by Ellen Wood
“She is not tanned a bit with her voyage, that I see,” cried Deborah, with undisguised admiration. “But Sibylla’s skin never did tan. Child,” she added, bending towards her, and allowing her voice to become grave, “how could you think of coming to Verner’s Pride? It was not right. You should have come home.”
“I thought Mrs. Verner was living still.”
“And if she had been? — This is Mr. Lionel’s house now; not hers. You ought to have come home, my dear. You will come home with us now, will you not?”
“I suppose you’ll allow me to have some breakfast first,” was Sibylla’s answer. Secure in her future position, she was willing to go home to them temporarily now. “Why is papa gone away, Deborah?”
“He will be coming back some time, dear,” was Deborah’s evasive answer, spoken soothingly. “But tell us a little about yourself, Sibylla. When poor Frederick—”
“Not this morning, Deborah,” she interrupted, putting up her hand. “I will tell you all another time. It was an unlucky voyage.”
“Have you realised John’s money that he left? That he lost, I should rather say.”
“I have realised nothing,” replied Sibylla— “nothing but ill luck. We never got tidings of John in any way, beyond the details of his death; we never saw a particle of the gold belonging to him, or could hear of it. And my husband lost his desk the day we landed — as I sent you word; and I had no money out there, and I have only a few shillings in my pocket.”
This catalogue of ills nearly stunned Deborah and Amilly West. They had none too much of life’s great need, gold, for themselves; and the burden of keeping Sibylla would be sensibly felt. A tolerably good table it was indispensable to maintain, on account of Jan, and that choice eater, Master Cheese; but how they had to pinch in the matter of dress, they alone knew. Sibylla also knew, and she read arightly the drooping of their faces.
“Never mind, Deborah; cheer up, Amilly. It is only for a time. Ere very long I shall be leaving you again.”
“Surely not for Australia!” returned Deborah, the hint startling her.
“Australia? Well, I am not sure that it will be quite so far,” answered Sibylla, in a little spirit of mischief. And, in the bright prospect of the future, she forgot past and present grievances, turned her laughing blue eyes upon her sisters, and, to their great scandal, began to waltz round and round the room.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
BROTHER JARRUM.
By the light of a single tallow candle which flared aloft on a shelf in Peckaby’s shop, consecrated in more prosperous days to wares, but bare now, a large collected assemblage was regarding each other with looks of eager interest. There could not have been less than thirty present, all crammed together in that little space of a few feet square. The first comers had taken their seats on the counters; the others stood as they could. Two or three men, just returned from their day’s labour, were there; but the crowd was chiefly composed of the weaker sex.
The attention of these people was concentrated on a little man who faced them, leaning against the wall at the back of the shop, and holding forth in a loud, persuasive tone. If you object to the term “holding forth,” you must blame Mrs. Duff; it is borrowed from her. She informed us, you may remember, that the stranger who met, and appeared to avoid, Lionel Verner, was no other than a “missionary from Jerusalem,” taken with an anxiety for the souls of Deerham, and about to do what he could to convert them— “Brother Jarrum.”
Brother Jarrum had entered upon his work, conjointly with his entry upon Peckaby’s spare bedroom. He held nightly meetings in Peckaby’s shop, and the news of his fame was spreading. Women of all ages flocked in to hear him — you know how impressionable they have the character of being. A sprinkling of men followed out of curiosity, of idleness, or from propensity to ridicule. Had Brother Jarrum proved to be a real missionary from Jerusalem — though, so far as my knowledge goes, such messengers from that city are not common — genuinely desirous of converting them from wrath to grace, I fear his audience would, after the first night or two, have fallen off considerably. This missionary, however, contrived both to keep his audience and to increase it; his promises partaking more of the mundane nature than do such promises in general. In point of fact, Brother Jarrum was an Elder from a place that he was pleased to term “New Jerusalem”; in other words, from the Salt Lake city.
It has been the fate of certain spots of England, more so than of most other parts of the European world, to be favoured by periodical visits from these gentry. Deerham was now suffering under the infliction, and Brother Jarrum was doing all that lay in his power to convert half its female population into Mormon proselytes. His peculiar doctrines it is of no consequence to transcribe; but some of his promises were so rich that it is a pity you should lose the treat of hearing them. They commenced with — husbands to all. Old or young, married or single, each was safe to be made the wife of one of these favoured prophets the instant she set foot in the new city. This, of course, was a very grand thing for the women — as you may know if you have any experience of them — especially for those who were getting on the shady side of forty, and had not changed their name. They, the women, gathered together and pressed into Peckaby’s shop, and stared at Brother Jarrum with eager eyes, and listened with strained ears, only looking off him to cast admiring glances one to another.
“Stars and snakes!” said Brother Jarrum, whose style of oratory was more peculiar than elegant, “what flounders me is, that the whole lot of you Britishers don’t migrate of yourselves to the desired city — the promised land — the Zion on the mountains. You stop here to pinch and toil and care, and quarrel one of another, and starve your children through having nothing to give ‘em, when you might go out there to ease, to love, to peace, to plenty. It’s a charming city; what else should it be called the City of the Saints for? The houses have shady veranders round ‘em, with sweet shrubs a-creeping up, and white posts and pillows to lean against. The bigger a household is, the more rooms it have got; not a lady there, if there was a hundred of ’em in family, but what’s got her own parlour and bedroom to herself, which no stranger thinks of going in at without knocking for leaf. All round and about these houses is productive gardens, trees and flowers for ornament, and fruits and green stuff to eat. There’s trees that they call cotton wood, and firs, and locusts, and balsams, and poplars, and pines, and acacias, some of ’em in blossom. A family may live for nothing upon the produce of their own ground. Vegetables is to be had for the cutting; their own cows gives the milk — such milk and butter as this poor place, Deerham, never saw — but the rich flavour’s imparted to ’em from the fine quality of the grass; and fruit you might feed upon till you got a surfeit. Grapes and peaches is all a-hanging in clusters to the hand, only waiting to be plucked! Stars! my mouth’s watering now at the thoughts of ‘em! I—”
“Please, sir, what did you say the name of the place was again?” interrupted a female voice.
“New Jerusalem,” replied Brother Jarrum. “It’s in the territory of Utah. On the maps and on the roads, and for them that have not awoke to the new light, it’s called the Great Salt Lake City; but for us favoured saints, it’s New Jerusalem. It’s Zion — it’s Paradise — it’s anything beautiful you may like to call it. There’s a ballroom in it.”
This abrupt wind-up rather took some of the audience aback. “A ballroom!”
“A ballroom,” gravely repeated Brother Jarrum. “A public ballroom not far from a hundred feet long; and we have got a theatre for the acting of plays; and we go for rides in winter in sleighs. Ah! did you think it was with us, out there, as it is with you in the old country? — one’s days to be made up of labour, labour, labour; no interlude to it but starvation and the crying of children as can’t get nursed or fed! We like amusement; and we have it; dancing in particular. Our great prophet himself dances; and all the apostles and bishops dance. They dance themselves down.”
The assemblage sat with open eyes. New won
ders were revealed to them every moment. Some of the younger legs grew restless at the mental vision conjured up.
“It’s part of our faith to dance,” continued Brother Jarrum. “Why shouldn’t we? Didn’t David dance? Didn’t Jephthah dance? Didn’t the prodigal son dance? You’ll all dance on to the last if you come to us. Such a thing as old legs is hardly known among us. As the favoured climate makes the women’s faces beautiful, so it keeps the limbs from growing old. The ballroom is hung with green branches and flags; you might think it was a scene of trees lit with lamps; and you’d never tire of listening to the music, or of looking at the supper-table. If you could only see the suppers given, in a picture to-night, it ‘ud spoil your sleep, and you’d not rest till you had started to partake of ‘em. Ducks and turkeys, and oysters, and fowls, and fish, and meats, and custards, and pies, and potatoes, and greens, and jellies, and coffee, and tea, and cake, and drinks, and so many more things that you’d be tired only of hearing me say the names. There’s abundance for all.”
Some commotion amid Brother Jarrum’s hearers, and a sound as of licking of lips. That supper account was a great temptation. Had Brother Jarrum started then, straight off for the Salt Lake, the probability is that three-parts of the room would have formed a tail after him.
“What’s the drinks?” inquired Jim Clark, the supper items imparting to his inside a curious feeling of emptiness.
“There’s no lack of drinks in the City of the Saints,” returned Brother Jarrum. “Whisky’s plentiful. Have you heard of mint julep? That is delicious. Mint is one of the few productions not common out there, and we are learning to make the julep with sage instead. You should see the plains of sage! It grows wild.”
“And there’s ducks, you say?” observed Susan Peckaby. “It’s convenient to have sage in plenty where there’s ducks,” added she to the assembly in general. “What a land it must be!”
“A land that’s not to be ekalled! A land flowing with milk and honey!” rapturously echoed Brother Jarrum. “Ducks is in plenty, and sage grows as thick as nettles do here; you can’t go out to the open country but you put your foot upon it. Nature’s generally in accordance with herself. What should she give all them bushes of wild sage for, unless she gave ducks to match?”
A problem that appeared indisputable to the minds of Brother Jarrum’s listeners. They sincerely wished themselves in New Jerusalem.
“Through the streets runs a stream of sparkling water, clear as crystal,” continued Brother Jarrum. “You have only got to stoop down with a can on a hot summer’s day, and take a drink of it. It runs on both sides the streets for convenience; folks step out of their houses, and draw it up with no trouble. You have not got to toil half a mile to a spring of fresh water there! You’d never forget the silver lake at the base of Antelope Island, once you set eyes on it.”
Several haggard eyes were lifted at this. “Do silver grow there, like the sage?”
“I spoke metaphorical,” explained Brother Jarrum. “Would I deceive you? No. It’s the Great Salt Lake, that shines out like burnished silver, and bursts on the sight of the new pilgrims when they arrive in bands at the holy city — the emigrants from this land.”
“Some do arrive then, sir?” timidly questioned Dinah Roy.
“Some!” indignantly responded Brother Jarrum. “They are arriving continual. The very evening before I left, a numerous company arrived. It was just upon sunset. The clouds was all of rose colour, tipped with purple and gold, and there lay the holy city at their feet, in the lovely valley I told you of last night, with the lake of glittering silver in the distance. It is a sight for ‘em, I can tell you! The regular-built houses, inclosed in their gardens and buildings, like farm homesteads, and the inhabitants turning out with fiddles, to meet and welcome the travellers. Some of the pilgrims fainted with joy; some shouted; lots danced; and sobs and tears of delight burst from all. If the journey had been a little fatiguing — what of that, with that glorious scene at the end of it?”
“And you see this?” cried a man, Davies, in a somewhat doubtful tone.
“I see it with my two eyes,” answered Brother Jarrum. “I often see it. We had had news in the city that a train of new-comers was approaching, mostly English, and we went out to meet ‘em. Not one of us saints, hardly, but was expecting some friend by it — a sister, or a father, or a sweetheart, maybe; and away we hurried outside the city. Presently the train came in sight.”
“They have railroads there, then?” spoke a man, who was listening with eager interest. It was decent, civil Grind.
“Not yet; we shall have ’em shortly,” said Brother Jarrum. “The train consisted of carts, carriages, vehicles of all sorts; and some rode mules, and some were walking on their legs. They were all habited nicely, and singing hymns. A short way afore they arrive at the holy city, it’s the custom for the emigrants to make a halt, and wash and dress themselves, so as to enter proper. Such a meeting! the kissing and the greeting drownding the noise of the music, and the old men and the little children dancing. The prophet himself came out, and shook hands with ’em all, his brass band blowing in front of him, and he standing up in his carriage. Where else would you travel to, I’d like to know, and find such a welcome at the end of your journey? Houses, and friends, and plenty, all got ready aforehand; and gentlemen waiting to marry the ladies that may wish to enter the holy state!”
“There is a plenty?” questioned again that unbelieving man, Davies.
“There’s such a plenty that the new arrivals are advised to eat, for a week or two, only half their fill,” returned Brother Jarrum— “of fruits in partic’lar. Some, that have gone right in at the good things without mercy, have been laid up through it, and had to fine themselves down upon physic for a week after. No; it’s best to be a little sparing at the beginning.”
“What did he say just now about all the Mormons being beautiful?” questioned a pretty-looking girl of her neighbours. And Brother Jarrum caught the words, although they were spoken in an undertone.
“And so they are,” said he. “The climate’s of a nature that softens the faces, keeps folks in health, and stops ’em from growing old. If you see two females in the street, one a saint’s wife, the t’other a new arrival, you can always tell which is which. The wife’s got a slender waist, like a lady, with a delicate colour in her face, and silky hair; the new-comer’s tanned, and fat, and freckled, and clumsy. If you don’t believe me, you can ask them as have been there. There’s something in the dress they wear, too, that sets ’em off. No female goes out without a veil, which hangs down behind. They don’t want to hide their pretty faces, not they.”
Mary Green, a damsel of twenty, she who had previously spoken, really did possess a pretty face; and a rapturous vision came over her at this juncture, of beholding it shaded and set off by a white lace veil, as she had often seen Miss Decima Verner’s.
“Now, I can’t explain to you why it is that the women in the city should be fair to the eye, or why the men don’t seem to grow old,” resumed Brother Jarrum. “It is so, and that’s enough. People, learned in such things, might tell the cause; but I’m not learned in ‘em. Some says it’s the effect of the New Jerusalem climate; some thinks it’s the fruits of the happy and plentiful life we lead: my opinion is, it’s a mixture of both. A man of sixty hardly looks forty, out there. It’s a great favour!”
One of the ill-doing Dawsons, who had pushed his way in at the shop door in time to hear part of the lavished praise on New Jerusalem, interrupted at this juncture.
“I say, master, if this is as you’re a-telling us, how is it that folks talk so again’ the Mormons? I met a man in Heartburg once, who had been out there, and he couldn’t say bad enough of ‘em.”
“Snakes! but that’s a natural question of yours, and I’m glad to answer it,” replied Brother Jarrum, with a taking air of candour. “Those evil reports come from our enemies. There’s another tribe living in the Great Salt Lake City besides ours; and that’s the G
entiles. Gentiles is our name for ‘em. It’s this set that spreads about uncredible reports, and we’d like to sew their mouths up—”
Brother Jarrum probably intended to say “unaccredited.” He continued, somewhat vehemently —
“To sew their mouths up with a needle and thread, and let ’em be sewed up for ever. They are jealous of us; that’s what it is. Some of their wives, too, have left ’em to espouse our saints, at which they naggar greatly. The outrageousest things that enemies’ tongues can be laid to, they say. Don’t you ever believe ‘em; it flounders me to think as anybody can. Whoever wants to see my credentials, they are at their beck and call. Call to-morrow morning — in my room upstairs — call any other morning, and my certificates is open to be looked at, with spectacles or without ‘em, signed in full, at the Great Salt Lake City, territory of Utah, by our prophet, Mr. Brigham Young, and two of his councillors, testifying that I am Elder Silas Jarrum, and that my mission over here is to preach the light to them as are at present asleep in darkness, and bring ’em to the community of the Latter Day Saints. I’m no impostor, I’m not; and I tell you that the false reports come from them unbelieving Gentiles. Instead of minding their own affairs, they pass their days nagging at the saints.”
“Why don’t they turn saints theirselves?” cried a voice sensibly.
“Because Satan stops ‘em. You have heard of him, you know. He’s busy everywhere, as you’ve been taught by your parsons. I put my head inside of your church door, last Sunday night, while the sermon was going on, and I heard your parson tell you as Satan was the foundation of all the ill that was in you. He was right there; though I’m no friend to parsons in general. Satan is the head and tail of bad things, and he fills up the Gentiles with proud notions, and blinds their eyes against us. No wonder! If every soul in the world turned Latter Day Saint, and come over to us at New Jerusalem, where ‘ud Satan’s work be? We are striving to get you out of the clutches of Satan, my friends, and you must strive for yourselves also. Where’s the use of us elders coming among you to preach and convert, unless you meet us half-way? Where’s the good of keeping up that ‘Perpetual Emigration Fund Company,’ if you don’t reap its benefit and make a start to emigrate? These things is being done for you, not for us. The Latter Day Saints have got nothing mean nor selfish about ‘em. They are the richest people in the world — in generosity and good works.”