indefinite number of wives scattered through the different settlements. Of these, doubtless, many were but wives by name—such, for instance, as the wives of the late Prophet; and others were married more for the purpose of building up for themselves spiritual kingdoms than for the normal purpose of matrimony. I judged the Prophet’s progeny to be numerous from the following circumstance. On one occasion, when standing with him on the belvedere, my eye fell upon a new erection; it could be compared externally to nothing but an English gentleman’s hunting-stables, and I asked him what it was intended for. “A private school for my children,” he replied, “directed by Brother Kelsey.”
The following Sunday I attended a Mormon service. I passed the morning in the painful but appropriate exercise of reading the books of Mormon and of Moroni the prophet. Some people had told me that it was the best imitation of the Old Testament existing; to me it seemed to emulate the sprightliness of Leviticus. Surely there never was a book so dull and heavy; it was as monotonous as a sage prairie. In Mormonism it holds the same place as the Bible in the more ignorant Roman Catholic countries, where religious reading is chiefly restricted to the Breviary, tales of miracles, of saints, and so forth. It was strictly proper, and did not contain a word about materialism and polygamy.
The early part of the morning passed. At 9.45 a.m. we entered “the Bowery”; it was
advisable to go early to get seats within hearing. This place was a kind of “hangar,” about one hundred feet long by the same breadth, with a roofing of bushes and boughs supported by rough posts, and open for ventilation on the sides; it contained about three thousand souls. The congregation was accommodated upon long rows of benches, opposite the dais, or tribune, which looked like a long lane of boarding open to the north, where it faced the audience, and entered by steps from the east. Between the people and the platform was the orchestra—a violin, a bass, two women, and four men performers—who sang the sweet songs of Zion tolerably well.
We took our seats on the benches, where we could see the congregation flocking in, a proceeding which was not over for half an hour. The people were all in their Sunday best, and many a pretty face peeped out from the sun-bonnet, though the “mushroom” and the “pork-pie” had found their way over the plains, and trim figures were clad in neat dresses, sometimes with a little faded finery. The men were decently attired; but the weather being hot, many of them had left their coats at home, and had come in their shirt sleeves. The custom, however, looked natural, and there was no want of cleanliness, such as sometimes lurks behind the bulwark of buttons. The elders and dignitaries on the platform affected coats of black broadcloth. All wore their hats till the address began, then all uncovered. The number of old people
astonished me; half a dozen were sitting on the same bench: these broken-down men and decrepit crones had come to lay their bones in the Holy City.
At 10 a.m. the meeting opened with a spiritual song, and then a civilised-looking man, being called upon by the presiding Elder for the day, offered up prayer. The matter was good, but somewhat commonplace. The conclusion was an “Amen,” in which all hands joined. It reminded me of the historical practice of “humming” in the seventeenth century.
Next arose Bishop Abraham O. Smoot, second Mayor of Zion, who began with “Brethring,” and proceeded in a Methody tone of voice to praise the saints and pitch into the apostates. He made an undue use of the regular Wesleyan organ—the nose; but he appeared to speak excellent sense in execrable English. As he was in the midst of an allusion to the President, Brigham Young entered, and all turned their faces, even the old lady who was sleeping through the discourse.
The Prophet was dressed as usual in grey homespun and home-woven; he wore, like most of the elders, a tall, steeple-crowned straw hat, with a broad black ribbon, and he had the gentility of black kid gloves. He entered the tribune covered, and sat down. A man in a fit was carried out pumpwards. Bishop Smoot concluded with informing us that we should live for God. Another hymn was sung. Then a great silence, which told us that something was about to happen: that old man held his cough; that old
lady awoke with a start; that child ceased to squall. President Brigham Young removed his hat, advanced to the end of the tribune, expectorated into the spittoon, restored the balance of fluid by a glass of water from a decanter on a stand, and, leaning slightly forwards with both hands propped on the green baize of the tribune, addressed his followers.