An Interesting Lecture: Delivered by Apostle Moses Thatcher in Ogden, Utah

We now have before us, in brief, the history of the people that lived upon this continent, not only in the Book of Mormon, but in all the ruins of their work; it cannot be disputed, and God knows, as we ought to know by these evidences, that an intelligent people once lived here. The great highways and stupendous aqueducts found in Central America and built by this people, as far surpass the en­gineering skill displayed in the build­ing of the Union Pacific and the Cen­tral Pacific as you can imagine. Their mines were well developed. I have seen beautiful copper needles, copper bells, and a thousand works of art which have lain buried for ages.

This was not the people that be­lieved in human sacrifices. It was the people that came after them who would at the end of a cycle of fifty years turn out at midnight, find a willing victim, carry him to the high­est eminence where they had their altars raised, stretch him on this altar with bared back and chest, strike the knife in his breast, tear out the yet palpitating heart, then thrust sticks into the gaping wound and rub them together to cause fire. This race was the people that believed that at the close of such sacrifices the smiles of their God would rest upon them for another cycle of fifty years; it was not this people that built the pyra­mids, the temples and the highways, and that brought up the cultivation of the ground to such perfection.

Could we but have the writings of this people! Could we but have the cords of books and records burned by the Catholic priests, how much we would know of this people, if those writings were interpreted. But they believed it necessary to wipe out all traces of ancient tradition, and all evidences upon which rested the faith of the Indians, in order to lead them to the belief of another God. Yet when these priests, with great rever­ence, opened the Bible, and began to teach the Indian, he would say, “Why, we have heard these things before; we have them in our holy book.” “Where is this book?” the priest would ask. The Indian would say, “It is buried in the earth; yours is but a copy of ours.”

This book, according to tradition, teaches that at one time a white being dwelt in their midst, who taught them to open their mines and culti­vate the ground. He left them, but promised that he would return and rule over them as king. It was this tradition that filled Montezuma with fear and superstition lest the pro­phecy was about to be fulfilled, and which enabled Cortez and his five hundred men to do the work they did. Montezuma had himself subju­gated thirty-two countries surround­ing Mexico. He and his followers were as courageous as lions. He had millions of people ready to do his bidding. How could so few white men enter into the heart of such a country and conquer it? It was the fear which this tradition had brought upon them that caused Montezuma and his people to waste away before the Spaniards. The people had slain the prophets and the revelators, and must receive in turn that which they had dealt out.

Yet this is a bright people. I saw in the City of Mexico an Indian studying French, German and Eng­lish at the same time, besides teach­ing a school four hours a day. And yet by his side was as bright an Ame­rican youth as is commonly found, struggling hard to master one lan­guage alone. The Mexican orator, whose name has become famous, was possessed of such an eloquence in picturing the victory of the Republic in the war of the Revolution, that the Secretary of State fell upon his neck and surrendered the homage due to this man. And yet he was a pure Aztec.

Mexico is a progressive nation. We call her semi-barbarous; but I look to see the time when the Mexican people will be as bright and intelli­gent as they now are kind, affectionate and hospitable. The Mexican people must not be judged by the element on the border, for there, as is generally the case, congregate the scum of both nations.

Having thus traced the lines of the primitive inhabitants of this country, the people of Nephi, I desire briefly to trace the history of our people. When the angel Moroni guided Joseph Smith to the hill Cumorah, where he saw the golden plates, the contents of which would be of such value to the inhabitants of the globe, lying before him with the transparent Urim and Thummim, and gave him instructions concerning them, what was there to excite the enmity of the world? If God in early days chose to talk with Abraham and other ancient worthies, was there anything wrong in speaking to His people later? Would a just parent bestow more affection upon an elder son than upon a younger, if they both were obedient to the pa­rent’s wishes? No. Yet, when He spoke to Joseph, we know that from the day the prophet made the pro­clamation that God had spoken to him in the woods he received perse­cution. He was driven into Ohio, thence into Missouri, then to Illinois, and then his followers sought a re­fuge here. I can remember when we first came into Utah. It was not fair then as it is now, but cracked and scorched. Here was a people that had fled from civilization a thousand miles, hungry, footsore, weary and worn, yet around their campfires there was but one prayer heard each night, and that was thanks to God. We re­member these things well. We re­member how Joseph, bound in chains and cast into a dungeon, was fed upon human flesh. We remember how he started to lead the way to these val­leys, and bow his people called him back. We can remember how he turned back, saying that if his life was of no value to the people it was not to him. We can remember how he sang while in prison—songs which cannot be recited even now without bringing tears to the eyes of the Saints. We can remember how he prayed and sang until the leaden messengers of death pierced his heart, and his blood stained the floor or Carthage jail. Yet this was not enough. We can see the murderer with his hand dripping with the blood of the innocent, marching to the scaffold, a priest beside him murmur­ing prayers and preparing him for his reception by Jesus, and our mercy turns toward the criminal. But the hate of the wicked knows no mercy. Jesus, our Lord and Savior, suffered during His life. In agony He saw that His best friends were not true to Him in His last hours. They slept. He was taken, spat upon, crowned with thorns, marched to Calvary, and hung upon the cross, but there was no mercy, no relenting. When He cried out for water they gave Him vinegar. Where was sympathy there? It could not be found.

They look upon the fair vales of Utah, and say it is too good for the “Mormons.” I can remember when it was not too good for us; when we had to boil roots and thistles for a livelihood; when wo had to go on the hillsides and dig segoes, and the wan­dering Indian would rob the poor herd boy of his scanty meal; when we had to go bare-footed from one month to another. I can remember when, a thousand miles from civiliza­tion, we would have starved had not God in His mercy sent the birds to destroy the grasshoppers, and they saved our crops. We could not de­pend on man then; there were no rail­roads, no transportation facilities. We depended on God, and He helped us through. I can remember our first harvest. We gathered the grain with our hands, we threshed it with a flail, and carried it in a small sack to the mill to be ground. Now, what is the mission of the Saints? My question to myself is, “can I live through this vale of tears, through this existence, without holding hatred to a single man?” None can enjoy the presence of our Savior till they have tasted, at least in part, that which He tasted. Until he has been hated and cast out by the wicked as He was. Can they endure this? If I should live long enough, I would not be surprised to see the Saints drawn away from their leaders to-day as they were from Joseph in earlier days. There were times when Joseph would face the whole world, their hatred, scorn and passion, and never quake; yet a kind word would bring tears to his eyes because he received so few—he so seldom heard any. He endured in part what did Christ, and was worthy of his Savior. Live lives of humility, or you can not stand. We must be able to say on all occasions, under all our trials, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Five times has my father been driven from home. I have been driven but once, from Nauvoo; but if it should again be required of me, I hope to have the fortitude to bear it. God has indeed been kind to me, and rather than prove untrue to Him, I would wander in the mountains, hunted and driven, wearing a blanket like a savage, yes, rather than bow to the dictum of any man.

Shall it be said that the history of the past shall be reproduced in Ame­rica? We have read of the martyrs who died in defense of the truth; how they were burned, slain, torn to pieces, and used as torches to light the emperors’ gardens. We have read of the tyrant Nero, who, when driven to the last extremity, tragically drew his dagger, but cowardlike failed to use it; how his slave, with greater courage than this abject coward, had to kick the steel home and end the worthless life of his master. Yet the martyrs failed not in their convictions.

We must be forgiving. If there is a single soul in this wide world that I have aught against, I know it not. But I know that God demands a for­giving spirit, charity and humility. I know that this people will come out victorious. I know that the little stone which Daniel saw will roll forth and spread abroad, whether we re­main in Utah or not. I pray God that you may adhere faithfully to Him and your covenants. Live your reli­gion. Be generous and kind. Let the teachers hunt up the destitute and poor, no matter of what color or what creed. Give and it shall return unto you. The brook gives to the sea. It comes back in clouds, breaks on the mountains, fills the streams again, and as its murmuring waters gently glide towards the ocean, green boughs hang lovingly over it, man bathes his heated brow in its waters, the lowing of cattle rises in praises to the Creator. It gave, and it has been given again. The stagnant pool (the hard-hearted man), keeps its waters lest it should want. The scorching sun does its work. Its waters give forth miasma and disease, spreading destruction abroad. Green frogs live on its banks, and sing forth their anathemas over the filthy water. From its depth come slimy tadpoles, and the whole is one reeking mass of corruption and disease, such is the condition of the selfish, the miserly, the ungrateful.