“Good-b’ye,” said I. “And much obliged.” And I offered him my hand. He gave me his left.
“Good-b’ye,” said Vachel. “Most interesting.” And he offered him his hand. The guide gave him his left also.
“A left-handed shake,” said Vachel, meditatively, as we went down the steps. “You know what that means.”
“No?”
“That means—Go to Hell!”
We were much intrigued by all this, and found out that Adam is God to the Mormons, and Christ only one of a series which culminated in Brigham Young. Mormonism is the story of a passionate sensual man with a fake religion, a leader, however, of men and women, capable of starting a church, murdered and then succeeded by the great Brigham. The Mormon community, persecuted ever, loathed and detested yet not destroyed, plunged ever westward through the deserts with new revelations all the way, always, however, being overtaken by the tide of other pioneers and chased again. They were secret, and wanted to be secret. But the United States always overtook them. Now they have compromised in many ways and are not persecuted, and they multiply and spread and propagandise. They are disciplined. In politics they all vote one way—as ordered. They begin to be proud of America.
Vachel and I went up to the Temple at night. It looked like a place produced by enchantment—the highest thing on the highest eminence of the widespread but low-built city of Cardston. Clouds hid the top of it. There was no one near but ourselves, apparently not even a watchman. The massive gates were locked and barred, and above them gleamed electric lanterns in large and graceful M’s.
We have learned an elementary lesson about them.
“Remember that, Vachel,” said I. “M for Mormon.”