A VISIT TO BRIGHAM YOUNG.
“‘WILTIST THOU NOT TARRY HEAR IN THE PROMIST LAND?’”
IT is now goin on 2 (too) yeres, as I very well remember, since I crossed the Planes for Kaliforny, the Brite land of Jold. While crossin the Planes all so bold I fell in with sum noble red men of the forest (N.B. This is rote Sarcastical. Injins is Pizin, whar ever found), which thay Sed I was their Brother, & wantid for to smoke the Calomel of Peace with me. Thay than stole my jerkt beef, blankits, etsettery, skalpt my orgin grinder & scooted with a Wild Hoop. Durin the Cheaf’s techin speech he sed he shood meet me in the Happy Huntin Grounds. If he duz thare will be a fite. But enuff of this ere. Reven Noose Muttons, as our skoolmaster who has got Talent into him, cussycally obsarves.
I arrove at Salt Lake in doo time. At Camp Scott there was a lot of U.S. sojers, hosstensibly sent out thare to smash the mormins but really to eat Salt vittles & play poker & other beautiful but sumwhat onsartin games. I got acquainted with sum of the officers. Thay lookt putty scrumpshus in their Bloo coats with brass buttings onto um & ware very talented drinkers, but so fur as fitin is consarned I’d willingly put my wax figgers agin the hull party.
My desire was to exhibit my grate show in Salt Lake City, so I called on Brigham Yung, the grate mogull amung the mormins, and axed his permishun to pitch my tent and onfurl my banner to the gintle breezis. He lookt at me in a austeer manner for a few minits, and sed—
“Do you bleeve in Solomon, Saint Paul, the immaculateness of the Mormin Church and the Latter-day Revelashuns?”
Sez I, “I’m on it!” I make it a pint to git along plesunt, tho I didn’t know what under the Son the old feller was drivin at. He sed I mite show.
“You air a marrid man, Mister Yung, I bleeve?” sez I, preparin to rite him som free parsis.