AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 113
But now, O how sad the change! The moss was growing upon the buildings, which were fast crumbling down; the windows were broken in, the doors were shaking to and fro by the wind, as they played upon their rusty, creaking hinges. The lovely Temple of our God—once the admiration and astonishment of the world and the hope of the Saints, was burned, and its blackened walls were falling upon each other! Ever and anon a human head would be thrust through windows to gaze upon the traveler; but these people were not Saints—they who were dwelling in those houses, who walked those streets, believed not in Jesus, the Son of God—they were professed infidels.
Shortly after leaving Nauvoo, I visited another place of painful interest in the history of the Saints. If, on ordinary occasions, words are too weak to convey the feelings of the soul, where shall I find language to portray the thoughts that agitated my mind as I entered Carthage? There, but a few years before, was a scene over which my breast alternately glows and chills with horror and indignation. There an infamous mob were imbruing their hands in the blood of our beloved Prophet and Patriarch, Joseph and Hyrum. O Earth! Then flowed on thy cold bosom the blood of thy noblest and best. Who were those Martyred Ones? Ask the ministering angels from on high! Ask the demons of the dark abyss! Ask the mighty throng whom they have guided to peace, knowledge, wisdom and power! And who are they? My friends—the friends of millions, the friends of Universal Man.
Over that guilty place there seemed to hang the gloom of death, the emblem of the deed committed, and the foreshadowing of righteous retribution! Although fatigued and hungry, nothing could induce me to eat or drink among that cursed and polluted people.
In St. Louis, we found a large branch of the Church of nearly four hundred members. We were kindly received;
