The Mormons at Home

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by DIX & EDWARDS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York.

In the summer of 1852 my husband received from the President an appointment for the territory of Utah, which he was induced to accept. Unwilling to be separated from him, for the length of time he must necessarily be absent, under circumstances involving much anxiety for his safety, I determined to accompany him. We accordingly journeyed to Salt Lake, where we spent the winter; and, in the succeeding spring, returned home by way of California.

During our absence, and in compliance with a previous promise, I wrote letters to some near and dear friends, descriptive of our travel and sojourn in Utah. Since our return, I have collected and revised these letters, as a matter of amusement. Those relating to the journey were written with more or less haste, and under the usual inconveniences of camp life; I have studied, however, to preserve the passing impressions and reflections, as they actually occurred. In Utah I could not well avoid some intercourse with its female society; and became, necessarily, conversant with the effect upon it of the more distinctive features of Mormonism.

Letter 1

Independence, Mo., Aug. 20th, 1852.

Bidding adieu to our kind friends in St. Louis on the 12th, we have since been steaming up that mighty arm of western commerce—the Missouri. Just for a moment step on board, in imagination, and gain a bird's eye view of this inland voyage. The brave vessel boldly turns her figure-head into the mouth of this rushing, muddy, turbid highway of waters, and crushes through its chevaux-defrise of snags, or glides softly over them—feeling her way along, as if uncertain which side is the safe one—anon retracing her steps for another current, and performing all sorts of evolutions to avoid hidden dangers—and sometimes, in spite of the pilot's skill, coming to a dead halt, with one wheel actually grappling with the treacherous saurians and river gods, which lurk in the muddy bottom.

On board we have a little world, gathered from all parts of the great world. A nice, motherly German woman, fresh from fatherland, as her high-crowned cap and antique costume indicate, is gazing wistfully upon the shore, while her stalwart son points with hopeful anticipation to the rich soil upon the banks, comparing it with the worn-out lands they have left. But she shakes her head—"Nein, Nein," is her only answer—the gesture and the words express the emotions of her honest soul. The pretty home on the banks of the Rhine—husband, children, friends—all gone but this one son.

As a contrast to this blue-eyed matron, we have a helpless southern lady, with three equally helpless children, who seem to have been born into the world for the mere business of crying and vexation. This inert specimen of womanhood is soft and languishing; lounges on the sofa, looking pretty in her light muslins; and exhibits now and then sufficient animation to direct the slave girl to see whether Johnny wont fall overboard, or what Minnie is crying for. The girl, however, takes the matter very coolly, until a busy-body of an old woman, with a vigorous push, assures her that one child will certainly be overboard in "mighty quick time," unless she sees to it. Was there ever a steamer yet but had some Johnny to persist in using the railing for a hobby horse, to the distress of tender mothers.

Another contrast still, is a noble-looking western woman, a Mrs. K2. After arranging her and her son's state-rooms to her satisfaction—which was only accomplished by sundry threats and a few bribes to the fashionable stewardess—she sailed down through the long saloon to the kitchen (who ever dreamed a steamer had a kitchen?), with her cap strings flying, to see, as she expressively said, whether she could eat in any comfort. Her brow, which had worn rather a threatening aspect, was smoothed on her return. The report was favorable—the floor was white—the table neat—and, above all, she said, the stew pans were clean, really clean, and hung up, just as her cook Sally kept hers. We laughed one and all. She said if we had seen what she had, in these Missouri steamer kitchens, we would never want to eat again—which would be no laughing matter.

Next to our state-room is an East India woman, with a babe and consumptive husband. He is an Englishman by birth, but has always lived in Hindostan, and is now in search of health and a brother. To-day they are to land on the northern side of the river. She is intelligent and communicative, and has the black hair, olive complexion, brilliant eyes, and peculiar ornaments of one from eastern lands.

We have, also, a little, tidy maiden lady, who is devoting her life to the difficult task of converting the Indians to her own faith. She has already been two years at the Shawnee mission, and her soul seents to be in the business, if we are to judge from the incessant stream of uninteresting incidents of the half civilized nations, which she pours forth without mercy.

Among the rarer curiosities of our floating human menagerie is a most forlorn-looking couple—man and woman—on the lower deck. Each day they are to be seen sitting at the extreme end of the boat, without the least shelter from the burning sun. The woman has no covering but a thin cotton dress. There she sits, day after day, gazing listlessly into the water, and showing no signs of life, except to toss back her long, black tresses of uncombed hair. The man is evidently much older than she, and guards her with zealous care, his arm around her, as though to keep her from plunging into the turbid waters. Who are they? Has she been rescued by her father or brother from some den of infamy in St. Louis? Or are they mere clods—merely one of nature's specimens of stupidity?

Our little saloon gradually threw off all reserve, and were as social and familiar as friends of longers tanding; so much so, that Mrs. K. and her husband urged me to stay with them at Liberty, while the further preparations for our journey were going on at Independence.

On Monday we landed at Fort Wayne—everything is a fort here—and, as the steamer moved off to pursue her voyage, it seemed as though the last link connecting us with civilized life had been broken. While waiting at a building which was called a hotel, probably by way of joke, for a carriage to convey us to Independence, we were favored with a specimen of the western "chills," the kind which the landlady assured us never left the patient till he shook them out." The poor man looked as though he might shake himself out at the same time. Everything was hot, humid, and uncomfortable. The ride to Independence made some amends for this chilly reception. It is a sunny region, with beautiful glens, and magnificent oaks and elms, and everything green and luxuriant.

At present we are domesticated at the Nebraska House, externally of great pretensions, but the host has "a mighty hard time to carry it on," as they say here. When he turns his back there is a species of "high life below stairs" going on, which produces a perfect Babel of sounds. The performances, however, at the table, are ludicrous enough. The head waiter has a world of trouble with his sable assistants, and frequently throws down his napkin and dignity together, and starts in full pursuit when they fail to take off the covers exactly at the signal. His wrath, however, is more laughably spent on two young blacks, whose duty it is to keep in motion some queer machinery over the table, to prevent our dévouring more flies than the cook has served up. The result is, that we are favored with a regular chassez to the right and left: the young sables, however, make up in agility what they lack in strength, and manage to escape by diving under the table on one side, to reappear on the other. But, notwithstanding these drill exercises, there is such unmistakable kindness, and so liberal a supply of substantials and luxuries, that we enjoy it very well.

The ladies of the house I see flitting about in their white muslins, looking as disengaged and unconcerned as visitors. The old cook is evidently at the head of the establishment, and, under her benign reign, the pigs and chickens struggle for the freedom of the kitchen with the darkies, though I do not think they actually gain an entrance.

The town is pleasantly situated, the scenery around, judging from our ride from the river, possessing beauty, with few, if any, features of boldness. It was originally selected as the seat of Mormon power; and a beautiful site for their temple is pointed out, now occupied by a pretty cottage, with tastefully arranged grounds. It is a frontier town, where emigrant parties fit out for the plains; huge covered wagons are standing in different places, some new and others dismantled; immense ox teams pass by, and mules are common. Opposite our room they are branding the mules for our caravan, a business attended with rough usage and unnecessary cruelty.

Letter 2

Shawnee Country, eight miles from Westport, Aug. 25, 1852.

Behold us at the first stage of our far westcrn journey! We left Independence day before yesterday, with as much delight as children setting forth on a holiday excursion, though I hope not quite so thoughtless, in reference to future contingencies.

These border Missourians are more hospitable than neat; and we had been detained so long in procuring mules, and other things necessary for the expedition, and had so tired of living at a public-house, that we became quite anxious to exchange its numberless disagreeables for life upon "the Plains." Of course we got under weigh, after so long a prepara- tion, with some little eclat—two darkies at the head of our leaders to keep them in the right direction, and prevent them from doubling around, and running into the carriage—our host in attendance, at the head of the usual loungers at a hotel, to whom was added a reinforcement from the street—our driver gave a few extra cracks of his whip, and, under the echo of a hearty good-by, away we went, almost at top speed.

Our mules possess the usual eccentricities of the race, but, to say truth, behaved remarkably well during the first drive, except that now and then the leaders would most obstinately turn out to crop the grass by the way-side. On we went, gaily enough, and were congratulating ourselves how well we were getting along, when, going up a sharp, rocky pitch, within a mile of Westport, the lead chain gave way, and our wheel mules, from the entire load being suddenly thrown upon them, were in a fair way of being dragged over a steep bank. Our situation, for a few moments, was critical enough; but, fortunately, a mule has, at least, the virtue of never willingly going backwards for "love or whip." In this instance they struggled hard against the pressure, and we were soon extricated from our disagreeable predicament.

This mishap involved the momentous consequence of spending another night within the bounds of civilization, "so-called," instead of "camping out" in the Indian country. Unluckily, the hotel had been burned down within a few days, and we were compelled to seek refuge in a private boarding-house; and I shall not soon forget the low, hot, ill-ventilated room, nor the cotillions danced on our bed by a lively party of mice. I think Punch must have fiddled for them; for, between snatches of sleeping and waking, I heard all sorts of sounds. Our hostess, however, was kind-hearted, and gave me some Indian words, by which I could repulse the squaws in case of their becoming too intrusive.

The next morning the broken chain was duly mended, and, about noon, we were joined by the rest of the party, and set forth in good earnest on our great journey. We have thirteen men, all well armed. It is a mer- chant's train, with four large wagons containing goods for the Salt Lake market, each drawn by six mules, and each has a rifle strapped on its side by way, I suppose, of making a formidable show. Then there is Capt. Phelps, who is our commander and guide, with his wife and child; and they are drawn by four mules in a very commodious carriage. Then our humble selves in another carriage, and a small baggage-wagon to bring up the rear. Our carriage has fairly become our domicil—our parlor, kitchen, and bedroom—and you would be perfectly astonished at the quantity of goods and chattels which we have been able to stow in and around it, for the necessities and conveniences of the journey:—blankets, buffalo-robe, shawls, umbrella, overcoat, port-folio, books, basket, carpet-bag, ham, pickles, pistols, and other things "too numerous to mention." And then we have, underneath, jingling and rattling, campkettles, frying-pans, etc. If we are not mistaken for peddlers, it will not be for want of all the regular symptoms. Our train, when stretched out in the road, with its accom- paniment of spare mules, looked quite imposing; but I could not quite shut out my womanly anticipation, that it would be diminutive enough, surrounded, in hostile fashion, by five hundred whooping and shouting savages. The men, however, say there is no danger, and I have hopefully made up my mind to believe them.

About a mile from Westport we crossed the extreme western bounds of Missouri, and fairly launched on our untried adventures. The ride was perfectly delightful; and, if this is a fair sample of the road over the muchtalked of Plains," it will be more like a pleasure excursion than a wearisome journey. The country was beautiful—slightly undulating, with patches of fine open woods—and here and there a cultivated field of some Indian or white borderer.

We met numbers of the natives riding towards Westport, on small, wild-looking ponies, some of whom were decorated in the extreme of Indian dandyism. One girl careered along unembarrassed by side-saddle or skirt, but very much dressed:—a pink apron flounced all the way up, red leggins fringed and tasseled, beautiful moccasins, an abundance of tinsel ornaments jingling about her ears and neck, a gay shawl tied carelessly over one shoulder, a bead-work sash around her waist, and a pretty handkerchief around her head, from which fluttered a red streamer in the wind. She undoubtedly thought herself an object of envy by us poor, plain mortals. And then she rode with such a careless, yet graceful abandon, that it seemed as though she had been born, bred, and brought up on the pony's back.

Some of the squaws looked ugly, and, as I fancied, expressed much malignity in their glances towards us. We passed a party of about a dozen Caw chiefs and dignitaries on a visit to the Shawnees. They were under a small but beautiful clump of trees by the way-side, had scalp tufts and scarlet blankets, some nearly but not quite in the condition of model artists, some stretched on the grass, others leaning on their rifles, and others, again, against the trees in attitudes of careless dignity. I have seldom looked upon a more picturesque scene. They did not appear to notice us, but scanned our animals with great apparent attention.

We reached our first camp-ground about six, , near a fine spring, on ground slightly rolling. Our mules were soon unharnessed, and allowed to crop the luxuriant grass with long ropes dragging from their necks. At night they were caught by these ropes, and fastened to picket-pins driven into the ground, and thus afforded a circle of a diameter twice the length of the rope, within which to finish their evening meal. On our left, and just beyond a slight hollow, are two Indian huts, and some half a dozen of both sexes, and of rather forbidding appearance, made themselves spectators of our camping operations, occasionally taking a drink from a bottle, and laughing in very harsh tones.

The camp arranged itself into three messes, our own consisting of Denton, Morse, and ourselves, and a corresponding number of fires were built upon the ground. Denton came with us from home, and you know something of him already. Morse is an Illinoian whom we picked up at St. Louis. It seems he joined a company last spring, for California, at St. Joseph's; was taken sick of the small-pox three miles out from that place, abandoned by his companions, and came near ending his travels an outcast in the woods. A friendly doctor, however, found him out and acted the part of the good Samaritan, and after his convalescence he made his way to St. Louis, where he contrived to scrape together forty dollars, which he paid for his passage in one of the multitude of California companies having their origin in that city. The company broke up, the man to whom he paid his money proved to be a cheat, and we found him completely stranded by the waves of adverse fortune, and ready enough to engage in our service. He is badly marked with small-pox, but his countenance indicates great good nature, with some tendency to sly humor; and, as he at one time served a half-way apprenticeship to a baker, he is likely to prove a valuable acquisition in the preparation of our meals.

To return from this digression, our supper was prepared in a very primitive fashion. As it was our first essay at camp life, we contented ourselves with a limited variety—ham, pilot-bread, and coffee—but we enjoyed it with much zest—and, strange as you may think it, it was perfectly clean. The shades of evening came on, the camp fires flickered in the dark, the men, dressed in red and blue shirts, glided about, and finally stretched themselves carelessly upon the grass, a company of Indian ponies galloped about us, and kept neighing with a peculiar shrillness. Altogether it was a scene of surpassing strangeness, and I could not, if I would, describe the mingled sensations of fear and pleasure, which kept me effectually awake until after midnight. The night passed over with no other incident than Mr. F. thrusting his head from the carriage, and asking the sentinel, whom he mistook for an Indian, "What are you doing there?" He had, it seems, thrown a blanket over his shoulders, native fashion, and this morning we have had plenty of camp witticisms over the mistake. The carriage furnishes a more convenient and roomy sleeping apartment than I nad hoped. The backs of the front and middle seats are connected with the bottom part by hinges, and, when unstrapped and turned down, make a complete, cushioned bed; and, with the aid of blankets and buffalo robe, we shall sleep snugly enough.

I slept late, and the first thing I saw on waking was, the family of our captain cosily seated on a blanket at breakfast. While our own was preparing, I could not resist the temptation of making my first "call." You can't imagine how relieved I am to find that I am not the only female of the party. Capt. Phelps is gentlemanly and very talkative. Mrs. P. is an exceedingly quiet appearing lady, and has an infant only four weeks old. I am determined to like her, and the dear little baby I have taken to my heart already. In addition was the driver, who rejoices in the name of "Doc," and a relative—a tall, gentlemanly man, by the name of Mundy. We are as much acquainted in five minutes as though we had known each other all our lives. The formalities of the drawing-room are here out of place—it is "How do you do?" with a hearty shake of the hand, sans ceremonie.

Our breakfast is a second edition of the supper, with the addition of a sort of johnycake made of pinola, or ground parched corn. Some of the mules have broken loose, and a couple of Indians are hazing after them, back and forth, on their ponies, at full speed. The men are engaged in harnessing such of the animals as have not escaped, and I cannot help laughing at their vexations. One man is trying to mesmerize a contrary beast, which will neither go backward, nor forward, nor sideways, but stands obstinately braced in every direction. He has whistled to him, and whispered in his ear, and made sundry coaxing passes over his head and neck, but it is of no use. Some one called out, "Why don't you give his car a thundering twist?" Sure enough that brought the animal to; but it also brought his heels into the air. Why the men don't get killed is to me a wonder.

The captain has concluded to wait here today for a few mules to be brought in from Westport, and it is settled that we are to go on to the next camping-ground, some eight miles further.

Letter 3

Pawnee County, Sept. 2, 1852.

Here we are in the dreaded Pawnee country, and I begin to feel like a veteran traveler. Last evening, after supper, our mules came rushing into camp in the wildest alarm, and some of the men shouted "Indians! Indians!" Mr. F. caught his revolver and jumped from the carriage, and I commenced unfastening a double-barreled gun, knowing that would be the next thing called for. Very soon some one cried—"It is nothing but wolves!" and so, in fact, it proved. But did not I act bravely? By all ordinary rules, I ought to have screamed. I am satisfied that parties traveling over the plains very soon lose all sense of danger. Since the first night spent in camp, I have felt as secure as when at home, with doors and windows fastened. The mules were so prodigiously frightened, that they surrounded the bell pony (the only horse flesh in camp), and so completely worried up the poor thing with their lariats, as to make her lame. You must know that mules look upon horses as superior beings, and will follow them with the same kind of humble submission that a spaniel will his master. Hence it is usual for emigrating parties to have a horse with a bell; and it is said to be often the means of saving the mules from being run off by Indian marauders. Our "bell pony" is a beautiful roan, the property of Mr. Mundy, and withal a general favorite; and it is really gratifying to witness the unremitting care which he bestows upon "Kate."

My first letter left us at our first camping ground, among the Shawnees; and, since then, we have had some vicissitudes by "field," if not by "flood." We started about 11 , in advance of the train, but made only five miles, encamping on the west bank of a small stream, dignified by the name of river; but which, with us, would be termed a creek: the name has escaped me. The other side was thickly wooded for some distance east. The road was fenced on each side, which precluded much choice in selecting our temporary residence; but we found a broad-spreading oak, whose branches afforded some protection from the burning sun. On each side was an Indian log cabin—that on our left very neat in appearance, with a clean yard in front, interspersed with flowers, giving some indications of taste. We soon became acquainted with the inmates, found them friendly, and ready, at reasonable prices, to furnish grain and pasture for our animals. A little back of the hut was an immense field of corn, and they allowed us to select ears for roasting. There were indications of laziness, however, mixed up with this appearance of thrift—two stout-looking men lounged about, laughing and talking with the squaw mother, who stretched herself at full length on the stoop of this "model cottage." The whole establishment would look unthrifty enough in the state of New York, and only attracted attention because it belonged to the natives.

The train came up at evening, but, owing to the escape of some mules, it was understood that we were to go on again in advance.

The next day was one of vexation. Our captain had had his share in the escape of mules—our turn came next. We started very leisurely, and had gone quietly along for about a mile and a half, when we heard a crash, accompanied by a shout from Morse in the rear. The spokes of one of the wheels of the baggage wagon had broken like so many pipe stems, and let that important establishment to the ground. Our commissary department was in a sad fix. Of course we dismounted and walked around the wreck, and held a council of war over the disaster, which resulted in returning to camp, and sending Denton back with the broken wagon for repairs. They all say it takes about a week to get fairly under weigh, and our case was in conformity to the general rule.

The next morning the train left us to go twelve miles—we to follow as soon as Denton returned. As they wound along out of sight, it created a feeling of loneliness not very agreeable. The day was hot, and we found ourselves annoyed by a lot of pigs of all sizes, belonging to our dusky neighbors, who pertinaciously claimed a right to all the odd scraps without waiting our departure.

As soon as we were fairly left alone, two young squaws, with a pappoose, paid me a visit, and brought a fine water-melon. They took a mental inventory of everything inside and out of our traveling wigwam; and, after their return, I could hear them recounting, as I supposed, what they had seen. Of course I could do no less than return this call. They were really friendly. The hut on the left belonged to a chief—Tiger Simon—who was absent. The daughter was a pretty, modest girl—indeed, she might be called beautiful; the mother had the softest and most musical voice I ever heard; the son, who had received some education at the Baptist Mission, acted as interpreter, and we had quite a dish of conversation, in which I learned many particulars of their family history; and this seemed to please them much. On the other side of the way they were less neat, but equally friendly. They were rocking a stout boy, that I judged to be two years old, in a hammock. I made them understand that I thought he was too big to rock; they laughed, and stuck up one finger, to signify that he was only one year old. These incidents relieved the hours somewhat of their tedium.

The day finally wore away; and, as we were preparing for our supper, a party of about a dozen Sioux—men, women, and children—rode by towards Westport with peltry. They had singular looking whips dangling at the wrist of the right hand—some of them highly ornamented. They eyed us very coolly. The men were armed with bows and arrows, and looked something formidable. Two of the old ones put out their hands and said: "white squaw give." I shook my head and told them to begone, with a corresponding gesture; they persisted a few moments and then went off, shaking their heads and jabbering to each other—descanting, probably, on the meanness of the "white squaw." I begin to think Indian taciturnity, so much talked of, to be a mere fiction.

Soon after, a party of ugly-looking Caws, of about the same number, and of all sizes and sexes, went by in the other direction. They eyed us sharply in passing, and, somewhat to my disquiet, camped a short distance from us. This was a disagreeable addition to the neighborhood, and I could not help feeling anxious for the return of Denton. The mules were some distance off in pasture, and Mr. F. and Morse went after them, for the purpose of having them picketed near us, to guard against a diminution of their numbers among such suspicious neighbors. During their absence, I, like a prudent housewife, took a peep into a kettle of boiling tounque, to see how the culinary matters were progressing; and, as I turned around, was confronted by a stout Caw lad. There he stood, as motionless as a marble statue; his eyes snaky; a red blanket over his shoulders; his crown surmounted by the scalp lock—war fashion. His presence was a mystery. Had he risen up from the ground, or fallen down from the clouds? It was at that period of twilight when objects are apt to assume shapes suited to the fears or fancy of the beholder; I was entirely alone, and the imp probably appeared more imposing than the facts would warrant. I was really startled. I told him to be off; he answered, "I no understand." I then reached into the carriage door, as if for some means of defense, and off strode the rascal, with a tread as measured and stately as Brandt or Tecumseh in the presence of his warriors.

Mr. F. and Morse soou returned; and then a party of Potawatomies came up on the other side of the stream, and lit up the edge of the forest with their camp fire. The scene was, in the last degree, wild and strange, and, to my imagination, somewhat fearful. We were between two camps of savages—literally "between two fires." What if Denton should not come? But the rattling of our mended vehicle soon answered that question quite satisfactorily; and, to crown all, the full moon rose in queenly majesty, and poured a flood of mellow light over the whole.