THE CITY OF THE MORMONS1860
ITHE JOURNEYI HAD long determined to add the last new name—Great Salt Lake City—to my list of Holy Cities; to visit the new rival,soi-disant, of Memphis, Benares, Jerusalem, Rome, and Meccah; and to observe the origin and working of a regular go-ahead Western revelation. Mingled with the wish of prospecting the city of the Mormons from a spiritual point of view was the mundane desire of enjoying a little skirmishing with the savages, who had lately been giving the “pale-faces” tough work to do.The man was ready, the hour hardly appeared propitious for other than belligerent purposes. Throughout the summer of 1860 an Indian war was raging in Nebraska; the Comanches, Kiowas, and Cheyennes were “out”; the Federal Government had despatched three columns to the centres of confusion; intestine feuds amongst the aborigines were talked of; the Dakota, or Sioux, had threatened to “wipe out” their old foe the Pawnee. Both tribes were possessors of the soil over which the road to Great Salt Lake City ran. Horrible accounts of murdered post-boys and cannibal emigrants, grossly exaggeratedas usual, filled the papers. “Going amongst the Mormons!” said a friend to me at New Orleans. “They are shooting and cutting one another in all directions. How canyouexpect to escape?” But sagely reflecting that “dangers which loom large from afar generally lose size as one draws near,” and that even the Mormons might turn out less black than they were painted, I resolved to run the risk of the “red nightcap” from the bloodthirsty Indians and the poisoned bowie-dagger from the jealous Latter-Day Saints. I therefore applied myself to then audacious task of an expedition to the City of the Mormons.There were three roads to be chosen from—the three main lines, perhaps, for a Pacific railway between the Mississippi and the Western Ocean—the northern, the central, and the southern. The first, or British, was not to be thought of, since it involved semi-starvation, a possible plundering by the Bedouins, and, what was far worse, five or six months of slow travel. The third, or southern, took twenty-four days and nights, and the journey was accompanied by excessive heat in a malarial climate, to say nothing of poisonous food. There remained only the central road, which has two branches; of these I chose the great emigrant road from Missouri to California. The mail coach on this line was not what one would call luxurious, and the hours of halting-places were badly selected. The schedule time fromSt.Joseph, Missouri, to Great Salt Lake City was twenty-one days; we accomplishedit, it turned out, in nineteen. I therefore travelled toSt.Joseph, disrespectfully known asSt.Jo, bought my ticket, and prepared to start.An important part in my preparations was the kit, which in my case was represented as follows:—One India-rubber blanket, pierced in the centre for a poncho, and with buttons and elastic loops, which converted it into a carpet bag. I ought to have added a buffalo robe as a bed, but ignorance prevented. With one’s coat as a pillow, a buffalo robe, and a blanket, one might defy the dangerous “bunks” of the stations. For weapons I carried two revolvers. In those days, from the moment of leavingSt.Joseph to the time of reaching Placerville or Sacramento, the pistol ought never to be absent from a man’s right hand, nor the bowie-knife from his left. Contingencies with Indians and others might happen, when the difference of an instant might save life. In dangerous places the revolver should be discharged and loaded every morning, both for the purpose of keeping the hand in and doing the weapon justice. A revolver is an admirable tool when properly used. Those, however, who are too idle or careless to attend to it had better carry a pair of “Derringers.” I took also some opium, which is invaluable on the prairie, and some other drugs against fever. The “holy weed, Nicotian,” was not forgotten, for cigars were most useful, as the driver either received or took the lion’s share. The prairie traveller was not very particular about his clothes; the easiest dress was a dark flannel shirt, worn overthe normal article, no braces, but a broad leather belt for a six-shooter and a “Kansas tooth-pick,” a long clasp-knife. The nether garments were forked with good buckskin, or they would infallibly have given out, and the lower ends were tucked into the boots, after the sensible fashion of our grandfathers. In cold weather—the nights were rarely warm—there was nothing better than an old English shooting-jacket; for riding or driving a large pair of buckskin gloves, or rather gauntlets, were advisable, and we did not forget spurs. The best hat was a brown felt, which, by boring holes around the brim to admit a ribbon, could be converted into a riding-hat or a nightcap, as you pleased. Having got my kit and purchased my ticket, I was ready to start.Precisely at 8 a.m. on Tuesday, August 7th, 1860, there appeared in front of the Patee House, the Fifth Avenue Hotel ofSt.Joseph, the vehicle destined to be my home for the next three weeks. I scrutinised it curiously. It was what was known as a “concord coach,” a spring waggon, of which the body is shaped something like an English tax-cart considerably magnified. It paid no regard to appearances, but was safe, strong, and light. The wheels were five to six feet apart, affording security against capsizing; the tyres were of unusual thickness, and polished like steel by the hard, dry ground. The waggon bed was supported by iron bands, and the whole bed was covered with stout osnaburg, supported by strong bars of white oak. There was a sunshade, or hood, in front wherethe driver sat, a curtain behind, which could be raised or lowered at discretion, and four flaps on each side, either folded up, or fastened down with hooks and eyes. The coach was drawn by a team of four mules, which were much preferred to horses as being more enduring. The rate of travel, on an average, was five miles an hour. This was good; between seven and eight was the maximum, which sank in hilly country to three or four.We were detained more than an hour before we started. Our “plunder,” as they called the luggage, was clapped on with little ceremony, and when all was packed away (and a good deal of the comfort of the journey depended on the packing), we rattled through the dusty roads ofSt.Jo, got on the steam ferry, which conveyed us from the right to the left bank of the Missouri River, and landed us in “bleeding” Kansas. We then fell at once into the emigrant road, as it was called, to the Far West, a great thoroughfare at this point, open, broad, and well worn as a European turnpike or a Roman military road, and undoubtedly the best and longest natural highway in the world.At first the scene was one of a luxuriant vegetation; but after an hour of burning sun and sickly damp, the effects of the late storms, we emerged from the waste of vegetation on to the region of the Grand Prairie. Over the rolling surface, which rarely broke into hill or dale, lay a tapestry of thick grass, already turning to a ruddy yellow under the influence ofapproaching autumn. Nothing, I may remark, is more monotonous, except the African and Indian jungle, than these prairie tracks. You saw, as it were, the ends of the earth, and looked around in vain for some object upon which the eye might rest; it wanted the sublimity of repose so suggestive in the sandy deserts, and the perpetual motion so pleasing in the aspect of the sea.Passing through a few wretched shanties called Troy, in Syracuse, we arrived about three o’clock at Cold Springs, where we were allowed an hour’s halt to dine and change mules. The scene was the “rale” Far West. The widow body to whom the shanty of the station belonged lay sick with fever, and the aspect of her family was a “caution to snakes.” The ill-conditioned sons dawdled about, listless as Indians, in skin tunics, and the daughters, whose sole attire was apparently a calico morning wrapper, waited on us in a grudging way in the wretched log hut, which appeared ignorant of the duster and the broom. Myriads of flies disputed with us a dinner consisting of dough-nuts, suspicious eggs in a greasy fritter, and rusty bacon, intolerably fat. It was our first sight of squatter life, and, except in two cases, it was our worst.We drove on all the afternoon and all the night, except for a halt for supper. The last part of our journey was performed under a heavy thunderstorm. Gusts of violent wind whizzed overhead, thunder crashed and rattled, and vivid lightning, flashing out of the murky depths around, made earth and airone blaze of fire. We arrived about one o’clock a.m. at Locknan’s station, a few log huts near a creek. Here we found beds and snatched an hour of sleep. So passed the first day.It is not my purpose to describe the journey day by day, for it lasted nineteen days, and one day was often much like another. I shall therefore content myself with picking out the chief points of interest on the route.Before long the prairies wore a burnt-up aspect. As far as the eye could see the tintage was that of the Arabian desert. It was still, however, too early for prairie fires, and I therefore did not witness this magnificent spectacle. In some parts, where the grass is tall and rank, and the roaring flames leap before the fire with the stride of a maddened horse, the danger is imminent, and the spectacle must be one of awful sublimity.I said at first that the prairie scenery was monotonous, and so on the whole it was, but every now and then we came upon beautiful oases in the desert. Such was the valley of the Little Blue River, fringed with emerald-green oak groves, cotton wood, and long-leaved willow. As we got on to the tableland above this river, between that and the River Platte, the evening approached, and a smile from above lit up into perfect beauty the features of the world below. It was a glorious sunset. Stratum upon stratum of cloud banks, burnished to golden red in the vicinity of the setting sun, and polished to dazzling silvery whiteabove, lay piled half-way from the horizon to the zenith, with a distinct strike towards a vanishing point to the west and dipping into a gateway, through which the orb of day slowly retired. Overhead floated, in a sea of amber and yellow, pink and green heavy purple clouds, whilst in the east black and blue were so curiously blended that the eye could not distinguish whether it rested upon a darkening air or a lowering thunder-cloud. We enjoyed these beauties, I am glad to say, in silence; not a soul said “Look there!” or “How pretty!”When we came to the fork of the great River Platte we saw from time to time a line of Indian removes. This meant that these wild people were shifting their quarters for grass, and when it became a little colder they sought some winter abode on the banks of a stream which supplied fuel and where they could find meat, so that with warmth and food, song and talk, and smoke and sleep, they could while away the dull and dreary winter.The remove of an Indian village presented an interesting sight. The animated and shifting scene of bucks and braves, squaws and papooses, ponies dwarfed by bad breeding and hard living, dogs and puppies—all straggled over the plains westward. In front, singly or in pairs, rode the men, as if born upon, and bred to become part of, the animal; some went bare-backed, others rode upon a saddle tree. In some cases the saddle was trimmed with bead hangings. Their long, lank, thick, brownish-blackhair, ruddy from the effects of the weather, was worn parted in the middle. This parting in men, as well as in women, was generally coloured with vermilion, and plates of brass or tin were inserted into the front hair. They wore many ornaments, and the body dress was a tight-sleeved waistcoat over an American cotton shirt, scarlet and blue being the colours preferred. The garb ended with buckskin leggings and moccasins. The braves were armed with small tomahawks, or iron hatchets, which they carried with the powder horn in the belt on the right side. Their nags were lean and ungroomed. They treat them as cruelly as do the Somali, yet nothing—short of whiskey—could persuade an Indian warrior to part with his favourite steed. Behind the warriors and the braves followed the baggage of the village. The rich squaws rode in litters, the poorer followed their pack-horses on foot. Their garb did not a little resemble their lords, and I saw no great beauty among them, young or old, rich or poor.La belle savageof the party had large and languishing eyes, dentists’ teeth that glittered, and silky, long, black hair like the ears of a Blenheim spaniel. Her ears and neck were laden with tinsel ornaments, and she was very finely dressed. There was with the cavalcade a great company of boys and girls.On the sixth day we crossed the Platte. We had spent most of the night in the waggon, most uncomfortably. At 3.15 a.m., hungry and thirsty, and by no means in the best of humours, we heard with joy thesavage “Yep, yep, yep,” with which the driver was wont to announce our approach to a station. Presently the plank lodging appeared through the darkness. We sprang out of the ambulance; but all was dark and silent as the grave: the station was asleep. A heavy kick opened the door of the restaurant, when a wheezy, drowsy voice from an inner room asked us in German-English, “And how ze komen in?” Without waiting to answer we pulled the owner of it out of bed, and ordered supper, refreshment, and repose. But he raised all sorts of difficulties, and it ended with our sitting down and staring at the fire and waiting for the vile food which he provided for our breakfast. I should like here to describe an ordinary prairie breakfast, the one which greeted us nearly all through our journey. First, the coffee, three parts burnt beans, which had been duly ground to a fine powder and exposed to the air lest the aroma should prove too strong for us. It was placed on the stove to simmer, till every noxious principle was duly extracted from it. Then the rusty bacon, cut into thick slices, was thrust into the frying-pan; here the gridiron was unknown. Thirdly, antelope steak, cut off a carcase suspended for the benefit of flies outside was placed to stew within influence of the bacon’s aroma. Lastly came the bread, which, of course, should have been cooked first. The meal was kneaded with water and a pinch of salt; the raising was done by means of a little sour malt, or more generally by the deleterious yeast powders of the trade. The dough, after havingbeen sufficiently manipulated, was divided into doughnuts, or biscuits, and finally it was placed to be half-cooked under the immediate influence of the rusty bacon and rancid antelope. Uncle Sam’s stove was a triumph of convenience, cheapness, unwholesomeness, and nastiness. It made everything taste like its neighbour; by virtue of it mutton borrowed the flavour of fish, and tomatoes resolved themselves into the flavour of greens.One of the most notable points of our journey was Scott’s Bluffs, the last of the great marl formations which break the dull uniformity of the prairies. Before we came to them we passed the far-famed Chimney Rock, which lies two and a half miles from the south bank of the Platte. Viewed from the south-east, it was not unlike a gigantic jack-boot poised on a high pyramidal mound; I took a sketch of it. Scott’s Bluffs are far more striking and attractive objects; indeed, they excel the Castle Craig of Drachenfels or any of the beauties of the romantic Rhine. From the distance of a day’s march they appeared in the shape of a large blue mound. As you approached within four or five miles, a massive mediæval city gradually defined itself, clustering with wonderful fulness of detail round a colossal fortress, and crowned with a royal castle. It was indeed a beautiful castle on the rock, and that nothing may be wanting to the resemblance, the dashing rains and angry winds have cut the old line of road at its base into a regular moat with a semicircular sweep, which the mirage fills witha mimic river. Quaint figures develop themselves, guards and sentinels in dark armour keep watch and ward upon the slopes, the lion of Bastia crouched unmistakably overlooking the road, and, as the shades of evening closed in, so weird was its aspect that one might almost expect to see some spectral horseman go his rounds about the broken walls. At a nearer aspect the quaint illusion vanished, the lines of masonry became great layers of boulder, curtains and angles changed to the gnashing rents of ages, and the warriors were transformed into dwarf cedars and dense shrubs. Travellers have compared Scott’s Bluffs to Gibraltar, to the Capitol at Washington, and to Stirling Castle; I could think of nothing in its presence but the Arabs’ “City of Brass,” that mysterious abode of bewitched infidels, which often appears to the wayfarer toiling under the sun, but which for ever eludes his nearer search.On our last day in the Platte Valley, just before we entered the Sioux territory, we came to Horseshoe station, which was impressed upon my memory by one thing, which I shall presently explain. We were struck by the aspect of the buildings, which were on an extensive scale; in fact, got up regardless of expense. An immense silence, however, reigned. At last, by hard knocking, we were admitted into a house with a Floridan verandah. By the pretensions of the room we were at once threatened with a “lady.” Our mishap was really worse than we expected, for in reality we were exposed to two “ladies,” and one ofthese was a Bloomer. This, it is fair to state, was the only hermaphrodite of the kind that ever met my eyes in the States; the great founder of the Bloomer order has long since subsided into her original obscurity, and her acolytes have relapsed into petticoats. The Bloomer was an uncouth being, her hair, cut level with her eyes, depended with the graceful curl of a drake’s tail around a fat and flabby countenance, whose only expression was sullen insolence. Her body-dress, glazed brown calico, fitted her somewhat like a soldier’s tunic, developing haunches which would be admired only in venison; and—curious inconsequence of woman’s nature!—all this sacrifice of appearance upon the shrine of comfort did not prevent her wearing that kind of crinoline depicted by Mr.Puncharound “our Mary Hanne.” The pantolettes of glazed brown calico, like the vest, tunic, blouse, shirt, or whatever they may call it, were in peg-top style, admirably setting off a pair of thin-soled, Frenchified, patent-leather bottines, with elastic sides, which contained feet as large, broad, and flat as a negro’s in Africa. The dear creature had a husband: it was hardly safe to look at her, and as for sketching her, I avoided it. The other “lady,” though more decently attired, was like women in this wild part of the world generally—cold and disagreeable, with a touch-me-not air, which reminded me of a certainMiss Baxter,Who refused a man before he axed her.Her husband was the renowned Slade, who had thereputation of having killed his three men. This pleasant individual “for an evening party” wore a revolver and bowie-knife here, there, and everywhere. It at once became evident that this station was not conducted for the public convenience. One of our party who had ventured into the kitchen was fiercely ejected by the “ladies,” and, asking for dormitories, we were informed that lady travellers were admitted into the house, but men could sleep where they could. We found a barn outside; it was hardly fit for a decently brought up pig: the floor was damp and knotty; there was not even a door to keep out the night breeze; and several drunken fellows lay about in different parts of it. Into this disreputable hole we were all thrust for the night. “May gracious Heaven,” I prayed, “keep us safe from all ‘ladies’ in future!” Better a hundred times the squaw, with her uncleanliness and her civility!It was about the tenth day of our journey that the formation of the land began to warn us that we were approaching, as yet far off, the Rocky Mountains. We saw for the first time a train of Mormon waggons, twenty-four in number, slowly wending their way towards the Promised Land. The “captain” was young Brigham Young, a nephew of the Prophet—a fine fellow, with yellow hair and beard, an intelligent countenance, a six-shooter by his right, and a bowie-knife by his left side. It was impossible to mistake, even through the veil of freckles and sunburn with which a two months’ journey had invested them, thenationality of these emigrants—“British-English” was written all over them. One young person concealed her facial attractions under a manner of mask. I though that perhaps she might be a sultana, reserved for the establishment of some very magnificent Mormon bashaw; but the driver, when appealed to, responded with contempt, “’Guess old Briggy won’t stampede many o’ that ere lot!” Though homely in appearance, they seemed to be healthy and well fed.The same day, a little later, we crossed a war party of Arapahos; they looked less like warriors than a band of horse-stealers, and though they had set out with the determination of bringing back some Utah scalps and fingers, they had not succeeded. The war party consisted of some dozen warriors, with a few limber, lithe lads. They had sundry lean, sorry-looking nags, which were presently turned out to graze. Dirty rags formed the dress of the band; their arms were the usual light lances, garnished with leather at the handles, with two cropped tufts and a long loose feather dangling from them. They carried mangy buffalo robes; and scattered upon the ground was a variety of belts, baldricks, and pouches, with split porcupine quills dyed a saffron yellow. I found them sulky and not disposed to be communicative, a fact which, no doubt, was accounted for by the ill-success of their expedition.I have given some account of the “ladies” we meten route; in fairness one must reverse the shield, for, at a station forbiddingly known as the Devil’sPost-Office, we came across an Englishwoman, a “Miss” Moore (Miss is still used for Mrs. by Western men and negroes), who was a pattern of cleanliness, tidiness, civility, and housewifery in general. Her little ranche was neatly swept and garnished, papered and ornamented. The table-cloth was clean, so was the cooking, and so were the children, and I was reminded of Europe by the way in which she insisted upon washing my shirt, an operation which, after leaving the Missouri, had fallen to my own lot. This day also introduced me to the third novel sensation on the western side of the Atlantic. The first was to feel that all men were your equal; that you were no man’s superior, and that no man was yours. The second—this is spoken as an African wanderer—was to see one’s quondam acquaintance, the Kaffir or Negro, put by his grass kilt and coat of grease, invest himself in broadcloth, part his wool on one side, shave, and call himself, not Sambo, but “Mr. Scott.” The third was to meet in the Rocky Mountains with this woman, a refreshing specimen of that far-off Old World. “Miss” Moore’s husband, a decent appendage, had transferred his belief from the Church of England to the Church of Utah, and the good wife, as in duty bound, had followed in his wake. But when the Serpent came and whispered in “Miss” Moore’s modest, respectable, one-idea’d ear that the Abrahams of Great Salt Lake City were mere “Shamabrams,” and not content with Sarahs, but added to them an unlimited supply of Hagars, herpower of endurance broke down. Not an inch would she budge, not a step nearer to the City of the Saints would she take. She fought against the impending misfortune, and she succeeded in reducing her husband to submission and making him earn a good livelihood as station-master on the waggon-line—he who might have been a Solomon in the City of the Saints!The evening of the next day, when we had reached Pacific Springs, the Wind River Mountains appeared in marvellous majesty. It was one of the sights of the journey. The huge purple hangings of rain-clouds in the northern sky set off their vast proportions, and gave prominence, as in a stereoscope, to their gigantic forms and their upper heights, hoar with the frosts of ages. The setting sun diffused a charming softness over their more rugged features, defining the folds and ravines with a distinctness which deceived every idea of distance. As the light sank beyond the far western horizon it travelled slowly up the mountain side, till, reaching the summit, it mingled its splendours with the snow. Nor was the scene less lovely in the morning hour, as the first effulgence of day fell upon the masses of dew-cloud, lit up the peaks, which gleamed like silver, and poured streams of light and warmth over the broad skirts reposing on the plain.On August 25th, the nineteenth day of our journey, we set out at 7 a.m. to breast the Wasach, the last and highest chain of the mountain mass before we reached Great Salt Lake Valley, and to arrive at ourdestination—the New Jerusalem, the future Zion on the tops of the mountains. The road up the big mountain was a very rough one, lined on either side with great trees—hemlocks, firs, and balsam-pines. The varied hues of the quaking ash were there also; the beech, dwarf oak, and thickets of elders and wild roses; whilst over all the warm autumnal tints already mingled with the bright green of summer. The ascent became more and more rugged; this steep pitch, at the end of a thousand miles of hard work and semi-starvation, caused the death of many a wretched animal. Towards the summit it rises sharpest. Here we descended from the waggon, which the four mules had work enough to draw. The big mountain lies eighteen miles from the city; the top is a narrow crest. From that eyrie, eight thousand feet above sea-level, the weary pilgrim first sights his shrine, the object of his long wanderings, hardships, and perils—the Happy Valley of the Great Salt Lake.After a few minutes’ delay to stand and gaze, we resumed the footpath way, whilst the mail-waggon, with wheels rough-locked, descended what appeared to be an impracticable slope. Falling into the gorge of Big Kanyon Creek, we reached about midday a station, half stifled by the thick dust and the sun. We slaked our thirst with the cool water that trickled down the hill by the house side. Presently the station-master arrived; he was introduced to us as Mr. Eph Hanks. I had often heard of him as a Mormon desperado, leader of the dreaded Danite band, anda model ruffian. We found him very pleasant and sociable, though a facetious allusion to the dangers that awaited us under the roof of the Danite was made. We had dinner there, and, after a friendly leave, we entered the mail-waggon again, and prepared ourselves for the last climb over the western-most reach of the Wasach.The road was now only a narrow shelf, and frequent fordings were rendered necessary by the capricious wanderings of the torrent. At one of the most ticklish turns our driver kindly pointed out a precipice where four of the mail passengers fell and broke their necks. He also entertained us with sundry other horrible tales. In due time, emerging from the gates and portals and deep serrations of the upper course, we descended into a lower level, and the valley presently lay full before our sight. At this place the pilgrim emigrants, like the hajis of Jerusalem and Meccah, were wont to give vent to the emotions pent up in their bosoms by sobs and tears, laughter and congratulations, psalms and hysterics. It is indeed no wonder that children danced, that strong men cheered and shouted, and that nervous women, broken with fatigue and hope deferred, screamed and fainted; that the ignorant fondly believed that the “Spirit of God” pervaded the very atmosphere, and that Zion on the tops of the mountains is nearer Heaven than the other parts of the earth. In good sooth, though uninfluenced by religious fervour—beyond the natural satisfaction of seeing a brand new Holy City—evenI could not, after nineteen days of the mail-waggon, gaze upon the scene without emotion.The hour was about 6 p.m., the atmosphere was touched with a dreamy haze, and a little bank of rose-coloured clouds, edged with flames of purple and gold, floated in the upper air, whilst the mellow radiance of an American autumn diffused its mild, soft lustre over the face of the earth. The sun was setting in a flood of heavenly light behind the bold, jagged outline of Antelope Island. At its feet, and then bounding the far horizon, lay, like a band of burnished silver, the Great Salt Lake, that innocent Dead Sea. South-westwards, and the Oquirrh Range sharply silhouetted against the depths of an evening sky.The undulating valley-plain between us and the Oquirrh Range, once a howling wilderness given over to a few miserable savages, was now the site of a populous city. Truly the Mormon prophecy had been fulfilled; the desert had blossomed like the rose.As we descended the Wasach Mountains we could look and enjoy the view of the Happy Valley, and the bench-land then attracted our attention. The eastern valley-bench, upon whose western declivity the city lies, may be traced on a clear day along the base of the mountains for a distance of twenty miles. As we advanced over the bench-ground, the city by slow degrees broke upon our sight. It showed, one may readily believe, to special advantage after a succession of Indian lodges, Canadian ranchos, and log-hut mail-stations of the prairies and themountains. About two miles north, and overlooking the settlements from a height of four hundred feet, a detached cone called Ensign Mount rose at the end of a chain, and overhung and sheltered the north-eastern corner of the valley. Upon this mount the spirit of the martyred Prophet, Mr. Joseph Smith, is said to have appeared to his successor, Mr. Brigham Young, and pointed out to him the position of the new temple, which, after Zion had “got up into the high mountain,” was to console the saints for the loss of Nauvoo the Beautiful.The city was about two miles broad, running parallel with the right bank of the Jordan, which forms its western limit. As we approached, it lay stretched before us as upon a map; at a little distance the aspect was somewhat Oriental, and in some points it reminded me of modern Athens—without the Acropolis. None of the buildings, except the Prophet’s house, were whitewashed. The material, the thick, sun-dried adobe, common to all parts of the Eastern world, was here of a dull leaden blue, deepened by the atmosphere to a grey, like the shingles of the roofs. The number of gardens and compounds, the dark clumps of cottonwood, locust, or acacia, fruit trees—apples, peaches and vines—and, finally, the fields of long-eared maize, strengthened the similarity to an Asiatic rather than to an American settlement. But the difference presently became as marked. Farm houses strongly suggested the old country; moreover, domes and minarets, even churches and steeples, werewholly wanting. The only building conspicuous from afar was the block occupied by the present Head of the Church. The court-house, with its tinned, Muscovian dome; the arsenal, a barn-like structure; and a saw-mill were next in importance.As we entered the suburbs, the houses were almost all of one pattern, a barn shape, and the diminutive casements showed that window glass was not yet made in the valley. The poorer houses are small, low, and hut-like; the others, single-storied buildings, somewhat like stables, with many entrances. The best houses resembled East Indian bungalows, with flat roofs and low, shady verandahs, well trellised, and supported by posts or pillars. I looked in vain for the outhouse-harems, in which certain romancers concerning things Mormon had told me that wives were kept, like other stock. I presently found this one of a multitude of delusions. The people came out to their doors to see the mail-coach, as if it were a “Derby dilly” of old, go by. I was struck by the English appearance of the colony, and the prodigious numbers of white-headed children.Presently we turned into the main thoroughfare, the centre of population and business, where the houses of the principal Mormon dignitaries and the stores of the Gentile merchants combined to form the city’s only street, properly so called. We pulled up at the Salt Lake House, the principal if not the only establishment of the kind in New Zion. In the Far West one learns not to expect much of a hostelry, and I had notseen one so grand for many a day. It was a two-storied building, with a long verandah supported by painted posts. There was a large yard behind for coralling cattle. A rough-looking crowd of drivers and their friends and idlers, almost every man armed with revolver and bowie-knife, gathered round the doorway to prospect the “new lot.” The host presently came out to assist us in carrying in our luggage. There was no bar, but upstairs we found a Gentile ball-room, a fair sitting-room, and bedchambers, apparently made out of a single apartment by partitions too thin to be strictly agreeable. The proprietor was a Mormon who had married an Englishwoman. We found him in the highest degree civil and obliging. To sum up, notwithstanding some considerable drawbacks, my first experience of the Holy City of the Far West was decidedly better than I expected.Our journey had occupied nineteen days, from August 7th to 25th both included, and in that time we had accomplished not less than 1,136 statute miles.
I HAD long determined to add the last new name—Great Salt Lake City—to my list of Holy Cities; to visit the new rival,soi-disant, of Memphis, Benares, Jerusalem, Rome, and Meccah; and to observe the origin and working of a regular go-ahead Western revelation. Mingled with the wish of prospecting the city of the Mormons from a spiritual point of view was the mundane desire of enjoying a little skirmishing with the savages, who had lately been giving the “pale-faces” tough work to do.
The man was ready, the hour hardly appeared propitious for other than belligerent purposes. Throughout the summer of 1860 an Indian war was raging in Nebraska; the Comanches, Kiowas, and Cheyennes were “out”; the Federal Government had despatched three columns to the centres of confusion; intestine feuds amongst the aborigines were talked of; the Dakota, or Sioux, had threatened to “wipe out” their old foe the Pawnee. Both tribes were possessors of the soil over which the road to Great Salt Lake City ran. Horrible accounts of murdered post-boys and cannibal emigrants, grossly exaggeratedas usual, filled the papers. “Going amongst the Mormons!” said a friend to me at New Orleans. “They are shooting and cutting one another in all directions. How canyouexpect to escape?” But sagely reflecting that “dangers which loom large from afar generally lose size as one draws near,” and that even the Mormons might turn out less black than they were painted, I resolved to run the risk of the “red nightcap” from the bloodthirsty Indians and the poisoned bowie-dagger from the jealous Latter-Day Saints. I therefore applied myself to then audacious task of an expedition to the City of the Mormons.
There were three roads to be chosen from—the three main lines, perhaps, for a Pacific railway between the Mississippi and the Western Ocean—the northern, the central, and the southern. The first, or British, was not to be thought of, since it involved semi-starvation, a possible plundering by the Bedouins, and, what was far worse, five or six months of slow travel. The third, or southern, took twenty-four days and nights, and the journey was accompanied by excessive heat in a malarial climate, to say nothing of poisonous food. There remained only the central road, which has two branches; of these I chose the great emigrant road from Missouri to California. The mail coach on this line was not what one would call luxurious, and the hours of halting-places were badly selected. The schedule time fromSt.Joseph, Missouri, to Great Salt Lake City was twenty-one days; we accomplishedit, it turned out, in nineteen. I therefore travelled toSt.Joseph, disrespectfully known asSt.Jo, bought my ticket, and prepared to start.
An important part in my preparations was the kit, which in my case was represented as follows:—One India-rubber blanket, pierced in the centre for a poncho, and with buttons and elastic loops, which converted it into a carpet bag. I ought to have added a buffalo robe as a bed, but ignorance prevented. With one’s coat as a pillow, a buffalo robe, and a blanket, one might defy the dangerous “bunks” of the stations. For weapons I carried two revolvers. In those days, from the moment of leavingSt.Joseph to the time of reaching Placerville or Sacramento, the pistol ought never to be absent from a man’s right hand, nor the bowie-knife from his left. Contingencies with Indians and others might happen, when the difference of an instant might save life. In dangerous places the revolver should be discharged and loaded every morning, both for the purpose of keeping the hand in and doing the weapon justice. A revolver is an admirable tool when properly used. Those, however, who are too idle or careless to attend to it had better carry a pair of “Derringers.” I took also some opium, which is invaluable on the prairie, and some other drugs against fever. The “holy weed, Nicotian,” was not forgotten, for cigars were most useful, as the driver either received or took the lion’s share. The prairie traveller was not very particular about his clothes; the easiest dress was a dark flannel shirt, worn overthe normal article, no braces, but a broad leather belt for a six-shooter and a “Kansas tooth-pick,” a long clasp-knife. The nether garments were forked with good buckskin, or they would infallibly have given out, and the lower ends were tucked into the boots, after the sensible fashion of our grandfathers. In cold weather—the nights were rarely warm—there was nothing better than an old English shooting-jacket; for riding or driving a large pair of buckskin gloves, or rather gauntlets, were advisable, and we did not forget spurs. The best hat was a brown felt, which, by boring holes around the brim to admit a ribbon, could be converted into a riding-hat or a nightcap, as you pleased. Having got my kit and purchased my ticket, I was ready to start.
Precisely at 8 a.m. on Tuesday, August 7th, 1860, there appeared in front of the Patee House, the Fifth Avenue Hotel ofSt.Joseph, the vehicle destined to be my home for the next three weeks. I scrutinised it curiously. It was what was known as a “concord coach,” a spring waggon, of which the body is shaped something like an English tax-cart considerably magnified. It paid no regard to appearances, but was safe, strong, and light. The wheels were five to six feet apart, affording security against capsizing; the tyres were of unusual thickness, and polished like steel by the hard, dry ground. The waggon bed was supported by iron bands, and the whole bed was covered with stout osnaburg, supported by strong bars of white oak. There was a sunshade, or hood, in front wherethe driver sat, a curtain behind, which could be raised or lowered at discretion, and four flaps on each side, either folded up, or fastened down with hooks and eyes. The coach was drawn by a team of four mules, which were much preferred to horses as being more enduring. The rate of travel, on an average, was five miles an hour. This was good; between seven and eight was the maximum, which sank in hilly country to three or four.
We were detained more than an hour before we started. Our “plunder,” as they called the luggage, was clapped on with little ceremony, and when all was packed away (and a good deal of the comfort of the journey depended on the packing), we rattled through the dusty roads ofSt.Jo, got on the steam ferry, which conveyed us from the right to the left bank of the Missouri River, and landed us in “bleeding” Kansas. We then fell at once into the emigrant road, as it was called, to the Far West, a great thoroughfare at this point, open, broad, and well worn as a European turnpike or a Roman military road, and undoubtedly the best and longest natural highway in the world.
At first the scene was one of a luxuriant vegetation; but after an hour of burning sun and sickly damp, the effects of the late storms, we emerged from the waste of vegetation on to the region of the Grand Prairie. Over the rolling surface, which rarely broke into hill or dale, lay a tapestry of thick grass, already turning to a ruddy yellow under the influence ofapproaching autumn. Nothing, I may remark, is more monotonous, except the African and Indian jungle, than these prairie tracks. You saw, as it were, the ends of the earth, and looked around in vain for some object upon which the eye might rest; it wanted the sublimity of repose so suggestive in the sandy deserts, and the perpetual motion so pleasing in the aspect of the sea.
Passing through a few wretched shanties called Troy, in Syracuse, we arrived about three o’clock at Cold Springs, where we were allowed an hour’s halt to dine and change mules. The scene was the “rale” Far West. The widow body to whom the shanty of the station belonged lay sick with fever, and the aspect of her family was a “caution to snakes.” The ill-conditioned sons dawdled about, listless as Indians, in skin tunics, and the daughters, whose sole attire was apparently a calico morning wrapper, waited on us in a grudging way in the wretched log hut, which appeared ignorant of the duster and the broom. Myriads of flies disputed with us a dinner consisting of dough-nuts, suspicious eggs in a greasy fritter, and rusty bacon, intolerably fat. It was our first sight of squatter life, and, except in two cases, it was our worst.
We drove on all the afternoon and all the night, except for a halt for supper. The last part of our journey was performed under a heavy thunderstorm. Gusts of violent wind whizzed overhead, thunder crashed and rattled, and vivid lightning, flashing out of the murky depths around, made earth and airone blaze of fire. We arrived about one o’clock a.m. at Locknan’s station, a few log huts near a creek. Here we found beds and snatched an hour of sleep. So passed the first day.
It is not my purpose to describe the journey day by day, for it lasted nineteen days, and one day was often much like another. I shall therefore content myself with picking out the chief points of interest on the route.
Before long the prairies wore a burnt-up aspect. As far as the eye could see the tintage was that of the Arabian desert. It was still, however, too early for prairie fires, and I therefore did not witness this magnificent spectacle. In some parts, where the grass is tall and rank, and the roaring flames leap before the fire with the stride of a maddened horse, the danger is imminent, and the spectacle must be one of awful sublimity.
I said at first that the prairie scenery was monotonous, and so on the whole it was, but every now and then we came upon beautiful oases in the desert. Such was the valley of the Little Blue River, fringed with emerald-green oak groves, cotton wood, and long-leaved willow. As we got on to the tableland above this river, between that and the River Platte, the evening approached, and a smile from above lit up into perfect beauty the features of the world below. It was a glorious sunset. Stratum upon stratum of cloud banks, burnished to golden red in the vicinity of the setting sun, and polished to dazzling silvery whiteabove, lay piled half-way from the horizon to the zenith, with a distinct strike towards a vanishing point to the west and dipping into a gateway, through which the orb of day slowly retired. Overhead floated, in a sea of amber and yellow, pink and green heavy purple clouds, whilst in the east black and blue were so curiously blended that the eye could not distinguish whether it rested upon a darkening air or a lowering thunder-cloud. We enjoyed these beauties, I am glad to say, in silence; not a soul said “Look there!” or “How pretty!”
When we came to the fork of the great River Platte we saw from time to time a line of Indian removes. This meant that these wild people were shifting their quarters for grass, and when it became a little colder they sought some winter abode on the banks of a stream which supplied fuel and where they could find meat, so that with warmth and food, song and talk, and smoke and sleep, they could while away the dull and dreary winter.
The remove of an Indian village presented an interesting sight. The animated and shifting scene of bucks and braves, squaws and papooses, ponies dwarfed by bad breeding and hard living, dogs and puppies—all straggled over the plains westward. In front, singly or in pairs, rode the men, as if born upon, and bred to become part of, the animal; some went bare-backed, others rode upon a saddle tree. In some cases the saddle was trimmed with bead hangings. Their long, lank, thick, brownish-blackhair, ruddy from the effects of the weather, was worn parted in the middle. This parting in men, as well as in women, was generally coloured with vermilion, and plates of brass or tin were inserted into the front hair. They wore many ornaments, and the body dress was a tight-sleeved waistcoat over an American cotton shirt, scarlet and blue being the colours preferred. The garb ended with buckskin leggings and moccasins. The braves were armed with small tomahawks, or iron hatchets, which they carried with the powder horn in the belt on the right side. Their nags were lean and ungroomed. They treat them as cruelly as do the Somali, yet nothing—short of whiskey—could persuade an Indian warrior to part with his favourite steed. Behind the warriors and the braves followed the baggage of the village. The rich squaws rode in litters, the poorer followed their pack-horses on foot. Their garb did not a little resemble their lords, and I saw no great beauty among them, young or old, rich or poor.La belle savageof the party had large and languishing eyes, dentists’ teeth that glittered, and silky, long, black hair like the ears of a Blenheim spaniel. Her ears and neck were laden with tinsel ornaments, and she was very finely dressed. There was with the cavalcade a great company of boys and girls.
On the sixth day we crossed the Platte. We had spent most of the night in the waggon, most uncomfortably. At 3.15 a.m., hungry and thirsty, and by no means in the best of humours, we heard with joy thesavage “Yep, yep, yep,” with which the driver was wont to announce our approach to a station. Presently the plank lodging appeared through the darkness. We sprang out of the ambulance; but all was dark and silent as the grave: the station was asleep. A heavy kick opened the door of the restaurant, when a wheezy, drowsy voice from an inner room asked us in German-English, “And how ze komen in?” Without waiting to answer we pulled the owner of it out of bed, and ordered supper, refreshment, and repose. But he raised all sorts of difficulties, and it ended with our sitting down and staring at the fire and waiting for the vile food which he provided for our breakfast. I should like here to describe an ordinary prairie breakfast, the one which greeted us nearly all through our journey. First, the coffee, three parts burnt beans, which had been duly ground to a fine powder and exposed to the air lest the aroma should prove too strong for us. It was placed on the stove to simmer, till every noxious principle was duly extracted from it. Then the rusty bacon, cut into thick slices, was thrust into the frying-pan; here the gridiron was unknown. Thirdly, antelope steak, cut off a carcase suspended for the benefit of flies outside was placed to stew within influence of the bacon’s aroma. Lastly came the bread, which, of course, should have been cooked first. The meal was kneaded with water and a pinch of salt; the raising was done by means of a little sour malt, or more generally by the deleterious yeast powders of the trade. The dough, after havingbeen sufficiently manipulated, was divided into doughnuts, or biscuits, and finally it was placed to be half-cooked under the immediate influence of the rusty bacon and rancid antelope. Uncle Sam’s stove was a triumph of convenience, cheapness, unwholesomeness, and nastiness. It made everything taste like its neighbour; by virtue of it mutton borrowed the flavour of fish, and tomatoes resolved themselves into the flavour of greens.
One of the most notable points of our journey was Scott’s Bluffs, the last of the great marl formations which break the dull uniformity of the prairies. Before we came to them we passed the far-famed Chimney Rock, which lies two and a half miles from the south bank of the Platte. Viewed from the south-east, it was not unlike a gigantic jack-boot poised on a high pyramidal mound; I took a sketch of it. Scott’s Bluffs are far more striking and attractive objects; indeed, they excel the Castle Craig of Drachenfels or any of the beauties of the romantic Rhine. From the distance of a day’s march they appeared in the shape of a large blue mound. As you approached within four or five miles, a massive mediæval city gradually defined itself, clustering with wonderful fulness of detail round a colossal fortress, and crowned with a royal castle. It was indeed a beautiful castle on the rock, and that nothing may be wanting to the resemblance, the dashing rains and angry winds have cut the old line of road at its base into a regular moat with a semicircular sweep, which the mirage fills witha mimic river. Quaint figures develop themselves, guards and sentinels in dark armour keep watch and ward upon the slopes, the lion of Bastia crouched unmistakably overlooking the road, and, as the shades of evening closed in, so weird was its aspect that one might almost expect to see some spectral horseman go his rounds about the broken walls. At a nearer aspect the quaint illusion vanished, the lines of masonry became great layers of boulder, curtains and angles changed to the gnashing rents of ages, and the warriors were transformed into dwarf cedars and dense shrubs. Travellers have compared Scott’s Bluffs to Gibraltar, to the Capitol at Washington, and to Stirling Castle; I could think of nothing in its presence but the Arabs’ “City of Brass,” that mysterious abode of bewitched infidels, which often appears to the wayfarer toiling under the sun, but which for ever eludes his nearer search.
On our last day in the Platte Valley, just before we entered the Sioux territory, we came to Horseshoe station, which was impressed upon my memory by one thing, which I shall presently explain. We were struck by the aspect of the buildings, which were on an extensive scale; in fact, got up regardless of expense. An immense silence, however, reigned. At last, by hard knocking, we were admitted into a house with a Floridan verandah. By the pretensions of the room we were at once threatened with a “lady.” Our mishap was really worse than we expected, for in reality we were exposed to two “ladies,” and one ofthese was a Bloomer. This, it is fair to state, was the only hermaphrodite of the kind that ever met my eyes in the States; the great founder of the Bloomer order has long since subsided into her original obscurity, and her acolytes have relapsed into petticoats. The Bloomer was an uncouth being, her hair, cut level with her eyes, depended with the graceful curl of a drake’s tail around a fat and flabby countenance, whose only expression was sullen insolence. Her body-dress, glazed brown calico, fitted her somewhat like a soldier’s tunic, developing haunches which would be admired only in venison; and—curious inconsequence of woman’s nature!—all this sacrifice of appearance upon the shrine of comfort did not prevent her wearing that kind of crinoline depicted by Mr.Puncharound “our Mary Hanne.” The pantolettes of glazed brown calico, like the vest, tunic, blouse, shirt, or whatever they may call it, were in peg-top style, admirably setting off a pair of thin-soled, Frenchified, patent-leather bottines, with elastic sides, which contained feet as large, broad, and flat as a negro’s in Africa. The dear creature had a husband: it was hardly safe to look at her, and as for sketching her, I avoided it. The other “lady,” though more decently attired, was like women in this wild part of the world generally—cold and disagreeable, with a touch-me-not air, which reminded me of a certain
Miss Baxter,Who refused a man before he axed her.
Miss Baxter,Who refused a man before he axed her.
Miss Baxter,
Who refused a man before he axed her.
Her husband was the renowned Slade, who had thereputation of having killed his three men. This pleasant individual “for an evening party” wore a revolver and bowie-knife here, there, and everywhere. It at once became evident that this station was not conducted for the public convenience. One of our party who had ventured into the kitchen was fiercely ejected by the “ladies,” and, asking for dormitories, we were informed that lady travellers were admitted into the house, but men could sleep where they could. We found a barn outside; it was hardly fit for a decently brought up pig: the floor was damp and knotty; there was not even a door to keep out the night breeze; and several drunken fellows lay about in different parts of it. Into this disreputable hole we were all thrust for the night. “May gracious Heaven,” I prayed, “keep us safe from all ‘ladies’ in future!” Better a hundred times the squaw, with her uncleanliness and her civility!
It was about the tenth day of our journey that the formation of the land began to warn us that we were approaching, as yet far off, the Rocky Mountains. We saw for the first time a train of Mormon waggons, twenty-four in number, slowly wending their way towards the Promised Land. The “captain” was young Brigham Young, a nephew of the Prophet—a fine fellow, with yellow hair and beard, an intelligent countenance, a six-shooter by his right, and a bowie-knife by his left side. It was impossible to mistake, even through the veil of freckles and sunburn with which a two months’ journey had invested them, thenationality of these emigrants—“British-English” was written all over them. One young person concealed her facial attractions under a manner of mask. I though that perhaps she might be a sultana, reserved for the establishment of some very magnificent Mormon bashaw; but the driver, when appealed to, responded with contempt, “’Guess old Briggy won’t stampede many o’ that ere lot!” Though homely in appearance, they seemed to be healthy and well fed.
The same day, a little later, we crossed a war party of Arapahos; they looked less like warriors than a band of horse-stealers, and though they had set out with the determination of bringing back some Utah scalps and fingers, they had not succeeded. The war party consisted of some dozen warriors, with a few limber, lithe lads. They had sundry lean, sorry-looking nags, which were presently turned out to graze. Dirty rags formed the dress of the band; their arms were the usual light lances, garnished with leather at the handles, with two cropped tufts and a long loose feather dangling from them. They carried mangy buffalo robes; and scattered upon the ground was a variety of belts, baldricks, and pouches, with split porcupine quills dyed a saffron yellow. I found them sulky and not disposed to be communicative, a fact which, no doubt, was accounted for by the ill-success of their expedition.
I have given some account of the “ladies” we meten route; in fairness one must reverse the shield, for, at a station forbiddingly known as the Devil’sPost-Office, we came across an Englishwoman, a “Miss” Moore (Miss is still used for Mrs. by Western men and negroes), who was a pattern of cleanliness, tidiness, civility, and housewifery in general. Her little ranche was neatly swept and garnished, papered and ornamented. The table-cloth was clean, so was the cooking, and so were the children, and I was reminded of Europe by the way in which she insisted upon washing my shirt, an operation which, after leaving the Missouri, had fallen to my own lot. This day also introduced me to the third novel sensation on the western side of the Atlantic. The first was to feel that all men were your equal; that you were no man’s superior, and that no man was yours. The second—this is spoken as an African wanderer—was to see one’s quondam acquaintance, the Kaffir or Negro, put by his grass kilt and coat of grease, invest himself in broadcloth, part his wool on one side, shave, and call himself, not Sambo, but “Mr. Scott.” The third was to meet in the Rocky Mountains with this woman, a refreshing specimen of that far-off Old World. “Miss” Moore’s husband, a decent appendage, had transferred his belief from the Church of England to the Church of Utah, and the good wife, as in duty bound, had followed in his wake. But when the Serpent came and whispered in “Miss” Moore’s modest, respectable, one-idea’d ear that the Abrahams of Great Salt Lake City were mere “Shamabrams,” and not content with Sarahs, but added to them an unlimited supply of Hagars, herpower of endurance broke down. Not an inch would she budge, not a step nearer to the City of the Saints would she take. She fought against the impending misfortune, and she succeeded in reducing her husband to submission and making him earn a good livelihood as station-master on the waggon-line—he who might have been a Solomon in the City of the Saints!
The evening of the next day, when we had reached Pacific Springs, the Wind River Mountains appeared in marvellous majesty. It was one of the sights of the journey. The huge purple hangings of rain-clouds in the northern sky set off their vast proportions, and gave prominence, as in a stereoscope, to their gigantic forms and their upper heights, hoar with the frosts of ages. The setting sun diffused a charming softness over their more rugged features, defining the folds and ravines with a distinctness which deceived every idea of distance. As the light sank beyond the far western horizon it travelled slowly up the mountain side, till, reaching the summit, it mingled its splendours with the snow. Nor was the scene less lovely in the morning hour, as the first effulgence of day fell upon the masses of dew-cloud, lit up the peaks, which gleamed like silver, and poured streams of light and warmth over the broad skirts reposing on the plain.
On August 25th, the nineteenth day of our journey, we set out at 7 a.m. to breast the Wasach, the last and highest chain of the mountain mass before we reached Great Salt Lake Valley, and to arrive at ourdestination—the New Jerusalem, the future Zion on the tops of the mountains. The road up the big mountain was a very rough one, lined on either side with great trees—hemlocks, firs, and balsam-pines. The varied hues of the quaking ash were there also; the beech, dwarf oak, and thickets of elders and wild roses; whilst over all the warm autumnal tints already mingled with the bright green of summer. The ascent became more and more rugged; this steep pitch, at the end of a thousand miles of hard work and semi-starvation, caused the death of many a wretched animal. Towards the summit it rises sharpest. Here we descended from the waggon, which the four mules had work enough to draw. The big mountain lies eighteen miles from the city; the top is a narrow crest. From that eyrie, eight thousand feet above sea-level, the weary pilgrim first sights his shrine, the object of his long wanderings, hardships, and perils—the Happy Valley of the Great Salt Lake.
After a few minutes’ delay to stand and gaze, we resumed the footpath way, whilst the mail-waggon, with wheels rough-locked, descended what appeared to be an impracticable slope. Falling into the gorge of Big Kanyon Creek, we reached about midday a station, half stifled by the thick dust and the sun. We slaked our thirst with the cool water that trickled down the hill by the house side. Presently the station-master arrived; he was introduced to us as Mr. Eph Hanks. I had often heard of him as a Mormon desperado, leader of the dreaded Danite band, anda model ruffian. We found him very pleasant and sociable, though a facetious allusion to the dangers that awaited us under the roof of the Danite was made. We had dinner there, and, after a friendly leave, we entered the mail-waggon again, and prepared ourselves for the last climb over the western-most reach of the Wasach.
The road was now only a narrow shelf, and frequent fordings were rendered necessary by the capricious wanderings of the torrent. At one of the most ticklish turns our driver kindly pointed out a precipice where four of the mail passengers fell and broke their necks. He also entertained us with sundry other horrible tales. In due time, emerging from the gates and portals and deep serrations of the upper course, we descended into a lower level, and the valley presently lay full before our sight. At this place the pilgrim emigrants, like the hajis of Jerusalem and Meccah, were wont to give vent to the emotions pent up in their bosoms by sobs and tears, laughter and congratulations, psalms and hysterics. It is indeed no wonder that children danced, that strong men cheered and shouted, and that nervous women, broken with fatigue and hope deferred, screamed and fainted; that the ignorant fondly believed that the “Spirit of God” pervaded the very atmosphere, and that Zion on the tops of the mountains is nearer Heaven than the other parts of the earth. In good sooth, though uninfluenced by religious fervour—beyond the natural satisfaction of seeing a brand new Holy City—evenI could not, after nineteen days of the mail-waggon, gaze upon the scene without emotion.
The hour was about 6 p.m., the atmosphere was touched with a dreamy haze, and a little bank of rose-coloured clouds, edged with flames of purple and gold, floated in the upper air, whilst the mellow radiance of an American autumn diffused its mild, soft lustre over the face of the earth. The sun was setting in a flood of heavenly light behind the bold, jagged outline of Antelope Island. At its feet, and then bounding the far horizon, lay, like a band of burnished silver, the Great Salt Lake, that innocent Dead Sea. South-westwards, and the Oquirrh Range sharply silhouetted against the depths of an evening sky.
The undulating valley-plain between us and the Oquirrh Range, once a howling wilderness given over to a few miserable savages, was now the site of a populous city. Truly the Mormon prophecy had been fulfilled; the desert had blossomed like the rose.
As we descended the Wasach Mountains we could look and enjoy the view of the Happy Valley, and the bench-land then attracted our attention. The eastern valley-bench, upon whose western declivity the city lies, may be traced on a clear day along the base of the mountains for a distance of twenty miles. As we advanced over the bench-ground, the city by slow degrees broke upon our sight. It showed, one may readily believe, to special advantage after a succession of Indian lodges, Canadian ranchos, and log-hut mail-stations of the prairies and themountains. About two miles north, and overlooking the settlements from a height of four hundred feet, a detached cone called Ensign Mount rose at the end of a chain, and overhung and sheltered the north-eastern corner of the valley. Upon this mount the spirit of the martyred Prophet, Mr. Joseph Smith, is said to have appeared to his successor, Mr. Brigham Young, and pointed out to him the position of the new temple, which, after Zion had “got up into the high mountain,” was to console the saints for the loss of Nauvoo the Beautiful.
The city was about two miles broad, running parallel with the right bank of the Jordan, which forms its western limit. As we approached, it lay stretched before us as upon a map; at a little distance the aspect was somewhat Oriental, and in some points it reminded me of modern Athens—without the Acropolis. None of the buildings, except the Prophet’s house, were whitewashed. The material, the thick, sun-dried adobe, common to all parts of the Eastern world, was here of a dull leaden blue, deepened by the atmosphere to a grey, like the shingles of the roofs. The number of gardens and compounds, the dark clumps of cottonwood, locust, or acacia, fruit trees—apples, peaches and vines—and, finally, the fields of long-eared maize, strengthened the similarity to an Asiatic rather than to an American settlement. But the difference presently became as marked. Farm houses strongly suggested the old country; moreover, domes and minarets, even churches and steeples, werewholly wanting. The only building conspicuous from afar was the block occupied by the present Head of the Church. The court-house, with its tinned, Muscovian dome; the arsenal, a barn-like structure; and a saw-mill were next in importance.
As we entered the suburbs, the houses were almost all of one pattern, a barn shape, and the diminutive casements showed that window glass was not yet made in the valley. The poorer houses are small, low, and hut-like; the others, single-storied buildings, somewhat like stables, with many entrances. The best houses resembled East Indian bungalows, with flat roofs and low, shady verandahs, well trellised, and supported by posts or pillars. I looked in vain for the outhouse-harems, in which certain romancers concerning things Mormon had told me that wives were kept, like other stock. I presently found this one of a multitude of delusions. The people came out to their doors to see the mail-coach, as if it were a “Derby dilly” of old, go by. I was struck by the English appearance of the colony, and the prodigious numbers of white-headed children.
Presently we turned into the main thoroughfare, the centre of population and business, where the houses of the principal Mormon dignitaries and the stores of the Gentile merchants combined to form the city’s only street, properly so called. We pulled up at the Salt Lake House, the principal if not the only establishment of the kind in New Zion. In the Far West one learns not to expect much of a hostelry, and I had notseen one so grand for many a day. It was a two-storied building, with a long verandah supported by painted posts. There was a large yard behind for coralling cattle. A rough-looking crowd of drivers and their friends and idlers, almost every man armed with revolver and bowie-knife, gathered round the doorway to prospect the “new lot.” The host presently came out to assist us in carrying in our luggage. There was no bar, but upstairs we found a Gentile ball-room, a fair sitting-room, and bedchambers, apparently made out of a single apartment by partitions too thin to be strictly agreeable. The proprietor was a Mormon who had married an Englishwoman. We found him in the highest degree civil and obliging. To sum up, notwithstanding some considerable drawbacks, my first experience of the Holy City of the Far West was decidedly better than I expected.
Our journey had occupied nineteen days, from August 7th to 25th both included, and in that time we had accomplished not less than 1,136 statute miles.