through memory's halls

Front matter

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II 1795—1870

OME of the Watertown Whitneys migrated to Vermont. At Marlborough, Windham County, in that State, my paternal grandfather, Newel Kimball Whitney, was born, February 5, 1795. He was the eldest son and second child of Samuel and Susannah Kimball Whitney. One of his ancestors, Captain Samuel Whitney, my great-great-grandfather, was a soldier in the Revolutionary War. The complete male line of my Whitney forebears in America runs back as follows: Horace K., Newel K., Samuel, Samuel, Samuel, Nathaniel, Nathaniel, John, John—the last-named, John Whitney of Watertown.

The early life of Newel K. Whitney—the first of our line to become associated with the Latter-day Work—was that of the average New England boy—farming in summer, schooling in winter, and choring the year around. He had native business tact, and at the age of nineteen was a sutler or merchant in a small way at the historic village of Plattsburg, on the west shore of Lake Champlain. This was during the War of 1812. At the battle of Plattsburg he took part in the engagement that resulted in the defeat of the British.

Next we find him at Green Bay, Lake Michigan, established as a trader with the Indians. There he narrowly escaped death at the hands of an infuriated savage, who, angered at his refusal to supply him with liquor, sought his life. He was saved by an'Indian girl named Modalena, who grappled with the red man and held on till his intended victim was well out of the way.

Subsequently, at Painesville, Ohio, he fell in with a merchant named Algernon Sidney Gilbert, who, feeling a friendly interest in the young trader, took him into his store and taught him book-keeping. Later he became junior partner in the firm of Gilbert and Whitney at Kirtland, not far from Painesville, near the southern shore of Lake Erie.

Newel K. Whitney married Elizabeth Ann Smith, a young woman from Connecticut, whose acquaintance he had formed while on business trips to and from the City of New York. Grandmother Whitney says of her husband: “He had thrift and energy, and accumulated property faster than most of his associates. He was proverbially lucky in all his undertakings, insomuch that it was often remarked among our friends, that nothing of ‘N. K.’s’ ever got lost on the Lake, and no product of his exportation was ever low in the market. We prospered in all our efforts to accumulate wealth. Our tastes, our feelings were congenial, and we were a happy couple, with bright prospects in store.”

Add to this that he was honest, punctual, straight-forward, and the reader will have a fair pen portrait of the man who became the second Presiding Bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Though not college bred, he was educated, possessed great natural intelligence, read much, thought deeply, and kept abreast of the spirit of the times.

In religion, Newel K. Whitney and his wife were Disciples (reformed Baptists) when the Gospel found them. They belonged to a congregation of which Sidney Rigdon was the head, and in which Parley P. Pratt was a rising preacher. The Whitneys became Latter-day Saints when Oliver Cowdery and other Elders came from New York to Ohio, on their way to Western Missouri, to carry the Gospel to the Indians, or ‘‘Lamanites,”’ as the Book of Mormon terms them.¢ The Church was then about seven months old, having been organized by Joseph Smith and his associates at Fayette, Seneca County, New York, April 6, 1830.

a The other members of the Cowdery party were Peter Whitmer Jr., Parl P. Pratt and Ziba Peterson. i og tag

Some of the Kirtland Saints, hearing that the Church intended moving westward, began to pray for the coming of the Prophet. One day—it was in February 1831—a sleigh containing several persons drove in from the East and drew up in front of the mercantile store of Gilbert and Whitney. A stalwart young man sprang out, walked up the steps into the store and to where the junior partner was standing. Extending his hand as if to an old and familiar acquaintance, he exclaimed: “Newel K. Whitney, thou art the man!’

The merchant was astonished. He had never seen this person before. ‘‘Stranger,’’ said he, “you have the advantage of me; I could not call you by name, as you have me.”’

“I am Joseph the Prophet,” said the stranger, smiling. ““You’ve prayed me here; now what do you want of me?”

Joseph Smith, in the State of New York, had seen Newel . K. Whitney, in the State of Ohio, praying for his coming to Kirtland; had seen him so vividly—not with the natural, but with the spiritual eye—that he knew him when they met. This was one of the rare powers possessed by the ‘‘Choice Seer.’’®

Such, according to our family folk lore, was Newel K. Whitney’s introduction to the head of the Church. Doubtless that meeting had been divinely prearranged, Joseph’s vision preparing the way for an interview between him and the man who was to have the honor of entertaining him and his wife during the early weeks of their residence in Kirtland. Says the Prophet: ‘‘We were kindly received and welcomed into the house of Brother Newel K. Whitney. My wife and I lived in the family of Brother Whitney several weeks, and received every kindness and attention which could be expected, and especially from Sister Whitney.”

Newel K. Whitney became Bishop of Kirtland, where the first Stake of Zion was organized. When called to that responsible office—the duties of which were similar to those of Bishop Edward Partridge, who had been sent to “build up Zion’ in Missouri—he shrank from it, saying: ‘Brother Joseph, b Book of Mormon—2 Nephi 3: 6, 7, 15; Doctrine and Covenants 131:7,8;

Pearl of Great Price—Moses 1:11-14. c History of the Church, Vol. 1, pp. 145, 146.

I cannot see a bishop in myself.” ‘‘Very well,’’ said the Prophet, “then lay it before the Lord.’’ He did so and in the silence of night came a voice from Heaven: “‘Thy strength is in Me.” Hesitating no longer, he accepted the office, and magnified it to the end of his days.

Bishop Whitney was a staunch friend to the Prophet, standing by him when many faltered and fell away. They frequently traveled together, and shared each other’s confidence. On one of their journeys, returning from Jackson County, Missouri, in May 1832, the horses of the coach on which they were traveling ran away. While going at full speed both passengers leaped from the vehicle, the Prophet landing in safety. But the Bishop, “having his coat fast,” was caught in one of the wheels and thrown violently to the ground, breaking his leg and foot in several places.

This accident delayed them for several weeks at a public house in Greenville, Indiana. There the Prophet’s food was poisoned; but his faith and that of his friend thwarted what he believed to be an attempt upon his life. While still suffering from the effects of the poison, he made his way to the bedside of Bishop Whitney, who administered to him by the laying on of hands, and he was instantly healed.

Feeling that he had enemies in Greenville, the Prophet now proposed that they set out for Kirtland. ‘Brother Whitney,” says he, ‘‘had not had his foot moved from the bed for nearly four weeks, when I went into his room, after a walk in the grove, and told him if he would agree to start for home in the morning, we would take a wagon to the river, about four miles, and there would be a ferry-boat in waiting which would take us quickly across, where we should find a hack that would take us directly to the landing, where we should find a boat in waiting, and we would be going up the river before ten o’clock, and have a prosperous journey home. He took courage and told me he would go. We started next morning, and found everything as I had told him.’’¢ Another instance of Joseph’s power as a Seer.

d History of the Church, Vol. I, pp. 271, 272.

Bishop Whitney passed through many of the fiery trials that beset the Saints, and followed the fortunes of his persecuted people, moving first from Ohio to Illinois, and thence into the Wilderness.

A Ward Bishop and an Alderman at Nauvoo, he afterwards became Presiding Bishop and Trustee-in-Trust for the Church, sharing the latter office with Bishop George Miller, who subsequently fell away. At the time of the exodus from Illinois Bishop Whitney was prominent in the leading councils of the Church.* Having sent two of his sons with the Pioneers, he remained at Winter Quarters on the Iowa frontier, superintending, conjointly with Patriarch Isaac Morley, the emigration of the main body of the Saints. In 1848, at the head of a company, he with his family crossed the plains and settled in Salt Lake Valley.

He was still Presiding Bishop and still Trustee-in-Trust. He had no appointed counselors, but was advised by Presidents Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball, who with President Willard Richards then stood at the head of the Church. While serving in that dual capacity, he also presided over the Eighteenth Ward, one of the nineteen ecclesiastical divisions into which ‘Great Salt Lake City” was originally divided (February 1849). During the same year he became Treasurer and Associate Justice of the Provisional State of Deseret, the first civic government organized in the Inter-mountain West.

Grandfather Whitney died September 23, 1850. In a post mortem tribute signed “E. R. 8S.” (Eliza R. Snow) and published in the Deseret News at the time of his death, he is referred to as ‘‘one of the oldest, most exemplary, and most useful members of the Church,”’ which in him “‘suffers the loss of a wise and able counselor, and a thorough and straight-forward business man. It was ever more gratifying to him to pay a debt than to contract one, and when all his debts were paid he was a e February 26, 1847, Bishop Whitney met in council with President Brigham Young and others, at Winter Quarters, “to consider the appointment of a Pioneer Company and their requirements for the journey.” Essentials of Church History, p. 435.

happy man, though he had nothing left but his own moral and muscular energy. He has gone down to the grave leaving a spotless name behind him, and thousands to mourn the loss of such a valuable man.”

It will interest the posterity of Newel K. Whitney to know that his eldest daughter, Sarah, was sealed in celestial marriage to the Prophet Joseph Smith; the event taking place at Nauvoo, Illinois, not long before the Martyrdom. Bishop Whitney himself voiced the ceremony, which had been given to the Prophet by revelation. Therein Jethro, the father-in-law of Moses, is mentioned as one of the Bishop’s ancestors.

In a patriarchal blessing pronounced by Father Joseph Smith Sr. upon the head of Newel K. Whitney, these words occur: ‘‘And, as thou art a descendant of Melchizedek, one of thy posterity shall be like unto him before the Lord; and he shall be a benefit to thy posterity.”

Both these documents are still in existence. They serve to explain why Grandfather Whitney named one of his sons Jethro, and another, Newel Melchizedek. The latter, who was the youngest-born of the Bishop’s first wife, died early. Jethro, the son of a plural wife, matured to manhood, but is now deceased.

My father, Horace Kimball Whitney, was Newel K. Whitney’s eldest son, born at Kirtland, Ohio, July 25, 1828. His parents being well-to-do, he was given every advantage of schooling then available. Gifted with a capacious and retentive memory, he inherited and acquired a taste for learning that lasted through life. In boyhood he was quite a prodigy among his mates, owing to his scholarly attainments. ‘Ask Horace,” became a proverb with them. They styled him “The Walking Dictionary.” To prevent him from studying too hard, his father would take away his light and send him to bed; whereupon the persistent seeker after knowledge would open his window, put his head and book outside, and read by moonlight.

I have heard him tell how he would cross the street from the home to the store, with his finger on a strange word, to get from his father its meaning or the correct pronunciation. When, puzzled over some statement in his book, he referred the matter to his sire, the latter simply said, ‘“Read on’’—the next sentence probably giving the desired explanation.

A mere child when his parents were converted to ““Mormonism,” he was still but a lad when the Prophet founded schools at Kirtland for the study of languages. Horace was one of the first students enrolled, and speedily acquired a knowledge of Hebrew, Greek and Latin. In English he was already proficient, and likewise “‘quick at figures.”’ He also cultivated music, sang melodiously, and played the flute like a master.

As a youth he was fond of athletic sports, especially swimming, and is said to have saved the life of an older boy who, diving in a deep mill-pond, became entangled in rootsat the bottom, and was nearly drowned when Horace dove after him, brought him to the surface, and helped him to the bank. The rescued lad, who had bullied his rescuer on former occasions, became his fast friend from that hour.

Moving from Kirtland in the fall of 1888, the Whitneys would have proceeded to Far West, Missouri, then the headquarters of the Church, but were intercepted by news of mob troubles and the pending expulsion of the Saints from that State. They spent the winter at Carrollton, Illinois, where Horace sought employment as a school teacher. Though several years under the statutory age, he looked older. Pleased with his readiness and accuracy in answering the questions put to him, the examiner said: ‘‘I presume you are about twenty-one, Mr. Whitney.” ‘You needn’t guess again,’ was the shrewd reply; and this non-committal speech won for him the coveted position.

At Nauvoo he learned the printer’s trade, and was a compositor on the “Times and Seasons,” having as a fellow employee, George Q. Cannon, then a lad several years younger than himself. His bright gifts and genial disposition made him a general favorite.

His relations with the Prophet and other Church leaders were intimate. His journal tells how he pitched a game of quoits with President Joseph Smith and Jedediah M. Grant, while waiting for a steamboat upon which he and Elder Grant were about to start for the Eastern States on a mission. Joseph had previously ordained him an Elder. This was almost a year before the Martyrdom, which occurred while Horace was away. He visited his mother’s relatives in Connecticut, taught school in Stephentown, N. Y., and returned via Kirtland to Nauvoo.

Horace K. Whitney married Helen Mar Kimball, the eldest living daughter of Heber Chase Kimball by his first wife, Vilate Murray. The ceremony took place in the Nauvoo Temple, February 3, 1846; President Brigham Young officiating. Helen (my mother) was a native of New York State, born at Mendon, Monroe County, August 22, 1828. It was at Mendon that the Youngs and Kimballs came into the Church. Mother, prior to her union with my father, had been sealed to the Prophet, her own father performing the ceremony.

The Kimballs, like the Whitneys, were of English-American stock, Heber C., like Newel K., being a native son of Vermont and of Revolutionary ancestry. The Murrays were of Scotch descent. Heber C. Kimball was a tried and trusted friend to the Prophet. In 1835 he became an Apostle, one of the original Twelve ordained in this dispensation. In that capacity he headed the first foreign mission of the Church, opening the Gospel door to Great Britain at Preston, Lancashire, in July 1837. Ten years and five months later he was chosen First Counselor to President Brigham Young, and held that office as long as he lived.

Heber C. Kimball possessed the gift of prophecy in a greater degree, it was thought, than any other member of the Church, excepting its mighty founder. Many of his marvelous foretellings are famous in ‘“Mormon”’ history. His wife Vilate had a poetic temperament, and wrote tender and beautiful verses. Like “Mother” Whitney, Vilate Murray Kimball will

Jf Joseph had said to her: “If you will take this step it will insure your eternal salvation and exaltation, and that of your father’s household, and all your kindred.”

To bring about the fruition of this promise, Helen Mar Kimball gave herself to the Prophet in celestial marriage.

always be regarded as one of the noblest women of this dispensation.

On the Missouri River Horace K. Whitney and his younger brother Orson were enrolled in the Pioneer Company led by President Brigham Young to the Rocky Mountains, entering Salt Lake Valley, July 24,1847. Grandfather Kimball was also a member of that historic band.

My father returned the same season to Winter Quarters for his family, and with them recrossed the plains in 1848. My mother lost her first two children—Helen Rosabelle and William Howard—in their infancy; the former at Winter Quarters, the latter near Sweet Water River. Her third child, Horace K., died about a year later, in Salt Lake Valley.

Father’s life in Utah, though busy, was comparatively uneventful. For a while he worked as a printer and was among those who, in June 1850, set the first type for the Deseret News, the pioneer journal of the Rocky Mountain region.

At the time of “The Move,” when Johnston’s Army was approaching Salt Lake City, and the people, fearful of what the troops intended doing, left their homes and traveled south, our family sojourned for a season at Provo. Father remained, however, as one of the guards at the capital, until the army had passed through the all but deserted town. In the Utah Militia (“Nauvoo Legion’’) he was Major of Topographical Engineers.

Always a lover of the drama, he became one of its earliest exponents in Utah, a member of the Deseret Dramatic Association, playing at the Social Hall (where the premier performance was given in January 1853) and at the Salt Lake Theatre, which opened nine years later. After leaving the stage he was connected with the Theatre Orchestra. Most of this service, both dramatic and musical, was gratuitous; he and his associates playing without pay.

During almost his entire life in Salt Lake Valley, Father was a bookkeeper in the office of the President of the Church. In 1869-70 he filled a short-term mission to his native State, renewing acquaintance with some of his father’s and mother’s relatives in and around Kirtland. This was probably his one absence from Utah after taking up his abode here. I recall no other.

An incessant reader, he reveled in the works of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray and other great masters of literature. Thoughacharming conversationist, with sparklingwit and ready pen, he shunned publicity and was without ambition for office of any kind. While not spiritually-minded in the extreme— resembling in this respect his father rather than his mother, who was spirituality personified—he was moral and upright, a law-abiding citizen, a good husband and father; and they who knew him best esteemed him most.

ITI

1855—1868

RSON Ferguson Whitney—such was the name chosen for

me by my parents, and confirmed upon me as a babe when I was blessed and christened. Bornin Salt Lake City, Sunday, July 1st, 1855, I was named for my father’s brother, Orson K. Whitney, pioneer and missionary; and for my father’s friend, James Ferguson, adjutant-general in the Utah Militia, and one of the earliest and brightest stars in the local dramatic firmament. They were both absent upon missions, Uncle Orson in the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii), General Ferguson in Ireland, when I came upon the scene.?

Seldom if ever was I called Orson by my playmates. My first nickname was ‘“‘Bub’’; afterwards I was ‘‘Whit,” and eventually “Ort.”

The humble house in which I first opened my eyes upon this world, has long since disappeared. I have no recollection of it. It stood, I have been told, in a lane running off North Temple Street, about midway between Main and State. But my boyhood days had another home, which I remember well. It faced north on City Creek, nearly upon the site of its vanished

a A letter dated July 30, 1855, written by my father and addressed to Elder John T. Caine, then on a mission in the Hawaiian Islands, makes this jocular allusion to my birth: ‘‘We have lately been presented with an heir to our vast domain, consisting of half a lot in the 18th Ward, G.S. L. City. The great event took place on the Ist of July, at ten minutes past ten p. m. This prodigy we have styled— in remembrance of our well beloved and absent brother and friend—Orson Ferguson Whitney. Another reasun for its name is the superior excellence to which we expect, in the plenitude of vur paternal self-gratulation, the man-child will attain in the course of human events and coming years!’ This letter, found among the effects of Elder Caine after his death, was presented to me by his daughter, Mrs.

Martie Caine Patrick.

predecessor. Most of the school grounds in that vicinity, where now stand the Brigham Young and Joseph F. Smith memorial buildings, originally belonged to the Whitney Corner, where my grandfather settled in the autumn of 1848.

Father had three families, two of them simultaneously. His wives were Helen Mar Kimball, Lucy Amelia Bloxom and Mary Cravath. The second I never knew, she having died nearly four years before I was born. The third wife, “Aunt Mary,”’ was almost a real mother to me, carrying me in her arms as a nurse before and after her marriage to my father. At first she lived in the same house with my mother, but when her own children began to come, Father provided her with a separate domicile. The houses were in the same lot, and he stayed week about with each family, fairly dividing his time, attentions and limited means with both. His children loved one another almost as much as if the same mother had borne them; and that love, I am happy to say, has never grown cold. We had our childish differences, but they were no more serious than those among any flock of children, and melted like frost in the sunshine of our advancing years.

My earliest distinct recollection was “The Move,” in the spring of 1858. I was not then three years old, but clearly recall incidents connected with the journey to and the sojourn at Provo, where our folks dwelt that summer. One incident that impressed itself upon me, physically as well as mentally, was the accidental scalding of my head by a hired help, a girl, who carelessly wrung a hot dishcloth over me as I sat upon the doorstep of our humble cabin home. They say I was rather hot-headed when a boy. I certainly was on that occasion.

Put to school very early—too early, I think—I grew tired of the indoor confinement long before I had mastered all the rudiments of a common school education. Healthy, though not robust, I loved the open air, was fond of exploring the near-by hills and canyons, and often played truant to indulge that fondness. This, however, was not until I had entered upon my “teens,” and the enticements of baseball had reinforced nature’s attractions. Up to that time I was an exemplary student, and at one period wore the teacher’s silver medal for good conduct. Looking back upon those days, I cannot but conclude that since I needed physical development, my acts of truancy were more of a blessing than a bane. They worried my parents, however, especially my father, who was anxious that his children should have plenty of schooling. He often remarked that if he could leave them nothing else, he would do his best to give them ‘‘a good common English education.” He certainly did his best in that direction.

I must have inherited something of his marvelous memory and love of books. A great reader even in childhood, I could easily memorize anything that I wished to retain. My mind seemed to photograph, not only the reading matter, but its very position on the page; so that I could see it mentally even after the lapse of many years. I read Hume and Smollett’s History of England when a small boy, and could name all the monarchs of that realm in the order of their reigns, relating also the principal events in which theyfigured. British history, my father told me, was an excellent preparation for studying the history of the United States. I found it so; and in spite of George III and his red-coats, I never quite got over my love for the dear old Mother Country. I include Scotland, of course, the native home of some of my forebears. Greece and Rome stood next in my affections; and then other heroic nations. I was very fond of history. Even in fiction, historical stories, pictures and plays suited me best. And the more romantic they were, the better I liked them.

Shakespeare’s works—Hamlet, Macbeth, and other famous tragedies—I pored over when a child, having found acting copies of them in my father’s library. Later, I witnessed these and other great plays on the stage of the Salt Lake Theatre.

My first teacher—the first that I remember— was Mary Ellen Kimball, one of the wives of my grandfather, President Heber C. Kimball. She taught his private school, wherein his children and those of near neighbors were the pupils. The school house was a small frame building fronting west on Main Street, nearly a block north of City Creek. I began with the

First Reader, having mastered the Alphabet and ‘‘A—b-abs”’ at home. When asked by my teacher where I had learned my letters, I answered with charming naivete: “I never did learn ‘em—lI always knew ‘em;’ it being my childish supposition that nothing could be learned out of school.

In after years this teacher told me that I possessed as a child strong powers of concentration. ‘‘You could always keep your eyes on your book,” said she, “though other boys might be whispering or playing on either side of you.’”’ I can well believe it; for even now, when thinking intensively, I neither see nor hear what is going on around me.

Oftentimes I amused myself and amazed my companions by taking up some book entirely new to me, glancing at a paragraph, and then, while looking off, repeating it word for word without the slightest hesitation. I could not do that now, though my memory in some respects, particularly as a retainer of early incidents or of choice literature learned in former years, is considered remarkable, ‘‘almost uncanny’’—to quote afriend’s comment upon it.

I loved reading and hated arithmetic. Spelling and penmanship seemed to come naturally. I was always at or near the head of my class in spelling or reading. Later, elocution and rhetoric appealed to me strongly. But anything involving mathematics was difficult and distasteful.

My father had an original way of teaching. <A well remembered instance occurred when I was a small boy. For some reason I had confounded the words “‘asked” and ‘‘told,”’ and was continually using the one for the other. My male parent corrected me in a most effectual manner. Having sent me to get my shoes repaired, he said on my return: “‘Now report your errand.” ‘Well,’ I drawled, ‘‘I told him if the shoes would be done tomorrow’—‘“‘And he asked you ‘yes,’ I suppose?” broke in Father. That was enough; I never made the same mistake again. My speech was mended more permanently than my footwear.

My mother never taught school, but would have excelled as a teacher had she trained for it. Gifted both in speaking and writing, she had a fund of forceful language, wrote vigorously, and spoke with dignified deliberation. When she arose, tall and stately, yet humble and unaffected, to “‘bear testimony”’ as she sometimes did in fast meetings, all was still, every eye was upon her, and every ear bent to listen. Her very appearance was impressive.

Another teacher of mine was an English woman, who also taught in the Kimball school house, and subsequently at her own home. Expert in arithmetic, she had little patience with anyone who was not. Moreover, I bothered her with questions, asking for explanations that she could not always give. This annoyed her, as it does most people. One day she said to me, with some asperity: ‘‘You’re a dunce.” It cut me to the quick, but at the same time set me to thinking: Who is nearest a dunce—one who asks questions, or one who cannot answer them?

Until then I had got along pretty well with this teacher. It was her silver medal that I had worn for one hundred per cent deportment; a larger boy being decorated in like manner for the same reason. Those medals were a positive misfortune. How the other boys hated us! My life was made miserable until, much to my relief, the medal was taken off.

One day President Kimball came in, and in his right hand was a long carriage whip. ‘Sister Pratt,’ he inquired, ‘who is the worst boy in school?” She named him, tearfully, for she knew what was coming and could be tender-hearted at times. It was one of his own sons. Forthwith the husky youngster, the terror of his mates, was called to the center of the floor and thrashed. ‘‘Next,’’ Grandfather demanded; and the next-tothe-worst was named and treated in like manner, and so on down the line. It looked cruel, but was really kind. I noticed, too, that the long lash curved rather leniently around the quivering form of each juvenile culprit. The moral effect, not physical pain, wasthe end sought. I was one of the immunes, but Grandfather turned to me as he was leaving and said, his black eyes piercing me through. ‘And you behave yourself.’