Faithfully, yours, Fanny Stenhouse

AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN UTAH:
THE STORY OF
A Life’s Experience in Mormonism.

An Autobiography:

BY
Mrs. T. B. H. STENHOUSE,
OF SALT LAKE CITY,
FOR MORE THAN TWENTY-FIVE YEARS THE WIFE OF A MORMON MISSIONARY AND ELDER.

With Introductory Preface by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.

INCLUDING A FULL ACCOUNT OF
THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS MASSACRE,
AND OF THE
LIFE, CONFESSION, AND EXECUTION OF BISHOP JOHN D. LEE.

FULLY ILLUSTRATED.

London:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1880.

[All rights reserved.]

TO
MY CHILDREN;
WITH
ALL A MOTHER’S LOVE AND TENDERNESS,
THIS VOLUME,
THE
STORY OF MY LIFE’S EXPERIENCE,
IS
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

PREFACE
BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

In these pages, a woman, a wife and mother, speaks the sorrows and oppressions of which she has been the witness and the victim.

It is because her sorrows and her oppressions are those of thousands, who, suffering like her, cannot or dare not speak for themselves, that she thus gives this history to the public.

It is no sensational story, but a plain, unvarnished tale of truth, stranger and sadder than fiction.

Our day has seen a glorious breaking of fetters. The slave-pens of the South have become a nightmare of the past; the auction-block and whipping-post have given place to the church and school-house; and the songs of emancipated millions are heard through our land.

May we not then hope that the hour is come to loose the bonds of a cruel slavery whose chains have cut into the very hearts of thousands of our sisters—a slavery which debases and degrades womanhood, motherhood, and the family?

Let every happy wife and mother who reads these lines give her their sympathy, prayers, and aid to free her sisters from this degrading bondage. Let all the womanhood of the country stand united for them. There is a power in combined enlightened sentiment and sympathy before which every form of injustice and cruelty must finally go down.

May He who came to break every yoke hasten this deliverance!

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

PREFACE.

In the fall of the year 1869, a few earnest, thinking men, members of the Mormon Church, and living in Salt Lake City, inaugurated what was regarded at the time as a grand schism. Those who had watched with anxiety the progress of Mormonism, hailed the “New Movement” as the harbinger of the work of disintegration so long anticipated by the thoughtful-minded Saints, and believed that the opposition to Theocracy, then begun, would continue until the extraordinary assumptions of the Mormon priesthood were exploded, and Mormonism itself should lose its political status and find its place only among the singular sects of the day.

It was freely predicted that Woman, in her turn, would accept her part in the work of reformation, take up the marriage question among the Saints, and make an end of Polygamy.

Little did I imagine, at that period, that any such mission as that which I have since realized as mine, was in the Providence of Time awaiting me, or that I should ever have the boldness, either with tongue or pen, to plead the cause of the Women of Utah. But, impelled by those unseen influences which shape our destinies, I took my stand with the “heretics;” and, as it happened, my own was the first woman’s name enrolled in their cause.

The circumstances which wrought a change in my own life produced a corresponding revolution in the life of my husband.

In withdrawing from the Mormon Church, we laid ourselves, our associations, and the labours of over twenty years, upon the altar, and took up the burden of life anew. We had sacrificed everything in obedience to the “counsel” of Brigham Young; and my husband, to give a new direction to his mind, and also to form some plan for our future life, thought it advisable that he should visit New York. He did so; and shortly after employed himself in writing a history of the “Rocky Mountain Saints,” which has since been published.

In course of time, the burden of providing for a large family, and the anxiety and care of conducting successfully a business among a people who make it a religious duty to sternly set their faces against those who dissent from their faith, exhausted my physical and mental strength. Considering, therefore, that change might be beneficial to me, and my own personal affairs urgently calling me to New York City, I followed my husband thither.

On my way East I met a highly-valued friend of my family, who, in the course of our journey together over the Pacific Railroad, enthusiastically urged me to tell the story of my past life, and to give to the world what I knew about Polygamy. I had been repeatedly advised to do so by friends at home, but up to that time no plan had been arranged for carrying out the suggestion.

I had hardly arrived in New York before the electric messenger announced that a severe snow-storm was raging on the vast plains between the Rocky Mountains and the Missouri River, and for several weeks all traffic over the Union Pacific Railroad was interrupted, and I could not return to my home in the distant West.

That unlooked-for snow-blockade became seriously annoying; for not only was I most anxious to return to my children, but also, never having known an idle hour, I could not live without something to do. At that moment of unsettled feeling, a lady-friend, with whom I was visiting, suggested again “the book;” and she would not permit me to leave her house until she had exacted from me a promise that it should be written.

Next morning I began my task in earnest. I faithfully kept my room and laboured unremittingly; and in three weeks the manuscript of my little work on “Polygamy in Utah” was completed. It was very kindly welcomed by the press—both secular and religious—and for this I was sincerely grateful. I had not, up to that time, thought of much else than its effect upon the people of Utah; but the voluminous notices which that little book received showed the deep interest which the people of the United States had taken in “the Mormon question,” and how ardently they desired to see the extinction of the polygamic institution among the Saints.

In Salt Lake City I was so situated that I was daily—I might almost say hourly—brought in contact with visitors to the Modern Zion; for, during the summer, thousands of travellers pass over the Pacific Railroad. Not a few of these called to see me; and I received from ladies and gentlemen—whose kind interest in my welfare I felt very deeply—many personal attentions, many words of sympathy and encouragement, and many intelligent and useful suggestions in respect to my future life. Indeed, I saw myself quite unexpectedly, and, I may truthfully say, without my own desire, become an object of interest.

By the earnest suggestions of friends and strangers, and by the widely published opinions of the press, I was made to feel that I had only begun my work—that I had but partly drawn aside the veil that covered the worst oppression and degradation of woman ever known in a civilized country. Nearly all who spoke to me expressed their surprise that intelligent men and women should be found in communion with the Mormon Church, in which it was so clearly evident that the teachings of Christianity had been supplanted by an attempt to imitate the barbarism of Oriental nations in a long past age, and the sweet influences of the religion of Jesus were superseded by the most objectionable practices of the ancient Jews. How persons of education and refinement could ever have embraced a faith that prostrated them at the feet of the Mormon Prophet, and his successor Brigham Young, was to the inquiring mind a perfect mystery.

The numerous questions which I had to answer, and the explanations which I had to give, showed me that my little book had only whetted the appetite of the intelligent investigator, and that there was a general call for a woman’s book on Mormonism—a book that should reveal the inner life of the Saints,—exhibit the influences which had contributed to draw Christian people away from Christian Churches to the standard of the American Prophet, Joseph Smith, and subject them to the power of that organization which has, since his death, subjugated the mass of the Mormon people in Utah to the will and wickedness of the Priesthood under the leadership of Brigham Young.

A few months after the publication of my first book, I was invited to lecture upon “Polygamy in Utah;” and wherever I spoke I observed the same spirit of inquiry, and met with a renewed demand for more of circumstance and narrative—which I had, from a sense of personal delicacy, withheld in my former work.

I saw no way of satisfying myself and others than by accepting the rather spiteful invitation of a certain Mormon paper to “Tell it all;” and this, in a narrative of my own personal experience, which I now present to the reader, I have endeavoured to do. Not being in any sense a literary woman, or making any pretensions as a writer, I hope to escape severe criticism from the public and the press. I had a simple story to tell—the story of my life and of the wrongs of women in Utah. Startling and terrible facts have fallen under my observation. These also I have related; but my constant effort has been to tell my story in the plainest, simplest way, and, while avoiding exaggeration, never to shrink from a straightforward statement of facts. I have disguised nothing, and palliated nothing; and I feel assured that those who from their actual and intimate acquaintance with Mormonism in Utah as it really is, are capable of passing a just and impartial judgment upon my story, will declare without hesitation that I have told “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Fanny Stenhouse.

Salt Lake City, Utah.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN UTAH.

CHAPTER I.
MY EARLY LIFE.

The story which I propose to tell in these pages is a plain, unexaggerated record of facts which have come immediately under my own notice, or which I have myself personally experienced.

Much that to the reader may seem altogether incredible, would to a Mormon mind appear simply a matter of ordinary every-day occurrence with which every one in Utah is supposed to be perfectly familiar. The reader must please remember that I am not telling—as so many writers have told in newspaper correspondence and sensational stories—the hasty and incorrect statements and opinions gleaned during a short visit to Salt Lake City; but my own experience—the story of a faith, strange, wild, and terrible it may be, but which was once so intimately enwoven with all my associations that it became a part of my very existence itself; and facts, the too true reality of which there are living witnesses by hundreds, and even thousands, who could attest if only they would.

With the reader’s permission I shall briefly sketch my experience from the very beginning.

I was born in the year 1829, in St. Heliers, Jersey—one of the islands of the English Channel.

From my earliest recollection I was favourably disposed to religious influences, and when only fourteen years of age I became a member of the Baptist Church, of which my father and mother were also members. With the simplicity and enthusiasm of youth I was devoted to the religious faith of the denomination to which I had attached myself, and sought to live in a manner which should be acceptable to God.

My childhood passed away without the occurrence of any events which would be worthy of mention, although, of course, my mind was even then receiving that religious bias which afterwards led me to adopt the faith of the Latter-day Saints. Like most girls in their teens I had a natural love of dress—a weakness, if such it be, of the sex generally. I was not extravagant, for that I could not be; but thirty years ago members of dissenting churches were more staid in their dress and demeanour and were less of the world, I think, than they are to-day. In plainness of dress the Methodists and Baptists much resembled the Quakers. My girlish weakness caused me to be the subject of many a reprimand from older church-members who were rather strict in their views. I well remember one smooth-faced, pious, corpulent brother, who was old enough to be my father, saying to me one day: “My dear young sister, were it not for your love of dress, I have seriously thought that I would some day make you my wife.” I wickedly resolved that if a few bright coloured ribbons would disgust my pious admirer, it should not be my fault if he still continued to think of me. But many of our other church-members were more lenient. Our good minister in particular bore with my imperfections, as he said, on account of my youth and inexperience; and later still, when I was ready to leave my native island, an extra ribbon or a fashionable dress had not affected my standing in the Baptist denomination.

I mention these trifles, not because I attach any importance to them in themselves, but because similar religious tendencies and a devotional feeling were almost universally found to be the causes which induced men and women to join the Mormon Church. From among Roman Catholics, who place unquestioning confidence in their priesthood, and also from among persons predisposed to infidelity, came few, if any, converts to Mormonism. But it was from among the religiously inclined, the Evangelical Protestants of the Old World, that the greater number of proselytes came.

But to return to my story. I was one of the younger members of a large family; and when I thought of the future I readily saw that if I desired a position in life I should have to make it for myself; and this I resolved to do. I began by consulting all my friends who I thought would be able to counsel or assist me in carrying out my determination; and before long I found the opportunity which I sought. An English lady, the wife of a captain in the British army, to whom I had confided my aspirations, proposed—although I was not yet fifteen years of age—to take me with her to France, in the temporary capacity of governess, to her children, assuring me at the same time that she would advance my interests in every possible way after our arrival.

This lady and her husband were as kind to me as my own parents could have been; and soon after our arrival in France they procured for me a situation in one of the best schools in St. Brieux, called the Maison-Martin, where, young as I was, I engaged myself to teach the young ladies fancy-needlework and embroidery, as well as to give lessons in English. Some of the elder girls, I soon found, were further advanced in fancy-needlework and some other matters than I was myself. This, of course, I did not tell them; but to supply my deficiency I spent many a midnight hour in study and in preparing myself to give the advanced instructions which would be required by my pupils on the following day. For some time after I began my work as teacher in that school, I spent the whole of my salary in paying for private lessons to keep me in advance of my pupils. It was for awhile a severe task and a strain upon my youthful energies; but I have never since regretted it, as it gave an impulse to my mind that has remained with me through life.

I had not been more than six months in my situation when the parents of one of the pupils objected to the school retaining a Protestant teacher, and I was consequently given to understand that unless I consented to be instructed, if nothing more, in the Roman Catholic faith, I could not remain in my present position. This was my first experience of that religious intolerance of which I afterwards saw so much. The principal of the establishment, however, being very kindly disposed towards me, advised me to submit, and it was finally agreed that I should be allowed twelve months for instruction and consideration.

During this probationary year I attended mass every morning from seven to eight o’clock, and was present at vespers at least three times a week. Every Saturday morning I accompanied my pupils to the confessional, where I had to remain from seven o’clock till noon; after which we returned to breakfast. On Sundays there was the usual morning mass, and after that high mass; and in the afternoon, from two to four, we listened to a sermon. In addition to all these services, at which I was expected to “assist,” a very good-looking, interesting young priest was appointed to attend to the spiritual instruction of the young Protestant, as they called me, after school hours. He saw me frequently, but he was ill-qualified to instruct me in the Catholic faith or to remove my doubts, for he was not himself too happy in the sacerdotal robe. At first he aimed at convincing me that the apostolic priesthood vested in the fishermen of Galilee had descended in unbroken succession in the Church of Rome; but he seemed to me much more inclined for a flirtation than for argument; I thought I could at times discover something of regret on his own part at having taken holy orders; and in after years I heard that he had abandoned his profession.

To the numerous stories of Catholic oppression and artifice in undermining Protestants and seducing them from their faith, I cannot add my own testimony. Those among whom I lived very naturally desired that I should be instructed in their religion, and join the church to which they belonged; but their bearing towards me was ever kind and respectful; although when the twelve months of probation had expired, I found myself as much attached to the religion of my childhood as ever, and had in consequence to resign my situation. I had made many warm friends in the school, and none were kinder to me than the principal, who proved her attachment by finding for me a lucrative situation in a wealthy private family.

My new position was a decided advance in social life. The family consisted of husband and wife, two children, the husband’s brother, and an elderly uncle. The little girls were, when I first knew them, of the ages of five and seven years respectively. The young gentleman alluded to—the husband’s brother—had been educated for the church, but when the proper time came had refused to take orders; the uncle was a fine old gentleman, a retired general in the French army, and a bachelor. Altogether they formed as happy a domestic circle as I had ever known. The position which I occupied among them was that of governess and English teacher to the two little girls.

My young charges during the first year made rapid progress, which was very gratifying to the family, and secured for me their good-will and interest. Had I been their nearest relative I could not have received more respect and consideration from them. One member of the circle alone seemed to be entirely indifferent to my presence; this was the brother of Monsieur D——. Though I had lived in the same house with him a whole year, and had sat at the same table every day, scarcely a word had ever passed between us beyond a formal salutation.

The young gentleman was very handsome, and when conversing with others his manner was extremely fascinating. I did not believe that I particularly desired his attentions, but his indifference annoyed me—for I had never before been treated with such coldness, and I determined to become as frigid and formal as he could possibly be himself. This formal acquaintanceship continued for two years, and I persuaded myself that I had become altogether indifferent to the presence of my icicle, while at the same time all the other members of the family increased in their manifestations of attachment to me.

But trifles often possess a great significance. It was the custom of the family to get up a little lottery once a week for the children, if my report of their deportment and progress was favourable. In this lottery were presents of books, toys, gloves, and a variety of fancy articles, and among them there was sure to be a bouquet of choice flowers for “Mademoiselle-Miss,” as they familiarly called me. I knew not positively whom to thank, although I instinctively felt from whom they came, for the other members of the family always made me more useful presents. In time one little attention led to another, until at the end of three years I found myself the fiancée of the wealthy Constant D——.

Madame D—— was opposed to my marriage with her brother-in-law, as she desired that he should marry one of her own wealthy cousins of the old noblesse of France. She treated me, notwithstanding, with great kindness, and confined her opposition to persuading me not to listen to her brother’s suit; but finding opposition to his wishes ineffectual, she finally consented to our engagement, which took place in the following winter.

From what I observed of the relations which existed between husbands and wives in France, I did not feel perfectly happy in the thought of becoming the wife of a Frenchman, although I dearly loved the French people. Several of my young lady acquaintances, I knew, had married because it was fashionable, and especially because it was an emancipation from what ladies in the higher ranks of society regarded as a severe social restraint. It was considered shocking for any young lady to be seen talking to a young gentleman in the street; indeed it was hardly proper for any unmarried girl to be seen in the street at all without a bonne or some married lady to accompany her. But immediately she was married she was at liberty to flirt and promenade with all the gentlemen of her acquaintance, while her husband enjoyed the same liberty among the ladies. This state of affairs did not at all coincide with my English ideas, for to me the very thought of marriage was invested with the most sacred obligations, and I knew I should never be able to bring my mind to accept less from my husband than I should feel it my duty to render to him.

I loved the French people, and was pleased with their polite mannerism, but I was not French in character; and though the prospect before me of an alliance with a wealthy and noble family was certainly pleasant, and I was greatly attached to my fiancé, my mind was considerably agitated upon the subject of marriage, as it had before been occupied with religion.

During my sojourn in France I had frequently questioned myself whether I had not done wrong in remaining absent for so many years from my home and from communion with the church of my childhood, and I had always looked forward to the time when I should return to them again. To this occasional self-examination was now added another cause of anxiety, produced by the thought of marriage with a person of a different faith. Marriage, to me, was the all-important event in a woman’s life, and some mysterious presentiment seemed to forewarn me that marriage in my life was to be more than an ordinary episode—though little did I then dream that it would have a polygamic shaping.

My young ambition alone had led me to France. I had aspired to an honourable social position, and had found both it and also devoted friends. Sometimes I felt that I could not relinquish what I had gained; at other times I yearned for the associations of my childhood and the guiding hand of earlier friends. The conflict in my mind was often painful. My early prejudices and the teachings of those around me induced me to believe that the Roman Catholic religion was entirely wrong; yet, notwithstanding, while living among Catholics I saw nothing to condemn in their personal lives, but much to the contrary. In fact, Romanism fascinated me, while it failed to convince my judgment.

While labouring under these conflicting sentiments, I resolved to visit my native land, to consult with my parents about my contemplated marriage; and for that purpose I asked and obtained two months’ vacation. Surely some mysterious destiny must have been drawing me to England at that particular crisis, and before the fulfilling of my engagement, which would have changed so entirely the whole current of my existence.

CHAPTER II.
MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO MORMONISM.

During my residence in France, my parents had left St. Heliers and returned to Southampton, England. To visit them now I had to take a sailing vessel from Portrieux to the Isle of Jersey, and thence I could take the steamer to Southampton.

Monsieur and Madame D——, together with the two little girls, accompanied me in their private carriage to Portrieux, a distance of forty miles, in order to confide me safely to the captain’s care. As they wished me “bon voyage” and embraced me affectionately, Mons. D—— handed me a valuable purse for pocket-money during my absence, and they all exhibited great anxiety for my welfare, saying over and over again au revoir, as they entered their carriage to return to their happy home;—thereby implying that this was not a final adieu, but that we should soon meet again.

I cannot tell why it was, but I experienced at that moment a painful feeling of mental indecision about the future. I had no real reason to doubt my return to France, and the certainty of a warm welcome when I should again greet those dear ones who were now leaving me in tears; but my mind was troubled by a vague feeling of uncertainty which made me anything but happy. Filial affection and a sense of duty drew me towards my parents in England; while a feeling of gratitude, and, I think, another and more tender sentiment, turned the current of my thoughts towards the happy home at St. Brieux.

It was not necessary for me to stop in Jersey for more than a few hours, but I wanted to revisit the scenes of my childhood’s happy days, and to speak again with those whom I had known and loved in early life. In later years the scenes and memories of childhood seem like the imaginings of a pleasant dream. A sweet charm is thrown around all that we then said and did; and the men and women who then were known to us are pictured in our recollection as beings possessing charms and graces such as never belonged to the common-place children of earth. The glamour of a fairy wand is over all the past history of mankind; but upon nothing does it cast so potent a spell as upon the personal reminiscences of our own infant years. To me that little island had charms which no stranger could ever have discovered; and even now, after the lapse of so many long, eventful years I often feel an earnest wish to visit again those rock-bound shores, to listen to the everlasting murmur of the wild, wild waves, to watch the distant speck-like vessels far away upon the swelling ocean, and to drink in the invigorating breezes which seem to give life and energy to every pulsation of the living soul.

But I must not theorize: life has been to me too earnest and too painful to admit of much sentiment or fancy as I recall the past. Little as I thought it, during the short visit which I paid to my birthplace the web of destiny was being woven for me in a way which I could not then have conjectured even in a dream.

At St. Heliers I heard for the first time of the Latter-day Saints, or Mormonites, as they were more familiarly called; but I cannot express how perfectly astonished I was when I learned that my father, mother, sisters, and one of my brothers had been converted to the new faith.

It was my own brother-in-law who told me this. He himself, with my sister, were “Apostate” Mormons. They had been baptized into the Mormon Church, but became dissatisfied, and abandoned it. The St. Heliers branch of the Latter-day Saints had had a turbulent experience. Their first teachings had been a mixture of Bible texts about the last days, and arguments about the millennium, the return of the Jews to Palestine, the resurrection of the dead, and a new revelation and a new prophet; but the improper conduct of some of the elders had disgusted the people with their doctrines, and the tales of wickedness which I heard were, if true, certainly sufficient to justify them in rejecting such instructors.

The more I heard of this strange religion the more I was troubled; yet, as I knew my parents were devoted Christians, I could hardly believe that Mormonism was such a vile delusion and imposture as it had been represented to me, or they would never have accepted it: still it was possible that they had been led astray by the fascinations of a new religion.

In this state of mind I met in the street the wife of the Baptist minister whom I have already mentioned. She greeted me affectionately and then began at once to warn me against the Latter-day Saints. I inquired what she knew of them; and she replied that personally she knew nothing, but she believed them to be servants of the Evil One, adding, “There is a strange power with them that fascinates the people and draws them into their meshes in spite of themselves. Let me entreat you not to go near them. Do not trust yourself at one of their meetings, or the delusion will take hold of you too.”

“I cannot ignore Mormonism in this way,” I said, “or pass it by with indifference; for my parents whom I tenderly love have been blinded by this delusion, and I can do no less than investigate its teachings thoroughly, and if I find it false, expose its errors, and, if possible, save my father’s family from ruin.”

She was not convinced that this was the wisest course for me to pursue, but I resolved at once to attend a meeting of the Saints and judge for myself. My brother-in-law, when he heard of my intentions, tried to dissuade me, but, finding me determined, finally offered to escort me to the meeting-place.

What I heard on this occasion made a great impression on my mind, and set me thinking as I had never thought before. On returning to my sister’s house she asked me what opinion I had now formed of the Latter-day Saints. I replied that I had not yet formed any conclusion, but that what I had heard had given me serious cause for reflection. “Oh,” she said, “you have caught the Mormon fever, I see.”

I felt a disposition to resent this implication, but I was half afraid that, after all, my sister was right. Much that I had heard could, I knew, be proved true from Scripture; and the rest seemed to me to be capable of demonstration from the same authority. I resolved, however, to fortify myself against a too easy credulity, and thought that probably if I heard more of these doctrines I might be able to discover their falsity.

On the following day, the elder who had preached at the meeting, and who, by the way, is one of the present proprietors of the Salt Lake Herald, called to see me, as he had been intimate with my parents before they left the island. I hardly knew how to be civil to him, though he had done nothing to offend me, nor had he been the cause of my parents entering the Mormon Church; but I disliked him solely on account of the stories which I had heard about the Mormons. Intending only to be kind to me, he told me that on the following day he proposed to take the steamer for Southampton, as he was going to attend a conference of the Saints in London, and that he should be pleased to show me any attentions while crossing the Channel, and would see me safe home in England. I confess I really felt insulted at a Mormon Elder offering to be my escort; and although my trunks were ready packed for my departure by the same steamer, and Mr. Dunbar knew it, I thanked him politely, but said I would not go by that boat. He tried to persuade me to change my mind, and said that I should have to wait a whole week for another vessel; and at last I frankly told him the abhorrence I felt at the things I had heard about the Mormons, and that I should be afraid to travel in the same steamer with him or any of the Mormon Elders whom I regarded as no better than so many whited sepulchres. He, however, very kindly took no offence, for he knew that I had been listening to those who disliked the Saints. I felt ashamed at having been betrayed into such unladylike rudeness, but, notwithstanding, tried to persuade myself that his civility was, after all, an insult; for I had conceived a detestation of every Mormon, on account of the deception which I felt sure had been practised upon my family.

This feeling was not lessened by the consciousness that an impression had been made upon my own mind. The more in accordance with Scripture the teaching of the Elders appeared, the more firmly I believed it must be a powerful delusion. Here, I said, Satan has indeed taken the form of an angel of light to deceive, if possible, the very elect.

Elder Dunbar, finding me unyielding, left by the next steamer, and had a pleasant passage across the Channel, and I remained on the island another week. During that interval my mind was haunted with what I had heard of this new gospel dispensation, as it was called. That angels had again descended from heaven to teach man upon earth; that a prophet had been raised up to speak again the mind of the Lord to the children of men; that the Saints were partakers of the gifts of the Spirit, as in the Early Christian Church,—all these assumed facts took the form of reality, and came back into my mind with greater force every time I strove to drive them away; just as our thoughts do when we desire to sleep, and cannot—our very efforts to dismiss them bring them back with greater force to torment us.

We had an unusually bad passage across the Channel, which annoyed me all the more when I remembered my scornful refusal to go in the same boat with Elder Dunbar.

On my arrival in Southampton I soon discovered that my father, mother, and sisters were full of the spirit of Mormonism. They were rejoicing in it, ardently believing that it was the fulness of the everlasting gospel, as the Elders styled it; and whatever I might think of the new religion, I was forced to confess that it brought into my father’s house peace, love, kindness, and charity such as were seldom seen in many households of religious people. My sisters were completely changed in their manner of life. They cared I nothing for the amusements which girls of their age usually crave and enjoy. Their whole thoughts seemed to be occupied with the Church, attending the meetings of the Saints, and employing every leisure hour in preparing comforts for the Elders who were travelling and preaching without purse and scrip. And in all this they were as happy as children.

Of my parents I might say the same. My dear mother rejoiced in the belief that she had been peculiarly blessed in being privileged to live at a time when “the last dispensation” was revealed; and my father, though an invalid, rejoiced that he had entered into the kingdom by baptism. Such was the condition of my father’s house; and who can wonder that, accustomed as I was to listen with respect to the opinions of my parents, I was more than ever troubled about the new religion which they had adopted?

The first Sunday morning that I was in England, my parents asked me to accompany them to meeting, and I readily complied, as I wanted to hear more of the strange doctrines which in some mysterious way had made our family so happy, but which in other quarters had provoked such bitter hostility. I know now that this joyousness of heart is not peculiar to new converts to Mormonism, but may be found among the newly-converted of every sect which allows the emotional feelings to come into play. To me, at the time, however, it was a mystery, but I must confess that the change which had taken place in those nearest and dearest to me, affecting me personally, and being so evidently in accordance with the teachings of the Saviour, led me to regard Mormonism with less antipathy. The bright side alone of the new faith was presented to the world abroad; we had yet to go to Utah and witness the effects of Brigham Young’s teachings at home before we could know what Mormonism really was.

I shall never forget the trial it was to my pride to enter the dirty, mean-looking room where the Saints assembled at that time. No one would rent a respectable hall to them, and they were glad to obtain the use of any place which was large enough for their meetings. On the present occasion there was a very fair gathering of people, who had come together influenced by the most varied motives. The Presiding Elder—I should here remark that the word “Elder” has among the Mormons no reference whatever to age, but is simply a rank in the priesthood—called the meeting to order, and read the following hymn:

The morning breaks, the shadows flee;

Lo! Zion’s standard is unfurl’d!

The dawning of a brighter day

Majestic rises on the world.

The clouds of error disappear

Before the rays of truth divine;

The glory bursting from afar,

Wide o’er the nations soon will shine!

The Gentile fulness now comes in,

And Israel’s blessings are at hand;

Lo! Judah’s remnant, cleansed from sin,

Shall in the promised Canaan stand.

Angels from heaven and truth from earth

Have met, and both have record borne;

Thus Zion’s light is bursting forth

To bring her ransom’d children home.

Every word of this hymn had a meaning peculiar to itself, relating to the distinctive doctrines of the Saints. The congregation sang with an energy and enthusiasm which made the room shake again. Self and the outer world were alike forgotten, and an ecstasy of rapture seemed to possess the souls of all present. Then all kneeled down, and prayer was offered for the Prophet, the apostles, high-priests, “seventies,” elders, priests, teachers, and deacons; blessings were invoked upon the Saints, and power to convert the Gentiles; and as the earnest words of supplication left the speaker’s lips, the congregation shouted a loud “Amen.”

There was no prepared sermon. There never is at a Mormon meeting. The people are taught that the Holy Ghost is “mouth, matter, and wisdom.” Whatever the preaching Elder may say is supposed to come directly by inspiration from heaven, and the Saints listening, as they believe, not to his utterances but to the words of God Himself, have nothing to do but to hear and obey.

The first speaker on this occasion was a young gentleman of respectable family, who had been recently baptized and ordained. He, too, was from St. Heliers, and I had known him from childhood. His address impressed me very much. He had been a member of the Baptist church, and he related his experience, told how often he had wondered why there were not inspired men to preach the glad tidings of salvation to the world to-day, as there were eighteen centuries ago. He spoke of the joy which he had experienced in being baptized into the Mormon Church and realizing that he had received the “gift of the Holy Ghost.” The simplicity with which he spoke, his evident honesty, and the sacrifice he had made in leaving the respectable Baptists and joining the despised Mormons, were, I thought, so many evidences of his sincerity.

Alas! how little could that young preacher conjecture how different the practical Mormonism in Utah was from the theoretical Mormonism which he had learned to believe in Europe, before polygamy was known among the Saints. A short time afterwards he gave up his business, married an accomplished young lady, and went with her to Salt Lake City. There they were soon utterly disgusted with what they witnessed, apostatized, and set out for England. When they had gone three-fourths of their way back to the Missouri river, the young man, his wife, child, and another apostate and his wife, were killed by “Indians:”—such, at least, was the report; but dissenting Mormons have always charged their “taking off” to the order of the leaders of the Mormon Church.

But to return to the meeting. The reader must please forgive me if I dwell a little upon the events of that particular morning, for naturally they made a deep impression upon my own mind—it was there that I saw for the first time my husband who was to be.

I had heard a good deal about a certain Elder, from my family and from the Saints who visited at our house. They spoke with great enthusiasm of the earnestness with which he preached, of the effect which his addresses produced, and of his confidence in the final triumph of “the kingdom.”

At that time—the summer of 1849—although the branch of the Mormon Church in Britain was in a most flourishing condition, there were not in England more than two or three American Elders preaching the faith, for when—two years before the period of which I speak—the Saints left Nauvoo and undertook that most extraordinary exodus across the plains to the Rocky Mountains, the missionary Elders were all called home, and the work of proselytizing in Europe was left entirely to the native Elders. To direct their labours there was placed over them an American elder named Orson Spencer, a graduate of Dartmouth University, a scholar and a gentleman—a man well calculated from his previous Christian education to give an elevated tone to the teachings of the young English missionaries.

Mormonism in England then, had no resemblance to the Mormonism of Utah to-day. The Mormons were then simply an earnest religious people, in many respects like the Methodists, especially in their missionary zeal and fervour of spirit. The Mormon Church abroad was purely a religious institution, and Mormonism was preached by the Elders as the gospel of Christianity restored. The Church had no political shaping nor the remotest antagonism to the civil power. The name of Joseph Smith was seldom spoken, and still more seldom was heard the name of Brigham Young, and then only so far as they had reference to the Church of the Saints.

About eighteen months before I visited Southampton, one of these missionaries had come into that town, “without purse or scrip.” He was quite a young man and almost penniless, but he was rich in faith and overflowing with zeal. He knew no one there; and homeless, and frequently hungry, he continued his labours. Of fasting he knew much, of feasting nothing. He first preached under the branches of a spreading beech-tree in a public park, and when more favoured he held forth in a school-room or public hall. He had come to convert the people to Mormonism, or he was going to die among them; and before such zeal and determination, discouragements, of course, soon vanished away. He troubled the ministers of other dissenting churches when they found him distributing tracts and talking to their people. He was sowing broadcast dissatisfaction and discontent wherever he could get any one to listen to him, and thus he drew down upon himself the eloquence of the dissenting pulpits and the derision of the local press. But the more they attacked him the more zealously did he labour, and defied his opponents to public discussion. Mormonism was bold then in Europe—it had no American history to meet in those days.

This, and a great deal more, I had heard discussed in glowing language by my relatives and friends; and thus the young missionary—Elder Stenhouse—was, by name, no stranger to me.

It was Elder Stenhouse who now addressed the meeting, and I listened to him with attention. The reader must remember that at that time polygamy was unheard of as a doctrine of the Saints, and the blood-atonement, the doctrine that Adam is God, together with the polytheism and priestly theocracy of after-years, were things undreamed of. The saving love of Christ, the glory and fulness of the everlasting Gospel, the gifts and graces of the Spirit, together with repentance, baptism, and faith, were the points upon which the Mormon teachers touched; and who can wonder that with such topics as these, and fortifying every statement with powerful and numerous texts of Scripture, they should captivate the minds of religiously inclined people? However this may be, I can only confess that, as I listened to Elder Stenhouse’s earnest discourse, I felt my antipathy to Mormonism rapidly melting away.

At the close of the service, when he left the platform, he was warmly received by the brethren and sisters, for so the Saints speak of one another, and they came about him to shake hands, or it might be to seize the opportunity of slipping a trifle into his hand to help him in his work. Young and old, the poor and their more wealthy neighbours, mingled together like one happy family. It was altogether a most pleasing scene; and, whatever explanation may yet be given to Mormonism in America, one thing I know—the facts of its early history in Europe are among the most pleasant reminiscences of my life.

Elder Stenhouse came up in a familiar and open-hearted way to my mother and sisters, and I was introduced to him as “the other daughter from France.” He kindly welcomed me, and when I frankly told him the state of my mind, he made, I must admit, a successful attempt to solve my doubts, and when I left the meeting it was with sentiments towards the Saints and their religion far different from those which I entertained when I entered.

This meeting was a memorable era in my life.

CHAPTER III.
THE LABOUR OF MY LIFE BEGUN:—HOW THE MORMON MISSIONARIES MADE CONVERTS.

In the afternoon I attended a meeting of a still more interesting character. These Sunday afternoon meetings were held for the purpose of receiving the sacrament, and the confirmation of those who had been baptized during the week; they were intended exclusively for the Saints, but for certain reasons I was permitted to be present.

The meeting was opened with singing and prayer, and then the presiding Elder—Brother Cowdy—arose, and invited all those who had been baptized during the week to come to the front seats. Several ladies and gentlemen came forward, and also three little children. Upon inquiry I found that children of eight years of age were admitted members of the Church by baptism—which is administered by immersion. At that age they are supposed to understand what they are doing; but before that, if of Mormon parents, they are considered members of the Church by virtue of the blessing which they received in infancy. Brother Cowdy—the presiding’ Elder—then called upon two other Elders to assist him in the confirmation.

One of the ladies took off her bonnet, but retained her seat, when all three of the Elders placed their hands upon her head, and one of them said:—

“Martha; by virtue of the authority vested in us, we confirm you a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and as you have been obedient to the teachings of the Elders, and have gone down into the waters of baptism for the remission of your sins, we confer upon you the Gift of the Holy Ghost, that it may abide with you for ever, and be a lamp unto your feet, and a light upon your pathway, leading and guiding you into all truth. This blessing we confirm upon your head, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Then, before they took their hands off her head, the presiding Elder asked the other two if they wished to say anything. Whereupon one of them began to invoke a blessing upon the newly-confirmed sister. He spoke for some time with extreme earnestness, when suddenly he was seized with a nervous trembling which was quite perceptible, and which evidently betokened intense mental or physical excitement. He began to prophecy great things for this sister in the future, and in solemn and mysterious language proclaimed the wonders which God would perform for her sake. When we consider the excited state of her mind, and—if the statements of psychologists be true—the magnetic currents which were being transmitted from the sensitive nature of the man into the excited brain of the new convert, together with the pressure of half a dozen human hands upon her head, it is not at all astonishing that when the hands were lifted off she should firmly believe that she had been blessed indeed. She had been told that she should receive the Gift of the Holy Ghost; and she did not for an instant doubt that her expectations had been realized.

Each of the newly-baptized went through the same ceremony, and then they all partook of the sacrament, when, after another hymn, the meeting was closed with prayer.

In the evening I returned, to listen to a lecture upon “the character, spirit, and genius” of the new church, delivered by Elder Stenhouse; and I was captivated by the picture which he drew of the marvellous latter-day work which he affirmed had already begun. The visions of by-gone ages were again vouchsafed to men; angels had visibly descended to earth; God had raised up in a mighty way a Prophet, as of old, to preach the dispensation of the last days; gifts of prophecy, healing, and the working of miracles were now, as in the days of the Apostles, witnesses to the power of God. The long-lost tribes of Israel were about to be gathered into the one great fold of Christ; and the fulness of the Gentiles being come, they, too, were to be taken under the care of the Good Shepherd. All were freely invited to come and cast away their sins, ere it was too late; and the fullest offers of pardon, grace, sanctification, and blessing, in this world and in the next, were presented to every repentant soul.

Surely, I thought, these are the self-same doctrines which my mother taught me, when I knelt beside her in childhood, and which I have so often heard—only in colder and less persuasive language—urged from the pulpits of those whom I have ever regarded in the light of true disciples of Jesus. Who can wonder that I listened with rapt attention, and that my heart was even then half won to the new faith? The days passed; and as I pondered over these things it appeared to me that I had at last found that which I had so long earnestly desired and prayed for—a knowledge of that true religion for which the Saviour presented Himself a Holy Sacrifice, and which the Apostles preached at peril of their lives—the only faith, in which I might find joy and peace in believing.

But why should I dwell upon those moments, soul-absorbing as was their interest to me then—sadly-pleasing as is their memory now! The reader can see the drift of my thoughts at that time; and I feel sure, although I have but hastily sketched the causes which brought about these great changes in my religious belief and in my life, that he will not hastily accuse me of fickleness and love of change, if he himself has fought the battles of the soul, and has learned even in a slight measure to realize the mystery of his inner being.

Each day the finger of destiny drew me nearer to the final step. The young Elder, whose words I had listened to with such strange and, to me, momentous results, was intimate with my father’s family, and called frequently to see us, and before long he convinced me that it was my duty to test for myself whether the work was of God, or not. In the agitated state of my mind at that time, I could not withstand the earnest appeals which were made to my affections and hopes; and within two weeks after my arrival in England I became formally a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; or in more popular language—I became a Mormon.

The day was fixed for my baptism. Several others were to be baptized at the same time; for scarcely a week passed without quite a number of persons joining the Church. For this purpose we all repaired to a bath-house on the banks of the Southampton river. This place was not perhaps the most convenient, and it certainly was devoid of the slightest tinge of romance; but it was the only one available to the saints at that time.

When we were all assembled and had united in singing and prayer, Elder Stenhouse went down into the water first, and then two men went down and were baptized, and came up again. Now came my turn. I was greatly agitated, for I felt all the solemnity of the occasion. I had dressed myself very neatly and purely, for I believed that angel eyes were upon me; I wished to give myself—a perfect and acceptable offering—to my God, and I was filled with the determination henceforth to devote my whole life to His service.

As I went down into the waters of baptism, how thankful I felt that it had been my privilege to hear the gospel in my youth, for now I could give my heart in all its freshness to the Lord, before it had been chilled by the cold, hard experience of life.

I descended the steps, and Elder Stenhouse came forward and led me out into the water; then, taking both my hands in one of his, he raised his other hand towards heaven, and in a solemn and impressive voice he said,—

“Fanny; by virtue of the authority vested in me, I baptize you for the remission of your sins; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Then he immersed me in the water; and as I reascended the steps, I really felt like another being: all my past was buried in the deep—the waters of baptism had washed away my sins; and a new life lay open before me, in which my footsteps would be guided by the inspired servants of God. All now would be peace and joy within me, for I had obeyed the commands of God, and I doubted not that I should receive the promised blessing, and that now I could indeed go on my way rejoicing.

My baptism took place one Saturday afternoon, and the afternoon following I was confirmed a member of the Church. Elder Stenhouse presided at the meeting, and he, with Elder Cowdy, and two other elders, confirmed me. As the “blessing” which I then myself received differs somewhat from the one which I have already given, and as it is a very fair specimen of those effusions, I present it to the reader in full.

Elder Stenhouse, Elder Cowdy, and the two other Elders, placed their hands solemnly upon my head, and Elder Stenhouse said,—

“Fanny; by virtue of the authority vested in me, I confirm you a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and inasmuch as you have been obedient to the command of God, through his servants, and have been baptized for the remission of your sins, I say unto you that those sins are remitted. And in the name of God I bless you, and say unto you, that inasmuch as you are faithful and obedient to the teachings of the priesthood, and seek the advancement of the kingdom, there is no good thing that your heart can desire that the Lord will not give unto you. You shall have visions and dreams, and angels shall visit you by day and by night. You shall stand in the temple in Zion, and administer to the Saints of the Most High God. You shall speak in tongues, and prophecy; and the Lord shall bless you abundantly, both temporally and spiritually. These blessings I seal upon your head, inasmuch as you shall be faithful; and I pray heaven to bless you; and say unto you—Be thou blessed, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

After the meeting, I received the congratulations of all the Saints present, and more particularly those of my own family. My dear mother and father were overjoyed; and I now learned how anxious they had been, and how they had feared that I should return to France and reject the faith of the new dispensation. Altogether we were very happy.

Elder Stenhouse and Elder Cowdy returned home with us to tea, and afterwards we all attended the usual evening lecture. In this way was passed one of the happiest days of my life—one which I shall ever remember;—and yet that memory will always be mingled with regret that so much love and devotion as I then felt were not enlisted in a better cause.

Thus began a new era in my life. All my former friends and associations were now to be remembered no more; my lot was cast among the Saints; and in the state of my mind at that time, I believed that I should be happy in my new position, and resolved to give evidence of the sincerity of my faith.

The untiring energy and restless activity of Elder Stenhouse was ever before our eyes, and inspired all who associated with him with a similar enthusiasm. There were no drones in that hive. The brethren, at a word from him, would roam the country, teaching and preaching in the open air, while the sisters would go from house to house in the city, distributing tracts about the new faith. I caught the enthusiasm of the rest, and was soon in the ranks with the other sisters, as devoted in my endeavours as a young, ambitious heart could be. I was indeed like one born again from an old existence into a new life. I felt grateful and happy—I began to dream of the eternal honour which crowns a faithful missionary life; and I soon found an ample field for testing my fitness for that vocation.

At the time of which I speak, the Primitive Methodists in England were doing a great work in the way of converting sinners. Their missionaries were zealous and devoted men, though generally poor and uneducated. They resembled very closely the Mormon elders in their labours; and, in fact, a very large number of the leading Mormons had been Methodist local-preachers and exhorters; and the greater number of the new-born Saints had come from that denomination with their former teachers, or else had followed them soon after.

The change from Methodist to Mormon was, in course of time, very strongly marked; but for a considerable period the same, or what seemed the same, influences were at work among the people. Remarkable scenes of excitement were often witnessed at the “love feasts;” and from the “anxious seats,” as they were called, might be heard, the entreaties of self-accusing souls, frightened by a multitude of sins, crying earnestly, nay, wildly, for grace, mercy, and the Holy Ghost; while many of the supplicants would fall upon the ground, completely overcome by nervous excitement. Then they would have visions, and beheld great and unutterable things; received the forgiveness of their sins; and, coming back to consciousness, believed themselves now to be the children of God, and new creatures; doubting not that they would ever after be happy in the Lord.

The experience of the Saints at their meetings, when Mormonism was first preached, was exactly similar to this. Into the psychological, moral, or religious causes of these scenes of excitement I cannot here enter;—I simply mention facts as they came under my own observation.

The Mormon Missionary often came upon whole communities in the rural districts of England, where this “good time” was in full operation; and being a man of texts he would follow up the revival, preaching that the spirit of the prophet was subject to the prophet, and not the prophet subject to the spirit. Controversy would arise, and his appeal to Scripture, literally interpreted, was almost invariably triumphant. Even in America, especially in New York and Ohio, the same causes produced the same effects. It was after his mind was excited by a general revival near his native place, that Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism, received his first religious impression, and saw, as he asserted, his first angelic vision. His followers, even in the early days of the Church, had revival-meetings and meetings at which the most extraordinary excitement was manifested,—when the Saints fell into ecstatic trances, saw heaven opened, and spake with tongues. But Joseph, shrewd man as he was, albeit “a prophet,” when he found too many rival seers were coming into the field, announced by “special revelation,” that these too-gifted persons were possessed by devils, and that their visions and prophesyings must be at once suppressed. And he did suppress them.

Not long after my own baptism I was present at a meeting of this description, in Southampton. It was called a “testimony meeting,” and was held in a large upper room situated, if I rightly remember, in Chandos Street. No one from the outside would have supposed that it was the place of assembly of the Saints, for it was generally used for ordinary secular meetings, and I have heard that great objections were at first raised as to the propriety of letting it to the Mormons.

As we entered the door, we were saluted by Brother Williams, who expressed great pleasure at seeing us. There was a full attendance of the Saints, and every face wore an expression of peaceful earnestness. A person who has never attended a Mormon meeting can form no idea of the joyous spirit which seemed to animate every one present. I am not, of course, speaking of modern meetings, but of meetings as they used to be. Whence and whatever that “spirit” might be which moved the sisters and brethren when they met in early times, I cannot tell; but I, and with me, ten thousand Mormons and seceding Mormons in Utah, can, from our own experience, testify that that spirit no longer visits the Tabernacle services over which Brigham Young presides, or the meetings of the Saints since they adopted the accursed doctrine of polygamy, and forsook the gentle leadings of their first love.

Often have I heard Mormons of good standing and high position in the Church, lament the “good old times” as they called them, when the outpouring of the Spirit was so abundant, and mourn over the cold, barren services of the present day. But the elders explain this away. It is, they say, the fault of the people themselves, and because their own hearts have become cold.

At the meeting of which I speak, that happy spirit was peculiarly marked. An encouraging smile, or a kind word, greeted me on every side, and, as a newly-converted sister, I received the most cordial welcome. The brethren were seated on forms and chairs and any other convenient article which came to hand, while at the further end of the room was Brother Bench, who was to preside, and with him several other leading Elders. Brother Bench gave out a suitable hymn.

The whole congregation joined in the singing, and every heart seemed lifted up with devotion. Then another Elder rose, and offered a spirit-moving prayer; and then the brother who presided stated that for the time he withdrew his control of the proceedings, and, as the phrase was, he “put the meeting in the hands of the Saints,” exhorting them not to let the time pass by unimproved.

Then arose Brother Edwards, a well-tried champion of the faith, and to him every one listened with profound attention, eagerly drinking in his every utterance. I could almost, even now, imagine that he was really inspired. Then I firmly believed he was. His voice thrilled with an earnestness which seemed to us something more than the mere excitement of the soul. A burning fire seemed to flash from his large, expressive eyes; his features were lighted up with that animation which gives a saint-like halo to the earnest face when fired with indignation or pleading soul-felt truths; while his whole frame seemed to glow with the glory of a land beyond this earth, as in the most impressive and convincing language he reminded us that our sins had been washed away by the waters of baptism, that upon us had been poured the gifts and graces of the Spirit, and that it was our sacred privilege to testify of these things.

The effect of this exhortation was magical. We forgot all our outward surroundings, in the realization that the great work of the Lord was so gloriously begun, and that it would surely go on, conquering and to conquer. One sister—an elderly woman—who was present, unable to control her emotion, burst out with that Mormon hymn which I have heard some old Nauvoo Saints declare produced upon the people in those days an enthusiasm similar to that which moves the heart of every true Frenchman when he listens to the soul-stirring notes of the Marseillaise:—

The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!

The latter day glory begins to come forth;

The visions and blessings of old are returning,

The angels are coming to visit the earth.

We’ll sing and we’ll shout with the armies of heaven,

Hosannah! Hosannah to God and the Lamb,

All glory to them in the highest be given

Henceforth and for ever: Amen, and Amen.

I have often heard in magnificent cathedrals, hoary with the dust of time, and in vast places of amusement dedicated specially to music and to song, the outpouring of that glorious vocal flood, which a chorus of a thousand well-trained singers can alone send forth. I have felt sometimes that entrancing state of ecstasy which thrilled the soul of the seer in Patmos, as he listened to the melody of the angelic throng—“the voice of many waters, and the peal of mighty thunders, and the notes of harpers harping upon their harps;” but never, even when surrounded by all that was best calculated to produce a sentiment of devotion in my mind—never did I experience so rapt a feeling of communion with “the armies of heaven”—as I felt in that unadorned meeting-room, surrounded by those plain but earnest and united people.

Nor was I alone in this. The feeling was contagious. There was not one present who did not sympathize. And thus, I suppose, melody has always played a prominent part in all religious revivals, whether of divine or human origin. The Apostles had their psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; the Martyrs their Te Deum; the Waldenses made the hills and vales of Piedmont vocal with their singing; the Lollards and Hussites had their melodies; and in more modern days the followers of Luther, Wesley, and (may I add?) Joseph Smith, have poured out the fulness of their souls after the same fashion.

The last notes of the hymn had scarcely died away when another, and then another brother, arose and bore testimony to the great work, told what the Lord had done for them personally, told of their zeal for the faith, and fervently exhorted all present to persevere unto the end. Again prayer was offered, another hymn sung, and the Saints were dismissed with a solemn benediction.

CHAPTER IV.
LIFE AMONG THE SAINTS—MY NEW ENGAGEMENTS.

I was now a Mormon in every sense of the word, although entirely ignorant of Utah politics and polygamy.

My dreams were of a life of happiness spent in seeking to convert the whole world to the religion of Jesus, which I believed had been restored again to earth by the ministry of holy angels. It is easy to say that such an ambition was ill-directed when associated with Mormonism, but no one can deny that, in itself, it was the noblest and purest that could inspire the heart of man. There was no sacrifice too great for me to make; there was no object too dear for me to resign, if it stood in the way of my sacred calling. The whole current of my thoughts and plans was now changed. It was henceforth my duty to be entirely forgetful of self, and to devote my energies—my all—to the advancement of the Kingdom of God. My life was to be identified with the Saints,—my faith required it, and I was willing that it should be so.

But what of my beloved France, all this time; and my betrothed husband?

This reflection aroused within me a most painful train of thought. How many fond and endearing memories entwined themselves around my heart at that moment, when most I needed to banish them for ever! With what lingering love did I look back to those dear ones from whom I had parted but a few short weeks before, and whom I might perhaps never see again! To return would be to desert my newly-adopted friends and faith—to violate the covenant which I had made at baptism to “be ever afterwards governed by the servants of God.”

No; it was too late—I could not now return;—I tried to persuade myself that I did not even wish to;—in a word, affection, and what I thought duty, were at war together in my heart. All my former ties and associations must now be severed, however terrible the cost might be; and I was bound not only to submit, but even to glory in the sacrifice. Thus I argued away the regrets which would at times agitate my very soul, and cause me much painful thought.

The trial of my profession in the new faith came swiftly to my door. My marriage-engagement must be broken off, though I knew not how that could honourably and conscientiously be done. Of myself I had no wish to draw back from anything that I had promised of my own free will; and much less did I desire to be faithless to my solemnly plighted word.

I now first realized the all-absorbing influence of an earnest religious faith. I was brought face to face with the fact that I could not marry out of the Mormon Church. The teaching of the Elders was against it, and I saw that in this they were consistent. Great as was the trial, and painful as was the sacrifice, I resolved to be true to my religion. How very earnestly the Elders insisted upon such sacrifices, may be seen from an appeal made at a later date by the “Apostle” Orson Pratt. Brother Orson was in Europe, and, speaking authoritatively, he set forth the duties of mothers and daughters in “Babylon,” as he graciously styled the rest of the world, in the following terms, which unmistakably show the purposes of the leaders relative to marriage:—

“Many of you have daughters, some of whom are grown to womanhood; others are now young. Would, you have them gather with you to a land where virtue and peace dwell, where God has promised to protect and bless the righteous? If so, teach them, as they love their parents, and the Saints, and the truth, not to throw themselves away by marrying Gentiles; teach them to keep themselves entirely aloof from Gentile courtships and associations. Scores of women who once were counselled as you are now, are mourning in wretchedness, in bondage to Gentile husbands, cut off from all privilege of gathering with their fathers, mothers, brethren, and sisters; and, in some instances, cut off from even attending the Saints’ meetings. But this is not all. They are raising up children in these lands to perish with themselves in the general desolations coming upon Babylon. But what is still more aggravating and heart-rending, they are raising up children not only destined for temporal judgments, but who must for ever be cut off from the presence of God and the glory of the celestial kingdom.... What fearful responsibility for any young sister to voluntarily take upon herself, after all the warnings she has received. See to it, then, parents, that you not only do not give your consent, but actually forbid all such marriages....

“Let them marry according to the holy order of God, and begin to lay the foundation of a little family kingdom which shall no more be scattered upon the face of the earth, but dwell in one country, keeping their genealogies from generation to generation, until each man’s house shall be multiplied as the stars of heaven.”

These were the influences which were brought to bear upon my mind at a time when it was peculiarly sensitive, and open to impressions from without.

While in this uncertain state a little incident occurred which, though in itself of the most trifling nature, assisted in forming my ultimate decision.

It was a beautiful evening in early summer, and my mother and sister asked me to accompany them to one of the testimony-meetings which I have already described. This meeting was very similar to the others, with one notable exception:—it was here that I saw and heard, for the first time in my own experience, the “gift of tongues” exercised.

Long before I had even heard of Mormonism, I had frequently thought how wonderfully useful this gift must have been to the Apostles. One of the great difficulties encountered by the missionary is learning the language of the people among whom he works and lives. To be able to dispense with all this labour, and to be understood wherever he went, must have lightened the mind of the holy man of half its load; and naturally, when I heard that the Mormons had “the Gift of Tongues,” I supposed it was the self-same power of diverse speech as that exercised by the Apostles; and I presume the reader will conjecture with me that it was the same “gift,” or, at least, some imitation of it. How surprised I was when I first discovered the meaning of the term “speaking in tongues” among the Mormons, may perhaps be imagined when I explain what happened at that testimony-meeting.

After prayer, and singing, and listening to several very fervent addresses from some of the elders, Brother Seely had delivered a most impassioned speech, and had hardly concluded, when Sister Ellis, who was sitting near me, gave evidence of being in an abnormal condition of mind, which to me was painful in the extreme. Her hands were clenched, and her eyes had that wild and supernatural glare which is never seen, save in cases of lunacy or intense feverish excitement. Every one waited breathlessly, listening to catch what she might say;—you might have heard a pin drop.

Then in oracular language and with all the impassioned dignity of one inspired of heaven, she began to speak.

I say “speak,” as that term is generally applied to the utterances of the human voice; but she did not speak in the sense in which we always employ that word; she simply emitted a series of sounds. They seemed to me chiefly the repetition of the same syllables—something like a child repeating, la, la, la, le, lo; ma, ma, ma, mi, ma; dele, dele, dele, dela—followed, perhaps, by a number of sounds strung together, which could not be rendered in any shape by the pen. Sometimes in the Far West, in later years, I have heard old Indian women, crooning weirdly monotonous and outlandish ditties in their native tongue. These wild dirges, more nearly than anything else I ever heard, resembled the prophetic utterances of Sister Ellis; save only, that the appearance of the latter was far too solemn to admit of even a smile at what she said.

Ridiculous as this appears when I now write it down on paper, and strange as even then it was to me, there was something so commanding, so earnest, so “inspirational,” if I may be allowed the term, in Sister Ellis’s manner, that I could not wonder at the attention which the brethren and sisters paid to this gifted speaker in tongues.

I now know that these extraordinary displays are by no means confined to Mormonism. People of a certain temperament, excited to frenzy—generally by religious enthusiasm—have in all ages given painful illustrations of this mental disease; as the student who remembers the Convulsionnaires of the middle ages, the Munster Anabaptists of Luther’s time, and the various emotional sects of more modern days, will abundantly bear me witness. But at that time, new in the faith, and believing as I did that, as the Elders said, it was the manifestion of the power of God, as foretold by the prophet Joel, though I secretly felt a sense of repugnance, I tried to combat my better sentiments.

Overcome by the excitement of the moment, Sister Ellis suddenly paused, not so much intentionally as from sheer inability to proceed; and the leading Elders looked round from one to another to see if any one was present who could interpret. The gift of interpretation is very rarely possessed by the same person who has the gift of tongues, and you may often hear one after another arise and “speak,” but there is no one to “interpret,” and the Saints go away unedified. Even when an interpreter is present, there is no authority to determine whether he gives the proper rendering of the sounds uttered, and I have over and over again heard the most ludicrous stories of the comical interpretation placed by some half-witty or half-witted expounder upon these oracles.

When Brother Brigham—then a man who was lowly in his own eyes—first met the prophet Joseph Smith, at Kirtland, Ohio, there was a scene somewhat like the one I have described; and the future leader of “this people,” as he calls the Saints, himself spake with tongues and uttered wonderful things. But even supposing his words at that time to have been of the wisest, we all know from the example of Balaam’s reprover, that it does not require a very high order of intellect to speak in unaccustomed language—and that, too, to some purpose. In later days the exercise of this gift has been discouraged by the Elders, and especially by Brigham Young. Going one day, some years after, to the Lion-House to see a certain member of the Prophet’s little family concerning a subject which lay very near to my heart at that time, we prayed together earnestly and anxiously; when suddenly the lady’s face was lighted up with a supernatural glow, and placing her hand on my head she, sibyl-like, poured forth a flood of eloquence which—although I did not understand a single word that was uttered—I confess sent through me a magnetic thrill as if I had been listening to an inspired seeress. Another of Brigham’s wives who was present interpreted the words of blessing to me, but added: “Do not speak of this, Sister Stenhouse, for Brother Young does not like to hear of these things.” Thus we see that one inspired prophet in the presence of another “prophet, seer, and revelator,” could himself take part at one time in a miraculous manifestation, which in later years he “would not like to hear of,” if it was only one of his many wives who enacted the prophet’s rôle.

But my meeting! I have wandered far away from that. Let me proceed.

After more testimony, more “speaking,” and much enthusiasm, the Saints separated. My sister was talking with a young-lady friend, and regretting that no one present had been able to interpret; and I stood by, but did not join in the conversation. Suddenly the young lady turned to me and said: “Sister Fanny, do you not see in all this, more and more, the convincing power of God?”

Rather hesitatingly I replied, “Yes, I think I do.”

“Think! sister?” said she, with warmth. “Oh, yes, I see by your looks that you are only half convinced; your faith is not strong enough yet; but remember, whatsoever is of doubt is sin!”

“But,” I answered, “I do not see clearly what good we receive from these manifestations when no one can understand them.”

“That is your want of faith—nothing else; you have the evidence of the truth before you, and you see how these miraculous powers build up the belief of God’s people; and yet you doubt. To doubt is sin: whatsoever is not of faith is sin. You must pray and strive, sister, to be strengthened against temptation.”

All this was not very logical, and it certainly did not help to dispel my doubts. But twice in the course of a few short sentences, she had used a certain expression which, though trifling in itself, was recalled to my mind very forcibly before many days had passed.

This was my first experience of speaking in tongues.

But there were every-day matters of much more real importance to me than those strange speculations which had recently employed so much of my time and attention. It was now necessary that I should either return to France and fulfil my engagement with Monsieur D—— or else resolve, once and for ever, to renounce all those ties which had become so dear to me.

Meanwhile, religious theories were not the only influences brought to bear upon my mind.

While day by day I began to be still more doubtful whether it would not after all be sinful in God’s sight for me to leave my friends in the new faith and go back to France and my betrothed, who I knew neither was nor ever could become a Saint, other thoughts began to intrude themselves, and to shake my determination.

Elder Stenhouse’s visits to my father’s house began to be more frequent than ever, but as he desired to become familiar with the French language, and would bring his French grammar with him “to get a lesson,” as he said, no particular notice was taken of his frequent coming. He was always welcomed with pleasure by the whole family, and, of course, by myself, who was his teacher. After awhile he took so much delight in his studies that he could not endure to let an evening pass without a lesson; and somehow or other, I must confess, it was the first time since I had been a teacher that I felt such a peculiar pleasure in imparting instruction. I suppose it was the interest which all teachers experience when their pupils are studiously inclined. My pupil was particularly studious—so much so that he told my father and mother that he could not study very well in the parlour where every one was conversing, and begged the privilege of having the folding doors thrown partly open, that we might sit in the back parlour and be more quiet.

This was granted. But after a few evenings my pupil took a notion to partly close the folding doors after him, and, as mother’s eyes are ever watchful, one of my sisters was sent in with her sewing to keep us company. But my pupil by this time had made rapid progress in the French language, and while my sister was innocently sewing, he was repeating his lesson to me; and it was not our fault if in those French phrase-books there were passages expressive of love and devotion. Unconsciously to us both, he formed the habit of repeating those phrases to me at all times, and I formed the equally bad habit of blushing whenever he made use of them.

This my sister observed, and communicated the fact to my mother, who immediately said that we had better discontinue our French for awhile, as it was monopolizing too much of our time, and keeping both of us from attending to other and more important duties. But the discontinuation of the French lessons did not put an end to the visits of Elder Stenhouse. He was a persevering young man; but the secret of the great interest taken in the French lessons was soon discovered.

Then it was that arguments of all kinds, and strong reasons, were brought forward to shake my purpose of returning to France. I was “in doubt;” when one day, discussing the point, Elder Stenhouse made use of the very same expression which had fallen from the sister’s lips at the testimony-meeting—“Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.” My mind unsettled, with all the strength of argument and religion on the one side, and on the other no one to plead for reason and for my return to France, who can wonder that I—at best only a weak and inexperienced girl—listened to the entreaties of my friends, and resolved to stay.

In the course of a few months I was engaged to be married to Elder Stenhouse. It may, perhaps, seem strange that I could so soon forget the past, with all its pleasant memories and renouncing my betrothed husband, accept the attentions of another; but it should be remembered that I now firmly believed it was my duty—a duty which I dared not neglect—to blot out for ever all past associations, however dear to my heart they might be. Besides which, I, in common with all around me, had learned to look upon Elder Stenhouse as almost an angel, on account of what he had endured for the gospel’s sake; and I thought that any girl might consider herself honoured by an offer of marriage from a man in his position in the Church. My marriage in France would, I feared, have been but doubtful happiness in this world, and certain ruin in the next; but heaven itself would bless my union with one of its own ordained and tried servants.

Thus it came to pass that on the 6th of February, 1850—eight months after my arrival in Southampton—I was married to the young Mormon missionary, Elder Stenhouse. I entered upon my new sphere as a missionary’s wife, feeling that there were no obstacles so great that I could not overcome them for the gospel’s sake. How little could I then imagine the life that was before me!

I wrote to my friends in France. I told them frankly all. In return they wrote to me—especially Monsieur D——, entreating me to alter my determination. Kind, and very gentle, were those letters. Dear, very dear, has been the memory of them, and of their writers, in later days. But at the time I felt that the influence which they still retained over me was in itself a sin.

CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST WHISPERINGS OF POLYGAMY.

About three months after our marriage it was rumoured that four of the Twelve Apostles had been appointed to foreign missions, and were then on their way to England.

The Saints in Britain had been for several years without any missionaries direct from the body of the church, and the announcement of this foreign mission was hailed with joy.

I confess to experiencing much pleasure at the thought of becoming acquainted with a living Apostle. How often in my girlhood I had wished that I had lived when men inspired of God walked the earth. What a joy, I thought, it would have been to have listened to the wisdom of such teachers. Now the time was near when I should realize all the happiness of my day-dreams—when I should really have the privilege of conversing with those chosen men of God. The invitation, therefore, to meet the Conference in London on the 1st of June, was very welcome intelligence.

We went to the London Conference—my husband and I; and there for the first time I met with Apostles, who were also Prophets, and Priests, and High-priests, and Teachers, and Elders, and Deacons—all assembled in solemn convocation.

The four Apostles whom I met at that time were John Taylor, Lorenzo Snow, Erastus Snow, and Franklin D. Richards—pleasant and agreeable men, and withal very fair specimens of Mormon missionaries, who had found favour in the eyes of Brigham Young and of the leaders in Zion, and who had been promoted accordingly. They lived comfortably, wore the finest broadcloth, fashionably cut, and were not averse to gold chains, and charms, and signet-rings, and other personal adornments. They put on no particular airs, were as polite and attentive to ladies as gentlemen always are, and could go to a theatre or any other place of amusement without hesitation. I afterwards discovered that in one particular, at least, if not in all, they resembled the early Apostles, for they too could, like St. Paul, “lead about a sister” without any compunctions of conscience.

The Southampton Saints had hitherto formed only a branch of the London Conference, but did not form a conference of their own. It was now resolved that since so large a number had recently been baptized in Hampshire, the several branches of the church there should be organized into a special conference at Southampton, with Elder Stenhouse as its president; and the Sunday following was appointed for that purpose, when the Apostle Snow, en route to Italy—to which country he had just been appointed missionary—would honour the occasion with his presence.

As we returned, some gentlemen in the same railway carriage, to while away the time, I suppose, entered into a religious discussion. What the subject was I do not now remember; but I can recollect that a good deal was said as to which of all the numerous Christian sects really possessed Divine authority. Elder Stenhouse took an active part in the argument, and being, like all the Mormon Missionaries at that time, very well posted in Scriptural discussions, he attracted considerable attention, and was much complimented by several persons present.

The Apostle Lorenzo Snow was silent all the time, but he took note of all that passed. Elder Stenhouse was a man of great zeal and untiring energy—qualities in which perhaps Brother Snow felt himself a little deficient; and he was going on a mission which required unflagging devotion and perseverance. We had not been an hour at home, before he told my husband that the Lord had thrice revealed to him that he should accompany him to Italy! How often—even while I still clung to Mormonism—did it appear strange to me that the “revelations” of distinguished Saints should so frequently coincide with their own personal wishes, and come at such convenient times.

I had laid aside my travelling-dress, and was hastening to provide some refreshment for the Apostle, when my husband came and told me of the revelation which had been so opportunely received. I was at that time as much an enthusiast as Elder Stenhouse himself, and I felt honoured that my husband should be the first English elder appointed to a foreign mission. Here was the fulfilment of my ambition, that we should be in the forefront of the battle, and should obtain distinction as zealous servants of God. But at what a cost was this ambition purchased! My poor, weak heart sickened at the thought—I had been but four months married.

When the Apostle asked me if I were willing that Elder Stenhouse should go to Italy, I answered “Yes,” though I felt as if my heart would break. I remembered that in my first transport of joy and gratitude after being baptized, I had made a covenant with the Lord that I would do anything which He might require of me; and I dared not rebel, or break that vow. Oh, the agony that fell upon my young heart! It seemed that the weight of a mountain rested upon it when I was told that my husband might be five years absent. He had already been five years a travelling elder without a home, trusting for daily bread to the voluntary kindness of the Saints. He had laboured faithfully, and looked forward to the day when his “Conference” should be established, and he could count upon an improvement in his temporal position, and an early call to emigrate to Zion. In the few months that I had been his wife, it was only natural that I should share his hopes; but just at the moment when they were about to be realized, hopes and expectations were scattered to the winds.

On the following day the Saints assembled, the Southampton Conference was organized, and Elder Stenhouse elected its president. Ten minutes later he was publicly appointed by the Apostle on a mission to Italy.

During the few days which intervened between the time when Elder Stenhouse received his appointment, to the hour of his departure, I enjoyed but little of his society. Arranging the affairs of the Conference which he was leaving, and preparation for his mission, fully occupied his attention. I do not think we either of us uttered a word, when alone together, respecting the future that was before us. It was probably better that we did not. There are moments of our life when silence is better than speech; and it is safer to trust in the mercy of God than to try to shape our own destiny.

The Saints are noted for the fraternal spirit which exists among them. There are, of course, exceptions; but, as a rule, every Mormon is willing to help his brother in the faith, acting upon the principle “One is your Master, even Christ: and all ye are brethren.” The Southampton Saints were no exception to this rule, but showed their kindness both to my husband and myself in a thousand little ways. I have spoken of my unhappiness during that week of preparation, but I must not forget that there were gleams of hope in the darkness. One occasion I shall never forget—a picnic which our friends held as a kind of valedictory feast in honour of the missionaries—of Elder Stenhouse in particular.

Right up the Southampton river, not far from Netley Abbey, is a pleasant and picturesque spot, named Bittern, which I need not too particularly describe, although the memory of its beauty recalls recollections of mingled sadness and pleasure to my mind. There my parents now lived, and thither it was proposed our friends should go. They could obtain all they needed for the picnic at my father’s house, and we could take our good things into the woods, and enjoy ourselves as we pleased. We had a very happy time; for the moment, even I forgot the cloud that was hanging over me; and our dear friends not only enjoyed themselves to the utmost, but seemed bent upon making the time pass pleasantly to every one else.

I had been talking to Sister White about the recent doings of the Saints, the establishment of the Conference and the sending away of Elder Stenhouse. I wanted Sister White, as in fact I wanted every one else, to think that I was perfectly happy in the separation, and that I counted my feelings as a wife as nothing when placed in the balance against my duty as a missionary; and I tried to impress upon her how proud I was that my husband should be the first English Elder entrusted with a foreign mission. We talked together a great deal. She was still quite a young woman, though married, and the mother of four darling little children; but probably she had a better experience than I had, and could see through my attempts to stifle my natural feelings, while at the same time she sympathized with me. She spoke very kindly to me; and as we talked, we wandered inadvertently away from the rest of the party. Suddenly she thought of her little boy, and, mother-like, thinking he might be in danger, ran off in search of him, promising to come back immediately.

I sat down upon the grass to await her return. I was somewhat excited by the conversation which had passed between us; but as I sat musing my agitation began to cool down, and I was soon lost in thought, and did not notice that I was not alone.

I did not hear the light footsteps near me, and did not see a little fairy friend, as I called her, pass between me and the sun. But a tiny hand was laid gently on my shoulder, and looking up I saw the loving eyes of Mary Burton looking straight down into mine.

“Where have you been, dear?” I asked. “Why, I have hardly seen you all the day.”

“But I knew you were here,” she said, “and I thought you were alone; and I wanted to see you, and talk with you.”

“Come and sit down beside me, Mary,” I said, “and let us have a little chat together.” Then I drew her gently towards me, and she sat down by my side. For a few moments we said nothing, but I was watching her, and waiting to hear what she would say. She seemed such a pretty, such a sweet and gentle girl—more like one of those little birds of glorious plumage and thrilling song that we see glittering among the dew-drops and the dancing leaves, than a child of earth. And I pitied her for her beauty, for such beauty is a snare; and I wondered whether her innocent soul was as fair and glorious before God as her face was sweet to me; and I asked whether, in years to come, when the glory of her childish radiance had passed away, the brightness of a soul pure and serene would lend a new beauty to her features—the beauty, not of childish innocence, but of a noble womanhood.

I took her hand in mine, and asked her some trifling question; but she did not answer. Suddenly she looked up full into my face, and said, “Sister Stenhouse; I’m very, very sorry for you.”

“Sorry for me, dear?” I said. “Why should you be sorry? I am not sad.”

“You shouldn’t say so,” she replied; “you know in your heart you are sad, although you don’t say so. It’s a fine thing, no doubt, for Elder Stenhouse to go away, though for my part I’d rather stop at home if I loved any one there; and at any rate, you must feel sorry that he is going away so far, if you love him.”

“But Mary,” I said, “you know it is his duty to go; and he has been called to it by the Apostle, and it is a great honour.”

“Oh yes, I know that,” she replied, “I know that.” Then we relapsed into silence for some few moments. Presently drawing nearer to me, she said again, quite suddenly, “Sister Stenhouse, do you know the meaning of the word Polygamy?”

“Why, what a funny question to ask me, child!” I exclaimed.

“Child, you call me, Sister Stenhouse; but I’m not a child—at least not quite a child; I shall be fifteen next birthday.”

“Well, dear,” I said, “I did not mean to offend you; and I call you ‘child’ because I love you; but you asked me such a strange question, and used such a strange word.”

This was quite true, for at that time the word Polygamy was as seldom used as the word “polyandry,” or any other word signifying a state of things with which we have nothing to do.

“I’m not offended,” she said; “only people have a way of treating me as if I were only such a very little girl: I suppose I look so.”

She certainly did look so, and I suppose she read my thoughts. Womanhood, by-and-by, brought to her more of reality, both in face and figure, as well as in the terrible facts of life; but at that time the term “little fairy,” which I have so often used respecting her, seemed the most appropriate. The meaning of that terrible word Polygamy she understood, in later years, fully as well as I did.

“Well, dear,” I said, “why did you ask me that strange question?”

“You must promise not to be angry with me if I tell you,” she answered; “and yet I think you ought to know.”

I readily promised—what could I have refused her?—and she said,—

“The other day two of the sisters were at our house—I may not tell you their names for fear of making mischief—and they were talking together between themselves, and did not notice that I was present—or else they didn’t care. And I heard one of them tell the other, that she had heard, secretly, that in Zion men were allowed to have many wives; and she used that word Polygamy very often, and said that was what the people of the world called it.”

“Well, Mary dear,” I replied, “that is no great secret. We have all heard that said before. Wicked people who hate the Gospel say that, and a great deal more, in order to bring scandal upon the Church; but of course it isn’t true.”

“Ah, but I haven’t told you all,” she said. “The sisters had a long talk about it, and they explained whom they heard it from, and it was from no one outside the Church. And then one of them said that Elder Stenhouse had heard all about it, and knew it was true, only of course he did not talk about such things yet; but that the time would come when everyone would acknowledge it, and all the Saints would have many wives. I was frightened when I heard this, and very angry—for I thought of you—and I spoke to her, and said it was all untrue, and I’d ask Elder Stenhouse. And they scolded me very much for saying so, and said it was very wicked for a child to listen; and that was why I did not like you to call me ‘child.’”

“Well, darling,” I said, “I’ll not offend you any more in that way; and it was very good of you to tell me anything you thought I ought to know.” Then I kissed her, and continued, “But, after all, I don’t think it’s of any consequence. It’s the old scandal, just as in the early days they said wicked things of Christ and His apostles. Elder Stenhouse knows all that people say, but he has told me again and again that there is not a word of truth in it; and I believe him.”

“You think so, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, “and I suppose I ought to think so too; but if it’s all false how did people first begin to think of it? People don’t say that the Mormons are murderers or thieves, because we have given them no reason to think so. Then why should they think of such an unheard-of thing as Polygamy—surely there must have been some reason. Don’t you think so?”

“No, dear,” I answered, “Elder Stenhouse says that some very wicked men have sometimes joined the Church, and have done all manner of shocking things, so that they had to be cut off; and then they went about trying to make other people believe that the Mormons were as wicked as they were. There was John C. Bennett, who lived a frightful life at Nauvoo, and then tried to make out that Joseph Smith was as bad as he was. And Marsh, the president of the twelve apostles, and Orson Hyde, when they apostatized not only said bad things of Joseph, but took affidavit, and swore solemnly before the magistrates, that the prophet had been guilty of the most fearful crimes.”

I kissed her again; and she said, “Well, perhaps you are right;” but I could see that in her heart she was not convinced.

Then we talked of ourselves and all that interested us, and she told me all her childish hopes and ambitions; and to me—young as I was myself—it was pleasant to listen to her innocent prattle. She promised to come and see me when Elder Stenhouse had gone, and I should be left alone; and when we got back to the rest of the party we were as firm friends as if we had known each other a lifetime.

At midnight, Saturday, June 15th, 1850, the steamer left Southampton for Havre-de-Grace, bearing on board the first two Mormon missionaries to Italy; one of them was my husband.

The Saints had called in the evening to bid Elder Stenhouse good-bye; and as he was, of course, to travel “without purse or scrip,” they vied with each other in showing their appreciation of his position and his devotion to the faith. The poorest among them would not be denied the privilege of contributing their mites to aid in the conversion of the Italians; and none of the brethren felt that they could show too much kindness to the departing missionary. Just in this way have all the foreign missions of the Mormon Church been projected and sustained; the elements of success were always present—devotion and self-abnegation on the part of the missionaries, and an earnest, self-sacrificing disposition on the part of the people, commanding respect, however erroneous or foolish the foundation of their faith.

In the bustle of departure, Mr. Stenhouse seemed never to have thought about himself, and certainly he made no preparation for me. I had full confidence in him, however, and loved him devotedly, and knew that my love was returned. But men who look for miracles, and count upon special providences for daily bread, are not generally very prudent or far-seeing in their domestic arrangements. Elder Stenhouse had been told that “the Lord would provide,” and it therefore seemed to him superfluous that he should interfere; it would have been a lack of faith to have shown too much interest in what might become of me. He left me with only 1l.

I now realized the loneliness of my position; there was no earthly friend to whom I could turn for sympathy at a time like this. Before my Heavenly Father alone I could pour out the bitterness of my soul and all my griefs, and in His presence weep and pray.

CHAPTER VI.
MY HUSBAND’S MISSION—I AM LEFT ALONE.

When the Apostle Snow called upon Mr. Stenhouse to go to Italy, the Saints willingly accepted the responsibility of providing for me during his absence.

They thought it was more an honour than a burden to have this charge committed to them; but it was very humiliating to me to be placed in such a position, however anxious they might be to assist me and to serve the general cause. To face opposition, or to give my all for my religion, I was willing indeed; but to depend upon others for my daily bread was utterly repugnant to my feelings, although, of course, if the Church sent away my husband, whose proper place and duty it was to support his family, it was only right that the members of that Church should undertake the responsibility. But then, and at many other times during my life, I have learned the truth of Christ’s precept, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

The American Apostle was not without worldly wisdom when he proposed that an unmarried man should be appointed to preside over the Southampton Conference, as his wants would be few. But Mr. Stenhouse had been solicited by a friend, who had a wife and children, to secure his appointment; and with ready confidence in that friend, he overlooked his own interests and my welfare, and I was left to pass through trials and privations which I can never forget.

The Saints were very kind, and took pleasure in doing all they could for me; but the mistake which my husband committed in leaving his friend to succeed him as president of the Conference was soon apparent. The “friend” thought of his own family first, and the family required all that the Saints could reasonably be expected to contribute; and even then they had not enough. I therefore received only such little sums as could be withheld from them; and to make the matter worse, those who had any property or estate were counselled to sell all, and “gather to Zion.” The more wealthy Saints were soon gone; and the current expenses of the church fell heavily upon those who were hardly able to support their own families.

They tried to send me something every week, and I have no doubt they did send me all that they could. When their contributions reached four or five shillings (about $1) I thought myself fortunate; more often I did not receive the value of fifty cents in the whole week, at times less, and sometimes nothing at all. That unfailing comfort to respectable English poverty, a cup of tea, was my greatest luxury, but at times for weeks together I had not even that; I had nothing but bread; but I never complained.

Whenever it was possible I concealed my true situation from every one, and in my almost daily letters to my husband not a shadow of a hint was ever dropped relative to my own privations. I wanted him to be successful in his mission, and I feared that his energy would desert him if he knew of my difficulties. I was in extreme poverty, certainly, but for myself I was not in trouble. God would provide for me, I felt; and it was glorious to suffer in a sacred cause.

But darker days, days of severer trial, were creeping slowly near me. Up to this time I had worshipped God and loved my husband with a perfect heart. Now the dark shadow of an accursed thing was looming in the distance, and approaching surely if slowly.

In some way an idea had got abroad that the Mormons were somewhat unsound respecting the marriage question. Still the elders stoutly denied the charge, and the more they were accused the more strenuous became their denials.