 | Artemus Ward's panorama |  |
THE LECTURE.
By Armetus Ward.
YOU are entirely welcome ladies and gentlemen
to my little picture-shop.[1]
I couldn't give you a very clear idea of the
Mormons—and Utah—and the Plains—and the
Rocky Mountains—without opening a picture-op—and
therefore I open one.
I don't expect to do great things here—but I
have thought that if I could make money enough
to buy me a passage to New Zealand[2]
I should feel
that I had not lived in vain.
I don't want to live in vain.—I'd
rather live in Margate—or here. But
had given it a little more ventilation.[3]
If you should be dissatisfied with anything here
to-night—I will admit you all free in New Zealand—if
you will come to me there for the orders. Any
respectable cannibal will tell you where
I live. This shows that I have a forgiving
spirit.
I really don't care for money. I only travel
round to see the world and to exhibit my clothes.
These clothes I have on were a great
success in America.[4]
How often do large fortunes ruin young men!
I should like to be ruined, but I can get
on very well as I am.
I am not an Artist. I don't paint myself—
though perhaps if I were a middle-aged single lady
I should—yet I have a passion for pictures.—I
have had a great many pictures—photographs—
taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty
—rather sweet to look at for a short
time—and as I said before I like them. I've
always loved pictures.
I could draw on wood at a very tender age.
When a mere child I once drew a small cartload
of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.
—The people of the village noticed me. I
drew their attention. They said I had a
future before me. Up to that time I had an idea
it was behind me.
Time passed on. It always does by the way.
You may possibly have noticed that Time
passes on.—It is a kind of way Time has.
I became a man. I haven't distinguished
myself at all as an artist—but I have always been
more or less mixed up with Art. I have an uncle
who takes photographs—and I have a servant
who—takes anything he can get his hands on.
When I was in Rome—Rome in New York
State I mean—a distinguished sculpist wanted
to sculp me. But I said “No.” I saw through
—he would have flooded the market with my
busts—and I couldn't stand it to see everybody
going round with a bust of me. Everybody
would want one of course—and wherever I should
go I should meet the educated classes with my
bust, taking it home to their families. This
would be more than my modesty could
stand—and I should have to return to
America—where my creditors are.
I like Art. I admire dramatic Art—although
I failed as an actor.
It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as
an actor.[5]
—The play was the “Ruins of Pom
very successful performance—but it was better
than the “Burning Mountain.” He was not
good. He was a bad Vesuvius.
The remembrance often makes me ask—
“Where are the boys of my youth?”—I assure
you this is not a conundrum.—Some are
amongst you here—some in America—
some are in gaol.—
Hence arises a most touching question—
“Where are the girls of my youth?” Some are
married—some would like to be.
Oh my Maria! Alas! she married another.
They frequently do. I hope she is happy—because
I am.[6]
—Some people are not happy. I have
noticed that.
A gentleman friend of mine came to me one
day with tears in his eyes. I said “Why these
weeps?” He said he had a mortgage on his
farm—and wanted to borrow £200. I lent him
the money—and he went away. Some time after
he returned with more tears. He said he must
leave me for ever. I ventured to remind him of
the £200 he borrowed. He was much cut up. I
thought I would not be hard upon him—so told
him I would throw off one hundred pounds. He
brightened—shook my hand—and said—“Old
friend—I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality—I'll
throw off the other hundred.”
As a manager I was always rather more successful
than as an actor.
Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living
American Skeleton for a tour through Australia.
splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh anything
scarcely—and I said to myself—the people of
Australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity.
It is a long voyage—as you know—from
New York to Melbourne—and to my utter surprise
the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea
than he commenced eating in the most horrible
manner. He had never been on the ocean before
—and he said it agreed with him.—I thought
so!—I never saw a man eat so much in my
life. Beef—mutton—pork—he swallowed them
all like a shark—and between meals he was
often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled
eggs. The result was that when we reached
Melbourne this infamous skeleton weighed 64
pounds more than I did!
I thought I was ruined—but I wasn't. I
took him on to California—another very long
I exhibited him as a Fat Man.[7]
This story hasn't anything to do with my
Entertainment, I know—but one of the
principal features of my Entertainment is that
it contains so many things that don't have anything to
do with it.
My Orchestra is small—but I am sure it is
very good—so far as it goes. I give my
pianist ten pounds a night—and his
washing.[8]
I like Music.—I can't sing. As a singist I
am not a success. I am saddest when I
sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder
even than I am.
The other night some silver-voiced young
men came under my window and sang—“Come
where my love lies dreaming.”—I didn't go.
I didn't think it would be correct.
I found music very soothing when I lay ill
with fever in Utah—and I was very ill—I was
fearfully wasted.—My face was hewn down to
nothing—and my nose was so sharp I didn't dare
stick it into other people's business—for fear it
would stay there—and I should never get it
again. And on those dismal days a Mormon lady
—she was married—tho' not so much so as
her husband—he had fifteen other wives—she used
to sing a ballad commencing “Sweet bird—do
not fly away!”—and I told her I wouldn't.—
praised her.
I met a man in Oregon who hadn't any teeth
—not a tooth in his head—yet that man
could play on the bass drum better than
any man I ever met.—He kept a hotel.
They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember
one where they gave me a bag of oats for a
pillow—I had night mares of course. In
the morning the landlord said—How do you feel
—old hoss—hay?—I told him I felt my oats.
[9]
PERMIT me now to quietly state that altho' I
am here with my cap and bells I am also here
with some serious descriptions of the Mormons
—their manners—their customs—and while the
pictures I shall present to your notice are by no
means works of art—they are painted from pho
am sure I need not inform any person present
who was ever in the territory of Utah that they
are as faithful as they could possibly be.[11]
I went to Great Salt Lake City by way of
california.[12]
I went to California on the steamer “Ariel.”
—This is the steamer “Ariel.”
Oblige me by calmly gazing on the steamer
“Ariel”—and when you go to California
be sure and go on some other steamer—
because the “Ariel” isn't a very good one.
When I reached the “Ariel”—at pier No. 4
—New York—I found the passengers in a state
of great confusion about their things—which
were being thrown around by the ship's porters
in a manner at once damaging and idiotic.—So
great was the excitement—my fragile form was
smashed this way—and jammed that way—till
occupied by two middle-aged females—who said
“Base man—leave us—O, leave us!”—I left them
—Oh—I left them!
We reach Accapulco on the coast of Mexico
in due time. Nothing of special interest occurred
at Accapulco—only some of the Mexican ladies
are very beautiful. They all have brilliant black
hair—hair “black as starless night”—if I
may quote from the “Family Herald.” It
don't curl.—A Mexican lady's hair never curls
—it is straight as an Indian's. Some
people's hair won't curl under any circumstances.
—My hair won't curl under two shillings.[13]
The great thoroughfare of the imperial city
of the Pacific Coast
The Chinese form a large element in the population
of San Francisco—and I went to the
Chinese Theatre.
A Chinese play often lasts two months.
Commencing at the hero's birth, it is cheerfully
conducted from week to week till he is either
killed or married.
The night I was there a Chinese comic vocalist
sang a Chinese comic song. It took him six
weeks to finish it—but as my time was limited I
went away at the expiration of 215 verses.
There were 11,000 verses to this song—the
chorus being “Tural lural dural, ri fol day”—
which was repeated twice at the end of each verse
—making—as you will at once see—the appalling
number of 22,000 “tural lural dural, ri fol
days”—and the man still lives.
Virginia City—in the bright new State of
Nevada.[14]
A wonderfu little city—right in the heart
of the famous Washoe silver regions—the
mines of which annually produce over twenty-five
millions of solid silver. This silver is melted
into solid bricks—of about the size of ordinary
with mules. The roads often swarm with these
silver wagons.
One hundred and seventy-five miles to the
east of this place are the Reese River Silver
Mines—which are supposed to be the richest in
the world.
The great American Desert in winter-time—
the desert which is so frightfully gloomy always.
No trees—no houses—no people—save the
miserable beings who live in wretched huts and
have charge of the horses and mules of the
Overland Mail Company.
This picture is a great work of art.—It is
an oil painting—done in petroleum. It
is by the Old Masters. It was the last thing they
did before dying. They did this and
then they expired.
The most celebrated artists of London are so
delighted with this picture that they come to the
Hall every day to gaze at it. I wish you were
nearer to it—so you could see it better. I wish
I could take it to your residences and let you see
London come here every morning before daylight
with lanterns to look at. They say they never
saw anything like it before—and they hope
they never shall again.
When I first showed this picture in New
York, the audience were so enthusiastic in their
admiration of this picture that they called
for the Artist—and when he appeared they threw
brickbats at him.[15]
A bird's-eye-view of Great Salt Lake City
—the strange city in the Desert about which
so much has been heard—the city of the people
who call themselves Saints.[16]
I know there is much interest taken in these
remarkable people—ladies and gentlemen—and
PART OF SALT LAKE CITY,
Viewed From A Distance
The City is laid out in squares; each house standing on an acre
and a quarter of ground, with a canal of clear water flowing in front.
(This picture joins on the one which follows it.)
SALT LAKE CITY.
From The Heights Behind It.
The building in the foreground is the Mormon arsenal. To the
right, in the mid-distance, is the River Jordan, flowing from Lake
Utah to the Salt Lake. The valley through which the Jordan flows is
one of the most fertile on the North American continent.
part of my Entertainment entirely
serious.—I will not—then—for the next ten
minutes—confine myself to my subject.
Some seventeen years ago a small band of
Mormons—headed by Brigham Young—commenced
in the present thrifty metropolis of Utah.
The population of the territory of Utah is over
100,000—chiefly Mormons—and they are increasing
at the rate of from five to ten thousand
almost exclusively confined to English and
Germans.—Wales and Cornwall have contributed
largely to the population of Utah during
the last few years. The population of Great Salt
Lake City is 20,000.—The streets are eight
A stream of pure mountain spring water courses
through each street—and is conducted into the
Gardens of the Mormons. The houses are mostly
of adobe—or sun-dried brick—and present a neat
and comfortable appearance.—They are usually
a story and a half high. Now and then you see
a fine modern house in Salt Lake City—but
no house that is dirty, shabby, and dilapidated—
because there are no absolutely poor people in
Utah. Every Mormon has a nice garden—and
every Mormon has a tidy dooryard.—Neatness
is a great characteristic of the Mormons.
The Mormons profess to believe that they are
the chosen people of God—they call themselves
Latter-day Saints—and they call us
people of the outer world Gentiles. They say
successor of Joseph Smith—who founded
the Mormon religion. They also say they are
authorised—by special revelation from Heaven—
to marry as many wives as they can comfortably
support.
This wife-system they call plurality—the
world calls it polygamy. That at its best it is an
accursed thing—I need not of course inform you
—but you will bear in mind that I am here
as a rather cheerful reporter of what I saw in
Utah—and I fancy it isn't at all necessary for
me to grow virtuously indignant over something
we all know is hideously wrong.
You will be surprised to hear—I was amazed
to see—that among the Mormon women there are
some few persons of education—of positive cultivation.
educated people—but they are by no means
the community of ignoramuses so many writers
have told us they were.
The valley in which they live is splendidly
favoured. They raise immense crops. They have
mills of all kinds. They have coal—lead—and
silver mines. All they eat—all they drink—all
they wear they can produce themselves—and still
have a great abundance to sell to the gold regions
of Idaho on the one hand—and the silver regions
of Nevada on the other.
The President of this remarkable community
—the head of the Mormon Church—is
Brigham Young.—He is called President
Young—and Brother Brigham. He is about 54
years old—altho' he doesn't look to be over 45.
He has sandy hair and whiskers—is of medium
height—and is a little inclined to corpulency.
is more absolute than that of any living sovereign
—yet he uses it with such consummate discretion
that his people are almost madly devoted
to him—and that they would cheerfully die for
him if they thought the sacrifice were demanded
—I cannot doubt.
He is a man of enormous wealth.—Onetenth
of everything sold in the territory of Utah
goes to the Church—and Mr. Brigham Young
is the Church. It is supposed that he speculates
with these funds—at all events—he is one of
the wealthiest men now living—worth several
millions—without doubt.—He is a bold—bad
man—but that he is also a man of extraordinary
administrative ability no one can doubt who
has watched his astounding career for the past
ten years. It is only fair for me to add that he
treated me with marked kindness during my
sojourn in Utah.
The West Side of Main Street—Salt Lake City
—including a view of the Salt Lake Hotel.—It
is a temperance hotel.[18]
I prefer temperance
hotels—altho' they sell worse liquor than
Hotel sells none—nor is there a bar in all
Salt Lake City—but I found when I was thirsty
—and I generally am—that I could get some
very good brandy of one of the Elders—on the
sly—and I never on any account allow my business to
interfere with my drinking.
There is the Overland Mail Coach.[19]
—That
is, the den on wheels in which we have been
—Those of you who have been in Newgate[20] —
— — — — — — —
— — — — — — —
and staid there any length of time—as
visitors—can realize how I felt.
The American Overland Mail Route commences
at Sacramento—California—and ends
at Atchison—Kansas. The distance is two
thousand two hundred miles—but you go part
completed from Sacramento—California—to
Fulsom—California—which only leaves two
thousand two hundred and eleven miles to go by
coach. This breaks the monotony—it
came very near breaking my back.
The Mormon Theatre.—This edifice is the
exclusive property of Brigham Young. It will
comfortably hold 3,000 persons—and I beg you
will believe me when I inform you that its interior
is quite as brilliant as that of any theatre in
London.[22]
The actors are all Mormon amateurs, who
charge nothing for their services.
You must know that very little money is taken
at the doors of this theatre. The Mormons
mostly pay in grain—and all sorts of articles.
The night I gave my little lecture there—
among my receipts were corn—flour—pork—
shell.
One family went in on a live pig—and a man
attempted to pass a “yaller dog” at the Box
Office—but my agent repulsed him. One offered
me a doll for admission—another infants'
clothing.—I refused to take that.—As a
general rule I do refuse.
In the middle of the parquet—in a rocking
chair—with his hat on—sits Brigham Young.
When the play drags—he either goes out or falls
into a tranquil sleep.
A portion of the dress-circle is set apart for
the wives of Brigham Young. From ten to
twenty of them are usually present. His
children fill the entire gallery—and more
too.
The East Side of Main Street—Salt Lake
City—with a view of the Council Building.—
The legislature of Utah meets there. It is like
all legislative bodies. They meet this winter to
repeal the laws which they met and made last
winter—and they will meet next winter to repeal
the laws which they met and made this winter
I dislike to speak about it—but it was
in Utah that I made the great speech of my life.
I wish you could have heard it. I have a fine
education. You may have noticed it. I
speak six different languages—London—
Chatham—and Dover—Margate—Brighton—
MAIN STREET, SALT LAKE CITY.
The building to the extreme right is the House of Legislature,
where
the representatives of the territory of Utah hold their meetings.
The
second house on the right is the Post Office. Main Street is 132
feet in
breadth.
me to college when I was quite young. During
the vacation I used to teach a school of whales—
and there's where I learned to spout.—I don't
expect applause for a little thing like that. I wish
you could have heard that speech—however. If
Cicero—he's dead now—he has gone from us
—but if Old Ciss[23] could have heard that
effort it would have given him the rinderpest.
I'll tell you how it was. There are stationed in
Utah two regiments of U.S. troops—the 21st
from California—and the 37th from Nevada. The
20-onesters asked me to present a stand of colours
abounding in eloquence of a bold and brilliant
character—and also some sweet talk—real
pretty shop-keeping talk—that I worked the
enthusiasm of those soldiers up to such a
pitch—that they came very near shooting me on the spot.[24]
Brigham Young's Harem.—These are the
houses of Brigham Young. The first on the
right is the Lion House—so called because a
crouching stone lion adorns the central front
window. The adjoining small building is Brigham
Young's office—and where he receives his visitors.
—The large house in the centre of the picture
—which displays a huge bee-hive—is called the
Bee House—the bee-hive is supposed to be
symbolical of the industry of the Mormons.—
Mrs. Brigham Young the first—now quite an old
lady—lives here with her children. None of the
other wives of the prophet live here. In the rear
children are educated.
Brigham Young has two hundred wives.
Just think of that! Oblige me by thinking of that.
That is—he has eighty actual wives, and he is
spiritually married to one hundred and twenty
more. These spiritual marriages—as the
Mormons call them—are contracted with
aged widows—who think it a great honour to be
sealed—the Mormons call it being sealed—
to the Prophet.
So we may say he has two hundred wives.
He loves not wisely—but two hundred
well. He is dreadfully married. He's the
most married man I ever saw in my life.
I saw his mother-in-law while I was there. I
can't exactly tell you how many there is
of her—but it's a good deal. It strikes me that
family—unless you're very fond of excitement.
A few days before my arrival in Utah—
Brigham was married again—to a young and
really pretty girl[25]
—but he says he shall stop
now. He told me confidentially that he shouldn't
get married any more. He says that all he wants
now is to live in peace for the remainder of his days
—and have his dying pillow soothed by the loving
hands of his family. Well—that's all right—
that's all right—I suppose—but if all his
family soothe his dying pillow—he'll
have to go out-doors to die.
By the way—Shakespeare endorses polygamy.
—He speaks of the Merry Wives of Windsor.
How many wives did Mr. Windsor have
—But we will let this pass.
Some of these Mormons have terrific families.
I lectured one night by invitation in the Mormon
village of Provost—but during the day I rashly
gave a leading Mormon an order admitting himself
and family.—It was before I knew that
he was much married—and they filled the
room to overflowing. It was a great success
—but I didn't get any money.
Heber C. Kimball's Harem.—Mr. C.
Kimball is the first vice-president of the Mormon
church—and would—consequently—succeed to
the full presidency on Brigham Young's death.
Brother Kimball is a gay and festive cuss of
some seventy summers—or some'ers there
MR. HEBER C. KIMBALL'S HAREM.
The seraglio of Mr. Kimball is large. Unlike Brigham Young,
he does not keep his wives under one roof, but has many buildings in
his garden, where he assorts them according to their temper and their
adaptability to dwelling together in peace.
cattle and a hundred head of wives.[26]
He says they are awful eaters.
Mr. Kimball had a son—a lovely young
man—who was married to ten interesting
wives. But one day—while he was absent
from home—these ten wives went out
walking with a handsome young man—
which so enraged Mr. Kimball's son—which
made Mr. Kimball's son so jealous—that he
shot himself with a horse pistuel.
The doctor who attended him—a very
scientific man—informed me that the bullet
entered the inner parallelogram of his diaphragmatic
thorax, superinducing membranous
hemorrhage in the outer cuticle of his basiliconthamaturgist.
It killed him. I should have
thought it would.
(Soft music)[27]
I hope his sad end will be a warning to all
young wives who go out walking with handsome
young men. Mr. Kimball's son is now
—the myrtle—and the willow. This
music is a dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr.
Kimball's son. He died by request.
I regret to say that efforts were made to make
a Mormon of me while I was in Utah.
It was leap-year when I was there—and
seventeen young widows—the wives of a deceased
Mormon—offered me their hearts and
hands. I called on them one day—and taking
their soft white hands in mine—which made
eighteen hands altogether—I found them
in tears.
And I said—“Why is this thus? What is
the reason of this thusness?”
They hove a sigh—seventeen sighs of different
size.—They said—
“Oh—soon thou wilt be gonested away!”
I told them that when I got ready to leave a
place I wentested.
They said—“Doth not like us?”
I said—“I doth—I doth!”
I also said—“I hope your intentions are
honourable—as I am a lone child—my parents
being far—far away.
They then said—“Wilt not marry us?”
I said—“Oh—no—it cannot was.”
Again they asked me to marry them—and
again I declined. When they cried—
“Oh—cruel man! This is too much—oh!
too much!”
I told them that it was on account of
the muchness that I declined.[28]
This is the Mormon Temple.
It is built of adobe—and will hold five thousand
persons quite comfortably. A full brass and
—and the choir—I may add—is a remarkably
good one.
Brigham Young seldom preaches now. The
younger elders—unless on some special occasion—conduct
the services. I only heard Mr.
Young once. He is not an educated man—but
speaks with considerable force and clearness.
The day I was there there was nothing coarse in
his remarks.
The foundations of the Temple.
These are the foundations of the magnificent
Temple the Mormons are building. It is to be
FOUNDATIONS OF THE NEW TEMPLE.
From this picture and that which succeeds may be formed some idea
of how far the building of the New Temple had progressed at the time
of the lecturer's visit. The stones were being shaped into form by
masons who contributed their labour gratuitously.
FOUNDATIONS OF THE NEW TEMPLE.
Continued.
The block is forty rods squre, and contains ten acres. The
position
is 4,300 feet above the level of the sea in latitude 40°
45' 44" N., and
longitude 112° 6' 8" W. of Greenwich.
of ground. They say it shall eclipse in splendour
all other temples in the world. They also say it
shall be paved with solid gold.[29]
It is perhaps worthy of remark that the architect
of this contemplated gorgeous affair repudiated
Mormonism—and is now living in London.
The Temple as it is to be.
This pretty little picture is from the architect's
design—and cannot therefore—I suppose—be
called a fancy sketch.[30]
Should the Mormons continue unmolested—I
think they will complete this rather remarkable
edifice.
Great Salt Lake.—The great salt dead sea
of the desert.
I know of no greater curiosity than this inland
sea of thick brine. It is eighty miles wide—and
one hundred and thirty miles long. Solid masses
of salt are daily washed ashore in immense heaps
—and the Mormon in want of salt has only to go
to the shore of this lake and fill his cart. Only—
the salt for table use has to be subjected to a
boiling process.[31]
These are facts—susceptible of the clearest
possible proof. They tell one story about this
lake—however—that I have my doubts about.
They say a Mormon farmer drove forty head of
cattle in there once—and they came out
first-rate pickled beef.—
I sincerely hope you will excuse my absence
—I am a man short—and have to work the
moon myself.[32]
I shall be most happy to pay
a good salary to any respectable
boy of good parentage and education
who is a good moonist.
The Endowment House.[33]
In this building the Mormon is initiated into
the mysteries of the faith.
Strange stories are told of the proceedings
which are held in this building—but I have no
possible means of knowing how true they may be.
THE ENDOWMENT HOUSE.
That which takes place within this building travellers may guess
at but are not permitted to know. It is where the Mormon marriages
are celebrated. On the mountain above a figure out of all proportion
to the scenery is supposed to represent Artemus Ward attacked by a
bear in front and a pack of wolves in the rear.
ENTRANCE TO ECHO CANYON.
High bluffs of yellow colour and conglomerate formation, full of
small fossils. The buildings at the base constitute Weber's Station,
where the coach stops for the mules to be changed, and the passengers
to obtain refreshments.
Slat Lake City is fifty-five miles behind us—
and this is Echo Canyon—in reaching which we
are supposed to have crossed the summit of the
Wahsatch Mountains. These ochre-coloured
bluffs—formed of conglomerate sandstone—
and full of fossils—signal the entrance to the
Canyon. At its base lies Weber Station.
Echo Canyon is about twenty-five miles long.
It is really the sublimest thing between the Missouri
and the Sierra Nevada. The red wall to
the left develops further up the Canyon into
pyramids—buttresses—and castles—honey
combed and fretted in nature's own massive
magnificence of architecture.
In 1856—Echo Canyon was the place selected
by Brigham Young for the Mormon General
Wells to fortify and make impregnable against
the advance of the American army—led by
General Albert Sidney Johnson. It was to have
been the Thermopylæ of Mormondom—but it
wasn't. General Wells was to have done
Leonidas—but he didn't.
A more cheerful view of the Desert.
The wild snow storms have left us—and we
have thrown our wolf-skin overcoats aside. Certain
tribes of far-western Indians bury their distinguished
dead by placing them high in air and
covering them with valuable furs—that is a very
fair representation of these mid-air tombs. Those
THE INDIANS ON THE PLAINS.
On the right of the picture is the scaffold erected for an Indian
grave. The corpse is placed at the top of it, out of the way of the
wolves, though not so protected but what the vultures and other birds of
carrion soon render it a mere skeleton.
my artist says so. I had the picture two years
before I discovered the fact.—The artist came
to me about six months ago—and said—“It is
useless to disguise it from you any longer—
they are horses.”[34]
It was while crossing this desert that I was
surrounded by a band of Ute Indians. They
were splendidly mounted—they were dressed
in beaver-skins—and they were armed with
rifles—knives—and pistols.
What could I do?—What could a poor old
orphan do? I'm a brave man.—The day
before the Battle of Bull's Run I stood in the
highway while the bullets—those dreadful
messengers of death—were passing all
around me thickly—IN WAGGONS—on
were too many of these Injuns—there were
forty of them—and only one of me—and so I
said—
“Great Chief—I surrender.” His name was
Wocky-bocky.
He dismounted—and approached me. I saw
his tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight.
Fire was in his eye. Wocky-bocky came very
close to me and seized me by the hair of my head.
He mingled his swarthy fingers with my golden
OUR ENCOUNTER WITH THE INDIANS.
Utah Territory contains Indians of two races—the Shoshones and
the Utes. The Utes are very friendly with the Mormons, who treat
them with uniform kindness. It is commonly believed that a secret
treaty of alliance exists between Brigham Young and the chiefs of the
Indian tribes. (The left hand portion of the illustration belongs to
the preceding picture.)
across my lily-white face. He said—
“Torsha arrah darrah mishky bookshean!”
I told him he was right.
Wocky-bocky again rubbed his tomahawk
across my face, and said—“Wink-ho—loo-boo!”
Says I—“Mr. Wocky-bocky”—says I—
“Wocky—I have thought so for years—and
so's all our family.”
He told me I must go the tent of the Strong-Heart—and
eat raw dog.[36]
It don't agree with
me. I prefer simple food. I prefer pork-pie
—because then I know what I'm eating.
me—I had to eat it or starve. So at the expiration
of two days I seized a tin plate and went
to the chief's daughter—and I said to her in a
silvery voice—in a kind of German-silvery
voice—I said—
“Sweet child of the forest, the pale-face wants
his dog.”
There was nothing but his paws! I had
paused too long! Which reminds me that
time passes. A way which time has.
I was told in my youth to seize opportunity.
I once tried to seize one. He was rich. He had
diamonds on. As I seized him—he knocked me
down. Since then I have learned that he who
seizes opportunity sees the penitentiary.
The Rocky Mountains.
I take it for granted you have heard of these
popular mountains. In America they are
regarded as a great success, and we all love
dearly to talk about them. It is a kind of weakness
with us. I never knew but one American
who hadn't something—sometime—to say about
the Rocky Mountains—and he was a deaf and
dumb man, who couldn't say anything about
nothing.
But these mountains—whose summits are
snow-covered and icy all the year round—are too
grand to make fun of. I crossed them in the
winter of '64—in a rough sleigh drawn by four
mules.
This sparkling waterfall is the Laughing-Water
alluded to by Mr. Longfellow in his Indian
poem—“Higher-Water.” The water is
higher up there.
The plains of Colorado.
These are the dreary plains over which we
rode for so many weary days. An affecting incident
occurred on these plains some time since,
which I am sure you will pardon me for introducing
here.
On a beautiful June morning—some sixteen
years ago—
(Music, very loud till the scene is off.)
—and she fainted on Reginald's breast![37]
The Prairie on Fire.
A prairie on fire is one of the wildest and
grandest sights that can possibly be imagined.
These fires occur—of course—in the summer
—when the grass is dry as tinder—and the
flames rush and roar over the prairie in a manner
frightful to behold. They usually burn better
than mine is burning to-night. I try to make
my prairie burn regularly—and not disappoint
the public—but it is not as high-principled as I am.[38]
THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE.
Artemus Ward had an opportunity of seeing part of a Prairie on
Fire, just as he entered the State of Kansas. The grandeur of the
scene made a very deep impression upon him. He frequently alluded
to it in conversation.
THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE.
Continued.
The effect of the Prairie being on Fire was illustrated in the
panorama by means of a revolving cloth behind; a portion of the
picture being transparent.
BRIGHAM YOUNG AT HOME.
This is, of course, a mere fancy sketch. It was roughly designed
by Artemus Ward himself. According to his own statement, made
in a very playful manner, it represents that which he saw on an
afternoon passed with the prophet at the palace.
The last picture I have to show you represents
Mr. Brigham Young in the bosom of his family.
His family is large—and the olive branches
around his table are in a very tangled condition.
He is more a father than any man I know.
When at home—as you here see him—he
ought to be very happy with sixty wives
sixty children to soothe his distracted
mind. Ah! my friends—what is home without
a family
What will become of Mormonism? We all
know and admit it to be a hideous wrong—a
great immoral stain upon the 'scutcheon of the
United States. My belief is that its existence is
dependent upon the life of Brigham Young.
His administrative ability holds the system together—his
power of will maintains it as the
faith of a community. When he dies—Mormonism
will die too. The men who are around
him have neither his talent nor his energy. By
means of his strength it is held together. When
he falls—Mormonism will also fall to pieces.
[39]
That lion—you perceive—has a tail. It is a
long one already. Like mine—it is to be continued
in our next.[40]
“My little picture-shop.”—I have already stated that the
room used was the lesser of the two on the first-floor of the
Egyptian Hall. The panorama was to the left on entering,
and Artemus Ward stood at the south-east corner facing the
door. He had beside him a music-stand, on which for the
first few days he availed himself of the assistance afforded by
a sheet of foolscap on which all his “cues” were written out
in a large hand. The proscenium was covered with dark
cloth, and the picture bounded by a great gilt frame. On the
rostrum behind the lecturer was a little door giving admission
to the space behind the picture where the piano was placed.
Through this door Artemus would disappear occasionally in
the course of the evening, either to instruct his pianist to play
a few more bars of music, to tell his assistants to roll the
picture more quickly or more slowly, or to give some instructions
to the man who worked “the moon.” The little
lecture-room was thronged nightly during the very few
weeks of its being open.
“To New Zealand.”—Artemus Ward seriously contemplated
a visit to Australia, after having made the tour of
England. He was very much interested in all Australian
affairs, had a strong desire to see the lands of the South, and
looked forward to the long sea-voyage as one of the means by
which he should regain his lost health.
“More ventilation.”—The heat and closeness of the
densely-packed room was a cause of common complaint
among the audience.
“These clothes, etc.”—This was one of poor Artemus's jokes
which owed more of its success to its oddity than to its
veracity. While lecturing at the Egyptian Hall he wore a
fashionably-cut dress coat in the evening. It was what he
had never done during his lecture-career in the States, and
he used privately to complain how uncomfortable he felt in it.
He assumed the most deplorable look when pointing out his
costume to his audience. His voice dropped into a moody
reflective tone, and then suddenly passed into a much higher
key when he commenced to allude to “large fortunes.” He
seemed to have shaken off the embarrassment of his fashionable
clothes, and to be glad to pass on to another subject. In the
punctuation of the succeeding paragraph of the lecture, I have
endeavoured to convey an idea of the long pause he made
between some of his sentences.
“Failed as an actor.”—Artemus made many attempts as an
amateur actor, but never to his own satisfaction. He was very
fond of the society of actors and actresses. Their weaknesses
amused him as much as their talents excited his admiration.
One of his favourite sayings was that the world was made up
of “men, women, and the people on the stage.”
“Because I am!”—Spoken with a sigh. It was a joke
which always told. Artemus never failed to use it in his
“Babes in the Wood” lecture, and the “Sixty Minutes in
Africa,” as well as in the Mormon story.
“As a Fat Man.”—The reader need scarcely be informed
that this narrative is about as real as “A. Ward's Snaiks,” and
about as much matter-of-fact as his journey through the States
with a wax-work show.
“My Pianist, &c.” That a good pianist could be hired
for a small sum in England was a matter of amusement to
Artemus. More especially when he found a gentleman who
was obliging enough to play anything he desired, such as
break-downs and airs which had the most absurd relation to
the scene they were used to illustrate. In the United States
his pianist was desirous of playing music of a superior order,
much against the consent of the lecturer.
“Permit me now.” Though the serious part of the lecture
was here entered upon, it was not delivered in a graver tone
than that in which he had spoken the farcicalities of the
prologue. Most of the prefatory matter was given with an
air of earnest thought; the arms sometimes folded, and the chin
resting on one hand. On the occasion of his first exhibiting
the panorama at New York he used a fishing-rod to point out
the picture with; subsequently he availed himself of an old
umbrella. In the Egyptian Hall he used his little riding-whip.
“Photographs.” They were photographed by Savage and
Ottinger, of Salt Lake City, the photographers to Brigham
Young.
Curtain. The picture was concealed from view during the
first part of the lecture by a crimson curtain. This was drawn
together or opened many times in the course of the lecture,
and at odd points of the picture. I am not aware that
Artemus himself could have explained why he caused the curtain
to be drawn at one place and not at another. Probably
he thought it to be one of his good jokes that it should shut
in the picture just when there was no reason for its being used.
“By way of California.” That is, he went by steamer
from New York to Aspinwall, thence across the Isthmus of
Panama by railway, and then from Panama to California by
another steamboat. A journey which then occupied about
three weeks.
“Under Two Shillings.” Artemus always wore his hair
straight until after his severe illness in Salt Lake City. So
much of it dropped off during his recovery that he became
dissatisfied with the long meagre appearance his countenance
presented when he surveyed it in the looking-glass. After his
lecture at the Salt Lake City Theatre he did not lecture again
until we had crossed the Rocky Mountains and arrived at
Denver City, the capital of Colorado. On the afternoon he
was to lecture there I met him coming out of an ironmonger's
store with a small parcel in his hand. “I want you, old
fellow,” he said, “I have been all round the City for them,
and I've got them at last.” “Got what?” I asked. “A pair
of curling-tongs. I am going to have my hair curled to lecture
in to-night. I mean to cross the plains in curls. Come home
with me and try to curl it for me. I don't want to go to any
idiot of a barber to be laughed at.” I played the part of
friseur. Subsequently he became his own “curlist,” as he
phrased it. From that day forth Artemus was a curly-haired
man.
“Virginia City.” The view of Virginia City given in
the panorama conveyed a very poor idea of the marvellous
capital of the silver region of Nevada. Artemus caused the
curtain to close up between his view of San Francisco and that
of Virginia City, as a simple means of conveying an idea of the
distance travelled between. To arrive at the city of silver we
had to travel from San Francisco to Sacramento by steamboat,
thence from Sacramento to Folsom by railroad, then by coach
to Placerville. At Placerville we commenced the ascent of the
Sierra Nevada, gaining the summit of Johnson's Pass about
four o'clock in the morning; thence we descended; skirted the
shores of Lake Tahoe, and arrived at Carson City, where
Artemus lectured. From Carson, the next trip was across an
arid plain, to the great silver region. Empire City, the first
place we struck, was composed of about fifty wooden houses
and three or four quartz mills. Leaving it behind us, we
passed through the Devil's Gate—a grand ravine, with precipitous
mountains on each side; then we came to Silver
City, Gold Hill, and Virginia. The road was all up-hill.
Virginia City itself is built on a ledge cut out of the side of
Mount Davidson, which rises some 9,000 feet above the sea
level—the city being about half way up its side. To Artemus
Ward the wild character of the scenery, the strange manners
of the red-shirted citizens, and the odd developments of life
met with in that uncouth mountain-town were all replete with
interest. We stayed there about a week. During the time of
our stay he explored every part of the place, met many old
friends from the Eastern States, and formed many new acquaintances,
with some of whom acquaintance ripened into
warm friendship. Among the latter was Mr. Samuel L.
Clemens, now well known as “Mark Twain.” He was then
sub-editing one of the three papers published daily in
Virginia—The Territorial Enterprise. Artemus detected in the
writings of Mark Twain the indications of great humorous
power, and strongly advised the writer to seek a better field
for his talents. Since then he has become a well-known New
York lecturer and author. With Mark Twain, Artemus made
a descent into the Gould and Curry Silver Mine at Virginia,
the largest mine of the kind, I believe, in the world. The
account of the descent formed a long and very amusing
article in the next morning's Enterprise. To wander about
the town and note its strange developments occupied Artemus
incessantly. I was sitting writing letters at the hotel when
he came in hurriedly, and requested me to go out with him.
“Come and see some joking much better than mine,” said
he. He led me to where one of Wells, Fargo, & Co.'s
express waggons was being rapidly filled with silver bricks.
Ingots of the precious metal, each almost as large as an ordinary
brick, were being thrown from one man to another to
load the waggon, just as bricks or cheeses are transferred from
hand to had by carters in England. “Good old jokes those,
Hingston. Good, solid `Babes in the Wood,' ” observed
Artemus. Yet that evening he lectured in “Maguire's Opera
House,” Virginia City, to an audience composed chiefly of
miners, and the receipts were not far short of eight hundred
dollars. A droll building it was to be called an “Opera
House,” and to bear that designation in a place so outlandish.
Perched up on the side of a mountain—from the windows of
the dressing rooms—a view could be had of fifty miles of the
American desert. It was an “Opera House;” yet in the
plain beneath it there were Indians who still led the life of
savages, and carried dried human scalps attached to their
girdles. It was an “Opera House;” yet, for many hundred
miles around it, Nature wore the roughest, sternest, and most
barren of aspects—no tree, no grass, no shrub, but the
colourless and dreary sage-brush. Every piece of timber,
every brick, and every stone in that “Opera House” had
been brought from California, over those snow-capped
Sierras, which, but a few years before had been regarded as
beyond the last outposts of civilisation. Every singer who
had sung, and every actor who had performed at that “Opera
House” had been whirled down the sides of the Nevada mountains,
clinging to the coach-top, and mentally vowing never
again to trust the safety of his neck on any such professional
excursion. The drama has been very plucky “out West.”
Thalia, Melpomene, and Euterpe become young ladies of
great animal spirits, and fearless daring, when they feel
the fresh breezes of the Pacific blowing in their faces. At
Virginia City we purchased black felt shirts half an inch thick.
and grey blankets of ample size to keep us warm for the
journey we were about to undertake. We invested also in
revolvers to defend ourselves against the Indians; a dozen
cold roast fowls to eat on the way; a demijohn of Bourbon
whisky, and a bagful of unground coffee. This last was
about as useful as any of our purchases. Thus provided, we
started across the desert on our way to Reese River, and
thence to Salt Lake City. Our coach was a fearfully lumbering
old vehicle of great strength, constructed for jolting over
rocky ledges, plunging into marshy swamps, and for rolling
through miles of sand. The horses were small and wiry,
accustomed to the country, and able to exist on anything
which it is possible for a horse to eat. There were four of us
in the coach. The “Pioneer Company's” man who drove
us was full of whisky and good-humour when he mounted
the box, and singing in chorus, “Jordan's a hard road to
travel on,” we bowled down the slope of Mount Davidson
towards the deserts of Nevada, en route for New Pass Station.
“Threw brickbats at him.” This portion of the panorama
was very badly painted. When the idea of having a panorama
was first entertained by Artemus he wished to have one
of great artistic merit. Finding considerable difficulty in
procuring one, and also discovering that the expense of a
real work of art would be beyond his means, he resolved on
having a very bad one, or one so bad in parts that its very
badness would give him scope for jest. In the small towns
of the Western States it passed very well for a first-class picture,
but what it was really worth in an artistic point of view
its owner was very well aware.
Salt Lake City.” Our stay in the Mormon capital extended
over six weeks. So cheerless was the place in midwinter,
that we should not have stayed half that time had not
Artemus Ward succumbed to an attack of typhoid fever
almost as soon as we arrived. The incessant travel by night
and day, the depressing effect produced by intense cold,
travelling through leagues of snow and fording half-frozen
rivers at midnight, the excitement of passing through Indian
country, and some slight nervous apprehension of how he
would be received among the Mormons, considering that he
had ridiculed them in a paper published some time before, all
conspired to produce the illness which resulted. Fever of
the typhoid form is not uncommon in Utah. Probably the
rarefaction of the air on a plateau 4,000 feet above the sea
level has something to do with its frequency. Artemus's fears
relative to the cordiality of his reception proved to be
groundless, for during the period of his being ill he was
carefully tended. Brigham Young commissioned Mr. Stenhouse,
postmaster to the city and Elder of the Mormon
Church, to visit him frequently and supply him with whatever
he required. One of the two wives of Mr. Townsend, landlord
of the Salt Lake House, the hotel where we stopped was
equally as kind. Whatever the feelings of the Mormons were
towards poor Artemus, they at least treated him with sympathetic
hospitality. Even Mr. Porter Rockwell, who is known
as one of the “Avenging Angels,” or “Danite Band,” and
who is reported to have made away with some seventeen or
eighteen enemies of the “Saints,” came and sat by the bedside
of the sufferer, detailing to him some of the little “difficulties”
he had experienced in effectually silencing the unbelievers
of times past.
“Temperance Hotel.” At the date of our visit, there was
only one place in Salt Lake City where strong drink was
allowed to be sold. Brigham Young himself owned the
property, and vended the liquor by wholesale, not permitting
any of it to be drunk on the premises. It was a coarse,
inferior kind of whisky, known in Salt Lake as “Valley Tan.”
Throughout the city there was no drinking-bar nor billiard
room, so far as I am aware. But a drink on the sly could
always be had at one of the hard-goods stores, in the back
office behind the pile of metal saucepans; or at one of the
dry-goods stores, in the little parlour in the rear of the bales
of calico. At the present time I believe that there are two or
three open bars in Salt Lake, Brigham Young having recognised
the right of the “Saints” to “liquor up” occasionally.
But whatever other failings they may have, intemperance
cannot be laid to their charge. Among the Mormons there
are no paupers, no gamblers, and no drunkards.
“Overland Mail Coach.” From Virginia City to Salt
Lake we travelled in the coaches of the “Pioneer Stage
Company.” In leaving Salt Lake for Denver we changed to
those of the “Overland Stage Company,” of which the
renowned Ben Holliday is proprietor, a gentleman whose
name on the Plains is better known than that of any other
man in America.
“Been in Newgate.” The manner in which Artemus
uttered this joke was peculiarly characteristic of his style of
lecturing. The commencement of the sentence was spoken
as if unpremeditated; then, when he had got as far as the
word “Newgate,” he paused, as if wishing to call back that
which he had said. The applause was unfailingly uproarious.
Travelling through the States, he used to say, “Those of you
who have been in the Penitentiary.” On the morning after
his lecture at Pittsburg in Pennsylvania, he was waited on by
a tall, gaunt, dark-haired man, of sour aspect and sombre
demeanour, who carried in his hand a hickory walking-cane,
which he grasped very menacingly, as addressing Artemus he
said, “I guess you are the gentleman who lect'red last
night?” Mr. Ward replied in the affirmative. “Then I've
got to have satisfaction from you. I took my wife and her
sister to hear you lecter, and you insulted them.” “Excuse
me,” said Artemus. “I went home immediately the lecture
was over, and had no conversation with any lady in the hall
that evening.” The visitor grew more angry, “Hold thar,
Mr. Lect'rer. You told my wife and her sister that they'd
been in the Penitentiary. I must have satisfaction for the
insult, and I'm come to get it.” Artemus was hesitating how
to reply, when the hotel clerk suddenly appeared upon the
scene, saying, “I've a good memory for voices. You are Mr.
Josiah Mertin, I believe?” “I am,” was the reply. “And I
am the late clerk of the Girard House, Philadelphia. There's
a little board-bill of yours owing there for ninety-two dollars
and a half. You skedaddled without paying. Will you oblige
me by waiting till I send for an officer?” I believe that Mr.
Josiah Mertin did not even wait for “satisfaction.”
“The Pacific Railway.” The journey was made in the
winter of 1863-4. By the time these notes appear in print,
the Pacific Railway will be almost complete from the banks
of the Missouri to those of the Sacramento, and travellers will
soon be able to make the transit of over three thousand miles
from New York City to the capital of California, without
leaving the railway car, except to cross a ferry, or to change
from one station to another.
“Brilliant as that of any theatre in London.” Herein
Artemus slightly exaggerated. The colouring of the theatre
was white and gold, but it was inefficiently lighted with oil
lamps. When Brigham Young himself showed us round the
theatre, he pointed out, as an instance of his own ingenuity,
that the central chandelier was formed out of the wheel of
one of his old coaches. The house is now, I believe, lighted
with gas. Altogether it is a very wondrous edifice, considering
where it is built and who were the builders. At the time
of its erection there was no other theatre on the northern
part of the American plateau, no building for a similar purpose
anywhere for five hundred miles, north, east, south, or
west. Many a theatre in the provincial towns of England is
not hald so substantially built, nor one tithe-part so well appointed.
The dressing rooms, wardrobe, tailors' workshop,
carpenters' shop, paint room, and library, leave scarcely anything
to be desired in their completeness. Brigham Young's
son-in-law, Mr. Hiram Clawson, the manager, and Mr. John
Cane, the stage manager, if they came to London, might
render good service at one or two of our metropolitan playouuses.
“Old Ciss.” Here again no description can adequately
inform the reader of the drollery which characterized the
lecturer. His reference to Cicero was made in the most
lugubrious manner, as if he really deplored his death and
valued him as a schoolfellow loved and lost.
“United States Troops.” Our stay in Utah was rendered
especially pleasant by the attentions of the regiment of
California Cavalry, then stationed at Fort Douglas in the
Wahsatch Mountains, three miles beyond and overlooking
the city. General Edward O'Connor, the United States
Military Governor of Utah, was especially attentive to the
wants of poor Artemus during his severe illness; and
had it not been for the kind attentions of Dr. Williams, the
surgeon to the regiment, I doubt if the invalid would have
recovered. General O'Connor had then been two years
stationed in Utah, but during the whole of that time had
refused to have any personal communication with Brigham
Young. The Mormon prophet would sit in his private box,
and the United States general occupy a seat in the dress-circle
of the theatre. They would look at each other frequently
through their opera-glasses, but that constituted their whole
mtimacy.
“A hundred head of Wives.” It is an authenticated fact
that, in an address to his congregation in the tabernacle,
Heber C. Kimball once alluded to his wives by the endearing
epithet of “my heifers;” and on another occasion politely
spoke of them as “his cows.” The phraseology may possibly
be a slight indication of the refinement of manners
prevalent in Salt Lake City.
“Soft Music.” Here Artemus Ward's pianist (following
instructions) sometimes played the dead march from “Saul.”
At other times, the Welsh air of “Poor Mary Anne;” or anything
else replete with sadness which might chance to strike
his fancy. The effect was irresistibly comic.
“That I declined.” I remember one evening party in
Salt Lake City to which Artemus Ward and myself went.
There were thirty-nine ladies and only seven gentlemen.
“Solid Gold.” “Where will the gold be obtained from?”
is a question which the visitor might reasonably be expected
to ask. Unquestionably the mountains of Utah contain the
precious metal, though it has not been the policy of Brigham
Young and the chiefs of the Mormon Church to disclose
their knowledge of the localities in which it is to be found.
There is a current report in Salt Lake City that nuggets of
gold have been picked up within a radius of a few score of
miles from the site of the new temple. But the Mormons,
instructed by their Church, profess ignorance on the subject.
The discovery of large gold mines, and permission to work
them, would attract to the valley of Salt Lake a class of visitors
not wished for by Brigham Young and his disciples. Next
to the construction of the Pacific Railway, nothing would be
more conducive to the downfall of Mormonism than Utah
becoming known as an extensive gold-field.
“A Fancy Sketch.” Artemus had the windows of the
temple in his panorama cut out and filled in with transparent
coloured paper, so that, when lighted from behind, it had the
effect of one of the little plaster churches with a piece of
lighted candle inside, which the Italian image-boys display
at times for sale in the streets. Nothing in the course of the
evening pleased Artemus more than to notice the satisfaction
with which this meretricious piece of absurdity was received
by the audience.
“The Great Salt Lake.” A very general mistake prevaus
among those not better informed that the Mormon capital is
built upon the borders of the Salt Lake. There are eighteen
miles of distance between them. Not from any part of the
City proper can a view of the Lake be obtained. To get a
glimpse of it without journeying towards it, the traveller must
ascend to one of the rocky ledges in the range of mountains
which back the city. So saline is the water of the lake, that
three pailsful of it are said to yield on evaporation one pailful
of salt. I never saw the experiment tried.
“The Moon myself.” Here Artemus would leave the
rostrum for a few moments, and pretend to be engaged
behind. The picture was painted for a night-scene, and the
effect intended to be produced was that of the moon rising
over the lake and rippling on the waters. It was produced in
the usual dioramic way, by making the track of the moon
transparent and throwing the moon on from the bull's eye of
a lantern. When Artemus went behind, the moon would
become nervous and flickering, dancing up and down in the
most inartistic and undecided manner. The result was that,
coupled with the lecturer's oddly expressed apology, the
“moon” became one of the best laughed-at parts of the
entertainment.
“The Endowment House.” To the young ladies of Utah
this edifice possesses extreme interest. The Mormon ceremony
of marriage is said to be of the most extraordinary
character; various symbolical scenes being enacted, and the
bride and bridegroom invested with sacred garments which
they are never to part with. In all Salt Lake I could not find
a person who would describe to me the ceremonies of the
Endowment House, nor could Artemus or myself obtain
admission within its mystic walls.
“They are Horses.” Here again Artemus called in the
aid of pleasant banter as the most fitting apology for the
atrocious badness of the painting.
“Their way to the battle-field.” This was the great joke
of Artemus Ward's first lecture, “The Babes in the Wood.”
He never omitted it in any of his lectures, nor did it lose its
power to create laughter by repetition. The audiences at the
Egyptian Hall, London, laughed as immoderately at it as did
those of Irving Hall, New York, or of the Tremont Temple
in Boston.
“Raw dog.” While sojourning for a day in a camp of
Sioux Indians we were informed that the warriors of the tribe
were accustomed to eat raw dog to give them courage previous
to going to battle. Artemus was greatly amused with the
information. When, in after years, he became weak and
languid, and was called upon to go to lecture, it was a
favourite joke with him to inquire, “Hingston, have you got
any raw dog?”
“On Reginald's breast.” At this part of the lecture
Artemus pretended to tell a story—the piano playing loudly
all the time. He continued his narration in excited dumb-show—his
lips moving as though he were speaking. For
some minutes the audience indulged in unrestrained laughter.
“As high-principled as I am.” The scene was a transparent
one—the light from behind so managed as to give the
effect of the prairie on fire. Artemus enjoyed the joke of
letting the fire go out occasionally, and then allowing it to
relight itself.
“That Lion has a tail.” The lion on a pedestal, as
painted in the panorama—its tail outstretched like that of the
leonine adornment to Northumberland House, was a pure
piece of frolic on the part of the entertainer. Brigham
Young certainly adopts the lion as a Mormon emblem. A
beehive and a lion, suggestive of industry and strength, are
the symbols of the Mormons in Salt Lake City.
“To be continued in our next.” To re-visit Utah, and to
do another and a better lecture about it was a favourite idea
of Artemus Ward. Another fancy that he had was to visit the
stranger countries of the Eastern world and find in some of
them matter for a humorous lecture. While ill in Utah, he
read Mr. Layard's book on Nineveh, left behind at the hotel
by a traveller passing through Salt Lake. Mr. Layard's reference
to the Yezedi, or “Devil worshippers,” took powerful
hold on the imagination of the reader. During our trip home
across the plains he would often, sometimes in jest and sometimes
in earnest, chat about a trip to Asia to see the “Devil
worshippers.” Naturally his inclinations were nomadic, and
had a longer life been granted to him I believe that he would
have seen more of the surface of this globe than even the
generality of his countrymen see, much as they are accustomed
to travel. Within about the same distance from Portland in
England that his own birth-place is from Portland in Maine,
his travels came to an end. He died at Southampton. His
great wish was for strength to return to his home, that he
might die with the face of his own mother bending over him,
and in the cottage where he was born.
Cœlumque
Adspicit et moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.”
E. P. H.
| Artemus Ward's panorama | |