Railroading Religion: Mormons, Tourists, and the Corporate Spirit of the West

RAILROADING RELIGION

RAILROADING RELIGION

MORMONS, TOURISTS, AND THE CORPORATE SPIRIT OF THE WEST

DAVID WALKER

THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS

CHAPEL HILL

This book was published with the assistance of the Authors Fund of the University of North Carolina Press.

© 2019 The University of North Carolina Press

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The University of North Carolina Press has been a member of the Green Press Initiative since 2003.

Cover illustration from Crofutt’s Trans-continental Tourist’s Guide … over the Union Pacific Railroad, Central Pacific Railroad of Cal., Their Branches and Connections by Stage and Water … (New York: G. A. Crofutt; etc., etc., 1873); courtesy of the Department of Special Research Collections, University of California, Santa Barbara.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Walker, David, 1979– author.

Title: Railroading religion : Mormons, tourists, and the corporate spirit of the West / David Walker.

Description: Chapel Hill : University of North Carolina Press, [2019] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019011574| ISBN 9781469653198 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469653204 (pbk : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469653211 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Mormon Church—History—19th century. | Mormon Church—Public opinion—History—19th century. | Railroads—West (U.S.)—History—19th century. | Tourism—United States—History—19th century. | Corinne (Utah)—History—19th century.

Classification: LCC BX8611 .W335 2019 | DDC 289.3/7309034—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019011574

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

The Irony of Religious Industry

CHAPTER ONE

Corinnethians and the Death Knell Thesis

CHAPTER TWO

Brigham Young and the Railroad Connection

CHAPTER THREE

Godbeites and the Capital of Dissent

CHAPTER FOUR

Steamboats and the Rise of Atrocity Tourism

CHAPTER FIVE

Patrons and the Plays of Mormon Culture

CHAPTER SIX

Tourists and the Making of an American Mainline

CONCLUSION

The Recreation and State of Religion in 1893

Acknowledgments

Notes

Bibliography

Index

FIGURES

Railroads and key sites of the Great Salt Lake Region, ca. late 1800s

John Gast, American Progress (1872)

Panoramic view of Corinne (1869)

Mormon construction camp at Echo Canyon (1868)

Joining of the rails at Promontory (1869)

City of Corinne steamer (ca. 1875)

Scenes in the Endowment or Initiation Ceremonies (ca. 1904)

Railroad scene at the Salt Lake Theatre (ca. 1900)

Salt Lake City montage (ca. 1870)

Deseret Museum advertisement (ca. 1875)

Pulpit Rock stereoview (1869)

Pulpit Rock postcard (ca. 1910)

Page from a railroad scrapbook (1874)

Grant Bros. guides and guests at Temple Block (ca. 1890)

Utah Exposition Palace Car (1888)

Promised Land map (1891)

On the Beach at Garfield (ca. 1898)

Lake Park pavilion and train (ca. 1887)

Saltair with bathers (1893)

Saltair with train tracks (1893)

Page from Isaac Hoffman’s railroad scrapbook (1894)

RAILROADING RELIGION

Railroads and key sites of the Great Salt Lake region, ca. late 1800s. (Drawn by Leonardo Nuñez; adapted from Alfred Hart, Pacific Railway Panoramic Guide [Chicago: Horton and Leonard, ca. 1870])

INTRODUCTION

The Irony of Religious Industry

IN 1868 AND EARLY 1869, monitoring closely the progress of the transcontinental railroads, several businessmen set out to build The Greatest City of the West. At least that was their plan: they would inhabit a spot along the most likely train route in the Great Basin, and they would advertise it as the best possible junction for the Central Pacific and Union Pacific. Corinne, their metropolis-to-be, was located in Utah’s Bear River Valley, near the Idaho and Wyoming borders, where residents would have easy access to fresh water as well as northern trade routes. The area’s Shoshoni former residents were mostly gone, said the businessmen, and the land was ready for white settlement. All of this made Corinne a viable industrial hub and a safe investment for American capitalists and settlers, according to its promoters. But above all they promised that Corinne would be a stronghold for anti-Mormon Christians.¹

This was a time of great national concern about ‘Mormonism,’ the religion (or, as Corinne’s founders described it, the irreligion) of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.² Only a decade after Republicans vowed the eradication of Mormon polygamy (1856) and Democrats launched a military expedition against Utah (1857), both parties set their sights westward again, with eyes now toward post–Civil War national integration and expansion.³ The self-described ‘Corinnethians’ hoped to capitalize on that focus, and they adjusted their promotions accordingly. By their telling, Corinne would be a place free of control by Mormon president Brigham Young, free of theocracy, free of despotism, free of polygamy, free of sedition. It would be rather a place of freedom for (most) religious groups, capital, industry, farms, and families — a place into which ‘normal’ Americans might move and out of which their values might grow.⁴

Corinne is the only chance left by God and nature to plant a loyal American population … and bring Christianity into peaceful contact with the barbarians of Utah, according to booster J. H. (John Hanson) Beadle. At no very distant day Salt Lake City will have a rapidly-growing rival here. It will be a Gentile [non-Mormon] city, and will make the first great trial between Mormon institutions and outsiders.⁵ All Corinne needed was a bit of land, the railroad, and the nation’s attention. The rest would take care of itself: outsiders would come to work on the lines, to work in the mines, to work in the town, and to settle. According to this plan, they would expose Mormondom to the lights of American scientific observation, politics, and economics, thus diminishing the social power of polygamy, theocracy, and church restrictions on Mormon-Gentile commerce. Salt Lake City would be sucked into Corinne’s orbit, rather than the other way around. And Mormonism would be detoothed, if not destroyed.

They failed on all counts. But they did so in highly informative and ironic ways, and their efforts reveal the rise of both ‘religion’ and ‘Mormonism’ as objects of national inquiry, territorial contestation, touristic fascination, and bureaucratic management in the West. This book reconstructs that story of intriguing failure. Drawing from diverse nineteenth-century sources and engaging influential theories of secular modernity and recent trends in religious studies, Railroading Religion describes the dream for and failure of Corinne to destroy Mormonism and spread a distinctly secular America, showing how railroads and affiliated industries both mobilized and incorporated multiple religious interests and — indeed — mainlined Mormonism in time.⁶

IF J. H. BEADLE’S TOWN-FOUNDING DECLARATION — Corinne will destroy Mormonism! — inaugurates this story of industry and religion in the American West, a very different scene ends it. In 1893 boosters of Bear River Valley settlement placed a large advertisement at the World’s Fair in Chicago, but they found themselves unable — and in fact unwilling — to mobilize much anti-Mormon sentiment. By then Corinne was understood to be (at best) a poor and culturally sidetracked suburb of Salt Lake City, itself an ascendant hub of railway traffic, tourism, and religious observation. Many newer Corinnethians took a different promotional tack, lauding Latter-day Saint (LDS) pioneers for their industriousness and colonial savvy, claiming the ecumenism of their material culture, and reassuring Gentiles that they had nothing to fear from Mormon neighbors. The culture wars were over, they implied, even if (or, as we shall see, precisely because) the religiosity of Mormonism itself remained a matter of open debate.

Since 1869 and by 1893, Corinne’s leaders, their conversation partners, and their combatants had refigured the value of Mormonism in the American West. What happened between these moments is the story of Railroading Religion. Three basic narrative emphases, weaving throughout the chapters of this book, connect 1869 and 1893. The first engages the changing cultural, intellectual, and legal conditions that informed a promotional shift away from anti-Mormonism and the discourse of Mormon irreligion. This was a pivotal era for Utah and the Utah-based Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The church, prosecuted since the 1850s for its distinctive legal, political, economic, and marital practices — and finding itself to be an object of increasingly common concern among bureaucrats, industrialists, and homesteaders upon conception of a transcontinental railway — adopted a series of changes that enabled, in time, Utahn statehood (1896) and the seating of Mormon senator Reed Smoot (1903–7). Ecclesiastical alterations — especially the abandonment of polygamy, the dissolution of the Mormon political party, the redistribution of church property, and (of greatest focus here) the development of railroad connections — contributed to, and were accompanied by, a softening of anti-Mormon rhetoric. Bear River offers a demonstrative site of this national story. It is a case study in how Mormonism shifted from an exiled ‘problem’ to a regional force.⁷

The second strand seeks to complicate easy conclusions from the first, emphasizing the unexpected relationship between commerce and religious discourse. An investigation of how settlement promoters elevated claims to religious dangers and religious possibilities in Utah runs the risk of unsurprising conclusions: namely, that Corinne’s boosters and their ilk altered their promotional tactics merely to capitalize on shifts in a national bigotry. What is less predictable — what was never inevitable, what was always contested, and what tells us a great deal more about settlement and religion in the West — is the way in which national sentiments were shaped, the media through which Corinnethian salesmen attempted to evoke them, and the degrees to which their attempts garnered transcontinental response. I suggest that several interrelated institutions and processes mobilized religious discourse in nineteenth-century America, foremost among them land grant initiatives, railroad promotions, and the tourism trade. As conditions changed in northern Utah and in the nation, a shifting cast of Bear River promoters appealed to, and entered discussions within, these venues. There and in associated political lobbies they found many people similarly concerned about the fate and function of religion in an expanding and technologically advancing West. Some of these were, like the Corinnethians, committed to Mormonism’s destruction. But others worked to protect LDS bureaucrats and businesses, mediating between pro- and anti-Mormon interests and managing intergroup intercourse. In time their overlapping discussions helped to delineate the terms and boundaries of normative religiosity in the United States. The example of Bear River Valley boosterism thus demonstrates the bureaucratic formation of religion in modernity. It shows how religion has become a category constituted through local and national collision and adjudication, in specific and sometimes surprising venues.

The third strand connecting the chronological brackets of 1869 and 1893 considers the failures and ironies of promotions and institutional practice. Here I consider not only the final fact of Corinne — that is, how it was never much more than a hell-on-wheels railroad outpost — but also how its very limits identify gaps in the logic of comparative religions and the emergent ‘secular’ state. (I place secular in quotation marks here because, as many recent scholars have shown, Western presumptions of church-state separations were often influenced by Reformation apologetics and thus commensurate with the public power of privacy-professing Protestants. I will argue that Corinne points not only to the types of persistent church-state, private-public interrelations and Protestant-republican-capitalist collaborations identified by such scholars but also to scholars’ tendencies, sometimes, to overestimate both their ubiquity and the automaticity of their effective or affective power.) This is not a story of success, at least not for Corinne’s founders. Despite showy exhibitions and editorial responses to the promotion of Bear River Valley as a Gentile railroad hub, no land grants were secured, nor were many stable settlements or industries established. Few actual Bear River communities flourished, and the valley has witnessed more displacement than placement, more uprooting and withering than planting and growth. We might refer to the Bear River Valley from 1869 to 1893 as a persistent frontier of failure. It marked the limits of the so-called Mormon establishment and the so-called Protestant establishment alike, not to mention the ends of Shoshoni reservation and settlement rights, of territorial law, of touristic interest, and of arable land. Various groups carved out various modes of settlement and coexistence in the spaces between our canopylike promotional snapshots and their sometimes alkali-saturated grounds of being, but still: this is a rather muted account of ordinary social enterprise, warts and all.

This book recounts Corinne’s multisited failure to incorporate its brand of Gentile secularity in and for the West. Crucially, however, as I tell the story, the chief narrative voice and historical substance of this Corinnethian failure is irony. In describing Corinne’s shifts and shortcomings, I seek also to explore how religious agents work with and against their critics and, in particular, how ‘Mormonism’ formatted itself to best certain economic and political interests. Railroading Religion is therefore equally — if not ultimately — a tale of a particular Mormonism’s successes in a modern bureaucratic world. And by my telling this was (and is) a world necessarily but unsteadily reliant on cultic-corporate relations and opportunities for institutional subcontracting. This is a world reliant, too, on interreligious critiques: a place wherein politicians pit proximate religious groups against one another to managerial ends; where business leaders, while mediating among those groups, recognize also the commercial advantages of religious curiosity and cultural ambiguity; and where Mormons have entrenched themselves in American religious imaginaries as exempla of cultural pasts and possibilities.

Bear River’s ironic failures allow historians to observe how precisely the strategies of settlement — colonial, exclusive, Protestant, and violent — often worked against their ambitions of capitalist growth and secular expansion. The most lasting and significant aspect of Bear River social formation in these years was arguably the ways in which it evoked institutions and discourses characteristic of nineteenth-century America, especially transcontinental management companies and their religions of opportunity. Thus this book follows the multiple ways in which people articulated and elevated ‘Mormonism’ in battles over western land and technological progress, the significant fact that ‘religion’ became the site of general national debate, and the sometimes surprising ways in which that debate did, or did not, change the conditions of western battles themselves.

IRONY IS AN AFFAIR OF inverted efforts and effects, and it invites readings along different vectors. Restated more explicitly from the vantage of Salt Lake City rather than Corinne, the interwoven strands of this story argue that, although railroads, congressional debates, lobbying efforts, federal land policies, and tourism concerned Mormons, they did not cripple Mormonism. Quite the contrary. Latter-day Saint Church officials in Salt Lake City were well aware of railroading anti-Mormonism and the aspirations of Corinne, and they made their own preparations for railroad arrival. More than that: they invited it, welcomed it, and had long advocated for it, not only because railroads would ease Saintly travel to and from Utah but also because they would bring new business, new trade, and new territory for religious encounter. Speaking of the completion of this railroad, Brigham Young said to a Salt Lake Tabernacle audience in 1867, I am anxious to see it, and I say to the Congress of the United States, through our Delegate, to the Company, and to others, hurry up, hasten the work! We want to hear the iron horse puffing through this valley.⁸ To this end Mormons negotiated labor contracts and industrial locations with railroad directors: they sold materials and graded paths, donated land and buildings, built branch lines, and informed station placements. Mormons also negotiated Mormon culture and identity with railroad officials, who found themselves increasingly reliant on LDS contracts and connections and, thus, willing to lobby on Mormons’ behalf in the backrooms of Washington, the publishing houses of other major cities, and the dirt roads of aspiring towns like Corinne. In time these groups forged a terrain of mutual promotion and benefit, much to the chagrin of leading Corinnethians and contrary to their rhetoric of inevitable secularization.

It is wrong and misleading to suggest — as Corinnethians at the time charged and as some historians have since maintained — that Brigham Young and other LDS officials dreaded the transcontinental’s arrival on account of its inevitably counter-Mormon, counterecclesiastical, or counterreligious influence. I don’t care anything for a religion which could not stand a railroad, Young reportedly declared, and Mormonism must, indeed, be a — poor religion, if it cannot stand one railroad.⁹ The church president had little cause for disappointment, in any case. By the end of the train-building era, Mormonism had ‘stood’ not one but many railroads, and few could consider it ‘poor’ by most economic, social, or political measures. LDS leaders, moreover, learned from their railroading enterprises the managerial strategies and promotional campaigns most conducive to defending church legitimacy and longevity in the West, well into the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The transcontinental era had mainlined Mormonism for good.

A NOTE ON SOURCES and the structure of my study: I am attempting here to do a type of history that is cognizant of some notion of lived reality — in Corinne, in Utah, in the West generally — that we know is always also a discursive fact and function. Moreover, I am dealing with groups that couldn’t stop talking about themselves: federal authorities, business interests, tourists, Mormons. My pursuit, therefore, has led me to consult a vast array of documents and archives. These include newspaper accounts, novels, ethnographies, guidebooks, advertisements, ledger books, paystubs, stock statements, probate records, photographs, scrapbooks, diaries, letters, sermons, excommunication reports, denominational histories, school curricula, maps, tickets, and research notes, as pertaining to land grants and settlement practices, corporate policies and developments, church and missionary endeavors, government decrees and deliberations, political lobbying, tourist rites, museum displays, architectural designs, and the interpretive priorities of historians themselves. Many of these materials are uncommon to works of American religious history, but I argue that they might well be considered evidence in the history of religions and indeed that they are particularly productive for the history of religion in the West.

Because it informs also the shape of my chapters, I will restate this interpretive wager — that the stuff of religious studies may be located in such diverse and often mundane negotiations — from a different angle. I mean not only that such exchanges yield data for scholars’ acts of comparative religions, or even that we may observe powerful mechanisms of subject formation and religious discipline there. Both statements are true, but I mean also that ordinary Americans articulated and advanced therein their own theories of religion. Although occasionally inchoate, these theories are themselves comparable to theories operating in the field of religious studies or in historiography generally, the likes of which have shaped the reception history and archival status of ‘ordinary’ ‘American’ ‘data’ in the first place. History entails historiography, and historiography creates history. Religious theorizing is not simply the etic stuff of the academy or even the government, in any case. Important as those venues are, their own tools and heuristics frequently intersect with the intellectual labors, taxonomies, adjudications, and anthropological representations of local groups otherwise testing systems of settlement and corporate infrastructure. Railroading Religion is structured according to this logic and this argument. The first part of each chapter traces the emergence and operation of certain theoretical concerns in specific nineteenth-century contexts, and the middle part generally considers how contemporary scholarly categories echo or obscure, complicate or correct them. The last part then returns to Utah in order to observe anew its shifting religious constructions and finally to suggest also how western history and religious studies might once again learn from each other. By this pattern readers will encounter engagement with influential historiographies of capitalism, western colonialism, Mormonism, and American religions generally — as well as with key theories of secularism, technological sublimity, sacred space, bureaucracy, ritual, and tourism — as necessarily component to the stuff and story of these chapters.

Chapter 1 analyzes the railroading promises of Corinne in light of contemporary religious theories and antipolygamy legislation. Of particular interest is what I am calling the ‘death knell thesis’: the notion that trains and capitalism, by opening the West to free enterprise and liberal thought, would modernize Utah and destroy Mormondom. Railroads, according to the logic of this thesis, were chaplains of culture and catalysts of true religion; and Corinne, in the vision of its boosters, would house the first belfry of Mormonism’s death knell. Chapters 2 and 3 then explore Mormon responses to these and related designs for industrial secularization and manifest destiny. LDS Church officials mobilized in several ways — through prerailroad preparations, trade embargos, business initiatives, emigrant promotions, railside ecclesiology, land grants, and labor contracts — to secure certain arrangements in Utah, as well as to code and defend them precisely as ‘Mormon’ and ‘religious.’ Together these efforts belie traditional notions of ‘sacred space’ by revealing more concrete geographies of religious authority and industry in the West. Arguments for Mormon precision and legitimate religion were made both against Gentile outsiders and against intrachurch dissenters, in any case. Among the dissenters were the so-called Godbeites (chapter 3), schismatic opponents of Brigham Young’s economic policies who, through interactions with Corinnethians, congressmen, and capitalists, induced LDS officials to find new balances between openness and enclosure in the railroad age.

The product of such ecclesiastical argumentation and reformation was an orthodox Mormonism; but neither its visibility as such nor its intelligibility as ‘religion’ was the work of Utah residents alone. The second part of this book tracks more specifically the roles of tourism and railroad agents in the local consolidation and national mainstreaming of Mormonism. Chapter 4 treats Corinnethian attempts to mobilize positive and negative sightseeing around Corinne, chapter 5 observes Mormon countermeasures in Salt Lake City and along new church-owned railroads in Utah, and chapter 6 analyzes transcontinental businessmen and tourism agents’ efforts to mediate between them. Both discursively and materially — as both a cultural curiosity and an exemplar, target and attraction, comparate and conversation partner — Mormonism was sustained precisely through the collective efforts of these and related travel boosters, train builders, and religious tourists: this, notwithstanding their occasional or ostensible cross-purposes. In time, their collaborations frustrated Corinnethian aspirations and ensured Mormon longevity by creating new common grounds in America.

Attempts to railroad religion thus had ironic results, yielding dynamic and expansive religious institutions. Rather than eradicating or diminishing religion (in general) or Mormonism (in particular), western railroads helped to create them — and to create new modes of their social incorporation — in the world. They did so by occasioning new means of religious encounter and shaping new media by which to understand encounters as religious. An appreciation of this process necessitates paying close attention to the shifting religious observations and negotiations that occurred under railroad auspices and along train lines in Utah.

TRACING CORINNETHIAN UPBUILDING projects over twenty-five years, Railroading Religion shows how certain venues mediated popular discussions of religion in nineteenth-century America. It demonstrates how Mormonism itself figured — and how it figured itself — in regional politics and expansion, too. Through an examination of what Mormons and non-Mormons variously understood as ‘Gentile’ interests in land grant applications, settlement schemes, congressional considerations, and above all railroad programs, this book narrates the construction of normative religion on a local and national scale.

In time Mormonism was domesticated in America through the combined efforts of church officials, politicians, travelers, and businessmen. But I wish to be clear that this is not a simple story of secularization. The beauty of the Corinnethian project — and its challenge to modern secularity studies — is that its boosters were archetypal Protestant secularists, speaking precisely and strategically the language often identified as regnant in nineteenth-century America: that of righteous Protestantism, privatization, belief, republicanism, church-state separation, monogamous patriarchy, and laissez-faire capitalism. So too did Corinnethians espouse a theory of industrial secularization of a semi-Weberian sort: the idea that western capitalism and railroad development would destroy Mormonism. Corinne’s failure thus affords us an opportunity to complexify common notions about secular ascendance and the power of religious rhetoric.

Railroading Religion shows how Mormons established mutually beneficial contracts with railroad companies and politicians via fluency in bureaucratic idioms rather than the verbiage of Protestantism, republicanism, or capitalism per se. Noting railroad officials’ attempts to mediate between pro- and anti-Mormon interests in the West, I argue that the transcontinental tourism industry proved to be a modern mechanics of religious development and national intelligibility. Intelligibility entailed, among other things, the cultivation of new ideas about Mormon sacred space, the likes of which worked to Mormons’ and railroad agents’ mutual benefit. Mormon leaders rewrote Mormon history to emphasize the righteous inevitability of Utahn settlement, and railroads advertised Utahn travel as simultaneously an opportunity for Orientalist gawking, a Coney Island experience in the West, an occasion for reflection on the nature and history of religion, and a domestic counterpart to Holy Land tourism.

Whereas Corinne’s boosters assumed the destruction of Mormonism through infrastructural development and private enterprise, western bureaucracies proved to be fertile environments for Mormon interests. Railroading Religion tells this story. Along the way it argues also for a broad field of comparative religious studies and adjudication in the late nineteenth century, demonstrating the popular generation and circulation of religious theory, and adding new characters to our list of religious virtuosi: town boosters, land grant administrators, political lobbyists, railroad agents, and tourists. For, it was their overlapping strategies of possession that defined the ritual process of western settlement.

CHAPTER ONE

Corinnethians and the Death Knell Thesis

THE FIRST WHISTLE of the locomotive in the Salt Lake Valley will sound the knell of Mormonism.¹ This notion — articulated here by a western travel writer in 1868 — became a refrain of sorts, and it echoed in anti-Mormon discourses throughout the country. From congressional halls to newspaper columns to church pulpits, nineteenth-century Americans postulated the demise of Mormonism during the railroad age. Some wrote laws and underwrote companies accordingly. And others, as in Corinne, Utah, chartered new towns.

The ‘death knell thesis’ (as I will call it here) was keyed to several interlocking, popular theories about religion, economics, politics, law, and sex in modernity. By its terms, railroads would add economic stakes to extant ‘human interests’ in Utah, even as they provided better means through which to pursue those interests. Corporate success and national integration simultaneously required and constituted local stability, it said. And stability, in turn, entailed humanistic understanding and humanitarian work — including the diagnosis of barbarism and the fight against theocracy — which would be facilitated by intergroup contact and commerce along railroads. One reporter articulated the looping logic in this way: railroads, having increased Americans’ commercial interest in Utah, and having combined it with humanitarian and political ones, will as surely as truth is truth, and right is right, crush out the vile thing called Mormonism and rid the country of the foul blot.² The death knell thesis thus recapped — sometimes through economic argument, and often through the accretion of railroad puns — the assumption that Mormonism could not withstand the arrival of ministers, miners, traders, businessmen, and legislators in Utah, as each of these would bring contact with our more enlightened civilization in their own particular ways.³ Brigham Young would lose control over the social, economic, and political affairs of the territory, it said. The period of Utah’s isolation and estrangement would come to an end; men would become familiar with new thoughts and new vocations; women would be exposed to eligible bachelors and enticing fashions; outdated sensibilities and superstitions would wither; and freedom would reign.

Mormonism may henceforth be considered on the down grade, announced an Illinois reporter in May 1869, ten days after the completion of the transcontinental railroad. The last spike in the Pacific railroad was the first nail in the coffin of Mormonism. A congressman from Nevada largely agreed with the sentiment: Every locomotive bell resounding through the gorges of the Wahsatch mountains is sounding [polygamy’s] death knell. So too did a prominent Mormon apostate agree: The construction of the Pacific Railroad will deliver the death-blow to Polygamy and enable people’s escape from church oppressions.⁴ The ubiquity of the death knell thesis, the diversity of its proponents, and the stability of its terms is enough to imply substance as well as veneer, but it is the historian’s task to unpack this circular notion and to situate its interlocking aspects in time and place. Only thus can we understand why it was that, when one group of anti-Mormons attempted to plant a town in the midst of all that rhetoric, politicking, enterprising, and sectarianism, they found little traction. Corinnethians discovered that there was no there, there.

The Anti-Bigamy Act and the Business of Religious Legislation

Speeches by Justin S. Morrill — Vermont representative and namesake of the first federal anti-Mormon legislation, the Morrill Anti-Bigamy Act of 1862 — provide introductions to the premises of anti-Mormon industrial theory. They are a fitting place to begin this story of Corinnethian aspirations and railroad knells for other reasons, too. Discussions of the Anti-Bigamy Act drew certain themes in colorful directions, and railroad companies were later imagined as implementing partners for the act’s initiatives. In such conversations and contract language we may identify the circulation of influential theories of religion and important concerns of religious comparison.

Five years before the passage of the act, Morrill outlined its concerns before Congress. Mormonism was un-American in several respects, he said. Most glaringly, it was religious and political in manners unbefitting the modernity embodied and advanced in America. Mormonism was monarchic rather than democratic, affording little to no opportunity for dissent or freedom of thought; likewise, it was barbaric rather than enlightened. LDS leaders were as hostile to the republican form of government as they are to the usual form of Christianity, he said. According to Morrill, Mormons adopted kingly government, in order to make their patriarchal institutions more homogenous, and they assumed the rhetoric and guise of religion to similar intended effect.⁵

Among the congressional concerns of the 1850s was the putative monopoly of Utahn resources by a handful of Mormon ‘patriarchs.’ Wood, water, and real estate were monopolized not only by the Mormons, Morrill reported, but by a few Mormons — the Governor [Brigham Young] and his apostles. So too were obstacles to overland travel and national expansion considered unacceptable: The Governor and the leading elders … extort considerable tribute from the emigrant travel passing through to California. Revenue from bridge and ferry tolls, combined with membership tithes, funded other initiatives by which Mormondom placed itself at odds with American values and expansion: the development of independent legal structures, the expansion of leaders’ domestic dominions, and the maintenance of a church militia. This was what theocracy looked like, Morrill thought. LDS leaders had yoked together the interests and offices of religion and statism.⁶

A military expedition in 1857–58 lessened certain but not all congressional concerns. President James Buchanan then ordered some 2,500 troops across country to investigate claims of Mormon barbarism and sedition, and they removed Brigham Young from the governorship of Utah Territory — a position he had held since 1851 — and established a military camp outside Salt Lake City. But the ‘Utah War’ arguably resulted in little more than the excitement of Mormon militiamen, who hastily constructed fortifications in the Wasatch Mountains’ Echo Canyon in case of armed confrontation, and a boon to Mormon merchants, who sold expensive provisions to soldiers during their stay and then purchased their supplies cheaply when they left. The U.S. military failed to persuade Mormons of the moral benefits of monogamy, in any case. Opposition to polygamy — or, rather, to polygynous marriage between one man and plural women, a practice publicly adopted by the LDS Church in 1852 — thus remained the flagship of anti-Mormon activism well after 1858, even as it continued to catch other interests and initiatives in its wake. Polygamy was argued to be both catalyst and fruition of Mormon patriarchy and religious primitivism, the seed and shell of aberrant sensualities. On these grounds Congress attacked it: Mormonism developed its rhetorical strategies and bureaucratic infrastructures in order to beget and defend a kind of basic, hedonistic, sensual polygamy.⁷

Talk of polygamous patriarchy served anti-Mormon initiatives in two principal respects. First, it evoked sexual and gender politics in a limited way, that is, without necessarily challenging sexism operative elsewhere in American systems of enfranchisement, employment, property holding, and violent crime. Such talk implicitly contrasted such sexism with presumably worse Mormon instantiations instead.⁸ Polygamous Mormonism threatened white womanhood and insulted women’s known virtue, according to Morrill, his activist compatriots, and countless novelists and newspapermen. It made literal slaves of women within LDS domestic labor camps. Mormon harems thus upended the natural order of the home, the very microcosm and seedbed of virtue, and they denied women the joyful achievement of simple, direct maternalism. A woman’s place was in the sphere of the home, and that sphere should be monogamous.⁹

No less dangerous than Mormonism’s attempt to reshape domestic spheres were its claims to religious antiquity, warrant, and worldliness. To speak of patriarchy and polygamy together was to evoke the father figures of the Hebrew Bible and, thus, to force reconsideration of the genealogy of Western religious cultures. Mormons were well aware of the evocation and its challenge, and they deployed the category with provocative intent. Why shouldn’t professed descendants of Israel reclaim the marital practices of Israelites, or ‘the blessings of Abraham,’ even as they claimed Christianity and the blessings of Jesus? In order to negotiate Mormon assertions of ancient religious lineage and sociopolitical warrant — and in order to meet Mormons’ challenges to principles of biblical sufficiency, textual interpretation, church-state separation, and marital sanctity — concerned American policy makers necessarily theorized religion. They did so by rethinking their personal and national relations to Christian and Jewish origins, and by comparing Mormonism to different world religions.¹⁰

Congressmen’s theories of religion were interwoven with their concerns about Mormonism, and the standard model identified Islam as Mormonism’s best point of comparison. This association deflected the Mormon provocation to specific genealogical consideration, in a way, albeit through evocative concessions necessitating certain clarifications. On the one hand, the Mormons-to-Muslims comparison avoided judgments regarding the state of Mormon Jewishness and Jewish religious legitimacy, thus allowing congressional sidestepping of one familiar yet impolitic option: an acceptance of LDS claims to Jewish roots fueled by basic anti-Semitism, pursued in order that both traditions might be singly distanced from a Christian religious norm. Similarly, it avoided a second impolitic possibility: the substitution, via congressional adaptations of popular anti-Catholicism, of a Catholic comparate for a Jewish one.¹¹ At the same time, broadening the comparative pool beyond Jewish and Christian exempla entailed additional burdens of religious classification, and it conceded also Mormonism’s relevance to global religious politics.

Morrill said that Mormons — with their seraglios, despotic leaders, and fanatical adherents — were American Turks not American Jews, let alone American Christians.¹² This was not an atypical rhetorical move. Early American reports on Mormonism had long likened it to Islam, and vice versa; since at least 1831 charges of ‘American Mohammedanism’ had echoed in various contexts and to multiple effect, with spikes in use predictably preceding the 1857 Utah War and the 1862 Anti-Bigamy Act. For most the comparison of Mormons and Muslims consisted in evocations of a putatively shared militarism, theocracy, polygamy, or sensuality and in references to their novel scriptures similarly devised by postbiblical and countercultural prophets. Anti-Muslim stereotypes had little relation to Islam as practiced by most Muslims, of course, and they bespoke an ignorance of America’s own Muslim populations. But the purpose of the comparison was to signal Mormonism’s alarming western installation of the same Oriental barbarisms that had supposedly threatened Christianity throughout the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. It symbolically aligned the oriental and occidental frontiers, to quote historian Timothy Marr, thus discrediting both religions through the association of their mutual distance from palatable Protestant practice. Indeed talk of American Muslims and American Turks evoked ‘otherness’ of distastefully religious and racial sorts, thereby mobilizing against Utahn Mormons (a predominantly Anglo population) racist and cultural stereotypes without necessarily claiming religious equivalence or ethnic descent. This is true equally in literary and political instances. In both, Mormon-to-Muslim comparisons used easy, ready-to-hand, and often superficial templates and similarities to pursue projects of deep, enduring cultural importance.¹³

Elaborately reductive in practice if not always intent, the putative Muslim connection invited new conversations while short-circuiting others, in any case rendering Mormonism more intelligible, less American, less white, and less biblical by making Mormons differently exotic and noteworthy. In this particular congressional instance, the Islamic reference accompanied noteworthy articulations of religious modernity and sincerity (as differentiated from barbarism and imposture), American Christianity, appropriate church-state relations, and the legal criteria for intervention in putatively religious institutions.

With respect to American church-state law, Morrill argued that First Amendment protections did not apply to polygamy because it was not an institution of religion. Polygamy was a crime — an offense to modern law and morality alike — and the fullest latitude of toleration in the exercise of religion could not be understood to license crimes punishable at common law.¹⁴ Criminal acts could not be religious, and religious acts must not be criminal. This was common knowledge, according to Morrill. Thus any attempt to institute polygamy or theocracy — a form of governance unacceptable for territories under federal jurisdiction, Morrill said, given congressional church-state restrictions — was nothing but an act of burlesque perpetrated by artful men seeking to hide under the name of religion.¹⁵ Congress needn’t question the sincerity of religious beliefs or call beliefs irreligious, but it had every right to denominate undesirable acts matters of irreligious imposture and to treat them as such. Proper religion consisted in intangibles held in good faith or in acts and institutions consonant with American common law and legislative statutes.¹⁶

Morrill summarized several of his arguments thus: Under the guise of religion, this people has established, and seek to maintain and perpetuate, a Mohammedan barbarism revolting to the civilized world. Mormons’ particular guise of religion was insultingly fanciful — people might as well claim that burglary or rape was an act done in accordance with the religion of the prophet Mercury, or the prophet Priapus, he said — and yet it was recognizable to worldly persons, being comparable to ‘Mohammedanism.’¹⁷ As such, the crimes that Mormons instituted were ‘barbaric’ and ‘uncivilized.’ Latter-day Saints were unfit for survival in modern America, a nation founded upon truer and higher — and many said more Christian — fruitions of sociopolitical evolution.

IF MORRILL OUTLINED the basics of congressional religious theories relative to Mormonism, other lawmakers fastened them to the railroading death knell thesis by emphasizing their component notion of modernity — or Mormons’ nonmodernity — and by stressing the functional equivalence of modernity, evolution, and industry. Among the more vocal members of this group was Representative William Waters Boyce (D-South Carolina) — a sometimes controversial figure whose notions of industrial religious intervention came to characterize the mainstream of mid- and late 1860s legislative thought.

During March 1858 considerations of anti-Mormon legislative possibilities, the southern Democrat Boyce agreed with his northern Republican colleague Morrill, and with other congressmen, on two basic points. First, Boyce concurred that First Amendment protections did not apply to the strange case of Mormon (ir)religion. The enlightened framers of the U.S. Constitution could not have expected that an American Mohammed would rise up in the United States in the middle of the nineteenth century and promulgate a new dispensation, made up of Christianity and Oriental sensuality, Boyce said; and so they gave no guidelines for its treatment. Second, Boyce agreed that Mormonism’s sensuality — its putative institutionalization of licentiousness and barbarism — and its location — in the middle of the country — equated to necessary intervention on the part of modern politicians. Under different circumstances politicians might usefully consider inaction, Boyce supposed, simply waiting and watching as Mormonism withered from its own incoherent Eastern-Western, Muslim-Christian hybridity. But Utah’s location atop transcontinental trade and transportation routes, and thus Mormons’ ability to harass California-bound emigrants or disrupt the eastward return of their capital gains, precluded that option.¹⁸

Boyce’s more distinctive contribution to the conversation — and a point of disagreement between him and Morrill — was to encourage legislative, judicial, and military caution premised precisely on the ‘facts’ of Mormonism’s sensationalism and centrality. He thought that strict legislation and enforcement of antipolygamy statutes ran the risk of dispersing Mormons throughout the country, where, by becoming confederated with the Indian tribes into a race of American Arabs, they will become enemies of the human race, attacking emigrant trains and stunting economic development throughout the West. The terms of Boyce’s concern speak to long-standing governmental interests in dominating western indigenous populations. They also speak to the ways in which ‘Indians’ were imagined as a third party within Mormon-Muslim comparisons, a party whose perceived proximity to Mormonism influenced both the degree and tenor of Arab evocations themselves. But Boyce’s principal point was that it was better to keep Mormons contained in their own Great Basin reservation, even with their capacity for isolated overland disruptions. And better to surround them with industry than to scatter them through intervention.¹⁹

The best policy for the elimination of the ‘Mormon problem,’ according to Boyce, was the legislative encouragement of internal improvements: better roads, more telegraph wires, and, in time, a railroad. Envelop Mormons with economic and infrastructural development, he proposed, and give non-Mormon travelers, emigrants, and businessmen multiple options for traversing the Great Basin. Results would be positive. The religious facade of Mormonism would crack as Mormon men pursued out-group opportunities for commerce and conversation and as women pursued their divine mission of in-group, virtuous domestication. Boyce argued before the House of Representatives that the greatest danger to the integrity of the Mormon faith is prosperity. The greater their material, moral, intellectual development, the less hold a false faith will have upon them. … In short, the more they become civilized, the less they are Mormons. Just as the Turks, the Mormons of Europe, are perishing from contact with civilization, so too will prosperity destroy Mormonism. Civilization is death to Mohammedanism or Mormonism.²⁰ Boyce’s prediction was that prosperity and industry would bring civilization, civilization would bring schism, and schism would bring opportunities for more development. Mormonism, such as it existed around 1860, would be no longer.

Boyce’s appeal represents a shift toward the railroading death knell thesis. Although Boyce agreed with Morrill and others that Mormonism constituted a threat to American morality and expansion, his proposal — rather than direct anti-Mormon military or political action — was the encouragement of (ostensibly) nonsectarian internal improvements and (definitely) non-Mormon business interests. Modern industry and pure capitalism would destroy premodern, hybrid forms of religion, economics, and politics.

CONGRESSIONAL ACTION IN THE 1860S, during and immediately after the Civil War, blended Morrill’s interventionist priorities with Boyce’s industrial assumptions, all the while retaining a shared language of religious barbarism. The Anti-Bigamy Act — passed and signed into law in 1862 — banned bigamy, threatened offenders with fines and imprisonment, voided Utahn legislative acts protecting polygamous practice, and limited church property ownership in any U.S. territory to fifty thousand dollars. The goal was to reduce LDS Church control of territorial resources and real estate and, in the words of the act itself, to criminalize "the practice of