There is the Overland Mail Coach.—That is, the den on wheels in which we have been crammed for the past ten days and ten nights.—Those of you who have been in Newgate* —————————————————————————————-and stayed there any length of time—as visitors—can realize how I felt.

*(The manner in which Artemus uttered this joke was peculiarly characteristic of his style of lecturing.  The commencement of the sentence was spoken as if unpremeditated; then when he had got as far as the word "Newgate," he paused, as if wishing to call back that which he had said.  The applause was unfailingly uproarious.)

The American Overland Mail Route commences at Sacramento—California—and ends at Atchison—Kansas.  The distance is two thousand two hundred miles—but you go part of the way by rail.  The Pacific Railway is now completed from Sacramento—California—to Fulsom—California—which only leaves two thousand two hundred and eleven miles, to go by coach.  This breaks the monotony—it came very near breaking my back.

This edifice is the exclusive property of Brigham Young.  It will comfortably hold 3,000 persons—and I beg you will believe me when I inform you that its interior is quite as brilliant as that of any theatre in London. 

The actors are all Mormon amateurs, who charge nothing for their services.

You must know that very little money is taken at the doors of this theatre.  The Mormons mostly pay in grain—and all sorts of articles.

The night I gave my little lecture there—among my receipts were corn—flour—pork—cheese—chickens—on foot and in the shell.

One family went in on a live pig—and a man attempted to pass a "yaller dog" at the Box Office—but my agent repulsed him.  One offered me a doll for admission—another infants' clothing.—I refused to take that.—As a general rule I do refuse.

In the middle of the parquet—in a rocking chair—with his hat on—sits Brigham Young.  When the play drags—he either goes out or falls into a tranquil sleep.

A portion of the dress-circle is set apart for the wives of Brigham Young. From ten to twenty of them are usually present.  His children fill the entire gallery—and more too.

The East Side of Main Street—Salt Lake City—with a view of the Council Building—The legislature of Utah meets there.  It is like all legislative bodies.  They meet this winter to repeal the laws which they met and made last winter—and they will meet next winter to repeal the laws which they met and made this winter.

I dislike to speak about it—but it was in Utah that I made the great speech of my life.  I wish you could have heard it.  I have a fine education.  You may have noticed it.  I speak six different languages—London—Chatham—and Dover——Margate—Brighton—and Hastings.  My parents sold a cow—and sent me to college when I was quite young.  During the vacation I used to teach a school of whales—and there's where I learned to spout.—I don't expect applause for a little thing like that.  I wish you could have heard that speech—however.  If Cicero—he's dead now—he has gone from us—but if old Ciss* could have heard that effort it would have given him the rinderpest.  I'll tell you how it was.  There are stationed in Utah two regiments of U.S. troops—the 21st from California—and the 37th from Nevada.  The 20-onesters asked me to present a stand of colors to the 37-sters—and I did it in a speech so abounding in eloquence of a bold and brilliant character—and also some sweet talk—real pretty shopkeeping talk—that I worked the enthusiasm of those soldiers up to such a pitch—that they came very near shooting me on the spot.

*(Here again no description can adequately inform the reader of the drollery which characterized the lecturer.  His reference to Cicero was made in the most lugubrious manner, as if he really deplored his death and valued him as a schoolfellow loved and lost.)

Brigham Young's Harem.—These are the houses of Brigham Young.  The first on the right is the Lion House—so called because a crouching stone lion adorns the central front window.  The adjoining small building is Brigham Young's office—and where he receives his visitors.—The large house in the centre of the picture—which displays a huge bee-hive—is called the Bee House—the bee-hive is supposed to be symbolical of the industry of the Mormons.—Mrs. Brigham Young the first—now quite an old lady—lives here with her children.  None of the other wives of the prophet live here.  In the rear are the schoolhouses where Brigham Young's children are educated.

Brigham Young has two hundred wives.  Just think of that!  Oblige me by thinking of that.  That is—he has eighty actual wives, and he is spiritually married to one hundred and twenty more.  These spiritual marriages—as the Mormons call them—are contracted with aged widows—who think it a great honor to be sealed—the Mormons call it being sealed—to the Prophet.

So we may say he has two hundred wives.  He loves not wisely—but two hundred well.  He is dreadfully married.  He's the most married man I ever saw in my life.

I saw his mother-in-law while I was there.  I can't exactly tell you how many there is of her—but it's a good deal.  It strikes me that one mother-in-law is about enough to have in a family—unless you're very fond of excitement.

A few days before my arrival in Utah—Brigham was married again—to a young and really pretty girl—but he says he shall stop now.  He told me confidentially that he shouldn't get married any more.  He says that all he wants now is to live in peace for the remainder of his days—and have his dying pillow soothed by the loving hands of his family.  Well—that's all right—that's all right—I suppose—but if all his family soothe his dying pillow—he'll have to go out-doors to die.

By the way—Shakespeare indorses polygamy.—He speaks of the Merry Wives of Windsor.  How many wives did Mr. Windsor have?—but we will let this pass.

Some of these Mormons have terrific families.  I lectured one night by invitation in the Mormon village of Provost, but during the day I rashly gave a leading Mormon an order admitting himself and family—It was before I knew that he was much married—and they filled the room to overflowing.  It was a great success—but I didn't get any money.

Heber C. Kimball's Harem.—Mr. C. Kimball is the first vice-president of the Mormon church—and would— consequently—succeed to the full presidency on Brigham Young's death.

Brother Kimball is a gay and festive cuss of some seventy summers—or some'ers thereabout.  He has one thousand head of cattle and a hundred head of wives.  He says they are awful eaters.

Mr. Kimball had a son—a lovely young man—who was married to ten interesting wives.  But one day—while he was absent from home—these ten wives went out walking with a handsome young man—which so enraged Mr. Kimball's son—which made Mr. Kimball's son so jealous—that he shot himself with a horse pistuel.

The doctor who attended him—a very scientific man—informed me that the bullet entered the inner parallelogram of his diaphragmatic thorax, superinducing membranous hemorrhage in the outer cuticle of his asiliconthamaturgist.  It killed him.  I should have thought it would.

*(Soft music.)

*(Here Artemus Ward's pianist [following instructions] sometimes played the dead march from "Saul."  At other times, the Welsh air of "Poor Mary Anne;" or anything else replete with sadness which might chance to strike his fancy.  The effect was irresistibly comic.)

I hope his sad end will be a warning to all young wives who go out walking with handsome young men.  Mr. Kimball's son is now no more.  He sleeps beneath the cypress—the myrtle—and the willow.  This music is a dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr. Kimball's son.  He died by request.

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there—and seventeen young widows—the wives of a deceased Mormon—offered me their hearts and hands.  I called on them one day—and taking their soft white hands in mine—which made eighteen hands altogether—I found them in tears.

And I said—"Why is this thus?  What is the reason of this thusness?"

They hove a sigh—seventeen sighs of different size—They said—

"Oh—soon thou wilt be gonested away!"

I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.

They said—"Doth not like us?"

I said—"I doth—I doth!"

I also said—"I hope your intentions are honorable—as I am a lone child—my parents being far—far away."

They then said—"Wilt not marry us?"

I said—"Oh—no—it cannot was."

Again they asked me to marry them—and again I declined.  When they cried—

"Oh—cruel man! This is too much—oh! too much!"

I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I declined.

This is the Mormon Temple.

It is built of adobe—and will hold five thousand persons quite comfortably.  A full brass and string band often assists the choir of this church—and the choir—I may add—is a remarkably good one.

Brigham Young seldom preaches now.  The younger elders—unless on some special occasion—conduct the services.  I only heard Mr. Young once.  He is not an educated man—but speaks with considerable force and clearness.  The day I was there there was nothing coarse in his remarks.

The foundations of the Temple.

These are the foundations of the magnificent Temple the Mormons are building.  It is to be built of hewn stone—and will cover several acres of ground.  They say it shall eclipse in splendor all other temples in the world.  They also say it shall be paved with solid gold.

It is perhaps worthy of remark that the architect of this contemplated gorgeous affair repudiated Mormonism—and is now living in London.

The Temple as it is to be.

Should the Mormons continue unmolested—I think they will complete this rather remarkable edifice.

Great Salt Lake.—The great salt dead sea of the desert.

I know of no greater curiosity than this inland sea of thick brine.  It is eighty miles wide—and one hundred and thirty miles long.  Solid masses of salt are daily washed ashore in immense heaps—and the Mormon in want of salt has only to go to the shore of this lake and fill his cart.  Only—the salt for table use has to be subjected to a boiling process.

These are facts—susceptible of the clearest possible proof.  They tell one story about this lake—however—that I have my doubts about.  They say a Mormon farmer drove forty head of cattle in there once—and they came out first-rate pickled beef.—

I sincerely hope you will excuse my absence—I am a man short—and have to work the moon myself*.

*(Here Artemus would leave the rostrum for a few moments, and pretend to be engaged behind.  The picture was painted for a night-scene, and the effect intended to be produced was that of the moon rising over the lake and rippling on the waters.  It was produced in the usual dioramic way, by making the track of the moon transparent and throwing the moon on from the bull's eye of the lantern.  When Artemus went behind, the moon would become nervous and flickering, dancing up and down in the most inartistic and undecided manner.  The result was that, coupled with the lecturer's oddly expressed apology, the "moon" became one of the best laughed-at parts of the entertainment.)

I shall be most happy to pay a good salary to any respectable boy of good parentage and education who is a good moonist.

The Endowment House.

In this building the Mormon is initiated into the mysteries of the faith.

Strange stories are told of the proceedings which are held in this building—but I have no possible means of knowing how true they may be.

Salt Lake City is fifty-five miles behind us—and this is Echo Canyon—in reaching which we are supposed to have crossed the summit of the Wahsatch Mountains.  These ochre-colored bluffs—formed of conglomerate sandstone—and full of fossils—signal the entrance to the Canyon.  At its base lies Weber Station.

Echo Canyon is about twenty-five miles long.  It is really the sublimest thing between the Missouri and the Sierra Nevada.  The red wall to the left develops farther up the Canyon into pyramids—buttresses—and castles—honey-combed and fretted in nature's own massive magnificence of architecture.

In 1856—Echo Canyon was the place selected by Brigham Young for the Mormon General Wells to fortify and make impregnable against the advance of the American army—led by General Albert Sidney Johnson.  It was to have been the Thermopylae of Mormondom—but it wasn't. General Wells was to have done Leonidas—but he didn't.

A more cheerful view of the Desert.

The wild snowstorms have left us—and we have thrown our wolf-skin overcoats aside.  Certain tribes of far-western Indians bury their distinguished dead by placing them high in air and covering them with valuable furs—that is a very fair representation of these mid-air tombs.  Those animals are horses—I know they are—because my artist says so.  I had the picture two years before I discovered the fact.—The artist came to me about six months ago—and said—"It is useless to disguise it from you any longer—they are horses."

It was while crossing this desert that I was surrounded by a band of Ute Indians.  They were splendidly mounted—they were dressed in beaver-skins—and they were armed with rifles—knives—and pistols.

What could I do?—What could a poor old orphan do?  I'm a brave man.—The day before the Battle of Bull's Run I stood in the highway while the bullets—those dreadful messengers of death—were passing all around me thickly—IN WAGONS—on their way to the battle-field.* 

*(This was the great joke of Artemus Ward's first lecture, "The Babes in the Wood."  He never omitted it in any of his lectures, nor did it lose its power to create laughter by repetition.  The audiences at the Egyptian Hall, London, laughed as immoderately at it, as did those of Irving Hall, New York, or of the Tremont Temple in Boston.)

But there were too many of these Injuns—there were forty of them—and only one of me—and so I said—

"Great Chief—I surrender."  His name was Wocky-bocky.

He dismounted—and approached me.  I saw his tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight.  Fire was in his eye.  Wocky-bocky came very close to me and seized me by the hair of my head.  He mingled his swarthy fingers with my golden tresses—and he rubbed his dreadful Thomashawk across my lily-white face.  He said—

"Torsha arrah darrah mishky bookshean!"

I told him he was right.

Wocky-bocky again rubbed his tomahawk across my face, and said—"Wink-ho—loo-boo!"

Says I—"Mr. Wocky-bocky"—says I—"Wocky—I have thought so for years—and so's all our family."

He told me I must go to the tent of the Strong-Heart and eat raw dog*.

*("Raw dog."  While sojourning for a day in a camp of Sioux Indians we were informed that the warriors of the tribe were accustomed to eat raw dog to give them courage previous to going to battle.  Artemus was greatly amused with the information.  When, in after years, he became weak and languid, and was called upon to go to lecture, it was a favorite joke with him to inquire, "Hingston, have you got any raw dog?")

It don't agree with me.  I prefer simple food.  I prefer pork-pie—because then I know what I'm eating.  But as raw dog was all they proposed to give to me—I had to eat it or starve.  So at the expiration of two days I seized a tin plate and went to the chief's daughter—and I said to her in a silvery voice—in a kind of German-silvery voice—I said—

"Sweet child of the forest, the pale-face wants his dog."

There was nothing but his paws!  I had paused too long!  Which reminds me that time passes.  A way which time has.

I was told in my youth to seize opportunity.  I once tried to seize one.  He was rich.  He had diamonds on.  As I seized him—he knocked me down.  Since then I have learned that he who seizes opportunity sees the penitentiary.

The Rocky Mountains.

I take it for granted you have heard of these popular mountains.  In America they are regarded as a great success, and we all love dearly to talk about them.  It is a kind of weakness with us.  I never knew but one American who hadn't something—some time—to say about the Rocky Mountains—and he was a deaf and dumb man, who couldn't say anything about nothing.

But these mountains—whose summits are snow-covered and icy all the year round—are too grand to make fun of.  I crossed them in the winter of '64—in a rough sleigh drawn by four mules.

This sparkling waterfall is the Laughing-Water alluded to by Mr. Longfellow in his Indian poem—"Higher-Water."  The water is higher up there.

The plains of Colorado.

These are the dreary plains over which we rode for so many weary days.  An affecting incident occurred on these plains some time since, which I am sure you will pardon me for introducing here.

On a beautiful June morning—some sixteen years ago—

—and she fainted on Reginald's breast!*

*"On Reginald's breast."  (At this part of the lecture Artemus pretended to tell a story—the piano playing loudly all the time.  He continued his narration in excited dumb-show—his lips moving as though he were speaking.  For some minutes the audience indulged in unrestrained laughter.)

A prairie on fire is one of the wildest and grandest sights that can be possibly imagined.

These fires occur—of course—in the summer—when the grass is dry as tinder—and the flames rush and roar over the prairie in a manner frightful to behold.  They usually burn better than mine is burning to-night.  I try to make my prairie burn regularly—and not disappoint the public—but it is not as high-principled as I am.* 

*(The scene was a transparent one—the light from behind so managed as to give the effect of the prairie on fire. Artemus enjoyed the joke of letting the fire go out occasionally, and then allowing it to relight itself.)

The last picture I have to show you represents Mr. Brigham Young in the bosom of his family.  His family is large—and the olive branches around his table are in a very tangled condition.  He is more a father than any man I know.  When at home—as you here see him—he ought to be very happy with sixty wives to minister to his comforts—and twice sixty children to soothe his distracted mind.  Ah! my friends—what is home without a family?

What will become of Mormonism?  We all know and admit it to be a hideous wrong—a great immoral strain upon the 'scutcheon of the United States.  My belief is that its existence is dependent upon the life of Brigham Young.  His administrative ability holds the system together—his power of will maintains it as the faith of a community.  When he dies—Mormonism will die too.  The men who are around him have neither his talent nor his energy.  By means of his strength it is held together.  When he falls—Mormonism will also fall to pieces.

That lion—you perceive—has a tail.  It is a long one already.  Like mine—it is to be continued in our next.

(The curtain fell for the last time on Wednesday, the 23d of January 1867.  Artemus Ward had to break off the lecture abruptly.  He never lectured again.)