menu_book Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI. PREPARING TO EMIGRATE It was fortunate for the Swiss mission that the new converts in general could not read any language but their own, and were thus ignorant of the deceptions which the American elders had practised upon the people.

Pierre Petitpier, the Protestant minister who thought that the revelation ought to be prayerfully considered, was the only one who understood English, and his knowledge was very limited. His wife did not at all coincide with him about the prayerful consideration of polygamy. She disposed of the subject without any prayer at all, and it is to be regretted that in

this respect the whole body of the Mormon women did not follow her example. What arguments she used I do not know, but that they were very much to the point no one can doubt, for they banished forever all thoughts of polygamy from her husband's mind. It was said among the saints that she was very energetic in her private discussions with her husband.

But however this might be, it is certain that Monsieur Petitpier resisted as long as he could, for the revelation quite fascinated the childless old man, and it is possible that he might have held fast to the faith, but unfortunately just then certain documents and publications of the apostles, and a very large amount of evidence respecting them and their doings, attracted his attention.

He was in the main a good and truthful man, although of small mental calibre, and the deceptions and contradictions which he discovered quite disgusted him. His wife's strong personal arguments gave the finishing blow to his faith, and the spell was broken. The vision of a modern Hagar and a little-ish male vanished from his mind.

He apostatized, and Mr. Stenhouse lost the services of a very useful translator. When I heard that he had left the church, how I wished that I could have followed in his footsteps. But apostasy for Mormonism is only possible to two classes, the young disciple, who has embraced the faith more from enthusiasm than from conviction, whose experience is limited,

and the old disciple, who has entirely outgrown it and has become disgusted with it all. I was neither of these. My faith was too firmly grounded to admit of my giving it up. Though I hated polygamy, I did not dare to question the divinity of its origin. I only pitied myself and my sex for the burden which God had seen fit to place upon us.

I never for a moment supposed that any man would have been so wicked as to fabricate a revelation, or so blasphemous as to palm it off in the name of the Lord. Oh yes, I hated polygamy in my heart, and my efforts in teaching it only increased my hatred, for when I was gravely told by the elders that woman had been cursed in the Garden of Eden, and that polygamy was one of the results of that curse, her desire shall

be unto her husband, and he shall rule over her, I must confess that my heart within me was rebellious. From my earliest childhood I had thought of God as a father and a friend, to whom I might go and tell all my griefs and cares, but now he was presented to me as a hard task master, not as a father or a friend.

I met with much kindness, but I did not meet with much sympathy from the brethren. They could not understand that opposition to polygamy was anything else than selfishness on the part of the sisters. They did not comprehend the feelings of a woman's heart, its craving for some object upon which to devote its whole wealth of love.

They were taught that theirs was a nobler position than that of the sisters, and that women might consider themselves sufficiently honored in being allowed to become the mothers of their children. Subsequent to the introduction of polygamy, I will say but little, except that it was too successful.

The same sorrow and indignation which Madame Bélif had so forcibly expressed were shown by almost every new convert, and I had to bear the blame of teaching such a doctrine. The sisters had become unhappy and had wished that they had died in ignorance of Mormonism, and I felt humbled to the dust to think that I should be the innocent cause of so much misery to others.

I looked anxiously for a change, but the only change which seemed probable was that we might be permitted to emigrate to Utah, and there was no comfort for me in that prospect. We remained in Switzerland until the close of the year, 1854, and through the unremitting efforts of my husband, Mormonism was introduced into six cantons of the Confederation. Monsieur Bélif became an indefatigable missionary, as was also Governor Studeman, and to their

liberality and zeal, Mr. Stenhouse was greatly indebted. With the aid of Monsieur Bélif, he established in Geneva a monthly periodical in the French language for the edification of the Saints, beside a volume in reply to the attacks of the clergy and many minor effusions. At that time there was a great excitement among the Saints in Utah. Brigham Young and

his apostles were denouncing the Gentiles in the most unmeasured language. As I write, a volume of sermons delivered at that time is before me, and I really can hardly credit that so much ridiculous nonsense, bad grammar, and blasphemy could ever have been uttered in a public place of worship, yet it was so. The Saints were told that in these last times all the vials of the wrath of God were about

to be poured upon the earth. Wars and desolations, anarchy and persecution, fire, pestilence, and unheard of horrors were to desolate all the world until men should call upon the rocks to hide them, and in the bitterness of their souls curse the day in which they were born. The wrath was to be sought for, but not found. Believing as they did that all of this was true, it is no wonder that the Saints in Europe were alarmed and became anxious to emigrate

to Utah, where they were told they would be safe. A seven-year's famine was said to be at the door, when a sack of wheat should be sold for a sack of gold, and Gentile kings and princes were to come and crouch to the Saints for a morsel of bread. The very women in Zion were counseled to sell the ribbons from their bonnets to buy flour with the proceeds, and to hide it away against the day of wrath.

The brethren and sisters in Switzerland, who could dispose of their property, hastened to flee to Zion. Some did so at a ruinous sacrifice. One gentleman, a Monsieur Robela, I knew who was a part proprietor of a newspaper and printing establishment. In a very short time it would have been entirely in his own hands, but he sold out at a great loss, dreading that the storm might overtake him before he reached the chambers of the Lord in the mountains,

as the elders called Salt Lake City. The journey from Europe to Utah at that time occupied six or eight months. It was a very tedious pilgrimage. My Swiss friends had first to travel to Liverpool, thence by sailing vessel to New Orleans, by steamer up the Mississippi as far as St. Louis, up the Missouri to the Frontiers, and then across the plains by ox teams. Much of this distance had to be traveled during the worst part of the year. They left

their homes while the Ura Mountains were still draped in snow, and those who escaped the ravages of cholera and the perils of the way reached their destination just as the frosts of winter were beginning to whiten the hoary heads of the hills which stand above Zion. All the Swiss pilgrims traveled together until they arrived at St. Louis. There they separated, one party going up the river and the other making the journey over land. The cholera

attacked the latter party and cut off the greater number of them, and their bones now whiten the prairie. The news of their death soon arrived in Switzerland, and the people at Lausanne were exasperated against the Mormon missionaries. And when my husband visited that place he found it prudent not to remain long. At the same time, those of the saints whose relations had perished in the emigration were pained to hear that it was because they

had not obeyed counsel and had gone up the river with the other party that they fell by the way. And as if in mockery of this statement, the next news that we received was that a Missouri steamer, on board of which were many Mormon missionaries, almost obedient to counsel, had been blown to atoms. Many of the saints began to consider these things, and their love waxed cold. Through all this our position was anything but pleasant, and my husband

applied for permission to be released from the presidency of the Swiss and Italian missions in order that he might gather to Zion. His request was granted, and in the autumn of 1854 we bade a final adieu to Switzerland. We might now be said to have begun our journey to Zion, although we tarried long by the way, and several years elapsed before we reached our destination. When we arrived in London we obtained apartments in the house of the

president of the London Conference, and there I had opportunities of observing the effects of the system upon the English saints. Elder Marsden, the president, was a thorough Mormon, and a man who was very highly thought of. He had been acquainted with all the apostles and high priests who had resided in Liverpool, the great rendezvous of the saints in England, had been president of the conference there, and now occupied the highest position of the

European mission. He was a pleasant, intelligent man who in his day had done much to build up the church, but like his two predecessors, John Banks and Thomas Margetts, he also apostatized from the Mormonism of later years. At the time, however, of which I speak, he was considered to be of good standing among the saints. Up to this time I had never seriously doubted my religion, and I probably never should have done so had it not been for the introduction

of polygamy. But what I saw in London at that time sadly shook my faith, and the stories which I heard from Utah quite frightened me. Nothing, of course, was openly said, and at first I disbelieved every evil report, until at last it was impossible for me altogether to reject what was told me. The testimony of an apostate or of a Gentile would have been dismissed with contempt, but when we saw letters from mothers to their children

and husbands to their wives, all people of unquestioned faith setting forth the troubled state of men's minds in Utah, expressing fears for their own safety, and hinting at cutting off the transgressor and the doings of avenging angels, we could not cast them aside with contempt. My views of the glories of Zion were changing. Henceforth I was never firm in the faith. I felt that there was something wrong. Perhaps the reader may think that now

I might have left the church and thus have avoided all those troubles which awaited me in Utah, but let him remember that although my faith was shaken, it was not wholly destroyed. All that I clung to on earth, my husband whom I truly loved, and my darling children, were part and parcel of Mormonism. I could not tear myself from them and isolate my soul from all that made my life worth having. My unsettled state of mind, however, did not

long remain a secret. It was spoken of among the saints and I became an object of interest. The pastor over the London and adjoining conferences was the son of one of the chief apostles in Utah, a young man whose good nature was far better than his religion. He visited us very frequently and used to bring with him the distinguished American elders who might be visiting the metropolis. I have no doubt that they were sincere in their desire to do me

good, but it was not kind attentions that I then needed. It was the removal of the cause of my sorrows. They tried to persuade me that it was all the work of the Lord, but I could not see it in that light, and very often in reply to their consolations I said very hard things of polygamy and the leaders of the church whose conduct I considered sinful. And in this I did not stand alone, for I soon found that the president of the conference,

Elder Marsden, had been in the same position for years and his wife was quite through with Mormonism. In fact, so great had been the distrust occasioned by polygamy that in the report ending June 30, 1853, it was stated that from the whole British church, which then numbered very nearly 31,000 souls, 1,776 had been excommunicated for apostasy. Of those who remained faithful I cannot give a much more cheering account. The elders who

visited President Marsden made as damaging reports of the conditions of the saints as their worst enemies could desire. All that my young friend, Mary Burton, had told me did not equal the truth of what I saw for myself. No one had any confidence now in what the elders said. How could they be trusted after so many years of deception? The elders who visited me and reasoned with me about my want of faith tried to persuade me to be baptized

again. Among the Mormons it is the privilege of the faithful to be baptized over and over again as often as may be needed for the remission of their sins, which are thus washed away, and the penitent is enabled to start afresh. At that time of fearful excitement in Utah called by the Mormons the Reformation, when people were being exhorted under terrible penalties to confess their sins, many were so frightened that they acknowledged themselves

guilty of crimes of which they had never dreamed, while at the same time many horrible and detestable sins were brought to light. Brigham and the leaders found that they were confessing too much. The sinners were far more numerous than the godly. Brigham, with his usual craft, soon found a way of escape. The people were told to be baptized again, and then their sins being washed away, they could truly say they were not guilty of such crimes of which

they might be accused. I was not convinced, and did not see that I had anything to repent of, but I was quite willing to be rebaptized if it was thought proper. At the same time I stipulated that the president of the conference, Elder Marston, should be baptized with me. I felt that if I required rebaptizing, how much more necessary was it for Elder Marston to have his sins washed away also? I partly believed in the fearful stories that I had

heard from Zion, but it was he who had shown them to me. The pastor of the conference gave no sign that he suspected my meaning in wishing Elder Marston to be baptized at the same time as I was, though I believe he must have formed a pretty shrewd guess. And so we too went down into the water. But I am afraid that little of our sins was washed away. Not long after, President Marston apostatized, and my heart remained as hard as ever. At least I was frequently

told so. Poor Elder Marston. He was branded with the most appropriate titles which Mormon ingenuity or malice could fling against him. And yet I know of many men, not one or two, associated most intimately with Brigham Young today, whose faith is not a whit stronger than that apostate's who serve the prophet because it is in their interest to do so. But who in their hearts no more believe in his high pretensions than did James Marston,

the president of the London Conference. Meanwhile, the season for emigration had again arrived, and we were directed to hold ourselves in readiness to start. Although by no means unexpected, this council to emigrate came very painfully to me, for every step we took toward Utah seemed to bring me nearer to the realization of my worst apprehensions. I had lost my affection for Mormonism, and my enthusiasm had now quite melted away, but

to refuse to go was altogether out of the question. Two little ones had been added to our family in Geneva, and a fourth was born in London the Christmas day after our return from the continent. The foggy atmosphere of the metropolis did not agree with them at all, accustomed as they had been to the pure and bracing air of Switzerland, and I soon had serious illness in my family. My second little girl, Minnie, was so sick that we almost

despaired of her life, and the others required constant attention, while the little baby boy only a few weeks old was seldom out of my arms. Just then it was when so very awkwardly situated that the notification came for us to set our faces Zionward. They chided us for our want of faith, because we did not take our poor little sick child from her bed at the risk of life. But I thank God now that nature was stronger than our fanaticism, and

that our little girl was spared to grow up a blessing of which we shall ever be proud. One day President Marsden came to me confidentially, and told me that the brethren were determined that I should leave England, and had counted upon my yielding in a moment of despair. My husband was to be counseled to go without me to Utah if I persisted in my refusal. After he had left London, Elder Marsden was to give me notice to leave his house, and, left destitute

and entirely among strangers, it was thought that I should be only too glad to follow. I cannot tell how indignant I was. I could not find words sufficiently contemptuous to express what I felt. But I reproached Elder Marsden with cowardice for agreeing to such an inhuman proposition, and I declared that I would not risk the life of my child if an eternity of suffering awaited me. My husband was absent when this took place, but when

he returned he approved of what I had done, and Elder Marsden was consequently counseled to send us away. The doctor warned us against the danger of exposing my little daughter to the cold in removing her, but we had no choice, for we were obliged to leave. Those were very painful times. Constant watching and anxiety had undermined my own health, and I fell ill. Even then, had we been left alone we might have escaped much of our trouble,

but the incessant meddling of counsel was a perpetual irritation, and we were completely worn out with annoyance. A pleasant apartment at the west end of the town was taken for me by the advice of the medical man, and I was removed thither with my baby. I was not equal even to the task of taking care of that little thing, and had to procure the assistance of a nurse. The other children were cared for by friends. All that I needed

was rest and tranquility of mind, and I soon began to recover strength, though far from well. But this state of quietude was soon to be disturbed. Again we were notified that the last immigrant ship of the season was about to leave, and we must sail in her, and again we were obliged to refuse. My husband telegraphed to the apostle at Liverpool that I was not well enough to travel, and he was told to bring me along and I should get better.

The apostle cared nothing for individual suffering, providing the ambitious plans of the priesthood in Salt Lake City were carried out. But my husband, anxious though he was to set out for Utah, and obedient as he ever was to counsel, was not such a slave as they thought him, and he positively refused to go. For this he was very much blamed, and it was said that his own faith must be wavering. Since my arrival in London I had several times

seen my young friend Mary Burton, but someone was always present at the time. She had, as she told me in her letters, very greatly changed, for she had now become quite a young lady. Still she retained most of her winning ways, though her childish prettiness had given away to the more mature beauty of womanhood, and when I saw her I was not surprised that she should be an object of attention, or that Elder Shrewsbury should not have felt so deeply

her rejection of him. She was as loving to me as ever, and when she found that we could not have one of our old quiet chats together on account of the people who were present, she promised to call on me some afternoon when we should be quite alone. Before she came, however, I had a visit from another person, whom I little expected to see. This was no other than Elder Shrewsbury himself, who I had been informed had left London some

months before. This, after the usual salutations, he told me was quite true. He had left London and gone to work as a missionary hundreds of miles away, trying to forget his disappointment, but to no purpose. His was one of those natures which, though kind and considerate to everyone, are not ready to form hasty attachments, but which, when once they do meet with an object upon which to lavish their affections, become devoted in friendship and unchanging in love.

Their affections flow more deeply than those of most people. Such was Elder Shrewsbury, such I thought he would always be. But what disposition, however good, can be relied upon when influenced by religious fanaticism? He stood before me then, manly and upright in his bearing, truthful and honest, a man who would have scorned evasion or deceit, and his every thought of Mary was replete with tenderness and love. And yet I lived to see

that man again in Utah. Alas, how changed a man! Before we first left England I was acquainted with Elder Shrewsbury, but not very intimately. We had had one or two interesting conversations together, but I remembered him chiefly in connection with Mary Burton. It was about her that he now came to see me. He wanted me to talk to her and intercede with her on his behalf. But I was no matchmaker, and all my

thoughts respecting love and marriage had recently been anything but pleasant. I told him plainly that I thought Mary had done quite right in refusing to see him, and in fact declining to receive the attentions of any Mormon man. I did not doubt his love for her at present, I said, but no one could any longer rely upon a Mormon elder's word. Years to come when they had a little family growing up around

them, and when it would be too late for Mary to repent of trusting him, he might suddenly be convinced of the necessity of obeying the revelation. And then, what could she do? No, even supposing that she loved him, which I said was very questionable, it was better that she should suffer a disappointment now than have her heart wrung with cruelty and neglect in after years.

What, he cried, his eyes flashing with indignation. Do you take me for a dog that I should treat her so? No, no, I said, and tried to pacify him. I do not think anything bad of you, but I look upon you as a man who is in love and therefore blind. You think of nothing now but Mary, and are willing to sacrifice everything and to promise anything, providing you can win

her. But when she has become your wife, if she ever does, and you have time to cool down, you'll begin to see things in another light. You'll find that she is a real, ordinary woman made of flesh and blood like all the other daughters of Eve, and with, I dare say, quite as many whims and fancies and perverse ways as any of them. And then, when she ceases to be an angel in your eyes and becomes merely a woman, you'll begin to assert your right

to think and judge for yourself, and very probably all your former devotion to your religion will return. Mr. Stenhouse, he replied, you do not seem to have a very high opinion of my constancy, but I can assure you that I have given this matter my most earnest prayerful thought. My love for Mary, I need not mention, my devotion to my religion you only partly know. While

we were told that polygamy was not true, no one could be more steadfast in the faith than I was. And when the revelation came, I looked upon it as a blight and a curse to the Church of God. And how well founded my fears were, you can see from this terrible apostasy which has come upon us. I, almost myself, left the Church. Then I went to the Apostle and I told him how I was situated. I told him all about Mary and my devotion to her, that I wished

to win her for my wife, but that I knew she would not marry me if she thought there was the shadow of a chance that I should live up to the revelation. I told him that I myself should be perfectly wretched in polygamy, and that it was impossible that I should love more than one. The Apostle said that I was quite right in all this. We had no proof, he said in the Bible, that Isaac had more than one wife, and he was accepted by God.

He counseled me to do all I could do to win Mary, and told me that I might truthfully promise her that I would never enter into polygamy. But Mary would not so much as listen to me. In fact, since then she would never see me alone. I am not sure, I answered, whether I am doing right. But I don't mind saying to you that I think, from what I have seen of Mary, that she does not dislike you, but she is a sensible girl and does not choose

to risk the happiness of her whole life. He was vexed with me for saying this. How could I suppose that he would wreck her happiness? Was he not willing to die if it would give her a moment's pleasure? And much more lovers' nonsense he talked. He had met her at the meetings, sometimes, but she had very coldly said good morning or evening, as the case might be. But whenever he had ventured a word more than that, she had made some excuse to

leave him. What he wanted me to do was to invite Mary to meet him with me, and to use my influence with her in his favor. I answered him very kindly, and did my best to reassure him, but I told him that I would never try to influence the conduct or affections of anyone in a matter of the heart. Such things should take their own course, and if he waited patiently, no doubt, all would be well. Patience, he said. Sister Stenhouse, do you think a

man in love knows the meaning of that word? Patience, indeed.