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 Gentiles. 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 nagger 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 up-stairs—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.”
“Is servants allowed to dress in veils, out there?” demanded Mary Green, during a pause of Brother Jarrum’s, afforded to the audience that they might sufficiently revolve the disinterested generosity of the Latter Day Saint community.
“Veils! Veils, and feathers, too, if they are so minded,” was Brother Jarrum’s answer; and it fell like a soothing sound on Mary Green’s vain ear. “It’s not many servants, though, that you’d find in New Jerusalem.”
“Ain’t servants let go out to New Jerusalem? quickly returned Mary Green. She was a servant herself, just now out of place, given to spend all her wages upon finery, and coming to grief perpetually with her mistresses upon the score.
“Many of ’em goes out,” was the satisfactory reply of Brother Jarrum. “But servants here are not servants there. Who’d be a servant if she could be a missis? Wouldn’t a handsome young female prefer to be her master’s wife than to be his servant?”
Mary Green giggled; the question had been pointedly put to her.
“If a female servant chooses to remain a servant, in course she can,” Brother Jarrum resumed. “And precious long wages she’d get; eighty pound a-year—good.”
