cials, hangs over society. There is none of that class which, according to the French author, repose des femmes du monde. We rose early—in America the climate seems to militate against slugabedism—and breakfasted at any hour between 6 and 9 A.M. Ensued "business," which seemed to consist principally of correcting one's teeth, and walking about the town, with occasional "liquoring up." Dinner was at 1 P.M., announced, not by the normal gong of the Eastern States, which lately so direfully offended a pair of Anglo-Hibernian ears, but by a hand-bell which sounded the pas de charge. Jostling into the long room of the ordinary, we took our seats, and, seizing our forks, proceeded at once to action, after the fashion of Puddingburn House, where
"They who came not the first call,
Got no meat till the next meal."
Nothing but water was drunk at dinner, except when a gentleman preferred to wash down roast pork with a tumbler of milk; wine in this part of the world is of course dear and bad, and even should the Saints make their own, it can scarcely be cheap on account of the price of labor. Feeding ended with a glass of liquor, not at the bar, because there was none, but in the privacy of one's chamber, which takes from drinking half its charm. Most well-to-do men found time for a siesta in the early afternoon. There was supper, which in modern English parlance would be called dinner, at 6 P.M., and the evening was easily spent with a friend.
One of my favorite places of visiting was the Historian and Recorder's Office, opposite Mr. Brigham Young's block. It contained a small collection of volumes, together with papers, official and private, plans, designs, and other requisites, many of them written in the Deserét alphabet, of which I subjoin a copy.[1] It is, as will readily be seen, a stereographic modification of Pitman's and other systems. Types have been cast for it, and articles are printed in the newspapers at times; as man, however, prefers two alphabets to one, it will probably share the fate of the "Fonetik Nuz." Sir A. Alison somewhere delivers it as his opinion that the future historian of America will be forced to Europe, where alone his material can be found; so far from this being the case, the reverse is emphatically true: every where in the States, even in the newest, the Historical Society is an institution, and men pride themselves upon laboring for it. At the office I used to meet Mr. George A. Smith, the armor-bearer to the Prophet in the camp of Zion, who boasts of having sown the first seed, built the first saw-mill, and ground the first flour in Southern Utah, whence the nearest settlements, separated by terrible deserts, were distant 200 miles. His companions were Messrs. W. Woodruff, Bishop Bentley, who was preparing for a missionary visit to England, and Wm. Thomas Bullock, an intelligent Mormon, who has had the honor to be soundly abused in Mrs. Ferris's 11th letter.
- ↑ See next page.
