to me: “Brother Brigham has given me a mission; he wishes me to go to Ogden and publish my paper there.”

I can imagine I see some strong-minded woman smile at the idea of a wife wanting courage to speak to her husband. But such women do not know what Mormonism is.

This was very unexpected news; but with the vividness of lightning, a glimpse of what the Prophet intended by such a strange proposition flashed across my mind. “He wishes to ruin us!” I exclaimed; “you surely will not go!”

Now Brigham, of course, knew that my husband’s paper had a large circulation in Utah Territory as well as in Salt Lake City, and that his business was in a most prosperous condition; he knew also that to do aught that might impair or destroy that business would be to bring misery and disaster upon all who were dependent upon it for their daily bread. And yet, for all that, he told my husband to break up his establishment, or in his own words, “to pull up root and branch,” and go to a place where the people were so miserably poor that it was impossible to make a newspaper successful among them.

In all this the crafty Prophet no doubt acted wisely. The Daily Telegraph would in all probability become a power in the Territory, and he feared that in a short time it would emancipate itself from his control.

I do not doubt that, long before this time, he had noted that my husband was weakening in the faith; but he had waited for his opportunity, and now he considered that it had come. We knew very well that this was the way in which he had always acted towards those whom he feared or doubted; when he saw them growing weak in the faith he ruined them, or did the best he could to that effect, before they finally left the Church. I urged my husband to resist this arbitrary decree on the part of the Prophet, and represented strongly the misery which would result from his failure, and the utter impossibility of success. But I soon found that, though he doubted Brigham, his faith in Mormonism was by no means all gone—he, like many another, feared that in disobeying Brigham, perhaps, after all, he might be resisting God. He could see the wrong-doing of the Prophet, and felt that his conduct was unworthy of one who pretended to such great things; but be regarded this as the weakness of the Prophet’s humanity, at the same time believing that in matters of religion he might be divinely inspired. He was still so under the influence of the past that he could not yet break asunder the yoke and bid defiance to Brigham and the Priesthood. He told me that now was the time for him to prove his obedience, cost what it might; and all the brethren urged him to submit, saying that the Lord would overrule everything for his good.

Believing this, he broke up his establishment at Salt Lake City, and went, as “counselled,” to Ogden. There he remained for several months, during which time he was losing money every day. Finding at last that he could stand it no longer, he asked Brigham Young’s permission to return and recommence his paper in Salt Lake City, for no one then dared stir a foot without permission. This was granted, for Brigham had now accomplished his purpose. But some of our friends told me that the teachers, when making their weekly visits, were telling the people not to take in Brother Stenhouse’s paper again, if he came back to Salt Lake City, for he was apostatizing, and they must not sustain an Apostate. Now, I thought, my husband will believe that I was right in my judgment of Brigham’s motives.

My own family and that of the second wife did not accompany my husband to Ogden; he was therefore quite at home when he returned, but the expense of transferring his business from one place to another was perfectly ruinous. He had not only purchased valuable property, as I before mentioned, in the City, but he had also realized quite a comfortable little fortune by the success of his paper; but now the property had to be mortgaged, and his fortune was, of course, utterly insufficient for these heavy daily losses. Just then, the severe illness of my eldest son, in San Francisco, made it necessary that we should leave immediately to attend him, for we had received intelligence that he was not at all likely to recover. As it was my own son who was sick, my husband had very naturally determined that I should accompany him; but this brought on such a severe fit of jealousy on the part of his young wife, who already was by no means too happy, that when we returned, after my son’s recovery, she threatened to obtain a divorce. My husband told me of this, but I had so frequently heard such threats from wives who were unhappy or neglected that I thought little about it.

One day, not long after our return, I was quite surprised to see Mr. Stenhouse and Joseph A. Young drive up to the door, looking as if something of great importance had just transpired. Mr. Stenhouse jumped out of his buggy and hurriedly gave me a letter, as I thought—at the same time saying, “Take great care of this, for it makes me a free man again.” Saying this, he left the house, jumped into the buggy again, and was gone, while I stood holding the paper, wondering what it all could mean.

My husband had told me to “take care” of the paper. He neither said “read it” or “don’t read it,” and, of course, I was not in the least curious. The envelope was not sealed, so I made up my mind that, though he had not said so, he must have wished me to read what was inside, and at any rate I resolved to risk doing so. To my astonishment I found that the document which he said set him free was nothing else than a bill of divorce between him and his young wife. It appeared afterwards that she had been to Brother Brigham, had told him of her grievances, and had asked for a divorce.

Now when the wife of any man who is of good standing in the Church, and whom Brigham wishes to honour, comes to him for a divorce, he generally sends for the husband first, tells him about it, and they talk it over together. The husband is counselled to “make the matter up,” and a compromise is effected. In the case of my husband, Brigham acted otherwise. The clerk had been directed to make out the papers, which the second wife signed, and, as far as she was concerned, her marriage was dissolved. My husband was then notified that he was wanted at the Prophet’s office, and he had a very shrewd guess as to what the nature of the business was for which his presence was desired. He waited till the afternoon, when he knew that Brigham would be absent, and then as he was driving out with Joseph A., the Prophet’s son, he drew up before the office and asked Joseph to accompany him inside in order to witness a little business which he had to transact. Joseph agreed; but when he found what the business really was, he strongly urged my husband not to sign the papers, or, at least, to take time and consult with President Young first. Mr. Stenhouse, however, never for a moment doubted that Brigham had expected by this hasty move to bring him to his feet, and he would not therefore yield. So, asking the clerk for the papers, he signed them, and Joseph also signed them as a witness; the other witness was David Mackenzie, Brigham’s clerk. Belinda had already affixed her name. Ten dollars were then handed over as the usual fee. My husband took one copy of the “bill of divorce,” the wife had a right to a second copy, and the third was deposited in the archives of Zion. My husband had then, as we have seen, hastened home to tell me that he was “a free man:” and yet these two had been “sealed” to each other at the altar in the Endowment House “for all eternity!”

This is the way that divorces are granted in Utah. There is not the slightest difficulty about them, if only Brother Brigham is willing. The reader would, perhaps, be interested in seeing one of these terrible documents. I therefore append a true, perfect, and exact copy of my husband’s own bill of divorce. It is a fac-simile—type, signatures, and all. This is a specimen of an orthodox divorce among the bon ton in Salt Lake City. Out in the Settlements they do things in a much more primitive style, and some of their documents are rather amusing. The following is a correct copy of a Mormon divorce bill taken from the records of Beaver City:—

I could, if space permitted, give many others equally interesting.

I cannot say that I was much grieved at the sight of my husband’s divorce. At the same time, long training in the school of trouble had hardened my heart and rendered me almost indifferent, and I cannot say that I very greatly rejoiced. Nature adapts us morally, as well as physically, to the positions which we have to occupy in life. The hand of him who labours much becomes hard, the unshodden foot grows horny, and the heart which at first is tender and, like the Æolian harp, ready to answer to the slightest passing breath, by and by, beneath the rough hand of trial and the world, becomes callous and stony, and the roughest storms and the sweetest pleasures alike seem to make little impression upon it.

Thus it was with me when I received that paper. A few years before, a reliable assurance that my husband would never enter into Polygamy would have been to me the realization of my best earthly wishes. But now my heart was almost dead, and I felt as if I hardly cared one way or the other. If I felt thus, who had still all my darling children around me, who had never missed one dear little face from the fireside or from the table, what must have been endured by those mothers who not only gave away their husbands to other wives, but who lost child after child, until, bereft of all they loved on earth, they could but, like Rachael, sit down in ashes and mourn for the dead?

But the more I thought over what had happened, the more doubtful I felt as to what the result would be. That there would be some great change in our life, I felt assured; but to me the change was coming almost too late. Then, too, the young wife who in her hasty anger had obtained the divorce. I felt that her happiness must surely be gone, and I could not bear the thought that my peace should be purchased with the sorrows of another. Brother Brigham’s part in the matter was also ever present in my mind. That he had resolved to bring ruin upon my husband I did not now for a moment doubt. But if a weak woman’s efforts could in any way assist in thwarting his designs, I fully resolved that he never should have the satisfaction of seeing those designs successful. I would stand by my husband, I would work for and assist him, and would give not even a passing thought to what I might have suffered, or remember that he had ever loved others better than myself. I would be to him now the true wife that before God I had vowed to be, for worse as well as for better; and however I myself might have been wronged, I would, for my part, endeavour faithfully to perform my whole duty to my husband and to God.

After I had formed this mental resolution, and had begun to realize our new position, I felt as if awakening from a long dream of many years. I was released from the clutches of that frightful nightmare—Polygamy; and I could once more take my place beside my husband as his wife. I knew that he would have much to contend against, and would need all the moral support that I could accord to him. Brigham’s efforts in respect to my husband’s paper had been far too successful, and although it was still carried on, fresh difficulties sprang up every day. My husband had been deceived by Brigham’s oily manner and plausible way; but to others his intention in sending him away was no secret. A man named Bull, who is now and was also at that time employed in the Deseret News office, said that no one but Mr. Stenhouse had ever been deceived by what the Prophet had done; it was commonly reported that Brigham intended to ruin my husband, and that when he prophesied that the paper in Ogden should be a great success, he was himself perfectly aware that it was utterly impossible that such could be the case.

Whether Brigham was the deceiver or the deceived, I do not wish to say. Men who consider themselves inspired, and go on day by day uttering all sorts of nonsense and blasphemy, and giving impertinent and mischievous advice in the “name of the Lord,” at last become thoroughly impervious to reason, and daily and hourly deceive themselves. I hope, for his own sake, it was so with Brigham, for I would rather believe him a self-made fool than a downright knave; and in many of his transactions—perhaps I ought almost to say all—it is clear to every one that he is either one or the other. Of one thing I am certain—I was fully contented that we should lose all, if only my husband were taken, once and for ever, clean out of the meshes of Mormonism. We might have to make a terrible sacrifice, but to me it was a sacrifice well worth the making.

---

It was about this time that one morning, very early, before I was well up, a young girl came to the house in a great hurry, asking to speak to me without a moment’s delay.

I threw a wrapper round me, and went out at once to see her. She said she came from the house of Sister Mary Burton, and begged me to come directly and see her, for Mary had taken poison, and it was thought she was dying.

Now, I have been so much engaged of late in telling my own sorrows, that Mary Burton has quite dropped out of my story. But it must not be supposed that all that time I saw nothing of my poor friend. On the contrary, I had seen her much more frequently of late than I used to when I first came to Salt Lake City. When I last spoke of her it was when she was about to return to Southern Utah, where she and her husband then resided. It was evident to me from her conversation, as it must have been to the reader, that her faith in Mormonism had even then entirely gone; that she felt her husband’s neglect and unkindness most keenly, and that she had become a miserable, broken-hearted woman. It was very painful to contrast what she now was with what she had been when I first knew her, and then to think what a happy wife and mother she might have been if the spectre of Mormonism had not crossed her path.

Mary and her husband, Elder Shrewsbury, left the Settlements about a year after the time I last mentioned her, and took up their abode in Salt Lake City. Elder Shrewsbury had prospered exceedingly, and when he came to Salt Lake he brought with him, besides Mary, his second wife, Ellen, who, as we before noticed, had become very much attached to her. The other three wives and their children were left at the farm in Southern Utah. He would probably have brought them all with him, had there been in the city a house large enough to hold them all. As it was, he purchased a good lot about half a mile from where we resided, with a comfortable house upon it; and there his first and second wives lived together. This was the man who had solemnly sworn before God, that he would never practise Polygamy! But I doubt if Elder Shrewsbury, with his comfortable house in the city, his farm and lands in the South, his fast increasing property, and his many wives, felt truly the hundredth part of the happiness which he would have experienced in the devotion of one faithful heart, even had it been in the midst of poverty and care. He, however, poor infatuated man, did not think thus; he was actually even now courting a young girl of about seventeen years of age, who the two wives daily expected would be brought home to aid in building up their husband’s “Kingdom.” I do not think Mary cared much about this. It was the taking of the first plural wife that was her great sorrow. After that, her love for her husband weakened, until it altogether died out, and she did not care how many wives he took.

Mary’s high spirit was always urging her into rebellion. In married life both husband and wife give way to each other in a thousand little things, of no consequence in themselves, but quite sufficient, without the presence of love, to sow the seeds of discord. But when love has fled, and the husband looks upon his wife—the companion of his youth, the mother of his children—not as the partner of his whole life and the sharer of all his joys and sorrows, but as a person whose presence is a reproach to him and who is an inconvenience rather than otherwise; and when the wife regards her husband as one whom formerly she loved with true devotion, but who has cruelly broken her heart and trampled upon her feelings, and who is nothing to her now but a tyrant whose very presence is painful to her, can there then be any forbearance, any of those gentle kindnesses, any of those loving forgivenesses, any of those mutual tendernesses and sweet confidences which constitute the charm of married life?

In giving up Mormonism, my unhappy friend gave up, as too many have done, faith in all else. She had lived, as she thought, a life of religion; and when she found what a terrible mockery of all that is holy that so-called religion was, she cast it aside, thinking that all religion was vain. She did not see that she would have acted just as wisely in rejecting all food because she chanced to partake of some that was poisoned; she did not see that, although the broken reed on which she rested was unable to yield her any true support, nevertheless the everlasting foundations of eternal truth which God Himself has laid can never be removed; and that though creeds and systems may fail and pass away, only to give place to others equally unsatisfactory, yet those divine verities are established for ever, are beyond the reach of earthly vicissitudes, and know nothing of time or change.

Utterly miserable and sick at heart, Mary cared not whether she lived or died. There was nothing to bind her to life, and beyond the life of this world she was altogether without hope. A more wretched existence it is scarcely possible to imagine.

While they were still in the Settlements, she treated the other wives with the greatest contempt, sitting by them at the table or passing them in the house without vouchsafing a look or a word. Her husband, as might be expected, avoided her whenever it was possible, and the other wives returned her coldness and disdain, and in turn annoyed her as much as they could when they were not too busy looking after one another. It would be impossible to picture a house more divided against itself than was that of Elder Shrewsbury.

When the two wives, Ellen and Mary, lived together with their husband in Salt Lake City, Mary of course had no opportunity of showing her hatred and contempt for the polygamic wives. But towards her husband she evinced a cold disdain, as if he were now nothing at all to her—as if her very heart itself had been withered. For Ellen, who, since Elder Shrewsbury had taken his other wives, had clung to her with a child-like affection, and to her own little girl alone, she showed that deep and constant love which she had once lavished upon such an unworthy object.

She used to come to me and tell me all her griefs; and in a passion of rage and tears she would hurl defiance at Mormonism and curse bitterly the system that had wrecked her life. Then I would soothe her, and speak calmly to her, and try to place matters in their best light; and she would sit and listen in a painful state of apathy, as if she cared for none of these things. Presently she would rise and go, and then, perhaps, I would not see her for weeks together, unless I chanced to call upon her at her own house. Sometimes, for days and even weeks at a time, she would shut herself up in her room and refuse to see her husband or any one else, except her little girl, who slept in the same room with her, and who at such times used to bring in what food they wanted; for in these melancholy fits she would not even let the servants come near her.

There was a little table near the window, and from the casement of the window could be seen in the far distance the lofty ranges of the Wahsatch Mountains. And sitting at that table, gazing from that window, with her cheek resting upon her hand, Mary would watch the whole day long, as if entranced in some ecstatic vision. Her little girl—a child of winning ways, bashful to an extreme and very pretty, but, though so young, with a look of wistful sadness upon her childish face—had become accustomed to her mother’s ways; and when one of these long spells of melancholy came upon her, she would either steal out quietly and wander away for a long walk all by herself—for she never played with the other children in her father’s house—or else, as was more frequently the case, she would sit down on the ground near her mother and silently amuse herself with a book or some childish toy.

To my mind there was something inexpressibly painful in all this. When Mary did not come to see me, I would call round at her husband’s house, and try to draw her out from her melancholy seclusion. It was very seldom that I saw Elder Shrewsbury, and I cannot say that I wished to do so. He had, as his wife told me, undergone a complete change since I knew him in England. The open look, the upright bearing, the earnestness of speech, which then characterized him, were now gone for ever. He was still a handsome man, rather portly, and evidently well to do in the world; but there were lines about his eyes which ought not to have been seen in the face of a man of his years; and his lips, without uttering a word, told their own story.

Heartbroken and wretched, weary of life, and yet with no hopeful assurance of life beyond the grave, poor Mary lived on year after year, while those who seemed to dance in the very sunshine of existence were cut off like the summer flowers in the harvest-field. Lately, however, I thought I saw symptoms of a change. I noticed that she was perceptibly growing thinner and thinner; her eye seemed brighter, and there was always a flush upon her cheek, which would have been beautiful had it not been for the seal of melancholy which was stamped upon every feature. But the brightness of the eye, and the flush upon the cheek, were not symbols of health, but the imprint of the finger of death.

She did not know this. Though she longed to die, she little thought that death was so near her. Sometimes she would talk almost happily of the old by-gone days; then she would sit brooding over her griefs; and then again she would talk anxiously about the future of her little daughter. I had seen other wives as wretched as poor Mary was—ay, more so, for they had abject, grinding poverty superadded to all their woes; but, more than for any other I felt for my poor friend, and exerted myself to the uttermost to comfort her. In this I had been to a certain extent successful. She would appear for a time a little more cheerful, but it was not long before she relapsed into her habitual melancholy way.

That which troubled me most of late, in my intercourse with Mary, was the fact that she was always talking about death. This certainly was no matter of surprise to me, but it was very painful. Over and over again she would discuss the question whether, under any circumstances, suicide could be justified, and whether if any one, in absolute despair, were to take away their own life, God would ever pardon them.

I would never enter into such subjects as these, for I considered that such conversation showed a morbid condition of mind, and could not possibly be of any good to either of us, and would only suggest harmful thoughts. But again and again Mary reverted to the subject, and I really at last began to grow quite anxious about her.

It was not, therefore, with surprise that I received the summons that morning. I did not wait to ask any questions about the poisoning, but hastened to the bedside of my unfortunate friend, trusting that I might yet be in time to render some assistance.

I found her lying on the bed, partly dressed, and, as it seemed to me at first, asleep. There was, at the bedside, and bending over her, the second wife, who was in as much trouble as if the sufferer had been her own sister. The poor girl had been weeping, and was evidently very much distressed. There was also present in the room another sister, whom I recognized as a friend of Mary’s. The little daughter of the unfortunate woman was there as well. One person, whom every one would naturally have expected to see at the bedside of a dying wife under such circumstances, was conspicuous by his absence—I mean, of course, Elder Shrewsbury himself.

I sat down on the bed, beside poor Mary, and took her hand in mine. It was cold but damp, and her breathing was somewhat heavy. She was still unconscious. I asked the pretty pale-faced girl—the second wife—who was bending over her, how it had all happened, and whether they had had a doctor.

“Oh, yes,” she said, sobbing all the time; “we sent for the doctor, and he has only just gone. He said he had done all he could, and that we could let her sleep on now.”

She then told me what had taken place. It appeared that the night before Elder Shrewsbury had gone up into Mary’s room to speak to her about some matter of importance. Although living in the same house, she had not seen him for several weeks, and the mere fact of being in his presence agitated her. He told her he had come to talk about her child—little Mary, called Mary after her mother. For some reason or other, which nobody then seemed to understand, Elder Shrewsbury had taken a fancy that the child should be separated from her mother; he wanted to send her to stay with his other family in the Settlements, and it was for this purpose he came to see Mary that night. It certainly did seem the refinement of cruelty to separate the child from her poor mother, who would thus have become, as one might say, doubly widowed; and I am strongly inclined to question whether Elder Shrewsbury’s motives were of the purest kind. It is, however, only just to state that subsequently, when speaking to a friend about the matter, he said that he had long noticed in his wife what he considered were incipient symptoms of madness, and he thought that his duty towards the child imperatively demanded that he should immediately take her away from her mother. He added—as was indeed true—that his other wives in the South would have taken the greatest care of her.

Mary was furious when the proposal was made to her. She bitterly upbraided her husband for all his cruelty and neglect; she cursed him for his perfidy, and she avowed that nothing but death should separate her from her little girl.

Elder Shrewsbury trembled at the anger of his poor forsaken wife, and he crept out of her room and downstairs. But Mary could not be appeased. She went to the room of the second wife—the only creature in the house, besides her little girl, with whom she sometimes condescended to hold intercourse—and there she acted in a very wild and extravagant way. It was with great difficulty that she was at last persuaded to lie down and take a little rest. She would not go to her own room; so Ellen—the second wife—persuaded her to remain with her all the night. She lay down, but did not sleep. She muttered strange things, and by-and-by sat up in the bed and spoke as if people were present whom she had known years and years ago. Ellen was frightened; but out of love to Mary, and not wishing that others should see her in that crazy condition, she did not call for help, thinking that presently she would fall asleep, and in the morning all would be right. But the long night passed away, and just before daybreak Ellen fell into a sort of fitful slumber. It would seem that just then poor Mary discovered for the first time that she was not sleeping in her own room, and that her little daughter was not with her. Distracted as her mind was, she probably thought that they had stolen the child away, and went in search of her.

She found her way to her own room, and then what happened no one, of course, could tell. She must have seen that her child was safe; and it is not unlikely that, reassured on that point, she felt that she needed rest, and thought that it would be best to take some sedative to produce the sleep which she believed would restore her to herself again. She had in her room a little leather medicine-chest—a very useful article for any one travelling, or to keep in the house—and to that she must have had resort. Certain it is, that when, an hour later, Ellen awoke and went to see what had become of her husband’s first wife, she found the little medicine-chest open upon the bureau, Mary lying upon the bed, apparently asleep, and a faint sickly smell, which one better versed in such things would have known was the smell of opium, pervading the whole room.

Ellen began to scream and call for help, and one of the women about the house, who was up at that early hour, came to see what was the matter. She, upon hearing what Ellen said, rushed downstairs shrieking for assistance. Fortunately for every one, Elder Shrewsbury, who had just risen, was standing in the hall-way below. He took hold of the noisy woman and asked her what was the matter; and after hearing all she had to say he sent her to attend to her domestic duties, with a strict injunction to say nothing to a living soul about what she had seen or heard.

Elder Shrewsbury then went up to Mary’s room, and there he learned that all that the silly woman had just said to him was quite true. He, however, betrayed no emotion. Very calmly he put the stopper back into the laudanum bottle, then looked at his watch and hesitated, all the while that pale-faced Ellen was looking anxiously at him, wanting to know what she could do. After a few moments of indecision, Elder Shrewsbury turned to Ellen and said, “Yes; go for the doctor.”

Ellen flew upon her mission.

Meanwhile, Elder Shrewsbury looked towards the bed where poor Mary lay—Mary, for whose love he had perjured his soul—Mary who never would have been his had he not given that sacred promise, the breaking of which made him an outlaw from heaven and a thing to be despised of men. He looked for one single moment at his poor wife as she lay there, and then he turned upon his heel and went out of the room. For the wealth of all the world I would not feel as that man felt, if the thoughts which then crowded upon his brain were what, for the sake of our common humanity, I trust they were. The remembrance of the life which his folly or fanaticism—it matters little which—had blasted; the thought of that solemn vow which he had taken to love her only and for ever; the sight of that dear one to whom he had once plighted his troth, now desolate, forsaken, almost maniac in her wretchedness. Oh God! what a curse was there for any man’s soul to bear!

The physician, when he came, administered an emetic and made them walk the patient about the room. Ellen and the friend of Mary who was present volunteered for this service. They supported her, one on each side, and paced her round and round the room, thus compelling her to exertion; and from time to time they made her swallow doses of strong coffee, in which a little brandy had been mixed. When, at length, signs of returning consciousness were apparent, the physician left, promising to call again in the course of the morning.

It was then that some one present thought of sending for me, and I arrived not long after the physician had gone. I was the only person, outside the family, beside the friend whom I have mentioned, who knew of anything that had taken place—so careful were they that the matter should not get abroad; and I should certainly not have been summoned had it not been for the close intimacy which existed between Mary and myself, which made us more like sisters than friends. The reader must not, however, suppose that in relating this I am even now betraying a trust; for my friends in Utah know as well as I do that so many unhappy wives have in their desperation been driven to attempt self-destruction, that having no clue in the name, which solely out of love for my poor friend, I have all through this narrative given her, they will not know who to fix upon as the person to whom I allude.[3] There is, however, one still living—he will know—let his own conscience be his accuser.

In about half an hour’s time, Mary began to recognize those who were around her, but she did not seem disposed to speak. She opened her eyes and looked dreamily at me for a long time, but the slight pressure of my hand was her only recognition of my presence. I bent down over her and whispered a few assuring words in her ear, and for a moment a faint, weary smile lighted up her thin, pale face. It was not like the sweet smiles of the by-gone days which used to suffuse her whole countenance with sunshine—it was but the very ghost of a smile. Presently she sank into a gentle slumber; but I still sat by her on the bed, holding her hand in mine, and I remained there for two or three hours. Then, after seeing that everything was at hand which she could possibly want if she awoke, and assured by Ellen that she would not leave her until she was able to sit up, I left for my own home.

At the bottom of the stairs, in the hall-way, I was confronted by Elder Shrewsbury himself. This surprised me, as hitherto he had most sedulously avoided coming in contact with me. He gave me one searching glance, as if to read my thoughts, and then said: “Sister Stenhouse, this is a most unhappy affair, but say nothing about it—no good can come of talking of such matters.”

I assured him that for Mary’s sake—not for his—I would not speak of what had transpired; but when he held out his hand for me to shake, I affected not to see it, but wished him good-morning, and left the house.

---

For some time she said nothing to me about the sad event which had so greatly troubled us, and when at length she hesitatingly alluded to it, I was much relieved to find that the taking of the deadly drug was on her part wholly accidental. It was as I from the first suspected—for I knew and loved my dear friend too well to wrong her even by a thought. Cruelly as she had suffered, wretched and miserable as she was, bitterly as she felt, the instincts of her heart were too true and her nature too noble to allow of her seeking oblivion from her troubles in voluntary and premeditated death, as I have known was the case with many wretched Mormon wives. She had only thought to take an opiate to soothe the feverish excitement which had almost bereft her of reason, and, in the weak and enfeebled condition in which she was, the draught had been too powerful for her. Guiltless as she was, she dreaded that others might impute wrong motives to her in what she had done; and even to me she spoke of her sickness painfully and with hesitation.

After this, I called day after day upon my poor friend, until she was sufficiently recovered to walk about and even to get out of doors a little. The story of the unhappy attempt which she was supposed to have made upon her life, by some means, however, got rumoured abroad, and she heard of it. She said nothing at the time, but I believe it preyed upon her mind. Weak and failing in health, as she long had been, the shock which her system had received was too much for her, and it was evident to every one who saw her that her earthly trials would soon be ended. She sank gradually, and life ebbed from her gently and without pain. A few days before she died, she sent for me, and I spent several hours with her. I might say that they were happy hours; for the near prospect of death seemed to have dispelled all those gloomy fears of the future life which had for so many years troubled her soul; and she now looked forward with peaceful resignation to her approaching change. Death came at last to her when she was sleeping, and she passed away tranquilly and without a sigh. I almost rejoiced when I heard that at last her weary journey was over, and she was at rest. I loved her with the fondest affection, and shall never think of her without bitter feelings towards that unholy system which brought her to an untimely grave.

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Notwithstanding all my own personal troubles and the difficulties which surrounded us, the loss of my dear friend affected me very deeply. And yet her story is the same as might be told of hundreds of other English girls who have been lured from their happy homes and have died broken-hearted and neglected in Utah.

Now came that change in our life which I had so long hoped for, but which had always seemed to me so very far distant. We had been tossed by many a storm, but the violence of this last gale was such that it forced us clean out of the sea of Mormonism, and landed us high and dry upon the firm ground of Apostasy.

About the time when my husband returned with his paper to Salt Lake City, the Utah Magazine, a liberal journal just struggling into existence, began to call in question some of Brigham’s measures; and the editors, who were all men of some mark in the Mormon Church, presumed to hint that the people had rights and privileges as well as the Priesthood. This was done in a very quiet, unobtrusive way; but it was, nevertheless, pronounced rebellion and apostasy. My husband’s paper was silent upon the subject; and, in consequence, he was suspected of being in league with the enemy. This was another good reason why the people should be “counselled” not to take the Telegraph. Although he was not yet sufficiently advanced in thought to give much direct aid to the questioners of Brigham’s authority, I saw with pleasure that he did not wish to oppose them; the tone of his paper was evidently changing, and the articles which appeared from time to time gave serious offence to Brigham Young. This, however, was not all his wrong-doing; he had of late been neglectful in his attendance at the “School of the Prophets”—a meeting which was then held every Saturday for the benefit of the Elders.

Together with the editors of the Utah Magazine, Mr. Stenhouse and one or two others were summoned to appear at the School, to give their reasons for previous non-attendance. This they had all along anticipated, and were therefore not surprised at the summons, but they hardly expected that Brigham would act so precipitately; for, without waiting to hear their reasons, he disfellowshipped them all for irregular attendance.

Brigham’s assumption of the right to disfellowship men from the Church because of irregular attendance at the School was a stretch of authority which startled my husband: “What will he not do next?” he said. “To submit would be to acknowledge him absolute, and myself a slave. There is but one alternative now—slavery or freedom. Cost me what it may, I will be free!”

In August of the same year my husband sent a respectful and kindly letter to the Bishop of our ward, stating that he had no faith in Brigham’s claim to an “Infallible Priesthood,” and that he considered that he ought to be cut off from the Church. I added a postscript, stating that I wished to share my husband’s fate—little thinking that within three days my request would be answered in a too literal manner.

A little after ten o’clock on the Saturday night succeeding our withdrawal from the Church, we were returning home together. The night was very dark, and as our residence was in the suburbs of the City, north of the Temple block, and the road very quiet, the walk was a very lonely one and perhaps not altogether too safe. We had gone about a third of the way, when we suddenly saw four men come out from under some trees at a little distance from us. In the gloom of the night we could only see them very indistinctly, and could not distinguish who they were. They separated; and two of them came forward and stumbled up against us, and two passed on beside us. For a moment I thought that they were intoxicated, but it was soon clear that they were acting from design. As soon as they approached, they seized hold of my husband’s arms, one on each side, and held him firmly, thus rendering him almost powerless. They were all masked, for it was supposed that thus we should not be able to discover their identity, and that if by any chance an investigation should subsequently be made into the doings of that night it would not be possible for any one to witness against them.

The movements of the two men who held my husband were somewhat impeded by my clinging to his arm, and they seemed to hesitate for a moment. The other two, who stood a few feet distant from us, also hesitated. One of the men who held my husband said to them, “Brethren, do your duty.” We recognized his voice at once as that of a policeman, Philips, a young man whom we had known in Southampton, England, when a child.

In an instant I saw them raise their arms, as if taking aim, and for one brief second I thought that our end had now surely come, and that we, like so many obnoxious persons before us, were about to be murdered for the great sin of Apostasy. This, I firmly believe, would have been my husband’s fate, if I had not chanced to be with him, or had I run away—they would probably have beaten him to death—they were two of the regular and two of the special policemen—and then, the next morning, they would have “discovered” the body, and it would have been said that he had been murdered by the Gentiles or Apostates in a personal quarrel. My presence somewhat disarranged their plans, and it was that probably which caused the two men to hesitate, not knowing what would be considered their “duty” under present circumstances.

A much less noble fate than assassination was reserved for us. The wretches, although otherwise well armed, were not holding revolvers in their hands as I first supposed. They were furnished with huge garden-syringes charged with the most disgusting filth, in the preparation of which they took especial pains. So kindred to their own base natures was such an act, that I doubt not they found it quite a labour of love. The moment the syringes were pointed at us, my husband, thinking a shot was coming, moved his head, and thus to a certain extent escaped the full force of the discharge. I, however, was not so fortunate. My hair, bonnet, face, clothes, person—every inch of my body, every shred that I wore—were in an instant saturated, from head to foot.

The villains, when they had perpetrated this disgusting and brutal outrage, turned and fled. We ran after them for some little distance, but we had no arms and nothing with which to defend ourselves; in fact, we pursued them instinctively rather than with any idea of overtaking them. There was another man standing a little distance off in the direction in which they were running, and we could not tell how many might be concealed. The place, too, was dark and lonely, for they had gone behind the Temple block—a fit corner for murderers to skulk in; a convenient spot for the commission of any unholy deed. I was burning with indignation, and longed to revenge myself upon the brutal cowards who had assaulted us. In my anger I called upon them to come and kill us outright, for I would have preferred death to such an indignity. I almost wonder that they did not take me at my word and return and finish their foul work, for they have long acted upon the principle that “dead men tell no tales.”

I shall never forget that night. I declared that henceforth I would tear from my heart every association, every memory, every affection, which still remained to bind me to Mormonism; not one solitary link should be left. Henceforth I would be the declared and open enemy of the Priesthood. To the utmost of my power—weak though I might be—I would arouse the women of Utah to a sense of the wrongs which they endured; I would proclaim to the world the disgrace which Mormonism is to the great American nation, the foul blot that it is upon Christianity and the civilization of the age!

My son-in-law, Joseph A. Young, on the night of the attack, offered a reward to the chief of the police for the apprehension of the ruffians; but we knew well enough they would never be discovered. A few Gentile friends also offered a reward of five hundred dollars for any evidence that might lead to their identification; but nothing, of course, was elicited.

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Not long after our separation from the Mormon Church, I received another visit from my talkative friend.

As, according to her custom, she was making a preliminary “fuss” at the door before entering, I heard her voice, and was at a loss to conjecture whether she came for the purpose of lamenting my apostasy and entreating my immediate return to the bosom of the Church, or to condole with me concerning the brutal outrage to which we had been subjected. In both suppositions I was, however, mistaken—she came to talk about her own woes.

“You’ll be surprised, my dear Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “to see me looking so utterly miserable. I’m sure I must look the picture of despair, and I feel it. You don’t know what I’ve been suffering, and how shamefully I have been used.”

“You look very well I think, but I’m sorry to hear you have met with any difficulty,” said I, when she stopped for a moment to take breath.

“Oh, you may say so,” she replied, “but you know you don’t think so in your heart. Why, I did not even stop to put on my bonnet straight,” she said, stealing a look at the glass, “and I ran all the way here, for I felt as if I should die if I could not pour my sorrows into the bosom of some faithful-hearted friend. Oh, I have been treated shamefully, and I feel it the more as you know what a reserved woman I am, and how seldom it is that I open my lips about family matters, even to my dearest friends!”

“Well, but,” I said, “what really is the matter? You have not yet told me what your trouble is.”

“Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “you have had a few little vexations in the course of your life, I know, but they are nothing to compare to the frightful indignities that I have suffered in the course of the last few days. I never thought I should come to this! I hate every man in the place, and I detest my husband most of all, and I loathe his wives, and I execrate Brother Brig—”

“Why, Sister Ann, what can have happened?” I exclaimed, interrupting her.

“Happened!” she cried, starting from her chair in indignation, “I tell you, Sister Stenhouse, nothing has ‘happened’—nothing was done by chance—he did it all with his eyes open and against my advice—I tell you he did it on purpose!”

“Did what?” I asked, “and who was it that did it?” But by this time I had begun to form a shrewd guess who the culprit was.

“Why, he married that wretched little shrimp of a girl, with blue eyes and red hair, and a die-away, lackadaisical manner—it was he—my husband Henry—he married her this very day, and I tell you he did it on purpose!”

“I’m sorry that it annoys you,” I said; “but really I am surprised, after all you have said to me, that you should not care if he had taken half-a-dozen wives, to say nothing of the one he married this morning, and who you say is only a very little one.”

“It doesn’t matter the size, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “but the colour of the eyes and the shade of the hair matters a great deal. If that miserable little minx had had black hair or green eyes, I daresay Henry would not have cared two straws about her, unless he had done it out of sheer perversity, for all men are made of the same contrary stuff. But he dotes on blue eyes; I heard him myself tell her so one day, when I was listening to them through the crack of the door, and they didn’t know I was so near. But my wounded feelings would not suffer me to remain silent, and I bounced in, and, said I, ‘Henry, how dare you talk such outrageous nonsense to that child in my presence?’

“‘But I didn’t know you were present,’ he said.

“‘I tell you,’ said I, ‘I’m quite disgusted with you; a man with three wives—and me one of them—to go talking twaddle to a little chattering hussy like that, with her cat’s eyes and her red hair!’

“‘Golden hair, my dear,’ he said, ‘Charlotte’s hair is golden.’

“‘I say red!—it’s straight, staring red—as red as red can be,’ I told him; and then we had a regular fight over it. I don’t mean that we came to blows, but we had some hot words, and he went out and left us two alone. Then that young hussy was impudent, and I don’t know how it was, but somehow, when we left off our conversation, I found some of Charlotte’s red hair between my fingers; and there”—she said, innocently, holding out quite a respectable sized tuft of auburn hair—“there; I put it to you, Sister Stenhouse, is that red, or is it not?”

I was about to reply; but, without waiting an instant, she dashed the stolen locks to the ground, and said, “I daresay, Sister Stenhouse, you think me a little hasty, and yet among my friends I’ve always been quite proverbial for the calmness and evenness of my temper; but I’ve been tried very much lately, and—if only you would not keep interrupting me, dear!—if you’d just allow me to say a word or two in my turn!—I’d tell you something that would open your eyes to the ingratitude and wickedness of men. I don’t wonder that you have left the Church; I am thinking of doing so myself, and you won’t wonder at it when you hear what I’ve got to say. What do you say to my leaving the Church? Won’t people be astonished? But I declare, Sister Stenhouse, I do seriously mean to leave the Church as soon as I get my new bonnet—”

“Why your new bonnet?” I asked in surprise.

“Because, dear, I shall become an object of interest. All the sisters will have their eyes upon me, and even Gentiles will say, ‘There’s a lady who had courage to leave the Mormon Church and quit an ungrateful husband who was not worthy of her.’ And you know, Sister Stenhouse, it would not do to have people looking at me and talking about me before I got my new bonnet.”

This was a rather amusing reason for delay in changing one’s religion, but it was quite characteristic of my friend. So I humoured her a little, and tried to get her to explain how it all came about.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I ought to have told you that before, but I was to angry at what had just happened that I forgot everything else. The fact is, my husband is a man, and there’s no calculating what a man will do. Women, you know, are proverbial for the constancy of their affections and their slowness in changing their minds—you know when you’re talking to a woman that she is a woman, and you know exactly what to do with her; but with a man it’s quite different. You can’t calculate a man—you can’t fathom him. When you’ve been thinking one way and another, and at last begin to fancy you know what to do, why then, a man—if it’s him you’ve got to do with—will turn just round, and while you’ve been making everything smooth for him to do one thing, he’ll go and do exactly the opposite. I know what men are by this time, and I speak from experience.

“It was just so with Henry and this girl. He has gone quite against the grain with me, and I feel it all the more because he used to be so quiet and anxious to do exactly what I wanted. But he doesn’t care a fig now whether I’m pleased or not—he only thinks about this red-headed girl. In fact, he’s quite crazy about her, and if there’s any sin in apostasy, you may remember that it was he who drove me into it.”

“That seems hardly fair,” I said, “for you knew all along that it was his privilege to take more wives.”

“That’s very true,” she exclaimed; “it is his privilege to take wives, but it’s my privilege to choose them for him. I’m a good Mormon, and I don’t mind how many wives my husband takes, if he’ll only act reasonably about getting them. But, Sister Stenhouse, I do not want a parcel of girls about the house. I’m so far from wishing to usurp authority, that, as I told Henry, I would not mind if his wives were even a little older than me, but I won’t have them younger. It makes Henry look so silly. Why, to see him with that girl Charlotte, now, who isn’t more than half my own age—no; I don’t mean that, I mean she’s slightly younger than I am—you might really almost imagine that he thought more of her than he does of me. I know he doesn’t, for he has told me so; but any one to see them together would get quite a wrong impression.”

“When did he marry Charlotte?” I asked. “You spoke so hastily, Sister Ann, that I did not quite understand you.”

“When? Why he married her this morning, as I thought I told you; he has only just done it. He said he was anxious to be in a quiet state of mind to-day, so I gave him a piece of my mind, and he was so astonished at the pointed way in which I explained to him what a fool he’d been making of himself that he quite showed it in his face. The fact is, Sister Stenhouse, he has lately become rather more than I could manage.”

“Well, Sister,” I said, “I should have thought that his finding a wife for himself would have saved you a world of trouble.”

“Oh dear no, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied; “it was trouble I did not want to be saved. Men have no business, in my opinion, to choose their own wives, after the first. I know the men do do it, one and all; but it’s a shameful stretch of authority. I should like to know whether it is not of much more consequence to me what wife my husband has than it is to him? However, I resolved that my husband should never marry the red-headed girl, and I told him so; and what do you think the inhuman creature said? ‘You’ve been persuading me all these years,’ he said, ‘to take another wife, although I’ve already got three, and now I’ve begun to do so you blame me. I think I’ve as good a right as any one to say who I’ll marry and who I won’t.’ Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? Would you hear of such a thing from your husband, Sister Stenhouse?”

I told her that with Mormonism my husband had given up Polygamy, and she continued:

“Well, I tried to bring him to reason, but it was of no use. And then I told him that the girl should never set foot inside the house while I was in it. This was a very unfortunate speech, for I do believe that up to that time he wanted as much as possible to keep the girl out of my way; but the moment I said that, to show his dignity, I suppose, he declared that she should come to tea with us that very afternoon, and he would go and fetch her; and he did so. I wouldn’t go down to tea at first, though both the other wives were there and he sent up for me, but my pride would not allow me to stoop. At last I got tired of being all alone, and as it occurred to me that perhaps they might be enjoying themselves without me, I resolved to go down and see if I could not do something to annoy them. Down I went, and Henry, all smiling, introduced the girl to me as ‘Sister Charlotte,’ talking of her as if he had known her for years. Was it not shameful?”

“It must have been very awkward for you,” I said.

“It was indeed, Sister Stenhouse, and I soon made it awkward for them. I assure you, after I joined them, there was not a soul present who had a moment’s comfort till that girl went away. My husband, however, took her home, and from that very day he seemed resolved to have the upper hand. He never for a moment would listen to a word I said about the girl; he brought her in every evening and took her to the theatre constantly, and paid her ten times more attention than he ever paid me. I wasn’t jealous, Sister Stenhouse; no one—as I said before—could ever suspect me of jealousy, but I did hate that girl. If he had not loved her, I can’t say whether I myself might not have liked her. But the very fact of him loving her makes me detest her; but it’s only a little proper pride on my part—I’m not in the least jealous, oh dear no!”

“Of course not,” I said.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, “I’ve borne enough from those two to drive fifty women crazy with jealousy, and things went on from bad to worse, until the other day when, as I told you, we had that little unpleasantness. My husband, when he came back, was downright angry, and made use of shocking language, and told me that, if he could not have peace in the house, he would have me board out by myself in some other part of the city. He said that I had scratched Charlotte’s face and torn out her hair; but that was quite untrue, as I told him; and as for the hair which fell out, it was all an accident. He said that Charlotte did not like such accidents, and that he would not put up with it. He was very cross and disagreeable all the rest of the day, and made me quite miserable and broken-hearted; and the next day, to wind it all up, he told me that he and Charlotte had arranged the day of the wedding. I was forced to go over with him to the Endowment House, to give him that detestable little vixen. I tell you, Sister Stenhouse, I hate her; and oh, oh dear, what shall I do now my husband has fallen in love with her!”

Here, to my infinite astonishment, she rose from her seat and rushed about the room, wringing her hands and exclaiming, “Oh dear! oh dear!” She then threw herself right down on the couch and actually burst into tears, crying out, “Oh dear, what shall I do with my Henry and that girl!”

After that I did not see her for several weeks, and then I accidentally met her in the street, and asked her why she had not called upon me lately.

“Oh, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “I’m delighted to see you! You’ve been constantly in my thoughts, but I’ve been so hard at work—oh, so busy, that I really had not time for anything—not even to apostatize. Then, too, you see I’ve had my hands full. If you want to make a man slight one woman and get tired of her, there’s nothing like putting a nicer woman than her in his way. So I reconsidered the matter and resolved, cost what it might, I’d get another wife for my husband right away. I don’t care now whether she’s old or young, ugly or pretty, so long as she cuts out that detestable red-headed girl. I’ve run all over the town and rushed about here and there, all for his sake, though he’ll never be grateful for it; and now at last, do you know, dear, I really do think I’ve got the girl I want. She’s all dark—dark hair, dark eyes, dark complexion. If he marries her, as I mean him to do, she’ll lead him a fine life, notwithstanding all her winning ways. I wouldn’t stand in his shoes when she’s his wife; but I know I shall be able to manage her, for I have a deeper insight into character than he has, and a better command of temper. She’ll teach Miss Charlotte to keep her place, and she’ll make Henry mind too. It’ll do him good; I’ve done it all out of love to him, not a spark of jealousy or ill-feeling, as you are well aware.”

The idea of setting one wife against another, in order to keep the peace, would appear in the case of my talkative friend to have been successful; for, sure enough, six months after the time of which I have just spoken, her Henry did marry the dark beauty, and she and her auburn predecessor presented an interesting contrast when they chanced to appear in the street together in the company of their husband. There did not seem to be much love lost between them.

Successful in her plans, and having, as she said, now brought her Henry to reason, my talkative friend gave up all idea of leaving the Church, and when I last saw her she said, “I’m busy now looking after a likely girl, for I do think a man in my Henry’s position ought to live his religion and have at least seven wives!—seven, you know, is such a very lucky number.”

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When we left the Mormon Church, we were not quite as badly off as were our first parents when they began life, although in some respects we certainly resembled them. The world was all before us, and it was necessary that we also should choose a place of rest; but it was by no means an Eden from which we were dismissed—or, rather, had dismissed ourselves—and in the matter of experience in the thorny ways of that world in which we were about to begin afresh the battle of existence, we certainly had the advantage over the exiles from Paradise.

The crisis of our own lives had now arrived. The act of sending in our resignation as members of the Church cut us off from all the associations of the past and all the friendships and pleasant intimacies of so many years. A great gulf divided our by-gone life from the unknown future which lay before us.

My husband was now made painfully aware that it was altogether useless for him to attempt to carry on his paper; for his subscribers, as I before stated, had been “counselled” to discontinue taking it in. The Daily Telegraph had had a very large circulation, but as there was very little money in the Territory, the yearly subscriptions were mostly paid at harvest time, and many of them in grain. At the time, therefore, when the paper was finally given up, the Mormon people, as the book-keeper in Ogden informed me, owed about twenty thousand dollars; but when it was discovered that we were “Apostates,” the majority of them considered that they were released from all obligations on that score, and my husband being an easy, generous-minded man, most of them evaded payment. The idea that, because we had left the Church, no Saint was bound to pay us any debts which they might happen at the time to owe, was the natural result of the teachings of the Tabernacle. Apostates are delivered over to “the buffetings of Satan,” and the Saints consider it is their duty to begin in this world their master’s work of castigation. Any ill turn that can be done to an Apostate is consequently a good action in the opinion of the Mormons, and they neglect no opportunity of showing that these are the sentiments which influence them.

Although we had now left the Mormon Church, never to return, my husband could not at once shake off entirely that influence which had so long held him captive. His thoughts and belief, his hopes and ambitions, had for a quarter of a century all pointed in one direction, and the very idea of rebellion on his part against the authority of the Priesthood, would, but a very little while before the time of which I speak, have been considered by him an utter impossibility. It was impossible, in a few short months only, to undo the work of five-and-twenty years—the best years of his life. He could no longer remain in the Church or conscientiously support Brigham Young; but he had not outgrown Mormonism sufficiently to enable him to throw off the yoke entirely and make his paper an opponent of Brigham and his faith. Could he have done so, I think it is highly probable that the Telegraph might yet have been saved, for I know that many of the more influential of the Gentiles would have aided him materially in such a course. As it was, nothing remained but to give it up with the best grace he could.

Two offers in reference to the paper were received by Mr. Stenhouse, and it remained for him to decide which he would accept. One of them came from a Gentile, who proposed to run it in opposition to Brigham Young, and the other came from a certain Mr. Fuller, who had for some time been my husband’s travelling agent, and was a very intimate friend of John W. Young, Brigham’s youngest son by his first wife. We knew that this Mr. Fuller had nothing beyond his salary; but, as the friend of Brigham’s son, we thought that probably it was the Prophet’s wish that he should have this paper, and we believed that he was simply buying it for the Church. My husband argued that, although he could no longer unite with the Mormons, he could at least refrain from doing them any injury; he therefore concluded that, rather than let the paper go into the hands of an avowed enemy, he would sell it to Mr. Fuller, who, on account of his friendship for the Prophet’s family, would, he presumed, try to be just to the people.

This, no doubt, was very conscientious and just, although, of course, no Mormon would give my husband credit for entertaining such sentiments. For my own part, I naturally wished him to accept the offer that would pay him best, which was that made by the Gentile. He could not, however, bring his mind to do this. The paper, therefore, was sold to Mr. Fuller, who ran it for a few months and then himself ran away, leaving behind him debts enough to swallow up everything. Thus ended the Telegraph under that name, but destined, however, to rise again as the Salt Lake Herald—a paper devoted to the interests of Brigham and the Priesthood. To my husband it was an utter loss, but it was hardly fair that his conscientious conduct should meet with such an ill return.

It was now necessary that some steps should be taken to provide for our family. The reader may, perhaps, remember that when we first arrived in Salt Lake City, as I stated, I myself engaged in business until my husband was able to find some suitable and profitable employment. When the Telegraph, however, was established and proved such a great success, and we were in a position of affluence, I considered—the pressure of necessity being removed—that I should do well to resign my own business connection and employ my time more profitably in domestic affairs. This was a great relief to me, for I always felt considerable repugnance to mixing with the world in the way of business, while among my children and attending to their wants and interests I found myself in my own legitimate sphere. But there was now no alternative. All interest in the Telegraph had been resigned; my husband’s property had been wasted in an attempt to keep it up, and he had nothing now to depend upon. Something must be done, and I resolved that I would not be backward in bearing my full share of the burden.

It was only natural that we should feel very much unsettled in mind by the great change which had taken place in our position, for it is no easy matter to cut asunder the ties and associations of a lifetime. Any one suddenly changing his religious faith would, to a certain extent, feel and understand what I mean in this respect. But in reference to any ordinary religion, the person forsaking it would probably experience comparatively little alteration in his every-day life. In Mormonism it is very different, especially to any one who has occupied a prominent position among the Saints. To resign our religion was to revolutionize our lives. Everything was changed: the friends of years would look coldly on us and avoid us; persons whom we had before shunned as Gentiles or Apostates would be the only individuals who would regard us with favour; our entire position in the midst of a most exclusive community was completely reversed; in a word, we ourselves were now “Apostates!”

Thinking to turn the current of his thoughts, and believing that change would be beneficial to him, I suggested to my husband that he should pay a visit to the Eastern States. In New York I believed he could find employment which would help to divert his thoughts from Mormon affairs, and, at the same time, would be profitable to him in other respects. My suggestion was acted upon, and my husband set out East, while I prepared to engage again in the same business which I had formerly conducted so successfully.

Now, for the first time since I embraced Mormonism, I mixed freely with Gentiles and those who had left the Church, and it was not long before I found that this intercourse with the outer world produced a marked and decided effect upon my mind. My views were enlarged, and my thoughts became more liberal in their tone. My husband’s letters showed me that a similar change was taking place in him.

We were not the only Apostates from the Church at that time. The New Movement, as the reaction against the tyranny of Brigham Young was called, was then in progress; and the minds of all intelligent Saints were led to reflect upon the unheard-of claims of Brigham’s “Infallible” Priesthood. At this time the Prophet endeavoured to rivet still more firmly the fetters which bound his deluded followers, by establishing “Zion’s Co-operative Mercantile Institution” and reviving the “Order of Enoch.”

The Co-operative Institution was announced as a joint-stock concern, established under the pretence that it would be a benefit to the working classes, and all the members of the Church were invited to purchase shares, which were sold at twenty-five dollars each. The statement so often made by Brigham and repeated by strangers, to the effect that the exorbitant prices charged by Gentile merchants necessitated the establishment of such an institution was, as every Mormon knows, only a pretence, and a very shallow one too; for the Walker Brothers and other merchants had, for many years, supplied goods to Mormons and Gentiles alike, at what, under the circumstances, were reasonable and just prices; for the railway not then being constructed, and every article of commerce being of necessity carried across the Plains—a distance of over a thousand miles—by horse-teams, prices were, of course, very high, and would, if this circumstance were not taken into consideration, appear extortionate. In fact, subsequently, the “Co-operative” stores, which had started with high rates, under the belief that every rival would be crushed, were compelled to lower their prices to those of the Walker Brothers, or, in spite of their faith, the Mormons would have forsaken Brigham’s Institution for the sake of their pockets. Many, in fact, did secretly go to Gentile stores, but they were watched by the police and reported to the teachers.

That large Mormon store, in which Brigham Young had such a heavy interest, was to become the parent establishment—the fountain-head from which temporal blessings, in the shape of cheap goods of every description, were to flow unto the people. Each Ward was to have its own store, and there the Saints of that Ward were expected to deal exclusively, and, as the teachers said, “keep off Main street where the Gentile stores were located.” These Ward-stores purchased their goods from the parent store, where nothing was sold by retail.

All the lesser Mormon merchants were “counselled” to sell out their stock to the Church, for just what the Church chose to offer them, or dispose of it otherwise as best they could, and then they might go farming, or on mission, or anything else; but sell out they must, for they were plainly told that they would not be allowed to carry on business in opposition to the new Institution.

Now, instead of benefiting the poorer Saints, by supplying goods to them at a small advance upon cost prices, as was at first proclaimed to be the object of the “Co-op”—as the Institution was briefly and familiarly called—the reverse was the case, for competition was altogether banished. All the trade of the Gentile merchants—with one or two exceptions—was forcibly taken from them, for the people were not to trade in any store without first looking to see if the sign of the Institution—a picture of “The All-seeing Eye,” and the words “Holiness unto the Lord” were over the doorway. How often I have seen groups of country people straggling along, with their heads thrown back and their eyes straining aloft in eager quest of that sign, although perhaps their purchases would only amount to a few yards of ribbon or a paper of pins!

No one can predict what the Church—otherwise Brigham—will do, if money should chance to tempt him. In this case, the parent Co-operative store turned, as I might say, traitor to the Ward-stores—its own children—for no sooner had they all been established, and had bought up all the old stock from the parent store, than it was whispered abroad that the latter was about to open in the retail line with a splendid stock of new goods—to suit the Gentiles, of course; for the Saints were not allowed to trade outside of their own Ward-stores, where they were expected to buy up all the old goods. In fact, in order to gain Gentile trade and fill the pockets of Brigham and the leading Elders who really constituted the Institution (and do so still), the same prices were asked at the parent store as had been charged the poor confiding stock-holders of the Ward-stores at wholesale. This, of course, caused great dissatisfaction, and many of the Saints rebelled, declaring they would go where they pleased to spend their money, when they had any to spend. The Ward-stores, in consequence, were obliged, at great loss, to lower their prices, and many were utterly ruined. Others which had more capital tided over the difficulty, and learned a lesson concerning the honesty of the Church leaders which it is to be hoped did them good.

As an example of the way in which matters were managed, I may instance a very old and infirm woman who was one of their victims. She came to me one day and said, “Sister Stenhouse, will you buy out my stock in the Co-operative store? Our store has failed, and I have my twenty-five dollars’ worth in my basket. I pitied her and asked her to let me see her stock, and thereupon she brought out a pound and a half of nails! I did buy out her stock, for I thought that the nails might be handy to have in the house, although I did not give her twenty-five dollars for them. Another person—a Frenchman, whom I knew—bought a share, and when he saw certain ruin looming over his Ward-store, he went to the head-quarters and purchased twenty-five dollars’ worth of goods, and having got them all secured, laid down his shareholders’ receipt in payment and beat a hasty retreat. He was a fortunate man and acted prudently, but alas! for the poor souls who ventured all their little savings in these Church “Institutions” and then were left to poverty and starvation.

About this time, also, it was that the Mormon women, under the auspices of Eliza R. Snow and the Female Relief Society, got up a petition to Mrs. Grant, begging her to use her influence with the President in favour of a toleration of Polygamy. The names to that petition were affixed without any reference to propriety or right. Hundreds of names were copied from the books of the Society without any permission being obtained, or even asked, of their owners. It was then, as I before stated, that the names of the dead were actually added as subscribers to the petition; and in one case, when a lady mentioned that her dead daughter had never belonged to the Church, as she died before her mother heard of Mormonism, she was told that her daughter would now, of course, have found out that Polygamy was the true order of domestic life in heaven, and that she would certainly be willing to subscribe if she could return to earth. Her name was, therefore, added without any further ceremony, although she had been dead a good many years.

In January, 1872, a counter-petition was got up by the Gentile and Apostate ladies. It set forth the cruel bondage which Polygamy inflicts upon women; spoke of the heartless conduct of the Mormon leaders, and of the murders and other foul crimes which had been committed by them or at their instigation; showed that, should Utah become a State, under the name of Deseret—which has ever been the ambition of Brigham Young—there would be no protection for life or property; stated that the authorities themselves had declared that when statehood was conferred, Gentiles and Apostates would have good cause to tremble; and, finally, prayed the National Government to stretch forth its long arm of power for the defence and protection of honest and law-abiding citizens. This petition was signed by four hundred and forty ladies of Utah, most of them members of the Mormon Church, whose real names were all fairly and openly affixed by their own selves. It was presented to the Senate by the Hon. Schuyler Colfax—then Vice-President; was read, discussed, and ordered to be printed. As might be supposed, it excited a great deal of angry discussion on the part of the Church authorities; and the following Sundays the names of those who had signed were read out in the Tabernacle, and strong remarks made upon their conduct, in order to intimidate them and prevent others from following their example. The consequence was that many of their husbands and sons were threatened with loss of employment, and they were thus forced to retract.

That same year a bill was brought into the Territorial Legislature, providing that boys of fifteen years of age and girls of twelve might legally contract marriage, with the consent of their parents or guardians! In stating this disgraceful fact, I feel certain that the reader who has never lived among the Saints, and is not versed in Utah affairs, will think that I must be mistaken in what I say. It is, however, I am sorry to say, only too true, and the records of the Legislature will bear me witness.

With the exception of the little literary efforts which I have made from time to time to expose through the press the iniquity of the “Celestial Order of Marriage,” no event of more than personal and private interest has, since I left the Mormon Church, interrupted the even tenor of my life. Last year, however, I was able to deal another blow—weak, it might be, but still it was a blow—directed at that false system against which I have sworn eternal enmity. I lectured upon Mormon Polygamy in Washington and Boston, and other large cities, and attempted in my humble way to attract the attention of the Gentile world to the iniquities of that terrible superstition which, in Utah, has degraded womanhood and wrecked the happiness of thousands of my deluded sisters. I met with sympathy everywhere; and then, as now, I resolved that efforts like these I would never relax until, if God spared my life, I should see the last stone in the fabric of Mormonism overturned and Mormon Polygamy counted among the sins and follies of the past.

His literary work accomplished, my husband returned to Salt Lake City. Looking back over the past, our Missionary life and our faith in Brighamism seems like a dream, so difficult is it for us to realize that we ever submitted our souls to the slavery of the Priesthood or placed any credence in that mass of folly, superstition, and licentiousness, known as Mormonism. During all his efforts to obey counsel and build up a “kingdom,” my husband, I know, never ceased to love me. For the misery which he then, in—as I firmly believe—his conscientious endeavours to live his religion, inflicted upon me, I have long ago freely and fully forgiven him. I think that during all that time he never ceased to entertain the fondest affection for me; and, if he was foolishly confiding in those who he believed were divinely authorized and speaking by inspiration, can I blame him when I remember that I myself was actuated by the same faith?

It was impossible to obliterate utterly the education and influences of a whole life’s experience. That wall of partition—Polygamy—which separated my husband from me for so many years, is now for ever broken down. But the effects of Mormonism will, no doubt, though unconsciously to ourselves, tinge the whole of our future life. We can never forget the past. The mournful sympathy which, according to the poet, the Peri at the gate of Paradise expressed over the sins and sorrows of humanity, might, with a slight variation, be applied to our own lives:—

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In the preceding pages I have endeavoured to present to the reader the story of my life’s experience in Mormonism and Polygamy, and to place before him a truthful picture of the doctrines and practices of the Saints.

Two objects influenced my mind when I first proposed to write this volume. In the first place, I earnestly desired to stir up my Mormon sisters to a just sense of their own position. I longed to make them feel, as I do, the cruel degradation, the humiliating tyranny, which Polygamy inflicts. I wanted to arouse them to a sense of their own womanhood, and a just appreciation of those rights and duties which, as women, God has conferred upon them. I was anxious that they should understand and know the inconsistency and folly of that superstitious faith by which they have been so egregiously deluded; that they might learn to hate and loathe the falsely-named “Celestial” system of marriage; and rising in honest indignation and disgust against the tyranny of the oppressor, break asunder the yoke of bondage, cast from them for ever the moral, religious, and social fetters wherewith they are bound, and, walking in the light of truth, assert their perfect equality with their sons, their husbands, their fathers, and their brethren, and henceforth claim and occupy that position which God assigned them, and which by right is theirs!

In the second place, I was anxious to enlist for them the sympathy of the Gentile world. Most strenuous efforts have been made, large sums of money have been spent, and secret intrigues, as well as open and honourable negotiations, have been carried on for the purpose of obtaining admission for Utah into the Union, under the title of The State of Deseret. The name “Deseret” itself is taken from the Book of Mormon, and is said to signify in the celestial tongue a honey-bee; wherefore it is that the escutcheon of Utah Territory is a bee-hive; and to grant that name “Deseret” alone would be a concession to Mormon superstition. Out here in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake we are perfectly well aware that, with Utah once admitted as a State, it would be almost impossible for Gentiles to live peaceably and safely among the Mormons; and of this fact their leading men and their official organs have repeatedly boasted. With Utah as a State, the enslavement of the people to the Priesthood would be complete, and the cruel bondage of Polygamy would be rivetted a thousand times more firmly upon the unfortunate women. I was anxious, therefore, to attract the attention of Congress and the nation at large to these facts; that thus, when Mormon bills and Mormon petitions, replete with falsified statistics, and perverted, and—in many instances—utterly untrue, statements are presented to the National Legislature, neither the representatives of the nation nor the nation itself might be deceived thereby. These were the two objects which I had proposed to myself in writing my own experience as a wife and mother among the Mormons, and I trust to some extent at least I have realized them.

I send forth this little book with many earnest prayers and many heartfelt aspirations that my Mormon sisters may be benefited thereby. Out of the evil which man originates, God alone can produce good; and I trust that my feeble attempt to portray the cruel wrong which Polygamy inflicts upon the women of Utah may excite the sympathy of every man and woman whose influence may avail to hasten that time when this relic of ancient barbarism may be utterly rooted out before the advancing civilization of the age.

The night—the gloomy night of superstition—cannot last for ever. Already there are signs of the coming dawn. The time, I trust and pray, will not long be delayed when the veil shall be removed from the eyes of the enslaved men and women of our modern Zion, and they shall cast aside for ever the yoke of the Priesthood. I trust that I shall yet live to see the day when the Mormon wives and mothers shall awake to a sense of their position and responsibilities, shall understand that God never required that their womanhood should be degraded, their love crushed out, and the holiest instincts of their nature perverted; I trust to see them assert their inalienable rights—their womanly prerogatives—their very birthright itself; I trust to see them shake off the slavery of that cruel superstition which has so long held them captive; I trust to see them take their places side by side with Gentile matrons—the honoured wives and mothers of the men of Utah; I trust to see that dark shadow banished from their features, banished from their hearts, banished from their lives; I trust to see them Free!

Full of love for them—my sisters, my friends, the companions of my life hitherto, whose religion was once my own, whose hopes and joys I have shared, whose sorrows and trials have been also mine—with hopeful prayer I lay down my pen and present my labours to the world. And if my humble efforts shall have conduced, even in the smallest degree, to keep one sister from entering into this sinful “Order”; if they shall have aroused the women of Utah to investigate the foundations of their faith, to calmly and impartially consider the iniquities of the system of Polygamy, to renounce the man-made slavery of the “Celestial Order”; if I shall be found to have awakened in the minds of thinking men and women a hatred for the licentious doctrine which enslaves the wives and daughters of the Saints; if I have to any extent enlisted active, practical sympathy in their behalf, I shall feel that my endeavours have been abundantly rewarded, and that my labours have not been bestowed in vain.

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The publication of this book has probably contributed more to bring the terrible realities of Mormon life to the knowledge of the public, and to hasten their day of judgment, than has any other human agency.

The officers of justice in Utah were from that time urged to bring the notorious criminals to justice, but many well-contrived plans for their arrest failed in the accomplishment.

Unexpectedly, John D. Lee, the hero of the Mountain Meadows Massacre, was, while visiting one of his wives, surprised and placed under confinement in the U.S. Military Fort near Beaver City.

In the summer of 1875 a lengthy trial ensued, and as there were Mormons among the jurors, they failed to agree in a verdict.

Public indignation grew intensely against the system of falsehood constantly practised by the Mormon jurors, when the Church or any of its leaders were interested in the courts, and a second trial of John D. Lee was earnestly demanded.

During his first trial the Apostle George A. Smith, Brigham’s favourite and counsellor, who was undoubtedly the instrument through whom Lee and his associates had been “counselled” to destroy the emigrants, was still living, and to screen him it was necessary that Lee should escape the penalty of his crime.

Between the first and second trials of John D. Lee, Smith died, and Lee might now confess what he pleased, for the link in the chain of communication from Brigham Young to the murderers was for ever broken.

Continually striving to gain the admission of Utah into the Union as a State, and being always met with a repulse based upon the wholesale murder crimes in Utah that had gone unpunished, Brigham, having no longer anything to fear from Lee’s confessions of his (Brigham’s) complicity in the Mountain Meadows Massacre, resolved to sacrifice Lee to appease the public clamour; accordingly the testimony from eye-witnesses was overwhelming, and Lee was condemned by his own Mormon brethren, who for nearly twenty years had carried in their minds this guilty evidence.

Lee was sentenced to be executed on the 23rd of March, 1877, and as he had the choice of the manner of his death, he elected to be shot. The court so approved, and ordered him to be, on the day named, taken to the Mountain Meadows, where the great slaughter of the innocent men, women, and children, had been consummated, to there meet his doom.

How truthfully I had told the story of this great crime will be seen in the confession of Lee before his execution; and what a dreadful commentary that document is on the Mormon Priesthood will be apparent to every intelligent reader.

Under the name of a Prophet of Jesus Christ, Brigham Young could rule with unchallenged sway hundreds of thousands of honest men and women, who were born of Christian parents, and trained in the civilized customs of Europe and America!

It would seem impossible, yet it is within this book revealed to be an astounding and humiliating fact.

In the escort conducting Lee to the place of execution there were in all about eighty persons, one of whom was a photographer, who deemed the circumstance worthy perpetuation by the unerring camera. From one of those present I copy the sketch of the ending of John D. Lee.

It was Friday morning when the party stopped at their destination, and Lee was immediately ordered to descend from the waggon in which he rode, which he did without delay.

Marshal Nelson then read the orders of the court regarding the execution, and when the reading was concluded, Lee was asked if he had anything to say. Just at this moment the photographer was arranging his camera to take a picture of the prisoner. Lee caught sight of him, and pointing to him said, “I want to see that man,” and added in a louder voice, addressed to the photographer, “Come over here.”

Mr. Fennimore, the artist, replied, “In a second, Mr. Lee,” and very soon after was by the side of Lee, who said,—

“I want to ask a favour of you, sir; I want you to furnish each of my three wives with a copy of the photograph—one to Rachel A., Emma B., and Sarah C.”

He had had in all eighteen wives; but only the three named remained. Rachel was the oldest and most faithful to his interests.

The artist consented to do as he had been requested, and Lee then sat for his picture, which was successfully taken. Then he arose and, looking over those standing about, said,—

“I have but little to say this morning. Of course, I feel that I am upon the brink of eternity, and the solemnity of eternity should rest upon my mind at the present moment. I have made out, or endeavoured to do so, a manuscript and an abridged history of my life. This will be published. Sir, [turning to District Attorney Howard] I have given my views and feelings with regard to all these things. I feel resigned to my fate. I feel as calm as a summer morning. I have done nothing adversely wrong. My conscience is clear before God and man, and I am ready to meet my Redeemer. This it is that places me on this field. I am not an infidel; I have not denied God or His mercy. I am a strong believer in these things. The most I regret is parting with my family. Many of them are unprotected, and will be left fatherless. When I speak of those little ones, they touch a tender chord within me.”

At this moment his voice trembled, and he perceptibly faltered in his words. He continued, however, as follows:—

“I have done nothing designedly wrong in this affair. I used my utmost endeavours to save those people. I would have given worlds were they at my command to have avoided that calamity, but I could not. I am sacrificed to satisfy feelings, and am used to gratify parties; but I am ready to die. I have no fear of death. It has no terrors for me; and no particle of mercy have I asked for from court or officials to spare my life. I do not fear death. I shall never go to a worse place than the one I am now in. I have said it to my family, and I will say it to-day, that the Government of the United States sacrifices their best friend, and that is saying a great deal; but it is true. I am a true believer in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I do not believe everything that is now practised and taught by Brigham Young. I do not agree with him. I believe he is leading his people astray. But I believe in the gospel as taught in its purity by Joseph Smith in former days. I have my reasons for saying this. I used to make this man’s will my pleasure (evidently alluding to Brigham Young), and did so for thirty years. See how and what I have come to this day! I have been sacrificed in a cowardly, dastardly manner. There are thousands of people in the Church—honourable, good-hearted—whom I cherish in my heart. I regret to leave my family. They are near and dear to me. These are things to rouse my sympathy. I declare I did nothing designedly wrong in this unfortunate affair. I did everything in my power to save all emigrants, but I am the one that must suffer. Having said this I feel resigned. I ask the Lord, my God, to extend His mercy to me and receive my spirit. My labours are here done.”

This ceremony, altogether, had occupied about an hour, and it was now close upon eleven o’clock. The sun, which had been fitfully bright during the morning, had become veiled behind a passing cloud, yet the sky was only partially overcast, as down the horizon were bright streaks of golden light; and the effect of light and shadow, as portrayed upon the scene, soon to culminate in the execution of the law, was one that seemed to be in full harmony with the painful silence that prevailed. Then it was that the words upon the rude monument, which once had stood to mark the spot of the massacre, came out with vivid force—

The stillness of the occasion was broken by Lee’s seating himself, according to orders, upon the coffin provided for his burial. He tried to appear calm as he faced the squad of soldiers whose rifles were soon to discharge their contents into his body. A Methodist preacher, Parson Stokes, then knelt beside the coffin and offered a short prayer, following which a white handkerchief was placed over Lee’s eyes. While the marshal was arranging the handkerchief, Lee said in a low but firm tone of voice—“Let them shoot the balls through my heart; don’t let them mangle my body.”

He was assured that the aim would be as true as possible, and the marshal then stepped back and gave his order to the five riflemen who had been selected to do the work,—

“Ready! Aim! Fire!”

The men made ready by raising their weapons to the shoulder, and then took deliberate aim at the blindfolded man, who was about twenty feet off, and at the word “fire!” the volley was discharged, with but a single sound perceptible to the ear, and Lee fell back upon the coffin, dead, without a cry or even a moan. He was shot through the heart, as he had hoped to be, and died instantly. The marshal, after a few moments, viewed the body, and said: “He is quite dead; the law is satisfied at last.”

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In the month of September, 1857, the company of emigrants, known as the “Arkansas Company,” arrived at Parowan, Iron county, Utah, on their way to California. At Parowan young Aden, one of the company, saw and recognized one William Laney, a Mormon resident of Parowan. Aden and his father had rescued Laney from an anti-Mormon mob in Tennessee several years before, and saved his life. He (Laney) at the time he was attacked by the mob was a Mormon missionary in Tennessee. Laney was glad to see his friend and benefactor, and invited him to his house and gave him some “garden sauce” to take back to the camp with him. The same evening, it was reported to Bishop (Colonel) Dame, that Laney had given potatoes and onions to the man Aden, one of the emigrants. When the report was made to Bishop Dame, he raised his hand and crooked his little finger in a significant manner to one Barney Carter, his brother-in-law, and one of the “Angels of Death.” Carter, without another word, walked out, went to Laney’s house with a long picket in his hand, called Laney out and struck him a heavy blow on the head, fracturing his skull, and left him on the ground for dead. C. Y. Webb and Isaac Naoman, President of the “High Council,” both told me they saw Dame’s manœuvres. James McGuffee, then a resident of Parowan, but through oppression has been forced to leave there and is now a merchant in Pahranagat Valley, near Pioche, Nev., knows these facts. About the last of August, 1857, some ten days before the Mountain Meadows Massacre, the company of emigrants passed through Cedar City. George A. Smith, then first counsellor in the Church and Brigham Young’s right-hand man, came down from Salt Lake City, preaching to the different settlements. I at that time was in Washington county, near where St. George now stands. He sent for me. I went to him and he asked me to take him to Cedar City by way of Fort Clara and Pinto settlements, as he was on business and must visit all the settlements. We started on our way up through the canyon. We saw herds of Indians, and he (George A. Smith) remarked to me that these Indians, with the advantages they had of the rocks, could use up a large company of emigrants, or make it very hot for them. After pausing for a short time he said to me, “Brother Lee, what do you think the brethren would do if a company of emigrants should come down through here making threats? Don’t you think they would pitch into them?” I replied that “they certainly would.” This seemed to please him, and he again said to me, “And you really think the brethren would pitch into them?” “I certainly do,” was my reply, “and you had better instruct Colonel Dame and Haight to tend to it that the emigrants are permitted to pass, if you want them to pass unmolested.” He continued, “I asked Isaac (meaning Haight) the same question, and he answered me just as you do, and I expect the boys would pitch into them.” I again said to him that he had better say to Gov. Young that if he wants emigrant companies to pass without molestation that he must instruct Col. Dame or Major Haight to that effect; for if they are not ordered otherwise they will use them up by the help of the Indians. He told the people at the Clara not to sell their grain to the emigrants, nor to feed it to their animals, as they might expect a big fight the next spring with the United States. President Young did not intend to let the troops into the territory. He said: “We are going to stand up for our rights, and will no longer be imposed upon by our enemies, and want every man to be on hand with his gun in good order and his powder dry,” and instructed the people to part with nothing that would sustain life. From the 1st to the 10th of September, 1857, a messenger came to me—his name was Sam Wood—and told me that President Isaac C. Haight wanted me to be at Cedar City that evening without fail. This was Saturday. He told me that a large company of emigrants had gone south. I think he lived at Harmony, twenty miles south of Cedar City.

I obeyed the summons. President Haight met me. It was near sundown. We spent the night in an open house on some blankets, where we talked most all night. He told me that a company of emigrants had passed through some two days before, threatening the Mormons with destruction, and that one of them had said he had helped to kill old Joe Smith and his brother Hyrum, that other members of the company of emigrants had helped drive the Mormons out of Missouri; that others had said they had come to help Johnson’s army clean the Mormons out of Utah; that they had the halters ready to hang old Brigham and Heber, and would have them strung up before the snow flew; that one of the emigrants called one of his oxen (a pair of stags) “Brig.” and the other “Heber;” and that several of the emigrants had used all kinds of threats and profanity. John M. Higbee, the City Marshal, had informed them that it was a breach of the city ordinance to use profane language, whereupon one of them replied that he did not care a —— for the Mormon laws or the Mormons either; that they had fought their way through the Indians, and would do it through the —— Mormons; and if their god, old Brigham, and his priests would not sell their provisions, by —— they would take what they wanted any way they could get it; that thus enraged, one of them let loose his long whip and killed two chickens, and threw them into the waggon; that the widow Evans said, “Gentlemen, those are my chickens; please don’t kill them; I am a poor widow;” that they ordered her to “shut up,” or they would blow her —— brains out, etc.; that they had been raising trouble with all the settlements and Indians on their way; that we were threatened on the North by Johnson’s army; that now our safety depended on prompt and immediate action; that a company of Indians had already gone South from Parowan and Cedar City to surprise the emigrants, who were then at the Mountain Meadows, and he wanted me to return home in the morning (Sunday), and send Carl Schurtz (Indian interpreter) from my home (Harmony), to raise the Indians South, at Harmony, Washington, and Santa Clara, to join the Indians from the North and make the attack upon the emigrants at the Meadows. I said to him, “Would it not be well to hold a council of the brethren before making a move?” He replied that “every true Latter-Day Saint that regarded their covenants knew well their duty, and that the company of emigrants had forfeited their lives by their acts,” and that Bishop P. K. Smith (Klingensmith) and Joel White had already gone by way of Pinto, to raise the Indians in that direction, and those that had gone from Parowan and here would make the attack, and might be repulsed. “We can’t now delay for a council of the brethren. Return immediately, and start Carl Schurtz; tell him that I ordered you to tell him to go; and I want you to try and get there before the attack is made, and make the plan for the Indians, and will send Nephi Johnson, the interpreter, to the Meadows as soon as he can be got to help Carl Schurtz manage the Indians.” I did just as I was ordered. The Indians from the North and about Harmony had already started for the Meadows before I reached home. Schurtz started immediately to do his part.

I arrived at home in the night, and remained till morning. I thought over the matter, and the more I thought the more my feelings revolted against such a horrid deed. Sleep had fled from me. I talked to my wife Rachel about it. She felt as I did about it, and advised me to let them do their own dirty work, and said that if things did not go just to suit them the blame would be laid on me. She never did believe in blood atonement, and said it was from the devil, and that she would rather break such a covenant, if she had to die for so doing, than to live and be guilty of doing such an act. I finally concluded that I would go; that I would start by daybreak in the morning, and try to get there before an attack was made on the company, and use my influence with the Indians to let them alone. I crossed the mountains by a trail, and reached the Meadows between nine and ten in the morning, the distance from my place being about twenty-five miles. But I was too late. The attack had been made just before daybreak in the morning, the Indians repulsed, with one killed and two of their chiefs from Cedar City shot through the legs, breaking a leg for each of them. The Indians were in a terrible rage. I went to some of them that were in a ravine. They told me to go to the main body, or they would kill me for not coming before the attack was made. While I was standing there I received a shot just above the belt, cutting through my clothes to the skin, some six inches across. The Indians with whom I was talking lived with me at Harmony. I was Indian Farmer. They told me I was in danger, and to get down into the ravine. I said that it was impossible for me to do anything there, and I dare not venture to the camp of the emigrants without endangering my life. I mounted my horse and started south to meet Carl Schurtz. I travelled sixteen miles and stopped on the Megotsy to bait my animal, as there was good grass and water. I had rode over forty miles without eating or drinking. This is the place where Mr. Tobin met his assassinators. About sunset I saw Schurtz and some ten or fifteen white men and about one hundred and fifty Indians. We camped.

During the night the Indians left for the Meadows. I reported to the men what had taken place. They attacked the emigrants again, about sunrise the next morning, which was Tuesday, and had one of their number killed and several wounded. I, with the white men, reached the Meadows about one o’clock p.m. On the way we met a small band of Indians returning, with some eighteen or twenty head of cattle. One of the Indians was wounded in the shoulder. They told me that the Indians were encamped east of the emigrants, at some springs. On our arrival at the springs we found some two hundred Indians, among whom were the two wounded chiefs, Moqueetus and Bill. The Indians were in a high state of excitement; had killed many cattle and horses belonging to the company. I counted sixty head near their encampment, that they had killed in revenge for the wounding of their men. By the assistance of Oscar Hamblin (brother of Jacob Hamblin) and Schurtz, we succeeded in getting the Indians to desist from killing any more stock that night. The company of emigrants had corraled all their waggons but one for better defence. This corral was about one hundred yards above the springs. This they did to get away from the ravine and from the rocks on the west. The attack was renewed that night by the Indians, in spite of all we could do to prevent it.

When the attack commenced, Oscar Hamblin, William Young, and myself started to go to the Indians. When opposite the corral, on the north, the bullets came around us like a shower of hail. We had two Indians with us to pilot us; they threw themselves flat on the ground to protect themselves from the bullets. I stood erect and asked my Father in heaven to protect me from the missiles of death, and enable me to reach the Indians. One ball passed through my hat and the hair of my head, and another through my shirt, grazing my arm near the shoulder. A most hideous yell of the Indians commenced. The cries and shrieks of the women and children so overcame me that I forgot my danger and rushed through the fire to the Indians, and pleaded with them, in tears, to desist. I told them that the Great Spirit would be angry with them for killing women and little children. They told me to leave or they would serve me the same way, and that I was not their friend, but a friend of their enemies; that I was a squaw, and did not have the heart of a brave, and that I could not see blood shed without crying like a baby, and called me cry-baby, and by that name I am known by all the Indians to this day. I owe my life on that occasion to Oscar Hamblin, who was a missionary with the Indians, and had much influence with the Santa Clara Indians. They were the ones that wanted to kill me. Hamblin shamed them, and called them dogs and wolves for wanting to shed the blood of their father (myself), who had fed and clothed them. We finally prevailed on them to return to camp, where we would hold a council; that I would send for big Captains to come and talk. We told them that they had punished the emigrants enough, and may be they had killed nearly all of them. We told them that Bishop Dame and President Haight would come, and may be they would give them part of the cattle, and let the company go with the teams. In this way we reconciled them to suspend hostilities for the present. The two that had been with Hamblin and myself the night before said they had seen two men on horseback come out of the emigrant’s camp under full speed, and that they went toward Cedar City.

Wednesday morning I asked a man—I think his name was Edwards—to go to Cedar City and say to President Haight, for God’s sake, for my sake, and for the sake of suffering humanity, to send out men to rescue that company. This day we all lay still, waiting orders. Occasionally a few of the Indians withdrew, taking a few head of animals with them. About noon I crossed the valley north of the corral, thinking to examine their location from the west range. The company recognized me as a white man, and sent two little boys, about four years old, to meet me. I hid from them, fearing the Indians, who discovered the children. I called the Indians, who wanted my gun or ammunition to kill them. I prevailed with them to let the children go back to camp, which they very soon did when they saw the Indians. I crept up behind some rock, on the west range, where I had a full view of the corral. In it they had dug a rifle-pit. The wheels of their waggons were chained together, and the only chance for the Indians was to starve them out, or shoot them as they went for water. I lay there some two hours, and contemplated their situation, and wept like a child. When I returned to camp, some six or eight men had come from Cedar City. Joel White, William C. Stewart, and Elliot C. Weldon, were among the number, but they had no orders. They had come merely to see how things were. The Meadows are about fifty miles from Cedar City. Thursday afternoon the messenger from Cedar City returned. He said that President Haight had gone to Parowan to confer with Col. Dame, and a company of men and orders would be sent on to-morrow (Friday); that up to the time he had left, the council had come to no definite conclusion. During this time the Indians and men were engaged in broiling beef and making up their hides into lassos. I had flattered myself that bloodshed was at an end. After the emigrants saw me cross the valley, they hoisted a white flag in the midst of their corral.

Friday afternoon four waggons drove up with armed men. When they saw the white flag in the corral, they raised one also, but drove to the springs where we were, and took refreshment, after which a council meeting was called of Presidents, Bishops, and other Church officers and members of the High Council, societies, High Priests, &c. Major John M. Higbee presided as chairman. Several of the dignitaries bowed in prayer, invoked the aid of the Holy Spirit to prepare their minds, and guide them to do right, and carry out the counsels of their leaders. Higbee said that “President J. C. Haight had been to Parowan to confer with Col. Dame and their counsel, and orders were that, this emigrant camp must be used up.” I replied, “Men, women, and children?” “All,” said he, “except such as are too young to tell tales; and if the Indians cannot do it without help, we must help them.” I commenced pleading for the company, and I said, though some of them have behaved badly, they have been pretty well chastised. My policy would be to draw off the Indians, let them have a portion of the loose cattle, and withdraw with them, under promise that they would not molest the company any more; that the company would then have teams enough left to take them to California. I told them that this course could not bring them into trouble. Higbee said, “White men have interposed, and the emigrants know it, and there lies the danger in letting them go.” I said, “What white man interfered?” He replied that in the attack on Tuesday night two men broke out of the corral and started for Cedar City on horseback; that they were met at Richey’s Spring by Stewart, Joel White, and another man, whose name has passed from me. Stewart asked the two men their names when they met at the spring, and being told in reply by one of the men that his name was Aden, and that the other was a Dutchman from the emigrant’s company, Stewart shoved a pistol to Aden’s breast, and killed him, saying, “Take that, —— you.” The other man (the Dutchman) wheeled to leave as Joel White fired and wounded him. I asked him how he knew the wounded Dutchman got back to the emigrants’ camp. He said because he was tracked back, and they knew he was there. I again said that it was better to deliver the man to them, and let them do anything they wished with them, and tell them that we did not approve such things. Ira Allen, high councillor, and Robert Wiley, and others, spoke, reproving me sharply for trying to dictate to the priesthood; that it would set at naught all authority; that he would not give the life of one of our brethren for a thousand such persons. “If we let them go,” he continued, “they will raise hell in California, and the result will be that our wives and children will have to be butchered, and ourselves too, and they are no better to die than ours, and I am surprised to hear Brother Lee talk as he does, as he, who has always been considered one of the staunchest in the Church, now is the first to shirk from his duty.” I said, “Brethren, the Lord must harden my heart before I can do such a thing.” Allen said, “It is not wicked to obey counsel.” At this juncture I withdrew, walked off some fifty paces, and prostrated myself on the ground and wept in the bitter anguish of my soul, and asked the Lord to avert that evil.

While in that situation Councillor C. Hopkins, a near friend of mine, came to me and said, “Brother Lee, come, get up, and don’t draw off from the priesthood. You ought not to do so. You are only endangering your own life by standing out. You can’t help it, if this is wrong; the blame won’t rest on you.” I said, “Charley, this is the worst move this people ever made; I feel it.” He said, “Come, go back, and let them have their way.” I went back, weeping like a child, and took my place, and tried to be silent, and was until Higbee said, they (the emigrants) must be decoyed out through pretended friendship. I could no longer hold my peace, and said I, “Joseph Smith said that God hated a traitor, and so do I: before I would be a traitor, I would rather take ten men, and go to that camp and tell them they must die, and now to defend themselves, and give them a show for their lives; that would be more honourable than to betray them like Judas.” Here I got another reproof, and was ordered to hold my peace. The plan agreed upon there was to meet them with a flag of truce, tell them that the Indians were determined on their destruction; that we dare not oppose the Indians, for we were at their mercy; that the best we could do for them (the emigrants) was to get them and what few traps we could take in the waggons, to lay their arms in the bottom of the waggon and cover them up with bed-clothes, and start for the settlement as soon as possible, and to trust themselves in our hands. The small children and wounded were to go with the two waggons, the women to follow the waggons, and the men next, the troops to stand in readiness on the east side of the road ready to receive them. Schurtz and Nephi Johnson were to conceal the Indians in the brush and rocks till the company was strung out on the road to a certain point, and at the watchword, “Halt; do your duty!” each man was to cover his victim and fire. Johnson and Schurtz were to rally the Indians, and rush upon and despatch the women and larger children. It was further told the men that President Haight said, if we were united in carrying out the instructions, we would all receive “celestial reward.” I said I was willing to put up with a less reward if I could be excused. “How can you do this without shedding innocent blood?” Here I got another lampooning for my stubbornness and disobedience to the priesthood. I was told that there was not a drop of innocent blood in the whole company of emigrants. Also referred to the Gentile nations who refused the children of Israel passage through their country when Moses led them out of Egypt—that the Lord held that crime against them, and when Israel waxed strong the Lord commanded Joshua to slay the whole nation, men, women, and children. “Have not these people done worse than that to us? Have they not threatened to murder our leaders and prophets, and have they not boasted of murdering our patriarchs and prophets, Joseph and Hyrum? Now talk about shedding innocent blood.” They said I was a good, liberal, free-hearted man, but too much of this sympathy would be always in the way; that every man now had to show his colours; that it was not safe to have a Judas in camp. Then it was proposed that every man express himself; that if there was a man who would not keep a close mouth, they wanted to know it then. This gave me to understand what I might expect if I continued to oppose. Major Higbee said, “Brother Lee is right. Let him take an expression of the people.” I knew I dared not refuse; so I had every man speak and express himself. All said they were willing to carry out the counsel of their leaders; that the leaders had the spirit of God, and knew better what was right than they did. They then wanted to know my feelings. I replied, I have already expressed them. Every eye was upon me as I paused; “but,” said I, “you can do as you please; I will not oppose you any longer.” “Will you keep a close mouth?” was the question. “I will try,” was my answer. I will here say that the fear of offending Brigham Young and George A. Smith had saved my life. I was near being “blood-atoned” in Parowan, under J. C. L. Smith, in 1854, but on this I have spoken in my autobiography.

Saturday morning all was ready, and every man assigned to his post of duty. During the night, or rather just before daylight, Johnson and Schurtz ambushed their Indians, the better to deceive the emigrants. About 11 o’clock a.m. the troops under Major Higbee took their position on the road. The white flag was still kept up in the corral. Higbee called William Bateman out of the ranks to take a flag of truce to the corral. He was met about half way with another white flag from the emigrants’ camp. They had a talk. The emigrant was told we had come to rescue them if they would trust us. Both men with flags returned to their respective places and reported, and were to meet again and bring word. Higbee called me out to go and inform them the conditions, and if accepted, Dan McFarland, brother to John McFarland, lawyer, who acted as aid-de-camp, would bring back word, and then the waggons would be sent for the firearms, children, clothing, etc. I obeyed, and the terms proposed were accepted, but not without distrust. I had as little to say as possible; in fact, my tongue refused to perform its office. I sat down on the ground in the corral, near where some young men were engaged in paying their last respects to some person who had just died of a wound. A large fleshy old lady came to me twice, and talked while I sat there. She related their troubles; said that seven of their number were killed, and forty-seven wounded on the first attack; that several had died since. She asked me if I were an Indian agent. I said, “In one sense I am, as Government has appointed me farmer to the Indians.” I told her this to satisfy her. I heard afterwards that the same question was asked and answered in the same manner by McFarland, who had been sent by Higbee to the corral to “hurry me up, for fear that the Indians would come back and be upon them.”

When all was ready, Samuel McMurdy, counsel to Bishop P. K. Smith (Klingensmith), drove out on the lead. His waggon had the seventeen children, clothing, and arms. Samuel Knight drove the other team, with five wounded men and one boy about fifteen years old. I walked behind the front waggon to direct the course, and to shun being in the heat of the slaughter; but this I kept to myself. When we got turned fairly to the east, I motioned to McMurdy to steer north, across the valley. I, at the same time, told the women, who were next to the waggon, to follow the road up to the troop, which they did. Instead of saying to McMurdy not to drive so fast (as he swore on my trial), I said to the contrary, to drive on, as my aim was to get out of sight before the firing commenced, which we did. We were about half a mile ahead of the company when we heard the first firing. We drove over a ridge of rolling ground, and down on a low flat. The firing was simultaneous along the whole line. The moment the firing commenced McMurdy halted and tied his lines across the rod of the waggon-box, stepped down coolly with double-barrelled shot-gun, walked back to Knight’s waggon, who had the wounded men, and was about twenty feet in the rear. As he raised his piece, he said, “Lord, my God, receive their spirits, for it is for the kingdom of heaven’s sake that we do this,” fired and killed two men. Samuel Knight had a muzzle-loading rifle, and he shot and killed the three men, then struck the wounded boy on the head, who fell dead. In the meantime I drew a five-shooter from my belt, which accidentally went off, cutting across McMurdy’s buskin pantaloons in front, below the crotch. McMurdy said, “Brother Lee, you are excited; take things cool; you was near killin’ me. Look where the bullet cut,” pointing to the place in his pantaloons. At this moment I heard the scream of a child. I looked up and saw an Indian have a little boy by the hair of his head, dragging him out of the hind end of the waggon, with a knife in his hand, getting ready to cut his throat. I sprang for the Indian with my revolver in hand, and shouted to the top of my voice, “Arick, oomo, cot too sooet” (stop, you fool!). The child was terror-stricken. His chin was bleeding. I supposed it was the cut of a knife, but afterwards learned that it was done on the waggon-box, as the Indian yanked the boy down by the hair of the head. I had no sooner rescued this child than another Indian seized a little girl by the hair. I rescued her as soon as I could speak; I told the Indians that they must not hurt the children—that I would die before they should be hurt; that we would buy the children of them. Before this time the Indians had rushed around the waggon in quest of blood, and despatched the two runaway wounded men. In justice to my statement I would say that if my shooter had not prematurely exploded, I would have had a hand in despatching the five wounded. I had lost control of myself, and scarce knew what I was about. I saw an Indian pursue a little girl who was fleeing. He caught her about one hundred feet from the waggon, and plunged his knife through her. I said to McMurdy that he had better drive the children to Hamblin’s ranch, and give them some nourishment, while I would go down and get my horse at the camp. Passing along the road I saw the dead strung along the distance of about half a mile. The women and children were killed by the Indians. I saw Schurtz with the Indians, and no other white man with them. When I came to the men, they lay about a rod apart. Here I came up with Higbee, Bishop Smith, and the rest of the company.

As I came up, Higbee said to me, “Let us search these persons for valuables,” and asked me to assist him; gave me a hat to hold. Several men were already engaged in searching the bodies. I replied that I was unwell, and wanted to get upon my horse and go to the ranch and nurse myself. My request was granted. Reaching Hamblin’s ranch—being heartsick and worn out—I lay down on my saddle-blanket and slept, and knew but little of what passed during the night.

About daybreak in the morning, I heard the voices of Col. Dame and Isaac C. Haight. I heard some very angry words pass between them, which drew my attention. Dame said he would have to report the destruction of the emigrant camp and company. Haight said, “How, as an Indian massacre?” Dame said he did not know so well about that. This reply seemed to irritate Haight, who spoke quite loudly, saying, “How the —— can you report it any other way without implicating yourself?” At this Dame lowered his voice almost to a whisper; I could not understand what he said, and the conversation stopped.

I got up, saw the children, and among the others the boy who was pulled by the hair of his head out of the waggon by the Indian and saved by me; that boy I took home and kept until Dr. Forney, Government agent, came to gather up the children and take them East; he took the boy with the others; that boy’s name was William Fancher; his father was captain of the train; he was taken East and adopted by a man in Nebraska, named Richard Sloan; he remained East several years, and then returned to Utah, and is now a convict in the Utah Penitentiary, having been convicted the past year for the crime of highway robbery. He is now known by the name of “Idaho Bill,” but his true name is William Fancher. His little sister was also taken East, and is now the wife of a man working for the Union Pacific Railroad Company, near Green River. The boy (now man) has yet got the scar on his chin caused by the cut on the waggon-box, and those who are curious enough to examine will find a large scar on the ball of his left foot, caused by a deep cut made by an axe while he was with me.

I got breakfast that morning. Then all hands returned to the scene of the slaughter to bury the dead. The bodies were all in a nude state. The Indians, through the night, had stripped them of every vestige of clothing. Many of the parties were laughing and talking as they carried the bodies to the ravine for burial. They were just covered over a little, but did not long remain so; for the wolves dug them up, and, after eating the flesh from them, the bones laid upon the ground until buried, some time after, by a Government military officer. At the time of burying the bodies Dame and Haight got into another quarrel. Dame seemed to be terror-stricken, and again said he would have to publish it. They were about two paces from me. Dame spoke low, as if careful to avoid being heard. Haight spoke loud, and said, “You know that you counselled it, and ordered me to have them used up.” Dame said, “I did not think that there were so many women and children. I thought they were nearly all killed by the Indians.” Haight said, “It is too late in the day for you to back water. You know you ordered and counselled it, and now you want to back out.” Dame said, “Have you the papers for that?” or “Show the papers for that.” This enraged Haight to the highest pitch, and Dame walked off. Haight said, “You throw the blame of this thing on me, and I will be revenged upon you, if I have to meet you in hell to get it.” From this place we rode to the waggons; we found them stripped of their covers and every particle of clothing, even the feather beds had been ripped open and the contents turned upon the ground, looking for plunder. I crossed the mountains by an Indian trail, taking my little Indian boy with me on my horse. The gathering up of the property and cattle was left in the charge of Bishop P. K. Smith. The testimony of Smith in regard to the property and the disposition of it was very nearly correct.

I must not forget to state, that after the attack a messenger by the name of James Haslem was sent with a despatch to President Brigham Young, asking his advice about interfering with the company, but he did not return in time. This I had no knowledge of until the massacre was committed. Some two weeks after the deed was done, Isaac C. Haight sent me to report to Governor Young in person. I asked him why he did not send a written report. He replied that I could tell him more satisfactorily than he could write, and if I would stand up and shoulder as much of the responsibility as I could conveniently, that it would be a feather in my cap some day, and that I would get a celestial salvation, but that the man who shrank from it now would go to hell. I went and did as I was commanded. Brigham asked me if Isaac C. Haight had written a letter to him. I replied, not by me, but I said he wished me to report in person. “All right,” said Brigham; “were you an eye-witness?” “To the most of it,” was my reply. Then I proceeded and gave him a full history of all except that of my opposition. That I left out entirely. I told him of the killing of the women and children, and the betraying of the company. That, I told him, I was opposed to, but I did not say to him to what extent I was opposed to it, only that I was opposed to shedding innocent blood. “Why,” said he, “you differ from Isaac (Haight), for he said there was not a drop of innocent blood in the whole company.” When I was through, he said that it was awful; that he cared nothing about the men, but the women and children was what troubled him. I said, “President Young, you should either release men from their obligation or sustain them when they do what they have entered into the most sacred obligations to do.” He replied, “I will think over the matter, and make it a subject of prayer, and you may come back in the morning and see me.” I did so, and he said, “John, I feel first-rate; I asked the Lord if it was all right for that deed to be done, to take away the vision of the deed from my mind, and the Lord did so, and I feel first-rate. It is all right. The only fear I have is of traitors.” He told me never to lisp it to any mortal being, not even to Brother Heber. President Young has always treated me with the friendship of a father since, and has sealed several women to me since, and has made my house his home when in that part of the territory, until danger has threatened him. This is a true statement according to the best of my recollection.

John D. Lee.

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Enough has been already written to satisfy all with whom facts have any weight that the Mormonism which claims in Europe to be “of Christ,” is in Utah a despotism of the harshest character, allied to falsehood, murder, and the worst of crimes that degrade human nature. And here would I rest my pen; but it seems that one other episode in Utah life should still be added, showing as it does the intolerance of the ruling Mormon Priesthood when their own sway is challenged.

Thirty-five miles north of Salt Lake City—a short distance from where the Union Pacific debouches from Weber Canyon—a Welchman named Joseph Morris had found eager listeners to new revelations. The Bishop of Kington Fort, Richard Cook, formerly a noted Missionary in Manchester, England, and a number of intelligent men and women, received gladly the new prophet who had been raised up by “the Lord” to “deliver Israel from bondage.” Numerous believers in a very short time gathered from various parts of the territory, and Kington fort, on the Weber, became an important place. Morris abounded with revelations. His “gifts” exceeded in profusion those of all who had ever gone before him. The founder of Mormonism was nothing in comparison with his disciple from Wales. The adherents of the new prophet were perfectly overjoyed at the abundance of light that now shone upon their path, and some very intelligent men gathered to the Weber. Three English and three Danish clerks were daily employed in writing the heavenly communications from the mouth of the new prophet. Brigham had been barren—Morris was overflowing. The new disciples “consecrated” all they possessed to a common fund. Christ was seen to descend among them, and their wants would only be of short duration. As “the Lord” tarried, the enthusiasm of some of the converts cooled, and here began the difficulty with the new prophet. It became a question how much of their property they could reclaim. It had all been “consecrated.” The leading men of the sect decided to let them peacefully retire; but it was expected that they would honestly meet their accrued share of the obligations of the little colony. Some of them proved dishonest, and attempted to take away better cattle than they had brought, and they refused to make allowance for the support they had derived from the property of others. A feud arose, the dissenters applied to the Mormon Courts, and the latter were pleased with the opportunity afforded. Writs were issued, served and repulsed. The dissenters waited for the chance of seizing the moveable property of the colony, and as wheat was sent to mill they pounced upon it, and took teams and waggons as well. On one occasion the Morrisites arose early in the morning, and spread themselves over the country, keeping within view of the advancing teams. As the dissenter and two others pounced upon the convoy the second time, up sprang the Morrisites from places of concealment, and took them prisoners. They were taken to Kington Fort and imprisoned. The friends of the captured men sought their release ineffectually, for the Sheriff in that country could do nothing. One or two of the wives of the prisoners went to Brigham, but he refused to interfere. He was too shrewd to meddle directly in the affair. Justice Kinney was next visited. As judge of that judicial district a petition was filed before him, setting forth that these men were kept in close confinement and heavily ironed by order of Joseph Morris, John Banks, and Richard Cook. On the 24th of May, 1862, a writ of habeas corpus was issued to the Territorial Marshal, and by his deputy served, but no attention was paid to it. On the 11th of June a second writ was issued and was also disregarded. Kinney was intensely indignant, and insisted upon the militia being called out as a posse comitatus to accompany the Territorial Marshal. Acting Governor Fuller issued the necessary order. The Morrisites had been warned by the “Lord” that the “Brighamites” were plotting their destruction, and accordingly purchased all the rifles and ammunition possible. Early on the morning of the 13th of June an armed posse were seen on South Mountain overlooking the Morrisite community, and the following proclamation was sent to the Morrisites by one of their herd-boys:

A gentleman who was then in the Morrisites camp has furnished the author with the following statement:—Morris, a firm believer in the revelations he received, remarked, in answer to the inquiry “What shall be done?” that he would “go and inquire of the Lord.” He was soon heard in solemn and earnest prayer. In the meantime word was sent round the camp for the people to at once assemble in meeting and consult on the question. Women and children came together hurriedly, yet there was no excitement, and soon the Bowery was well filled. Morris was seen to come out from his dwelling with a paper in his hand. This paper proved to be a written revelation. His council were awaiting him. The revelation was read to the council, and a peculiar document it was. It purported to be from God, who was represented as being pleased with his faithful people there, and as having brought the posse against them to show his own power in the complete destruction of their enemies. It also promised that now the triumph of his people should come. Their enemies should be smitten before them, but that not one of his faithful people should be destroyed—that “not a hair of their heads should be harmed.” The council at once stepped out into the Bowery, close to which lived all the leading men, and, to save time, singing was omitted, and the meeting was opened briefly by prayer. John Parsons (previously a noted Mormon preacher in London), in his clear sonorous voice, then read the revelation. R. Cook arose to consult with the people as to which should be obeyed—the proclamation demanding the surrender of the prisoners held in custody of Peter Klemgard, and four of the leading men of the Church, or the revelation forbidding the surrender of these men. Before the people had a chance to speak or vote, or do anything at all in the matter, the booming sound of a cannon was heard, and screams arose from the third seat from the stand in the Bowery, and instantly two women were seen dead in the congregation, and the lower jaw, hanging only by a small strip of skin, was shot off a young girl of from twelve to fifteen years of age. It was the fearful and heart-rending screams of this girl that stopped the meeting. The people arose in utter confusion. Cook, still on his feet, suggested to all to go at once to their homes, and that each man should take care of his own family as best he could. Never was a revelation more immediately falsified, for scarcely had the promise of absolute safety been made than sudden destruction came. Panic-stricken men and women rushed hither and thither, some seeking safety in cellars, some in potato-pits; in short, anywhere or in any place in which security could be either reasonably or unreasonably hoped for. The first shot was in a few minutes followed by another and still another, and the attack was continued. The posse drew nearer and nearer, and the firing was kept up incessantly both with cannon and musketry. Had Burton or McKean had the pluck of a common constable, they could have gone safely into the fort, served the summons, and saved all effusion of blood. There was not a Morrisite in the fort that was armed or thought of arming. They met to consider the question, and to pray over it. About an hour and a half after the firing commenced they got their arms and effected an organization, and a regular defence was made. After fighting three days they raised the white flag, and ceased firing. Cautiously Burton and his aids, with a number of men, entered into the camp, and then transpired a bloody scene, concerning which the following affidavit has been made:

In the fight two of the Marshal’s posse were killed, and six of the Morrisites, and three of the latter were wounded. Only one in the Morrisite camp was killed by rifle-ball. It was the cannon at long range that did the damage. The first shot killed two women as before stated, and wounded a girl; another cannon-ball killed a woman and her child in the “wickiup.” The mother-in-law of the new prophet was also killed in her “wickiup.” A little infant had two narrow escapes. The first shot killed its mother, Mrs. Marsh, while it was in her arms, and it was in the arms of Mrs. Bowman when she was shot down. After the surrender all the prisoners were marched to Salt Lake on the 17th, and on the 18th they were examined before Judge Kinney in chambers, and placed under bonds to appear at the next regular term of Court. In urging measures against the Morrisites, Kinney claimed to be satisfied that he did only do his duty. It is difficult to see how he could long be passive when the order of his Court was disregarded. Burton committed the atrocity of which he is accused most undoubtedly, and it was the work of a devoted fanatic, who, seeking to please the Prophet Brigham, did not hesitate to do so by ridding him of a troublesome rival. That John Banks was foully dealt with there seems little room to doubt. He was wounded at the time of Morris’s death, but not fatally. The manner of his “taking off” only is obscure. In the evening he was well enough to sit up and enjoy his pipe. Suddenly he died. Was he poisoned, shot, or “knifed?” is the only query. It is generally believed that Dr. Clinton “knifed him.” Banks was among the first to receive Mormonism in Preston, Lancashire, England. He was soon ordained a high-priest, and during many years of labour among the Saints he had presided over the largest conferences in Britain, and at one time was one of the Presidency over the whole Church there. He was the most eloquent preacher that was ever in the Mormon Church. As his faith waned in Mormonism he was painfully grieved, and at times became intemperate. Before he was a Mormon he had been a Chartist, and the “despotism” of the ruling Priesthood was irksome to him. Years before he left England for Zion he silently mourned over the one-man power. His best life had been spent for Mormonism, and he was then too far advanced in years to begin a new life, and he emigrated to Zion when ordered, hoping that his fears might be removed by better experience. Brigham Young was personally kind to him after he arrived at Salt Lake, and sought to help him over his material troubles; but there was in the heart of John Banks more than he could tell the Prophet. When he heard Morris, it was the opening of a fresh career to him, and he eagerly embraced the new faith.

Before the regular session of the Third Judicial District Court, at which the Morrisites were to be tried, an element was imported into Utah that was destined to trouble the happiness of the Prophet. A new Governor, in the person of Stephen S. Harding, of Indiana, was appointed to succeed Dawson; and Thomas J. Drake of Michigan and Charles B. Waite of Illinois, were appointed Associate Justices. At the same time a body of California volunteers, under command of Colonel Connor, were sent on the overland mail route to protect that and the telegraph line across the Plains, but the Commander had also instructions to establish posts near Salt Lake City. At the March session of the Third Judicial District Court the Morrisites were tried. Ten of them were indicted for killing two of the posse during the flight; seven of these were convicted, one was “nolled,” and two were acquitted. Sixty-six others were fined $100 each for resisting the posse. Of the seven convicted of “murder in the second degree,” one was sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment, one to twelve years, and five to ten years each. Governor Harding, regarding the prisoners as deserving of clemency, pardoned them all. Most of those who had professed the Morrisite faith, and who did not immediately leave the Territory, found employment and refuge at Camp Douglas.

A month later, Colonel Connor took 250 of them and a company of the California volunteers, to Soda Springs, where he established a post in Idaho, immediately beyond the northern Territorial limits of Utah, and the Morrisites have there lost their peculiarities among a more humane population. After the “Morrisite war” Burton enjoyed the respect of the community and the honours of the Church. Offices and appointments were showered upon him, and wives multiplied in his household. If Brigham was horrified at the murder of Morris, Banks, and the two women, he was unfelicitous in its expression. Burton was, through his influence, made United States Assessor of Internal Revenue, was made a Bishop of the Church, and grew from Colonel Burton to Brigadier and Major-General. He was made a member of the City Government and Sheriff of the county of Great Salt Lake. His wealth increased with his honours, and he was associated with Brigham in nearly all of his enterprises. About four years ago the first move was made against him by the grand jury for the murders on the Weber, and he managed to conceal himself for about a year, and was sent on a mission “to preach the gospel” in England, with the indictment for murder hanging over him. There he was further elevated, and when he returned to “Zion” he was again honoured by being appointed the second counsellor to the chief Bishop of the whole Mormon Church. For the last eighteen months he has enjoyed perfect freedom, and has attended to his numerous affairs with the utmost assurance that nothing could be done with him, and in that he is probably correct, for nothing has ever been done against a prominent Mormon like Burton when a jury had the disposal of the business.

On the 6th of March, 1879, with all this evidence, and the testimony of living eye-witnesses before them, Major-General Burton was acquitted, by a jury in Salt Lake City, of the murder of Mrs. Bowman!

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