Wanderings in Three Continents

by Sir Richard Francis Burton

The discourse began slowly, word crept titubantly after word, and the opening phrases were scarcely audible; but as the orator warmed, his voice rose high and sonorous, and a fluency so remarkable succeeded hesitation that the latter seemed to have been a work of art. The gestures were easy and rounded, except one of raising and shaking the forefinger, which struck me as threatening and bullying. The address was long. Mormonism was a great fact. Religion had made him, Brigham Young, the happiest of men. He was ready to dance like a Shaker. At this the Prophet, who was a good mimic and had much of humour, raised his right arm, and gave, to the amusement of the congregation, a droll imitation of the Shakers. A great deal of what followed contained topical allusions. The Saints had a glorious destiny before them, and their morality was remarkable as the beauty of the Promised Land. The soft breeze blowing over the Bowery, and the glorious sunshine outside, made the allusion highly appropriate. After a somewhat lengthy string of sentences concerning the great tribulation coming on earth—​it had been coming for the last eighteen

hundred years—​he concluded with good wishes to visitors and Gentiles generally, with a solemn blessing upon the President of the United States, the territorial Governor, and all that be in authority over us, and with an “Amen” which was loudly re-echoed by all around, he restored his hat and resumed his seat.

Then arose Mr. Heber C. Kimball, the second President. He was the model of a Methodist, a tall, powerful man, with dark, piercing eyes and clean-shaven, blue face. He affected the Boanerges style, from a certain dislike to the Nonconformist rant and whine, and his manner of speech savoured rather of familiarity than of reverence. Several of his remarks were loudly laughed at by the congregation. His style of oratory was certainly startling; he reminded me of Luther’s description of Tetzel’s sermon, in which he used to shout the words “Bring! bring! bring!” with such a horrible bellowing that one would have said it was a mad bull rushing on the people and goring them with its horns.

After this worthy’s address, a list of names for whom letters were lying unclaimed was called from the platform. A missionary adjourned the meeting till two o’clock, delivered the prayer of dismissal, during which all stood up, and ended with the Benediction and “Amen.” The Sacrament was not administered on this occasion. It was often given, and reduced to the very elements of a ceremony; even water was used instead of wine, because the latter is of

Gentile manufacture. Two elders walked up and down the rows, one carrying a pitcher, the other a plate of broken bread, and each Saint partook of both.

That same evening when dining out, I had a lesson in Mormon modesty. The mistress of the house, a Gentile but not an anti-Mormon, was requested by a saintly visitor, who was also a widow, to instruct me that on no account I must propose to see her home. “Mormon ladies,” said my kind informant, “are very strict”; “Unnecessarily so on this occasion,” I could not help adding. Something similar occurred on another occasion: a very old lady, wishing to return home, surreptitiously left the room and sidled out of the garden gate, and my companion, an officer from Camp Floyd, at once recognised the object of the retreat—​viz. to avoid our possible escort. I afterwards learned at dinner and elsewhere amongst the Mormons to abjure the Gentile practice of giving precedence to the fair sex. The lesson, however, was not new; I had been taught the same, in times past, amongst certain German missionaries, who assumed precedence over their wives upon a principle borrowed from St. Paul.

There was a certain monotony of life in Great Salt Lake City, a sameness from day to day, which does not render the subject favourable for a lively description; moreover, the Moslem gloom, the result of austere morals and manner, of the semi-seclusion of the sexes, and, in my case, the reserve arising towards a stranger who appeared in the train of Federal

officials, hung over society. We rose early, and breakfasted at any hour between 6 and 9 a.m. Then ensued “business,” which seemed to consist principally of correcting one’s teeth and a walk about the town, with an occasional liquor up. Dinner was at 1 p.m., announced not by the normal gong of Eastern States, but by a most discordant hand-bell. Jostling into the long room of the ordinary, we took our seats, and, seizing our forks, proceeded at once to action. Nothing but water was drunk at dinner, except when a gentleman preferred to wash down roast pork with a tumbler of milk. Wine in this part of the world was dear and bad, and even if the Saints made their own, it could scarcely be cheap, on account of the price of labour. The feeding ended with a glass of liquor, not at the bar, because there was none, but in the privacy of one’s own chamber, which takes from drinking half its charms. Most of the well-to-do men found time for a siesta in the afternoon. There was supper at 6 p.m., and the evening was quietly spent with a friend.

To describe Great Salt Lake City in those days without some account of polygamy would be like seeing Hamlet with the part of the Prince of Denmark omitted. It is, I suppose, therefore necessary to supply a popular view of the peculiar institution which at once was the bane and the blessing of Mormonism—​plurality. I approach the subject with a feeling of despair, so conflicting are opinions concerning it, and so difficult is it to naturalise in Europe

the customs of Asia, Africa, and America, and reconcile the habits of the nineteenth century A.D. with those of 1900 B.C. A return to the patriarchal ages must necessarily have its disadvantages.