Part 12

Temple Square, where we had a grand view of the magnificent $10,000,000 Mormon Temple. Near the Temple is the Tabernacle, an immense, singular-looking affair, with a roof like the shell of a huge tortoise. We are shown the Lion House and Beehive House, former residences of Brigham Young and his large family, and pass the grave where the remains of the great leader lie. It is a plain, ordinary-looking mound, inclosed with a common iron fence. The great monument erected to the imperishable fame of Brigham Young is this beautiful, remarkable city that he founded fifty years ago. For thirty years he was the temporal and religious leader of his people here, and Salt Lake City was almost strictly Mormon. It is exclusive no longer, for of its present population of 65,000 about one-half, we are told, are Gentiles or Christians. “The Christian Science faith is making rapid advances,” says our driver, “and many Mormons are being converted to that creed.” Brigham Young was the father of fifty-six children; when he died he left seventeen widows, sixteen sons, and twenty-eight daughters to mourn his loss, many of whom are living yet.

We are driven through Liberty Park, where is still standing the first flour mill built in Utah. Returning to the train we get dinner, after which our people scatter through the city to see the sights and gather more souvenirs. We are all impressed with the beauty and regularity of the streets, which all cross at right angles, are 132 feet wide, including the sidewalks, which are 20 feet in width, bordered with beautiful Lombardy poplar and locust trees. Along each side of the street flows a clear, cold stream of water, which, with the beauty of the trees and the sweet fragrance of the locust blossoms, gives to the city an all-pervading air of coolness, comfort, and repose which is exceedingly inviting to a warm and weary tourist. The hour grows late and the time arrives to return to our train, which is sidetracked for occupancy at the Rio Grande Western depot. Several of our party gather at the corner of Main and Second South Street to await the coming of a trolley car that will convey us to the depot, about two miles away. According to the schedule of the line a car should pass every ten minutes, but to-night must be an exception, for it is forty-five minutes before our car arrives, and several of the party have started to walk. It is near midnight when we reach our train and turn in for the night.

SUNDAY, MAY 30th.

We are all astir bright and early this morning, and after breakfast, through the courtesy of the managers of the Saltair and Los Angeles Railway, we are tendered a trip on their line to Saltair, one of the latest attractions on the Great Salt Lake, 10 miles from the city. We leave the Rio Grande Western depot at 9.30 on a Saltair and Los Angeles train with engine No. 2, Engineer A. M. Clayton, Fireman John Little, Conductor Joseph Risley, Brakeman F. T. Bailey. We have a thirty minutes’ pleasant ride through an interesting country. The first few miles we pass through a district of cozy homes, surrounded by fertile fields and gardens, the result of industry and irrigation; then come great level stretches of country, utilized as grazing ground, upon which can be seen feeding thousands of sheep. As we approach the “Great Dead Sea” of America we see that gathering salt is the chief industry, and we pass many basins or dams where hundreds of tons of this useful commodity are procured through the process of evaporation. Arriving at our destination we find Saltair is a magnificent mammoth pavilion built on the waters of Great Salt Lake, 4000 feet from shore. A track resting upon piles connects the pavilion with the mainland, and over this our train is run.

Saltair was erected in 1893 by Salt Lake capitalists at an expense of $250,000. It is of Moorish style of architecture, 1115 feet long, 335 feet wide, and 130 feet high from the water to the top of the main tower. It is over a quarter of a mile from shore and rests upon 2500 ten-inch piling or posts driven firmly into the bottom of the lake. It contains 620 bath houses or dressing rooms, and connected with each room is an apartment equipped with a fresh-water shower bath. Visitors who wish to drink or lunch or lounge will find at their disposal a fine apartment 151 by 153 feet, furnished with convenient tables and comfortable chairs, or if it is their desire to “trip the light fantastic toe,” they will find the ball room always open, a fine piano, and dancing floor 140 by 250 feet. At night this wonderful place is lighted by electricity, there being 1250 incandescent and 40 arc lamps, and above all, in the centre of the building, there is an arc light of 2000 candle power. The bathing season has not opened yet and the water is said to be cold, but many of us have a strong desire to take a plunge in this remarkable and famous lake. The temperature of the water is found to be about 75 degrees, and opinion is divided as to whether or not it is too cold. Manager Wyman takes off his shoes and stockings and dabbles in the water. “It is not cold,” he exclaims, “and I’m going in;” and procuring a bathing suit he is soon splashing in the brine. His example is rapidly followed by others, until the majority of our party, both men and women, are floating and floundering around in water so salt that its density enables one to swim and float with ease, but you are helpless when you attempt to place your feet upon the bottom; the water within the bathing limits averages about five feet in depth, and the bottom is hard, smooth, and sandy. “If you get water in your mouth spit it out, and if you get it in your eyes don’t rub them,” is the advice given us by the bath attendant. If you get this water in your mouth you want to spit it out right away; that part of the caution is unnecessary, for it is the worst stuff I ever tasted. If you get it in your eyes you will want to rub them, and rub them hard, but don’t do it, and you will be surprised how soon the intense smarting will cease.

We love to swim and dive and splash and sport in the water, and have bathed in many places, but in a brine like this never before. In fact, it has been said that nothing like it can be found anywhere this side of the Dead Sea of Palestine. We remained in the water for an hour and all thoroughly enjoyed its peculiar qualities. Several of the party who never swam before did so to-day, but it was because they couldn’t help it, and it was better than a circus to see them. Not one of us regret or will ever forget our trip to Saltair and our bath in Great Salt Lake. Strange as it may seem, this great inland sea occupies an altitude 4000 feet higher than the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. It is 93 miles long, with an average width of 43 miles, containing almost 4000 square miles. It is shallow compared with the depth of other large bodies of water, its deepest places measuring but 60 feet. A number of islands rise out of its waters, the largest being Stansbury and Antelope, near its southern shore. It is between these two islands that beautiful, destined-to-be-celebrated Saltair is located.

Returning, we arrive at the Rio Grande Western depot about 12.30, and after partaking of lunch in our dining car we go in a body to attend services in the Mormon Tabernacle. They were looking for us, for we had been invited to come, and we find a section of vacant seats awaiting us near the centre of the immense auditorium. We are all favorably impressed with what we see and hear, the Mormon manner of worship being not unlike that of any other church. So far as we can discern, the speakers make no effort to expound any particular or peculiar creed or doctrine, but preach charity, love, and duty to one another and obedience to the laws of God, which is a religion good enough for the entire world. An attractive feature of the service is the singing, the choir consisting of 400 voices, accompanied by the music of what is claimed to be one of the largest church organs in the world, and led by a gentleman highly skilled in his profession, who manages his great concourse of singers with remarkable accuracy and precision. This music is aided and enhanced by the peculiar and marvelous acoustic properties of the building, which seems to convey and distribute sound in such a wonderful manner that the entire edifice is filled with the grand and charming melody. We are all delighted and highly appreciate the privilege of having been allowed to visit this, one of the noted wonders of this famous Mormon city. The Tabernacle is an oddly-constructed building, 250 feet long, 150 feet wide, and 80 feet high, covered with an oval-shaped roof that, without any visible support except where it rests upon the walls, spans the vast auditorium beneath, which will seat over 8000 people.

The place was well filled to-day, and we are told that it is not unusual to have a congregation of 10,000 within the inclosure during Sabbath service. There are twenty double doors nine feet in width, which open outward, like the great doors of a barn, and the floor being on a level with the ground outside, the vast congregation is enabled to make its exit in a very few minutes without crowding or confusion.

The services being over, we soon find ourselves outside the building, but still within the inclosure that constitutes Temple Square. This square or “block,” containing about ten acres, is surrounded by a wall two feet thick and fourteen feet high, composed of adobe bricks built upon a foundation of stone. Four great gates, one on each side, lead into the inclosure, which is ornamented with fine shade trees and beautiful flowers, and contains the three famous buildings of the Mormons, or “Latter Day Saints,” as they prefer to be called. The Tabernacle, where regular service is held each Sabbath, is the only edifice to which the public is admitted. Assembly Hall, a large granite building of unique design, erected in 1880 at a cost of $90,000, is used exclusively by Church officials for special meetings

pertaining to the business of the Church. The Temple, a grand granite structure, the building and furnishing of which, we are told, has cost many millions of dollars, is as a sealed book to the outside world. Its interior is regarded as holy, consecrated ground, that has never been contaminated by an “unbeliever’s” presence. To admit a Gentile within its walls would be a fearful desecration. We cannot get inside, and gaze in admiration and curiosity upon its grand and massive walls, wondering what mighty mysteries are hidden within. Near the Temple that he designed and the corner stone of which he laid stands the statue of Brigham Young.

Leaving the grounds, our party scatters, some returning to the train and others strolling around the city. The sun shines very hot, but it is cool and refreshing in the shade. Mrs. S. and myself make a call on Mrs. Catharine Palmer, residing on State Street, a sister of Mr. C. K. Dolby, of Delaware County, Pennsylvania, an acquaintance of mine, who requested me to call on his sister had I the opportunity while in Salt Lake City. We are cordially received and spend a pleasant hour with Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, who are well advanced in years and very comfortably fixed. Their residence is surrounded by great maple trees, planted by Mr. Palmer many years ago, and he now loves to sit on his porch under their grateful shade and enjoy the fruits of his well-spent days of industry and toil.

On our return to the depot I encounter a party of the “boys” under the escort of Mr. James Devine, chief of Salt Lake City fire department, an acquaintance of Brother Leary’s, who are starting on a little tour through the town. I join them, and boarding an electric car we make a pleasant trip and are shown many places of interest. Mr. Devine is an excellent guide and entertains us with a number of anecdotes and stories of the people and their customs. “Who is the present head of the Mormon Church, Mr. Devine?” I ask. “An old gentleman by the name of W. Woodruff,” replies Mr. Devine, “but it will not be long, I think, before they will need another, for Mr. Woodruff is past ninety years of age. A short time ago, in commemoration of his ninetieth birthday, a family reunion was held, at which gathering his children, grandchildren, and greatgrandchildren numbered 90, one direct descendant for each year of his life. The old man is quite wealthy and owns some of the most fertile land in the State of Utah, if not in the world. I know it to be a fact that an experiment was made last year with an acre of his land to determine the amount of potatoes that can be raised per acre under favorable conditions, and that acre produced the extraordinary yield of 800 bushels. A like experiment in producing wheat resulted in the unprecedented yield of 82 bushels.” We can hardly credit this, but Mr. Devine declares it is true. One of the “boys” has been holding a letter in his hand, addressed to some friend in the East, and for some time has been waiting for a chance to deposit it in a letter box without getting left; at last he sees a chance, and quickly springing from the car when it stops at a corner to discharge some passengers, he tries to find an opening in what he supposes is a United States receptacle for letters. “Hold on, there,” exclaims Chief Devine, “I have a key for that if you want to get into it.” It is a fire-alarm box into which our brother is trying to insert his epistle. “Twenty-five dollars fine for tampering with a fire alarm in this town,” says Brother Maxwell, as the abashed victim of the mistake returns to the car. “Yer-hef-ner bizness to monkey with it,” chided Brother Schuler; but the proper place is soon found and the letter safely mailed.

We called on Jacob Moritz, president of the Utah Brewing Company, of Salt Lake City, who showed us over his immense establishment and entertained us in a very generous manner. During the conversation, Mr. Moritz, while speaking about the decline of polygamy on account of the vigorous enforcement of the law that forbids a plurality of wives, recited an incident that came under his observation a short time since. An old Mormon having several wives fell a victim to the stern mandate of the law. Being under indictment for a criminal offense results in disfranchisement, but the old gentleman did not know he could not vote. Pending his trial an election occurred and the old man went to the polls to cast his ballot, but was sternly challenged. He was dumfounded at first, but was soon made to understand why he was denied the privileges of citizenship. Raising his right hand toward Heaven he exclaimed, “Gentlemen, you won’t allow me to vote, but, thank God, I have twenty-four sons who can vote.” “That’s a family of boys to be proud of,” remarked Brother Leary. “If they were illegally procured,” added Brother Reilly. Mr. Moritz offered a fine cut-glass goblet to the one who could come nearest guessing the number of drams it would hold. Brother Waddington got closest to it and carried off the prize.

Bidding adieu to our kind host, we returned to our train and found dinner ready in the dining car. Chief Devine returned and took dinner with us. We also had with us as a guest Mr. Nymphas C. Murdock, of Charlestown, Wasatch County, Utah. Brother Barrett met Mr. Murdock at the Tabernacle services this afternoon, and becoming interested in his conversation invited him to visit our train. Mr. Murdock is a bishop in the Mormon Church and an intelligent and highly entertaining gentleman. Fifty years ago, when but ten years of age, he came with his parents, who were followers of Brigham Young, on that famous journey to the Great Salt Lake Valley. He has been identified with the Church since its establishment here, and was the first settler in Charlestown, which is located about 35 miles west of Salt Lake City, and he has been postmaster there for 31 years. Mr. Murdock made no effort to intrude upon us any of the peculiar doctrines or beliefs of his Church, but answered all our questions in a frank and pleasant manner, giving us a great deal of useful and interesting information. “Tell us something about your Temple, Mr. Murdock,” I requested, “and why you consider it too holy for visitors to enter?” “The Temple is considered holy because it has been consecrated to holy creeds and devoted to sacred objects,” answered Mr. Murdock in a solemn, quiet tone. “The spirits of the dead assemble in the Temple to commune with living friends.” “If that is so I don’t blame them for excluding the public,” I said to myself, “for if there is anything that will make a spirit scoot it is the presence of an unbeliever,” but I remained perfectly quiet, for I felt there was more coming. “We have a creed,” continued Mr. Murdock, “that declares the living can be wedded to the dead, and it is in the Temple that this most sacred of all ceremonies is solemnized and performed.” “I can’t see how it is possible,” I quietly remarked. “I will explain,” Mr. Murdock gently said; “to the ‘believer’ it is very plain and simple. Suppose, for instance, I am betrothed to a woman who sickens and dies before we are married; if she truly loved me in life her spirit will meet me at the Temple altar, where marriage rites will be performed that will unite us for all eternity.” I really think Mr. Murdock is a good and honest man and believes what he told us, but to us the whole matter seemed like an interesting fairy story--very pretty, but outside the realm of truth and reason. There were some pertinent questions in my mind I felt like asking, but did not wish to injure the feelings or offend a kind and entertaining guest, and so we bid him good-bye and let him depart in peace.

A number of our people went over to Fort Douglas this afternoon and were highly pleased with the trip. George “Alfalfa” was along and met an old chum over there in the person of William Barnes. William was a messenger in the employ of Mayor Fitler, Philadelphia, when George and he were buddies. He likes army life first rate and George says he is a good soldier. The troops at Fort Douglas are all colored, commanded by white officers. We are scheduled to leave this evening at nine o’clock, and it is drawing near the time; our train is at the station and Manager Wyman has ascertained that our people are all “on deck.” We must not forget “Dan,” the pet bear at the Rio Grande Western depot. He was captured several years ago when a cub and has been confined in a pen near the station ever since. He is a fine big fellow now, and has been faring well since our visit, for no one of our party thinks of passing the pen of Dan without giving him some sweetmeats, of which he is very fond. My last thoughts are of Dan, for finding I have some lumps of sugar and a few cakes in my pocket, I hasten to his pen and give them to him, and return just in time to get aboard. We leave promptly at 11.00 P. M. Eastern (9.00 P. M. Mountain) time, over the Rio Grande Western Railway, bound for Grand Junction, with the same engine and crew that brought us from Ogden to Salt Lake City. As a guest we have with us Train Supervisor Frank Selgrath, who will go with us to Grand Junction. At Clear Creek, 83 miles from Salt Lake City, we get a ten-wheel engine, No. 132, to help us up a six-mile grade with a rise of 200 feet to the mile. This is a fine, picturesque country, we are told, through which we are passing, but not being able to see in the dark, we cannot judge of its beauty, and finding it is near midnight I hie away to my little bed and am soon fast asleep.

MONDAY, MAY 31st.

Awakened this morning about six o’clock by Mrs. S. remarking, “I never saw the beat! Who would believe that so much of our country is desert?” I thought she was talking in her sleep, but turning over I find her gazing out of the window at the rapidly-fleeting landscape. We have drifted away from the mountains and rocks and are crossing a level, barren plain. For miles we see no sign of habitation or cultivation, but now in the distance we catch sight of an irrigating canal, with here and there a plot of land under cultivation whose fertility and verdure

break the hard lines of the desert monotony. We pass a station and upon the name board we see the word “Fruita,” a singular name, we think, for a station; but in the two seconds’ glance we have of its surroundings we can but feel that it is appropriate. Irrigating ditches, fertile fields, thrifty orchards, and blooming gardens are all seen in that fleeting glance, and we are more than ever impressed with the fact that it needs but water to convert these desert tracts into verdant fields. A number of our people are astir, and we too “turn out.” We find we are in Colorado, having crossed the State line at Utaline, a little station 35 miles west of Grand Junction, which we are now approaching, and where we arrive about seven o’clock. We halt here only long enough to change engines, but in our brief stay we can see that Grand Junction is quite a town. It has a population of about 4000; is located at the confluence of the Gunnison and Grand Rivers, with an elevation of 4500 feet; it is quite a railway centre, being the terminus of both the broad and narrow-gauge lines of the Denver and Rio Grande, the Rio Grande Western and the Colorado Midland Railways.

At 9.08 A. M. Eastern (7.08 A. M. Mountain) time we leave Grand Junction, on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, with engine No. 522, Engineer “Cyclone” Thompson, Fireman Bert Roberts, Conductor William M. Newman, Brakemen J. Grout and O. McCullough. Conductor Hugh Long, of Salida Division No. 132, and Charles E. Hooper, advertising agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, met our train at Grand Junction, and we find them a pleasing and entertaining addition to our party. They present us with descriptive time tables, illustrated pamphlets, and souvenir itineraries of our trip over the wonderful scenic route of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. From Grand Junction to Glenwood Springs we follow the Grand River through the Valley of the Grand, amid grand and beautiful scenery. As we approach Glenwood Springs and pass the little stations of Rifle and Antlers, Brother Sloane grows very enthusiastic, for this is a noted hunting district, with which our brother is familiar. From Newcastle to Glenwood Springs, a distance of 12 miles, we traverse closely the north banks of the Grand River, and parallel with the tracks of the Colorado Midland Railroad on the opposite side.

Arriving at Glenwood Springs at 9.40 A. M., we go direct from the train to the springs under the escort of Mr. Hooper, who has made arrangements to give our party free access to the bathing establishment, where we are very courteously received, and each one who desires to bathe is furnished with a suit and a dressing room. Steps lead down into the pool, which is about an acre in size and filled with warm, sulphurous water to the depth of four to five feet. The hot water, at a temperature of 120 degrees, gushes into the pool on one side at the rate of about 2000 gallons per minute, and on the opposite side an ice-cold mountain stream pours in at about the same rate, keeping the water at a pleasant bathing temperature.

We spent an hour in the pool and enjoyed it mightily. How much fun we had we can never tell, but we know we had fun, and other people knew it, too, for the following item appeared in to-day’s _Avalanche_, an afternoon Glenwood Springs paper:--

“CONDUCTORS IN THE POOL.