Twenty-fourth of July Musings, Sent to President Joseph F. Smith.—Twenty-fourth of July Toast,—Utah—Thrilling Eruption of Kilauea.
Sitting 'neath the pines, in the cold mountain air,
Inhaling the inspiration of the chaplain's prayer;
Breathing the spirit of the orator's theme,
Memory sweeps backward o'er the troubled stream
Of my people's lives.
Wild, vivid scenes of frontier life burst like a meteor on the mind. I see the broad prairie lands of our dear Far West, with a hundred new-built, New England fashioned cottages. I hear the ring of the workman's ax, and the noisy laughter of many children,—the evidence of virtuous, happy homes. But the scene changes.
A cloud of dust rises on the horizon, and soon the tramping and neighing of a thousand horses is heard. And the cohorts of Clark's mob militia burst into view. They encircle the village, kindle their camp fires, and place their sentinels. Then commences a raid of pillage and rapine.
Homes are plundered, cows shot down, maidens insulted. Our leading Elders are treacherously arrested and driven at the point of the bayonet, with demoniac yells, into their camp. A court martial is convened. A sentence of death is passed upon the captives—"General Doniphan was to have the honor of shooting them at sunrise the next morning," for they, like the Hebrew children of old, must die for worshiping Israel's God. But when General Doniphan looked into the faces of those youthful, noble-looking men, his heart was touched, and the unjust, cruel sentence was never carried out.
Then followed a less severe, yet heart-rending scene. On the morrow, the prisoners were allowed to take a silent parting with their wives, children and parents; with the added solemn warning that they would never see them again. One clasp of the hand, and a tender look into the eyes of the loved ones, and they were torn away; and like murderous criminals, they were chained together, and driven to "Liberty." Not to Freedom, but to a dungeon, while their unprotected families were driven from their homes, to wander in the cold, biting blasts of winter.
While fleeing from the state of Missouri, among the fleeing exiles I see a woman of majestic appearance. Her firm step and compressed lips denote great will power; while the calm expression of the countenance evidences faith and trust in God. In her arms nestles a two weeks' old baby boy, born since the silent parting with her treacherously arrested husband. That woman was Mary Fielding Smith! That baby boy was our beloved president, Joseph Fielding Smith! Could we follow that mother and child, and their suffering companions, in their winter flight from Missouri to Illinois, and from Nauvoo to Salt Lake Valley; through the perils of mob violence—the burning of homes, the exposure to pitiless storms, the crossing of mighty rivers on treacherous ice, the traversing of unexplored deserts without guides, the bridging of long periods with little food—it would make a story of sacrifice and suffering, of perseverance, and thrilling adventure unparalleled in the history of civilized life.
All these trials our fathers and mothers passed heroically through, marking the pioneer trail with the unlettered graves of their bravest and dearest loved ones. The hands that first scourged them never left their trail, nor ceased applying the fire-brand to their homes and the lash to their naked backs, until the hunted fugitives, with a courage born of despair, (yet mixed with unyielding faith), crossed the Mississippi and plunged fearlessly into the unknown west. And as the hunted deer, with beating heart, flees long after the hounds have given up the chase, so these nationally banished exiles followed their intrepid leaders on, on, and still on, until the glistening sands of the "inland sea" greeted them. Oh, how they loved the rugged mountains, and the deep chasm-scarred canyons that surrounded them, and shielded them from their foes! No mobbings, no house burnings, no tar and feathering here; but peace and freedom, blessed freedom.
Salt Lake City, Utah,
July 31, 1918.
Elder John R. Young, Blanding, Utah. My Dear Brother John: It was with a great deal of pleasure that I read your letter which was written from Blanding on the 4th of the present month and reached me on the 11th, and which contained so many reminiscences of our earlier days and recalled old memories and scenes of my childhood and early youth.