He looked what he was—a master, and a cruel master to boot. He was dressed in a frock coat of black broadcloth, a concession, as it was said, to the whim of a recently wedded wife, to win whose consent he had been compelled to plead sartorially in a way quite unusual to him, for the lady objected to the home-spun suit which had been good enough for him till her rule began. He was a very common man, vulgar and uneducated, but his whole appearance indicated force, dogged determination, a stubborn inflexibility. “I am and will be governor,” he once said in a sermon, “and no power can hinder it, until the Lord Almighty says, ‘Brigham, you need not be Governor any longer.’”[34] Those words summed up the whole character of the man, as it was written in his face. The strength of a lion, the cunning of a weasel. One of the twelve apostles who had come with us acted as master of the ceremonies, and named Governor McCook and ourselves to the Prophet, who was civil—for a prophet—but not genial nor making any pretence of being pleased to see us. When the Governor addressed him as “Mr. Young” he forgot his show of urbanity for a moment, and gave McCook a look which in the days of miracles should have withered him up as the worm smote Jonah’s gourd. The Prophet claimed to be called “Mr. President,” but how could a high official of the United States give that title to any man save one? “You carry your years well, Mr. Young,” said the Governor. “I suppose you attribute that to the fine, invigorating air of your mountains?” “Say rather, sir, to a mind at peace,” and with those words, uttered with a sanctimonious snuffle, the poisonous look disappeared, and the holy man turned up the whites of his eyes with an air of saintly beatitude. I could hardly believe my ears. The audacity of it! Did the man think that we had never heard of the Mountain Meadow Massacre, and of Heaven knows how many other crimes with which his name was associated? If it be true that conscience is a question of digestion his digestion must have been perfect. We were told that there had been a disagreeable interview that morning with Colonel Steinberger and that the Prophet’s temper had been ruffled; at any rate, our visit was not very pleasant and there was no temptation to prolong it—indeed, the Lion of the Lord was evidently in a bad humour, very much inclined to growl and show his teeth, so after a few commonplaces we left him in his den. We had a further taste of his quality when we went to hear him preach.