Chapter Six.
An Apostolic Effort.
The morning needed no fire, but there were embers upon the clay-hearth—some smouldering ends of faggots—over which the breakfast had been cooked. On one side of the fireplace the squatter placed a stool for his visitor; and then another for himself, as if mechanically on the opposite side. A table of rough-hewn planks stood between. On this was a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey—or, “bald face,” as it is more familiarly known in the backwoods—two cracked cups to drink out of; a couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco. All these preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped from the lips of Lilian, that the visitor had been expected. Beyond the customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the host and guest, until both had seated themselves. The squatter then commenced the conversation.
“Yev hed a long ride, Josh,” said he, leaning towards the table and clutching hold of the bottle: “try a taste o’ this hyur rot-gut—‘taint the daintiest o’ drink to offer a man so genteelly dressed as you air this morning; but thur’s wuss licker in these hyur back’oods, I reckun. Will ye mix? Thur’s water in the jug thar.”
“No water for me,” was the laconic reply. “Yur right ’bout that. Its from old Hatcher’s still—whar they us’ally put the water in afore they give ye the licker. I s’pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o’ mixing—Ha! ha! ha!” The squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his visitor in good-humour. The only evidence of his success was a dry smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically than otherwise.
There was silence while both drank; and Holt was again under the necessity of beginning the conversation. As already observed, he had noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster’s costume; and it was to this transformation that his next speech alluded. “Why, Josh,” said he, attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, “ye’re bran new, spick span, from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o’ them ere cantin’ critters o’ preechers I often see prowlin’ about Swampville. Durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now. You hain’t got rileegun, I reck’n?”
“I have,” gravely responded Stebbins.
“Hooraw! ha, ha, ha! Wal—what sort o’ thing is’t anyhow?”
“My religion is of the right sort, Brother Holt.”
“Methody?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“What then? I thort they wur all Methodies in Swampville?”
“They’re all Gentiles in Swampville—worse than infidels themselves.”
“Wal—I know they brag mightily on thur genteelity. I reckon you’re about right thur—them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin’.”
“No, no; it’s not that I mean. My religion has nothing to do with Swampville. Thank the Lord for his mercy, I’ve been led into a surer way of salvation. I suppose, Brother Holt, you’ve heard of the new Revelation?”
“Heern o’ the new rev’lation. Wal, I don’t know as I hev. What’s the name o’t?”
“The book of Mormon?”
“Oh! Mormons! I’ve hearn o’ them. Hain’t they been a fightin’ a spell up thur in Massouray or Illinoy, whar they built ’em a grandiferous temple? I’ve hearn some talk o’t.”
“At Nauvoo. It is even so, Brother Holt the wicked Gentiles have been persecuting the Saints: just as their fathers were persecuted by the Egyptian Pharaohs.”
“An’ hain’t they killed their head man—Smith he wur called, if I recollex right.”
“Alas, true! Joseph Smith has been made a martyr, and is by this time an angel in heaven. No doubt he is now in glory, at the head of the angelic host.”
“Wal—if the angels are weemen, he’ll hev a good wheen o’ ’em about him, I reck’n. I’ve hearn he wur at the head of a putty consid’able host o’ ’em up thur in Massoury—fifty wives they said he hed! Wur that ere true, Josh?”
“Scandal, Brother Holt—all scandal of the wicked enemies of our faith. They were but wives in the spirit. That the Gentiles can’t comprehend; since their eyes have not been opened by the Revelation.”
“Wal, it ’pears to be a tol’able free sort o’ rileegun anyhow. Kind o’ Turk, aint it?”
“Nothing of the kind. It has nothing in common with the doctrines of Mohammedanism.”
“But whar did you get it, Josh Stebbins? Who gin it to you?”
“You remember the man I brought over here last fall?”
“Sartint I do. Young he wur—Brig Young, I think, you called him.”
“The same.”
“In coorse, I remember him well enough; but I reckon our Marian do a leetle better. He tried to spark the gurl, an’ made fine speeches to her; but she couldn’t bar the sight o’ him for all that. Ha! ha! ha. Don’t ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him? She unbuckled the girt o’ his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin’ to mount, and down he kim—saddle, bags, and all—cawollup to the airth! ha! ha! Arter he wur gone, I larfed till I wur like to bust.”
“You did wrong, Hickman Holt, to encourage your daughter in her sauciness. Had you known the man—that man, sir, was a prophet!”
“A prophet!”
“Yes—the greatest perhaps the world ever saw—a man in direct communication with the Almighty himself.”
“Lord! ’Twan’t Joe Smith, wur it?”
“No; but one as great as he—one who has inherited his spirit; and who is now the head of all the Saints.”
“That feller at thur head? You ’stonish me, Josh Stebbins.”
“Ah! well you may be astonished. That man has astonished me, Hickman Holt. He has turned me from evil ways, and led me to fear the Lord.” The squatter looked incredulous, but remained silent. “Yes—that same man who was here with me in your humble cabin, is now Chief Priest of the Mormon Church! He has laid his hands on this poor head, and constituted me one of his humble Apostles. Yes, one of the Twelve, intrusted with spreading the true faith of the Saints over all the world.”
“Hooraw for you, Josh Stebbins! You’ll be jest the man for that sort o’ thing; ye’ve got the larnin’ for it, hain’t you?”
“No doubt, Brother Holt, with the help of the Lord, my humble acquirements will be useful; for though He only can open for us poor sinners the kingdom of grace, he suffers such weak instruments, as myself, to point out the narrow path that leads to it. Just as with the Philistines of old, the hearts of the Gentiles are hardened like flint-stones, and refuse to receive the true faith. Unlike the followers of Mohammed, we propagate not by the sword, but by the influence of ratiocination.”
“What?”
“Ratiocination.”