[158] Chapter 10 Our Ecclesiastical Cousins “A large garden was planted in the wilderness…. The settlement grew and under its rigorously theocratic government made remarkable economic progress.”  -- Hug Munsterberg.   A memorable period in our lives was the ten months we spent when my husband was yet young in the church work, with our ecclesiastical cousins in Utah - a memorable visit and in many ways a pleasant one, for however people may be obliged to differ for principle’s sake, they can always differ respectfully. Whatever doctrines and practices the “Mormons” of Utah may have introduced into their religion when they broke away from the church which was founded by my husband’s grandfather, Joseph Smith, and followed that bold and able leader Brigham Young across the plains in Utah where they established their unique religious [159] community, and whatever of the doctrines still remain to perpetuate the “family quarrel,” they are after all our cousins, and since that first visit we have assisted in establishing and maintaining a certain degree of official courtesy and personal friendship which exists today.   Frederick had been sent to Utah by the leaders of his church to investigate the situation, so that in his future work with his own church he might have first hand knowledge of the problems and questions arising out of the relationship between the two churches. Much of the early history of the “Mormons” of Utah was unknown to him, and with his tendency to go to the bottom of things he spent much time and labor in searching out ancient tome and musty volume on the secession of Brigham Young and his faction, and kindred subjects.   Whatever good he may or may not have done in his writings which followed these investigations, he at least tackled his problem with the best of intentions and went into his work with such an excess of enthusiasm and withal such humility that the experience came near to ending fatally, for though prayer and fasting, fatigue, undernourishment and anxiety he developed a case of [160] what, without consult a physician, he assumed to be appendicitis.   It is one of the customs of our church borrowed from Bible times, to use olive oil in case of illness. Consequently he began surreptitiously, for he was afraid of alarming me, to consume quantities of olive oil which soon nourished the poor boy back to a state of health and comfort. But if he though he was keeping his new treatment from me he was much mistaken, for in looking through the kitchen I discover an array of bottles that reminded me of the salad section at a fancy grocer’s; and I have never since been able to keep him from recommending very seriously to any of our friends who are threatened with appendicitis that olive oil is an excellent specific.   With the arrival of Father Smith in Salt Lake City for a few weeks’ visit with his son and his Utah relatives our difficulties deepened. With the older men the differences that sprang up between the two churches at the time of their division seemed more vital and more insurmountable. Though the friends and relatives called often with most cousinly of feelings, and though our table was often drawn to its full length that Brother Joseph might meet his friends and [161] relatives in the pleasantest of social capacities, their conversations usually developed into arguments of decided heat and edge over the questions of “succession” and the various points of the “celestial law.”   When Joseph Smith, my husband’s grandfather and the founder of “Mormonism,” with his brother Hyrum, presiding patriarch of the old Latter Day Saint Church, had been shot and killed by a mob in Carthage, Illinois, the church entered a period of chaos during which numerous factions appeared. Among these factions (and the only one of any numerical consequence which has not either disappeared or returned to the original church) was the following with which Brigham Young founded Salt Lake City. Among these pioneers were the sons of Hyrum; but the sons of Joseph, including the younger Joseph who had been set apart by his father as successor to the leadership of the church, remained in the Middle West, and later were reorganized, with many who had not followed Brigham Young, into the Reorganized Church, with Joseph, my husband’s father, at its head. With this and the doctrinal differences which had grown up between them, Joseph Smith and his cousins can hardly be blamed if their [162] conference had something the nature of a passage at arms.   I was aware that certain prejudice and antagonism existed between the two churches on some points, and I knew too that in the lives of all leaders, religious and otherwise, there is an ever-present danger of harm from the hand of an assassin. There are some characters in our own church whose minds are not entirely balanced on the subject of religion. My husband has one particular pigeon-hole in his desk at the office that is know colloquially as the “crazy-box.” It is only natural then that with my imaginative nature and my devotion to my “big boy” I began to be afraid some fanatic would attempt to murder my beloved Frederick.   I remember particularly one night in Malad City. Mr. Smith was to speak at a hall in the little Idaho town, and for some reason it seemed that the feeling against him ran rather strong. The hall was crowded to the doors and many stood in the street before the building while other hung about the windows and thronged the rear of main floor and gallery. He spoke as was his custom, boldly and enthusiastically, and as he stood there outlined against the dark curtain on the brilliantly illuminated platform, I sat throughout the entire address excited and [163] shivering and expecting at any moment to hear a shot ring out from some place in that vast audience.   He spent many evenings in the city libraries reading and studying, and was almost annoyed when I began to make it a habit to come for him and nine o’clock, to “protect” him on the way home. He used to ask me sometimes just how it was that I expected by my presence to prevent a murder in some dark corner, even if one were attempted; but I had not figured it out that far.   I do not know how long I should have kept this up in the face of my husband’s lack of appreciation, but one evening as he strode along from his evening’s work with his “bodyguard,” as he laughingly called me, trotting happily along by his side we became aware of the fact that some one was really following us. Looking back occasionally as we turned a corner in the snowy streets or passed a yawning alleyway we could see the dark figure that crunched steadily along in the snow behind us, increasing his pace as we hurried forward until I became quite alarmed, and even Fred cast a quick glance behind him now and again.   We turned into the little court by which we sometimes cut through to our bungalow on the next street, hoping at last to be rid of [164] our pursuer, but to our surprise and horror he turned also and began to close up on us. I thought to myself; “Well, he has pick an ideal place to commit his murder,” when he passed us and started toward the rear entrance of the house next to our, and we recognized out nextdoor neighbor who was accustomed to use the same “short cut” as we, and who admitted to us the next day that he had recognized us before we had him and being a little nervous from numerous reported holdups had deliberately follow us for the sake of our protection.   The occurrence struck me as being so funny that I never again followed Fred to the library, much to his relief, for he hates to hurt or worry me, but my tendency to coddle a great big, healthy and self-sufficient man has always amused, and sometimes a little annoyed him. He tells with particular relish for instance of the time I made him wear a “chest protector” when an insane woman who blamed him or his church for some misfortune which had befallen her family escaped from the hospital. While she was at large I insisted on his wearing across the region of his heart a shield which fashioned from a section of the flannel and asbestos lined silence-pad from the dining room table.   He dutifully let me pin it on him and wore [164] it for an entire day and late at night, but when I brought it forth on the second morning the poor man expostulated; “Ruth, I would greatly prefer death from a bullet wound to pneumonia, which I shall certainly have if I wear the ‘infernal thing’ another day!”   In time of course we cam to understand the attitude of our “ecclesiastical cousins” much better, and with our further knowledge of them came the realization that much of that old-time prejudice was dying out. With the passing of certain “firebrands” of the older generation much of the bitterness also was passing.   The younger generation, as I found from my contact with them at the University of Utah where Mr. Smith advised me to take up some work in psychology, English, and so forth, to take my mind from the less pleasant aspects of our visit, and later from our own personal friendships with our Utah cousins, then and at any time since when it has been our opportunity to stop in Salt Lake or to receive them in our home as they pass through Kansas City, have developed a very different point of view. With their broad and excellent educations and the changed attitude which has grown up since the issuing of the “Manifesto” prohibiting [166] the practice of polygamy, the most of the younger generation now look differently upon the doctrines of their own church, and also upon the work of my husband and his church as we have briefly explained it to them.   Even with the leaders of the Utah faction our personal relations were of the pleasantest. We have always remembered especially a fishing trip to Provo which was planned for us, by whom I cannot say, but for which Joseph F. Smith, junior, seemed at the time responsible. Joseph F., junior, as he is called, is the son of Joseph Fielding Smith, who was president of the Utah church at the time we were there. The latter was a son of Hyrum Smith, and was for many years often confused with Joseph Smith, my husband’s father, and son of the founder of the original church, who was president of the Reorganized Church during the same years. It has always amused me when certain poorly informed newspaper and magazine reporters of the country have stumbled over this similarity of name, though it is possible that neither of the men concerned felt particularly honored by being taken for the other.   Among the few press notices which have impressed me enough to gain a place in my personal “museum” is a page form a Sunday [167] edition of a Boston paper which contains a feature story in which my husband was represented as a disinherited son of the “Mormon” president who had been put out of a job by succession of Heber J. Grant to the leadership of the Utah church. The most amusing thing about the article, however, was the fact that the picture used of Mr. Grant was a mall and poor one though he is really a fine and distinguished looking man, the one of Joseph F. Smith was noticeably inconspicuous, my husband’s still smaller, and my own, one of the few really good ones I have ever had, was spread gayly across almost an entire page.     I told Frederick at the time that since they had made me the wife of one of Joseph F. Smith’s sons it was too bad they hadn’t made him as good-looking as Joseph F., junior, but Fred didn’t care. He was always rather fond of Joseph, as am I.   Of the day of the fishing party to which we were invited, which included besides the president and certain of his family, Senator Reed Smoot and his wife, John Henry Smith, and others of the “hierarchy” as the leaders are sometimes called in Utah, we were to go in two launches across Lake Utah for a picnic dinner on a distant island. Lake Utah is a beautiful body of water, and the ride was [168] a delightful one. We reached the island in due time and spread our lunch under a clump of trees before the tranquil water.   Our adventurous daughter, I remember, was in great distress because she had left her shoes at the camp, and in her longing to see “what layover the hill” suffered many bruises and blisters on her small feet, until Mrs. Smoot ingeniously fashioned a pair of sandals for her from paper plates and twine, with which her explorations were continued with greater ease and comfort.   When we started back toward the middle of the afternoon the parties changed boats, and it was with a feeling of good-natured envy that we watched a part of our friends depart in a snug, comfortable little launch which had brought us to the island, leaving the rest of us to follow in an older, slower boat, with a slightly smoky engine.   Then came one of those sudden squalls for which the usually peaceful Lake Utah is so feared by those who know it best. The fury of the ocean itself is no more sudden nor treacherous than this tranquil surface when the wind whips up out of nowhere and the great green waves come smashing across the helpless prow. The little launch ducked and bobbed like a leaf on a mill-stream. The [169] pilot threw the engine into its fullest speed ahead, and it burst into a sheet of flame.   “Haven’t any gas to waste that way,” growled the pilot, shutting off the power with a sickening sensation the boat slipped helplessly into a long trough of water. I leaned over the side and trailed my handkerchief in the water to wet my forehead. Senator Smoot reached over and took Alice Myriad from my lap and placed her firmly between his knees, while the launch staggered helplessly under the weight of the huge wave that broke incessantly over its nose.   I have never looked from the gallery of the Senate Chamber at Washington and seen Senator Smoot striding about on his business, (for he is acknowledged a tireless worker) that I have not thought of the picture he made in that unfortunate launch with the chubby child clasped tightly between his long legs; and when I read of the death of his son a few years ago in the terrible Knickerbocker Theater disaster in Washington I remembered, mother-like, of his and Mrs. Smoot’s kindness and how he had once protected my child when I was too ill and frightened almost to know whether she was beside me.   After an interminable period of forging [170] slowly ahead through the welter of water and of rocking aimlessly while the drawn-faced pilot put out the fire in the engine a sail appeared running before the wind with amazing rapidity. The other party had reached the shore and had sent us help, but the rescuers were carried past us in the rush of wind before even a shout could be sent between the two.   The gas level dropped lower and lower on the indicator, and finally with a desperate glance at the dim shore that had appeared through the spray to taunt us with its inaccessibility the pilot nodded toward the row boat where Frederick and Joseph F., junior, had been fishing before the storm came up, and muttered:   “The gas is pretty low, but if it wasn’t for those fellows, we might be able to make it.”   “Cut them loose!” I cried instantly. “Cut them loose!”   The rope that held them to us was soon cast off, and as I looked back I saw Fred bending to the oars, and Joseph, junior, with his oars in his hands, outlined sharply against the storm. Joseph, junior, in spite of a more indirect descent has always more closely resembled the martyred founder of “Mormonism” than has Joseph Smith’s own sons and grandsons. Frederick and his father [171] are large men with fair skins but they have dark hair and eyes, while Joseph Smith F., junior, is tall and more nearly blond as was my husband’s grandfather.   The cousins have always thought it a rather good joke on me that I had been the one to urge that Frederick and his cousin be set adrift in the midst of an angry lake, but I told them that it was because of my great confidence in my husband. I was quite sure that he was able either to row or swim ashore, while we were at the mercy of our last few drops of gasoline. We drifted in on the tail of the storm, and when the “boys” came in a little after a hard pull the wind had died out and the sun was glittering penitently on the still choppy surface of Lake Utah.   On the quiet return from Provo to Salt Lake by train I sat with the president’s wife Mrs. Julia Smith and her daughter Ethel, and as we talked, we looked over to where her son and my husband sat laughing and talking.   “I do hope, Ruth,” remarked “Aunt” Julina, as we sometimes called these older cousins, “that Frederick will never do or say anything that will hurt Joseph.”   “Oh, but he will, Aunt Julina,” I answered frankly, for I knew that Fred was entirely [172] too young and too positive to consider the feelings of his relative in the work he should do while in the city. “You know he doesn’t agree with you folk on polygamy and a number of other things.”   “I don’t see, Cousin Ruth,” said Aunt Julina seriously, “how you can believe in the Bible and not believe in polygamy.”   “And I don’t see,” I argued back a trifle more warmly than necessary, for my fright on the lake had left me a little unstrung, no doubt, “how you can believe Christ’s teachings and still believe in it. And besides, if you want to take a busy man’s time and affection and divide it up into five parts and share it with four other women, you may do so, but for my part I want Frederick all to myself!”   “There I thought, “that is an impertinent way to talk after we have accepted their hospitality, but Aunt Julina started it and I couldn’t help answering, but I do hope she will forgive me.”   The readiness with which Mrs. Smith forgave me without my asking is only one of the traits which have attracted me and many other to this dignified and kindly woman. Since that time no visit to Salt Lake City has been complete without a call on Aunt Julina, and I can only hope that she has enjoyed [174] these brief chats as thoroughly as we have.   On our most recent visit to Salt Lake City we stopped at the Hotel Utah, and one of Frederick’s first moves was to telephone the home of George Albert Smith, son of John Henry, and his wife, Lucy Woodruff Smith who are perhaps our favorite cousins in Utah. It may be that they seem more dear to us because we have seen more of them in our trips to Utah and in the calls and longer stops which they have sometimes made in Kansas City. George Albert is an apostle in the latter-day Saints in Utah, a man highly respected in many circles and most affectionately esteemed among his personal relatives and friends. His wife is a daughter of Wilford Woodruff, who was at one time the president of the Utah Church, and she also is well known as a leader among their women.   When Frederick learned from Lucy that George Albert was not in town he confided to her that Ruth was with him this time and that, while she would not take time in this hurried trip to find any of our own church people, she would like to visit just as many of the cousins and old friends as possible in the short time which we had.   It is among my most pleasant memories to [174] recall how Lucy so hastily and yet so thoughtfully arranged the calls and luncheons, dinners and interviews so that I might reopen in my short visit as many of these old friendships as possible. There were Aunt Julina on whom we called, and Edith Smith, who has for years been the painstaking genealogist both of her church and of ours; there were Hyrum, son of patriarch John, and his wife Martha, and Edith the daughter of George Albert, also Elias and Katherine Smith to whom we were especially indebted for kindly entertainment.   Among other pleasures planned for us in our short stay was an interview with President Grant, who met us very courteously and who accompanied us during our short inspection of certain of the offices, which are extraordinarily luxurious and remarkably finished in immense slabs of the native yellow onyx so much used in the buildings of Salt Lake City, or with even more artistic mosaics of the same Utah marbles. Mr. Smith had seen them previously, but I had never had that privilege.   As I commented on the beauties of those charming interiors and exclaimed with growing enthusiasm, I could not help whispering slyly to certain of the party who stood near us, but not loud enough for either [175] President Grant or President Smith to hear me:   “Ah, yes; you have the art, the beauty, the wealth; but we have - the prophet.”   Yes, I like to tease, and of course I cannot claim that there have never been any thorns among the compliments which have passed between the hands of the cousins of Utah and their contemporaries of the Middle West; but with all our respectful differences, are we not after all cousins? And if in the coming years with wise care and intelligent cultivation we shall have destroyed all these thorns, I cannot but believe that we shall find that the same eliminating processes of horticulture have been at work in the “garden of Utah." 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