Читать книгу Memoirs of John R. Young, Utah Pioneer, 1847 - John R. Young - Страница 3

Table of Contents

Birth.—Childhood Recollections.

I was born April 30, 1837, at Kirtland, Ohio. I am the third son of Lorenzo Dow and Persis Goodell Young. My parents were early numbered among the followers of the Prophet Joseph Smith; and my father, being physically strong and restless, full of spirituality, and endowed with deep human sympathy, was naturally among the foremost in all the troubles the Church passed through during the first twenty years of its existence. He suffered much in the Missouri persecutions, being one of those who participated in the Crooked River Battle, and risking his life to aid in delivering his brethren from the hands of kidnapers. His heroic part in that fight led to a price being set upon his head; in consequence, and following the counsel of his brother. Brigham Young, he, with others, fled to the State of Illinois. Of those early troubles I write what I have heard my parents and my brothers say; my own memory reaching no farther back than Nauvoo.

My earliest recollection is of suffering with the chills. How cold I would be! We must have been poor, for the food did not suit me. It rained so much I had to stay indoors, although I cried to go out.

One day father took me for a walk, to give me air and sunshine. We met Joseph and Hyrum Smith and Sidney Rigdon. Father shook hands warmly with Joseph and Hyrum, but he merely bowed to Brother Rigdon. Joseph asked if I was the child father had requested the elders to pray for. Being answered in the affirmative, the prophet removed my hat, ran his fingers through my curly locks, and said,

"Brother Lorenzo, this boy will live to aid in carrying the Gospel to the nations of the earth."

His words thrilled me like fire; and from that hour I looked forward to the day when I should be a missionary.

Not long after that, Joseph was martyred at Carthage. I remember how my mother wept, and how shocked and prostrated everybody was, when the bloodstained bodies of the Prophet and his brother were brought home. Father was away doing missionary work when that fearful tragedy took place. A little later, while attending meetings, I noticed that Uncle Brigham sat in the place where Joseph was wont to sit, and one evening, after father's return from Ohio, I heard him say, "They will now seek for Brigham's life as they did for Joseph's, just so long as he proves true to the trust God has placed upon him."

I wondered why that should be. If a man does good, and God loves him, why should men hate him? Yet the angel Moroni understood that principle, for he said to the boy Joseph, "Your name shall be had for good and evil, among all the nations of the earth"—a wonderful prophecy, and wonderfully fulfilled.

And right here we have a vivid illustration of the operation of prejudice or jealousy, so called. In 1839, the Saints, under the guidance of their Prophet leader, came to Commerce, Ill., and purchased a tract of land, principally wild woods and swamps, and on that account, very unhealthful. In five years' time, without capital, by faith and intelligent labor, the swamps had been drained, much of the forest removed, and a thousand comfortable homes had been erected. The walls of a magnificent temple adorned the central part of the new-born city; and the master spirits, who brought about the mighty change, were loved, as men are seldom loved, by the builders of those happy homes. But the dwellers round about were filled with jealousy and rage; and, aided by a few apostate members of the Church, waged a cruel war, until Joseph and Hyrum were slain, and the Saints were driven from the homes their industry had created.

In 1904 my home was at Fruitland, New Mexico.

One day Mr. Butler, editor of the "Aztec Enterprise," invited me to write for his paper my recollections of our people's leaving Nauvoo. I complied, and from memory wrote the following narrative which I wish to place on record as a gift to my children:

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood;

How I love to cherish, and con them o'er,

The cottage, the Temple, the river and wildwood!

All sweetly remembered, though seen no more.

With malice to none,

With charity to all."

I turn the wheels of memory back to the home of my childhood. Of this terrible episode in the history of our people, others have written better than I can hope to write; nevertheless, through the eyes of a boy of nine, let me look out once more upon the tragic fate of Nauvoo, the city beautiful.

It is the month of February, 1846. The sun is shining brightly, yet the air is keen and cutting. The wheels ring as we drive over the frozen snow. In our home since early morning, all has been hurry and bustle; two wagons stand in our front yard, and my father with two other men, strangers to me, are carrying out our household goods. My mother looks pale, and when I ask her, "What is the matter?" she takes me in her arms, kisses me, and says, "We are going to leave our home, and will never see it again!"

Just then some other teams come along, and one of the brethren calls to my father to be sure to put out the fire, and to hurry up, for it is getting late. In a few minutes mother and the children are lifted tenderly into the wagon. Father next takes his place on the front seat, turns his face to the west, and his back upon the home, which it had taken seven years of sacrifice and toil to build.

At the river are three flat boats, or scows. Here and there on the banks of the river stand pale-faced mothers cuddling their little ones, while husbands and fathers quietly, yet resolutely, roll the wagons on to the boats, then with long poles push from the shore out upon the bosom of the mighty river. No farewells are uttered, no words spoken. Each man knows his duty, and performs it energetically; for they are not hirelings, these men of stout hearts and muscular arms. Nor is it a light task to guide those unwieldly scows through drifting ice, across that mile-wide river.

Today, as I recall the scene, and remember the names of some of those heroic exiles: Edwin Little, Thomas Grover, Warren Snow, William and Lige Potter, Charles Shumway, and many others whose lives are interwoven with whatever is great and enduring in our beloved commonwealth, I cannot but liken them to the brave men who faced ice and cold on Christmas night when the invincible Washington led them across the Delaware to do battle with their country's foes.

Like these, and also inspired with a new and higher ideal of liberty, our fathers and mothers knew no fear, but trusting in God they crossed the river to the dark beyond, knowing that a conflict awaited them, yet feeling beforehand as only a virile faith can make man feel, that theirs would be the victory, they left their homes in the dead of winter, seeking a better home, but when or where, they knew not!