Hospitality and Gullibility: A Magician's View of Utah's Mormons

Hospitality and Gullibility: A Magician's View of Utah's Mormons

BY DAVID L. ZOLMAN, SR.

BETWEEN 1869 AND 1912, GEORGE ANTON ZAMLOCH, billing himself as The Great Zamloch, took his magic show on the road throughout the West. His itinerary included Hawaii, Nevada, California, Wyoming, Colorado, Montana, Idaho, and Utah. An Austrian immigrant based in San Francisco, he was a genial and good-natured man who was quick to praise the hospitality he found in Utah's small towns but equally quick to disdain local superstition, stinginess, and uncouth behavior whenever he encountered it.

Zamloch retired in 1912 and wrote an extensive memoir, still in possession of the family, that has never been published or cited in any of the scholarly literature about the West and Mormons. 1 Based primarily on that memoir, this paper recounts his 1882 tour of Utah's small towns and offers personal reflections on the landladies, innkeepers, bishops, and stage managers whom he re-creates so vividly. The mining towns of Park City and Silver Reef stand in cosmopolitan contrast to conservative farming villages such as St. George, Toquerville, and Centerville. The Great Zamloch, an illusionist by trade, had a remarkably brisk way of dispelling social illusions in print, and his sleight of hand became a deft touch in his first-person writing.

Today's historian must wonder about the reliability of Zamloch's memoir, it having been penned by an acknowledged showman thirty years after the experiences described therein. The human memory is fallible. Names, places, dates, people, and events can slip out of place over time. Yet, this reminiscence has the ring of credibility. It is told straightforwardly and with no apparent tendentious edge. Even granting allowances for memory lapses and any storyteller's tendency to portray himself in a heroic light, the reader will still find Zamloch's narrative rich in description, charm, and imagery. It is a document that illuminates the social and cultural values of Utah and the West in the 1880s.

Zamloch's first exposure to magic came in his boyhood when he encountered an illusionist named Ignaz Kaitna in his native village of Raschach, situated on the River Sava in Lower Austria. As Zamloch described it, the Sava divided the province of Krain, a Slavonian-speaking region, from Steiermark, a German-speaking one. The magician, a German speaker, needed a Slavonian-speaking assistant, and in one afternoon's rehearsal taught young Anton to hide under the table and hand up items and take others away on cue. Thus, Anton never suffered from the delusion that real magic was involved in any of the illusions, even though his mother, once she found out it was a magic show, was horrified, positive that he had sold his soul to the devil. Young Anton was "so infatuated" with tricks, that he disobeyed his mother, sneaked away from home to help with the next afternoon's performance, and remained "crazy on magic."

Anton was still in his early teens, apparently about fourteen, when he was medically examined for the army. Since he insisted that he would run away, given the first opportunity, his father, to avoid the disgrace to the family, shipped him off to San Francisco to an uncle, accompanied by an older sister whom he does not mention again in his memoir. They left home March 10, 1864, and arrived on April 5 aboard the Teutonia of Hamburg.2 He was fifteen; his sister, Marie, was seven years his senior.

Anton attended school for a few years, then began working for a printer. When he became ill, he went first to Santa Cruz, then to nearby Soquel. There a friend began calling him George, a name he used from that point on. When a magician came to town on the vaudeville circuit, the old infatuation reignited and Anton immediately began duplicating the little tricks he had learned from Kaitna. "I intended to start out on the road as a Magician, but kept it secret from everybody," he confessed. Before long, however, he found two partners and printed a thousand handbills reading:

Amusing and Mysterious! ZAMLOCH The Great Austrian Wizard From the Imperial Court of Vienna In a Series of New and Marvelous Wonders, etc.

"I will never forget that day when Carter brought them from the printing office," he recalled from a perspective of more than thirty years. "I hastily broke the package open to look at them. It was the first time that I saw my name in print. To say that I was proud is putting it mildly." He and his partners sketched out an ambitious route for their initial tour: Folsom, then Placerville, Georgetown, and then eastward to Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado.

The next several chapters in Zamloch's memoir are packed with hilarious incidents as the magic-making greenhorns set out on their tour, bedeviled by problems of weather, suspicious landlords, lost luggage, and nineteenth-century modes of conveyance that one might expect. Although Zamloch changed partners and assistants several times and was usually short of money, he improved steadily in proficiency and within a few years commanded a respectable—even impressive—repertoire of illusions and sleight of hand. In 1883-84 he triumphantly listed his occupation as "magician" in the city directory, although he had become the vaguer "showman" by the next year.

Zamloch's first performances in Utah certainly occurred before 1882, but his first detailed description of the territory relates to Park City of that year. Having boomed into existence a decade earlier with the discovery of rich silver veins in Ontario Canyon, Park City was definitely a thriving place by 1882. A local source praised the community's Main Street as a "thoroughfare" with sidewalks "the entire length of the street," noting further that "drunkenness and rowdyism have modified to a great extent, and the firing of pistols in the dead of night is a rare occurrence now." 3 Park City was the third town in the state to receive telephone service, an innovation in 1881 with rates of $3.00 a month when a miner's wages were $2.50 a day. The Aschiem general store, a two-story brick and stone structure, had iron window shutters and one of the first fireproof metal roofs in town. Relatively new businesses when Zamloch arrived were the Park City Bank, the Dexter Stables, and Shields' grocery store.

The decision to play Park City was taken on the spur of the moment. After playing for a week in Salt Lake City, Zamloch was about to proceed to Wyoming Territory when an agent advised him that a circus was passing through and to wait a few days. Zamloch chose to spend this week in Park City, presumably because it was "a booming mining town." Without any advance billings and without a theater, he "trusted to luck," hired a Mormon teamster to haul the luggage, and took the stagecoach with his wife Elizabeth, their baby, and Billy Marx, Elizabeth's younger brother who was then Zamloch's assistant. A talkative Irishman on the stagecoach chatted about the entertainment he was going to give of "reading and recitations" but was also "trusting to luck about securing the theatre." Zamloch said nothing but as soon as the coach reached Park City, he immediately went in search of the theater owner, a saloon keeper, and asked to rent the theater. It is not clear which theater this would be. Park City's pride, the Society Hall, had the reputation of being "one of the finest show houses in the West," featured "a large orchestra pit, elaborate stage scenery, and a fancy lobby and seating area" but it was not constructed until 1883, the year after Zamloch's tour.4 However, a city history reports that among the "great stars of the day" who played it was "Zinlock [sic] the Magician." 5 The following exchange, quoted in full, shows Zamloch's ease with and skill as a raconteur:

"What kind of a show have you got" he asked. I told him it was magic. "What? Slight of hand show?" I told him that it was.

"Well, my friend, go back to where you came from. This town isn't partial to that kind of shows. You couldn't take in rent." "Well, what is your rent" I inquired. "The rent is $10, but you won't take in fifty cents." "Well, if that is the case, put your rent at the figure you think I will take in," I said. "But I'm telling you that no one will come to see you." I told him that I would try it anyway, and if he would make the rent reasonable I would pay it in advance.

"If you want to lose your money you can have it for $5, that is if you pay in advance." "All right," I said, "but if the case is as bad as you say, I may not have a good house the first night, but I have a good show, and I know that we could draw a good house the second night. How much will you charge for the second performance?" 'You will be so sick after the first show that you won't want to try another. But if you have more money than you know what to do with, you can have it for another $5." "And if I want the theatre for a longer period, will you let me have it for $5 each night?" 'You can have it for $5 a night if you show a year. But what is the use of you talking. You will try to show only one night."

"I will secure the theatre for four nights, and I will pay you now." I threw a twenty dollar gold piece on the counter and asked for a receipt. During this conversation the miners (about forty of them) were listening.

"Now, I'll bet you this twenty dollar gold piece that you won't take in twenty dollars in your four nights." I answered that I didn't want to win his money, "But," I said, "I will bet you the treat of the house that I will take in more than twenty dollars the first night." "All right. I'll go you," he said. He called everybody up to the bar. The bill was $4 and I paid it and said to him, "If we take in more money than twenty dollars the first night, you will give me back the four dollars?" "Sure I will, but I'm afraid that you will lose."

The garrulous Irishman, who was eating dinner at the hotel 6 while Zamloch was concluding this arrangement, never forgave the magician. He later managed a chain of theaters in Montana but would never let Zamloch play.

The next day Zamloch and his helpers plastered the town with fliers. They opened the next night. According to Zamloch's narrative:

We showed in Park City the four nights. Our smallest house was $118. For a small town it was unusually large business. On our opening night, not having enough seats in the theatre, some miners brought six benches from that saloon from whom I rented the theatre. The benches remained in the theatre until we got through. On the morning after the last performance, after we got through packing, Billy returned the benches to the saloon. When he brought the last one, the saloon man said to Billy, "Take these four dollars to your boss. He won the bet. But tell him to come here and kick me.

Zamloch explained, with a droll sense of deadpan: "It was on account of heavy billing (printers ink is the thing). There is magic in it."

His next appearances in Utah apparently occurred the same season. "In Utah the business was good," he recalls. "After finishing the larger towns we decided to play the smaller ones." Referring to these smaller towns, he wrote: "We have had some tough experiences in country hotels and stopping places in the last forty years, but that was the hardest deal we ever got. That was in 1882, but it is as fresh in my memory as though it happened yesterday."

The magician's team at this point consisted of a young man who was the advance agent and a Mormon teamster with a heavy spring wagon and four horses whom Zamloch hired for $8 a day. He does not name this teamster but says, "This man proved to be very valuable. In many places he was the means of us securing the 'Meeting House' as he was 'a good Mormon' otherwise we would not be able to secure it. The Bishops would (in most cases) not let us have it, as we were 'Gentiles,' and at that time the Mormons had no use for us."

As examples, the theater was already engaged in Cedar City, but the bishop refused them permission to appear. 'You join the Church, then you can show," he said. In another town, Zamloch rented the theater for three nights, but the bishop limited him to one night. Zamloch apparently did not argue or get angry but simply "turned around and drove out of town. It wouldn't pay us to set up everything for one performance."

Zamloch spurned the usual Mormon system of payment in produce or scrip and insisted strictly on cash, adults fifty cents and children twenty-five:

We refused to take produce for admission except home made socks, which we could dispose of. Home made candles, chickens, eggs, vegetables and "scrip" of any kind we refused. It was customary in those days in Utah to bring such things to shows for their admission. Most merchants issued "scrip" money. This money was made of brass, about the size of a quarter with the name of the merchant and its value stamped on it, and it was only good for goods in the store. A merchant, for example, would buy a farmer's wheat, and give five cents more (on the hundred weight) than the price quoted in the market. But after he had sold his wheat for "scrip" [if he] wanted, say, $40 in cash, he would have to give back to the merchant $100 of his "scrip." The farmers in Utah at that time were composed of the most ignorant European proselytes to the Mormon Church and were easy to be imposed upon both by the Church and by the merchants.

Zamloch, an immigrant himself, makes this judgment with no particular scorn but rather with genial regret. Based on his narrative, he had good reason for his conclusion. For instance, he was frequently "asked to do some impossible thing. Some asked me to tell them where to locate a mining claim. One man said that his brother was 'possessed' by the spirits, and asked me to drive them away." Then as another example of local gullibility, Zamloch described one trick in considerable detail:

At our last performance I did a trick in which I got a boy to come on the stage and pretend to give him a lesson in juggling. I take a dinner plate and do different stunts with it, and finish by spinning it on the point of my finger, after which I insist for the boy to try it. He attempts to spin it on the point of his finger (same as he saw me do it), and, of course, drops it, and the plate breaks into many pieces. I pretend to be angry at the boy and scold him for his awkwardness. I compel him to pick up the pieces and wrap them in a newspaper. I then put the parcel into a box, place the box on the boy's head. Billy takes a picture frame in his hand and stands behind the boy. I shoot the pieces out of the box into the picture frame. At the report of the gun the plate appears instantly in the frame. The boy opens the box and finds it empty. But on taking a second look at the plate, I discover that there is a piece missing. I ask the boy whether he was sure that he picked up all the pieces? He, of course, says that he did. I then accuse him of keeping one piece back and hiding it from me. He denies it (by that time the boy is getting angry). I accuse him to have a piece in his pocket and tell him to search his pockets. He does (very reluctantly) and to his astonishment finds the missing piece in his pocket. I pretend to scold him more severely for hiding the piece (and by this time he is ready to fight). I next place the piece into the large mouthed pistol and fire at the plate which instantly becomes whole, and perfectly restored. Then Billy takes it out of the frame and lays it on the table. At the finish I say to the audience, "If you have any broken glass or crockery ware, send it here tomorrow and I will mend it." Of course, anyone with a little intelligence would know that I was joshing. . . .

The next morning while we were packing up three little girls came to the hall. One had a dinner plate with a piece missing, another had a yellow bowl with a whole section gone, the third had a milk pitcher with the handle broken off. "What do you want, little girls?" Billy inquired. "Mama said if you would please mend these dishes?" They had evidently taken me at my word. Billy told them that they were too late, the big pistol was packed away. The girls reluctantly went away with disappointment.

In these entertainment-starved small towns, Zamloch's show was an enormous success. "The people began to congregate in front of the door one hour before it was time to open it," he remarked. "By seven o'clock there was such a jam in front of the door that we had much difficulty in getting into the hall where there wasn't a back door. The same people came back the second and third time and were always pleased with the show."

The first example of inhospitable behavior Zamloch records occurred "at a way side hotel ... on our way to St. George." He does not name the town or the proprietor, so we have no way of identifying who these surly and greedy locals might be:

They gave us for supper carrots, potatoes and bacon. The bacon was so salty that we couldn't eat it. Our bed was in the garret with some straw scattered on the floor, with one thin blanket over the straw and another (just as thin) to cover us, but no pillows. A lot of old harness was scattered in one corner, and the biggest part of the floor was covered with onions about a foot deep drying and cobwebs everywhere. The roof was slanting and Billy couldn't raise his head without bumping it against the shingles of the roof as he was lying on the inside. They gave us a half inch piece of home made candle to go to bed by, and no apology for the shortness of it. I pulled a saddle from one corner and put it under my head for a pillow. Billy used his shoes for the same purpose. The driver slept in the stable with the horses, and we wished we did. It was a very cold night, the snow was about three feet deep and still snowing, some of it was blown on us through the cracks in the shingles.

In the morning I asked the landlord where we could wash. He pointed to a pump. It was frozen. After considerable exertion we managed to get a little water out of it. As for a towel, the landlord pointed to a roller towel, but it was not on a roller. It was standing up in a corner like a broom, frozen stiff, and judging by its color it must have been weeks since it had been washed. We wiped on our handkerchiefs.

We had the same fare for breakfast we had for supper. Billy asked the landlady whether it was left from supper. She turned up her nose and walked out of the room. I asked the landlord what our bill was. He replied, "Supper, lodging and breakfast, a dollar and a half each."

Those people didn't even treat us with respect. We didn't mind so much about the accommodations, if they had treated us civilly, but we were treated like tramps. The woman had a scowl on her face when she waited on us.

Zamloch also recorded watering the horses at a well owned by a Mormon who charged a dollar for each bucket of water.

In contrast, Silver Reef was "like getting back to San Francisco." Zamloch commented on the "first class hotels" and the "fresh oysters." His narrative continues:

We received a hearty welcome; they were hungry for a show. All the men we did business with were, "Hail fellows well met," and they always met us with a smile.

There we gave three performances and charged civilized prices: reserved seats $1.50; general admission, $1.00; children. $.50, and no one complained at the prices. The theatre was full every performance, and it was a great pleasure to Billy and me to be once more among our own kind of people. It was about Christmas that we were there and the local paper "Silver Reef Miner," the week following our performance said, "Christmas has past and gone, and like Zamloch's tricks, left nought but pleasant recollections."

Zamloch might well have felt he had spent Christmas among holiday folks. Silver Reef was named for the ledge of light-colored sandstone that "snakes its way" north and west of the little town of Leeds. Although nineteenth-century mineralogists "did not believe it possible for silver to be found in unaltered sandstone," Silver Reef yielded over $8.5 million in silver between 1872 when the mining district was organized and 1908 when the mine shut down. Its best year had come early—about 1877 when over $1.1 million worth of ore had come out of the ground. 7 It never reached that heyday again; but in 1882 the area was producing about $700,000 a year, certainly enough to buy a few oysters and fete a visiting magician.

In St. George, fourteen dusty miles away, the advance agent said he had not been allowed to "bill the town." A Mr. Harrison, explained: "My dear sir, we cannot let any one have the theatre without references. Have you a letter of recommendation from Bishop Hunter of Salt Lake City?" 8 Zamloch describes this Mr. Harrison as "a little Englishman, quite gentlemanly and well educated for a Mormon. . . . I found him to be a very decent fellow when I knew him better." 9 The bemused magician explained:

I had no letter of introduction or recommendation from anyone and never before had I been asked to furnish one during all my travels.

"How are we to know that your show is respectable?" he asked. I told him that we played in Salt Lake Theatre a whole week, and that I could show him the clippings from the "Deseret News." Then he said, "If you can show me a complimentary notice from the 'Deseret News' I will believe it." I went back to the wagon, opened a trunk and took out my scrap book of clippings, among them were several from the "Deseret News" of Salt Lake City. That paper was a church organ, and all "Good Mormons" had implicit confidence in its saying as that paper was never known to have a good word for a gentile if it could help it.

I returned with the clippings, handed them to him, and he read them (so did the "rubber necks" over his shoulder). After he finished reading he said, "Yes, these notices are very flattering. But how is one to know that it applies to you? Anyone could cut it out of the paper and claim it as his own." Just then a young man joined the group. He must have heard some of the conversation as he said, "Mr. Harrison, I will vouch for this man. I have seen him play in the Salt Lake Theatre. His show is respectable in every way, and above the average." That man's name was Young. He was running a small printing office and was well connected in St. George.10 "Mr. Young, if you will vouch for him then it is all right." Then to me, "What night do you wish to play? The rent is $5 in advance." "I want it for three nights, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday." (This was Sunday afternoon). "No, sir, we cannot permit you to show more than one night," was his answer, and he said it with some heat. "If that is the case, I will trouble you no further. We cannot afford to set up this show for one night. We will go back," and I started for the wagon.

While I was climbing into the wagon I heard the crowd arguing, someone said, "Rent him the theatre for three nights and make him pay in advance and the Bishop will forbid everybody to attend more than once."

That advice was not intended for me to hear, but they were getting excited and talked louder than they thought. Just as I was getting settled in my seat, Mr. Harrison called me back and said, "If I rent you the theatre for three nights, will you pay me $15 in advance?" I told him that I would. "What will you charge for admission?" he asked next. I told him $.50 for adults and $.25 for children. "We can never permit that. You charge $.25 for adults and $.15 for children." I didn't reply to this, but started for the wagon. They began to argue again, but this time I didn't hear what they said. W r hen I reached my seat on the wagon, Mr. Harrison called me back once more. He said, "We have decided to let you charge $.50 and $.25 but, of course, our town 'scrip'" I asked him what the "scrip" was worth, and he answered with some pride, "Our town 'scrip' is worth $.35 on the dollar and is as good as gold, and in a couple of years will be at par."

At this I was really beginning to lose my temper. I hollered to the driver (who was still on the seat and so was Billy), "Turn around, we are going back." I started for the wagon again, but this time I didn't intend to come back in case Harrison changed his mind. We were all on the wagon, including the agent. The driver had already turned around and we started off. Harrison was calling after me again, but we paid no attention. But on a little piece of raising ground a block from the starting point, the driver slowed up and Harrison caught up to us and was quite out of breath. "Stop just a moment," he said. We stopped. He said after recovering his breath, "We have come to the conclusion to let you charge whatever you want, as no one will be compelled to attend against his will."

We turned back, unloaded at the theatre and went to a private hotel which was kept by one of the wives of "Apostle" Snow (one of the twelve apostles of the Mormon Church). There we received good accommodation. The manager of the Co-op store came to me and said that he sold in the store tickets for all the shows that came to St. George. He said he charged five percent, besides he said, 'You can't sell them at the door because the people have no cash. I will have to take produce, but I will pay you cash for every ticket I sell, less five percent commission. And furthermore, all your tickets must be numbered to correspond with the seats in the theatre. Positively no one is permitted to stand up."

We didn't have any coupon tickets left, but we had some printed by Mr. Young (the man who recommended the show, and he was also the regular usher). Monday morning Billy and the agent began to bill the town. Such billing the town had never seen before, and I doubt if it has since. Mr. Young had the tickets printed by ten o'clock. I gave just enough of them to the store manager to cover every seat. At noon all the tickets were sold, and we could not sell any more as there were no more seats, and standing up was prohibited. In the evening when we opened the doors about two hundred people, mostly young men, were standing outside without tickets, but with half dollars in their hands ready to pay. But they knew that it was forbidden to stand up. Still they were ready to try the door keeper when no town official was near.

Billy, as usual, was at the door, and he was not a man that would refuse money at the door. Mr. Young (the usher) came along, and seeing the big mob around the door, knowing that they had no tickets, and fearing that some of them might try to smuggle in, warned Billy by saying. "Mr. Marx, those men outside have no tickets and you must not let them in."

The first time that Mr. Young left the door to show a couple their seats, one of the young fellows started to go in and offered Billy half a dollar. It was "a feeler" to see whether Billy would take it while the rest were watching the result. Billy took the money and shoved the man inside. Mr. Young, of course, didn't see it.

From that time on every time Mr. Young's back was turned Billy took half dollars as fast as they were handed to him. Finally, Mr. Young saw several people standing in different parts of the theatre, rushed over to Billy and asked, "Did everybody have a ticket that came in?" "Certainly," he replied. "Then there must be a window open," said Young. Just then a large crowd came in with tickets, and while Young was sitting them, Billy let in another big bunch. Mr. Young noticed that the standing room was being filled more and more, changed his opinion about some window being open and began to suspect the truth. He said to Billy somewhat excited,"Mr. Marx, that will never do. Where is Mr. Zamloch?" Billy told him that I was behind the stage. He came running in through the stage door and into my dressing room. He said with some excitement, "Mr. Zamloch, Mr. Marx is letting in people without tickets." "Tell Mr. Marx that I said that he must not let anybody in without tickets," I answered. While Mr. Young was behind the stage Billy let in everybody. When Mr. Young returned and saw every available space filled with people standing up, he protested no more. He saw that there was no use. Every night after that the side aisles were filled with people standing, and no more protests were made by anybody.

Every day before noon all the seats were sold. Our last performance was to be on Thursday. About four o'clock Thursday afternoon, Mr. Harrison came to the hotel to see me. This is what he had to say, "Mr. Zamloch, all the seats have been sold again for tonight, and tonight is your last performance and not a seat left. There are quite a number of our citizens who did not have an opportunity to attend your performance, and they have asked me to try to induce you to give one more performance tomorrow." I told him that we would with pleasure. . . .

Our next town was Toquerville. Our agent wrote that he had made arrangements in a private house for us to stop at as there was no hotel in the place. We didn't receive the news very cheerfully for ... it would be a case of carrots, salty bacon and turnips, same as we got in that way side hotel.

They arrived after dark, and it was after nine before they got the horses stabled. A local citizen helped them find the home of "the widow Mcintosh" where they were to stay. Sister Mcintosh was already in bed but was awakened by the travelers. Zamloch remembered the event as follows:

After I told her who we were, she said, "Didn't expect you 'til tomorrow. Have you had your supper?" (I thought she was a little cross.) I told her that we didn't, but that we were not hungry (a lie), all we wanted I told her was to be shown to our beds. "After I have this fire made I'll tend to you." She started to make a fire in the fire place in the parlor.

The fire was most welcome as it was a bitter cold night and my feet were nearly frozen. "Warm yourselves by the fire while I get you something to eat." I told her not to put herself out, we would go to bed without supper. "How could you go to sleep without a bite?" [she asked] and left us before a cheerful fire.

The room was unlike other Mormon houses that we had seen with bare floors and home made furniture with the pictures of Joe Smith and Brigham Young hanging on the wall. That room was well furnished, the floor was covered with a thick home made carpet, the furniture was upholstered, a large book case with glass doors and well filled with choice books, a ladies writing desk and a cottage organ.

The lady came in with an arm full of wood. She said, "If I only knew that you were coming tonight, I would [have] got up something fit for you to eat, but as it is, you will have to take what I can scrape together." "Mrs. Mcintosh, if you will give us some bread and butter and a cup of tea is all we want," I said. "Sure, you will not get much more," with that she disappeared.

Every time she passed through the room she said, "If I only knew that you were coming tonight," or "I haven't a thing fit for a gentleman to eat," etc. We began to fear that the bacon had given out and that we would get carrots and potatoes only. After waiting about thirty-five minutes the lady called us, "Gentlemen, your little lunch is ready such as it is. . . .

The layout before us [in the dining room] was such that it took my breath away. The surprise was the greater as we didn't expect anything like it. I can't explain that supper to do it justice. The table, instead of being covered with oilcloth such as we found in most Mormon houses, was covered with a white linen table cloth and snow white napkins, china dishes and Roger Bros, silverware, a larger platter of fried chicken, another contained a very large omelet, a dish of fried bacon (not too salty), potatoes mashed with cream, hot biscuits, a pitcher of fresh milk, fresh butter and strong coffee with thick cream. "If I only knew that you were coming tonight I would have prepared something fit to eat," she repeated.

"Madam, I am extremely sorry that we have put you to so much trouble, and so late at night and you need not apologize for this layout. It is the finest and the most tempting supper that we had in the whole of Utah, and it is fit for a king." I meant every word that I said. She replied, "Tomorrow I will try to cook something decent." That surely was an "Oasis in the desert."

Zamloch refers to her later as "the kind and generous Widow Mcintosh," and the stay in Toquerville remains a kind of reverently remembered high point of his tour of southern Utah. "In Tokerville we enjoyed every minute of our stay. The people were very sociable, and Mrs. Mcintosh out did herself in providing for us."

Unfortunately, the identity of this hospitable widow of Toquerville remains a mystery. The only woman with a similar name recorded in the 1880 census in southern Utah is Widow Mclntire, age sixty-two, but living in Pine Valley.

In complete contrast was their experience with hospitality in Centerville, obviously on another trip, since it would have involved a swing through the northern settlements. Zamloch does not suggest the time of this tour, but it was probably about 1882, the time of his travels through southern Utah as well.

Centerville had been founded in the early spring of 1848, about twelve miles north of Salt Lake City and about half-way between Bountiful and Farmington.11 Thus, it was more than thirty years old when Zamloch passed through, yet his portrayal of it gives an image of poverty, isolation, and provincialism that seems to belong to a much earlier frontier period.

Centerville had no hotel, and the bishop, whose house functioned as a sort of inn, was absent for several days. This was probably Nathan Cheney, one of the original settlers, who had been bishop since 1877. Zamloch thought they would have to drive straight on. But "as we drove into town, both sides of the street were lined with people as though they were watching a circus parade." When the manager of the co-op store said there was no place for them to stay, fate intervened.

Just then a woman across the street held up her hand for us to stop. She came up to the wagon and asked in a shrill voice, "Can't [find a] place t' stop?" She was one of those hatchet face women with a sharp pointed nose. One would imagine that those women who were drowned in Salem for witchcraft resembled her. "No," I replied. "We cannot find accommodations and we have to go away without giving a performance." "If ye kin put up wid what we got ye kin stop wid us," she said. I told her that we would be glad to, but I was afraid that it would inconvenience her. She said that it would be no trouble. I thanked her, and said that we would accept her invitation. "Alright, that's my house across the way. I'll call you when supper is ready." Then she "scooted" in the snow back to her house.

We looked at the house into which she went. It was a small one story shack. It didn't seem to have more than three rooms, but we thought that there might be some addition to it at the back. We drove to the theatre and unloaded. The teamster drove to the stable and Billy and I started towards the "hotel." I knocked on the front door (which opened into the kitchen). The lady opened and said "Supper will be soon ready, then I'll call ye," and shut the door in my face. That meant for us to stand outside in the snow until called.

Billy and I were walking in front of the rickety gate trying to keep warm. It was very cold, about two feet of snow on the ground. It was getting dark and no sign of supper, then the teamster joined us, and the three of us were walking up and down in snow in front of that shack. After waiting fully one hour we were called in. The supper was laid on the kitchen table which was covered with a red oil cloth. The floor was not level, under one of the legs of the table was a brick, so as to make the table stand more level. The floor was of adobe and it had several holes in it. . . . The supper, shared with the family of six children, consisted of mashed potatoes, hot biscuits and tea, no butter, not even beans, and the familiar bacon was missing. "Help yourselves," said the man, and neither of them apologized for the scantiness of the meal. That looked ominous. They were evidently used to that fare, and we couldn't expect anything better the next day. We ate up everything that was on the table and were still hungry at the end. . . .

"I don't know what we're goin' to do about sleepen. Have ye got blankets wid ye?" the woman asked. "No," I replied. "We are not prepared for camping out. We stop at hotels and they furnish such things."

"I don't know how we kin fix it. We only have two rooms and two beds. Me and the old man sleep in one bed wid de two boys, and de four girls sleep in de other. But we kin take two girls into our bed and ye kin all squeeze into de other bed. (That was a hard proposition.)

"Madam," I said, "I will tell you what we will do. If you will furnish us with plenty of wood to keep this stove going, two of us will sleep on the table and one on the floor, and use our overcoats for blankets. "All right. Here is the ax and the wood pile is outside, an I'll get ye a lantern," she said.

Outside was the wood pile under two feet of snow which consisted of trees of different sizes, just as they were chopped down in the woods and the branches trimmed off and dragged over the snow to the house. The smallest was about the size of a telegraph pole.

After Zamloch kept up a roaring fire through the first watch, he fell asleep and woke to find Billy, who had the second watch, warmly wrapped in the curtain from the stage set, sound asleep. Zamloch put on his coat and spent the rest of the night walking around town to keep warm. He returned to the house in the morning for breakfast and recalled this scene:

Billy and the driver [were] walking up and down in front of the rusty fence gate waiting for breakfast. . . . [Billy] asked, "Do you think that we will get anything decent for breakfast?" 'Yes, of course," I replied. 'You see the supper last night was their usual fare, and they didn't expect anybody and didn't prepare anything extra. You wait and see the difference this morning."

In about an hour we were called to breakfast. Mashed potatoes, biscuits and coffee without milk and no butter.

Zamloch then went to the grocery store, bought the only dressed chicken to be had, and took it back to his landlady with some butter, a dozen eggs, and a great deal of tact. "I was afraid that the lady might be a little sensitive," he explains, "and didn't wish to have her know that we were dissatisfied with the fare." He told the landlady that he had won the chicken in a raffle and was adding it to their dinner fare. Billy gloomily predicted that the six children would get it all; and sure enough, at noon dinner, the father served each of the six children a piece, leaving only a wing tip on the plate for Zamloch.

Zamloch's party survived supper by eating cheese and crackers and smoked herrings at the theatre12 and made an excuse to leave the next day for Ogden, after paying fifty cents apiece per meal and fifty cents for the privilege of sleeping on the floor. Zamloch's arrangement was that the teamster paid his own expenses out of the eight dollars a day, but in this case, Zamloch paid his, too, as "I didn't want him to be imposed upon. . . . He really was a good fellow, even if he was a Mormon."

This experience concluded Zamloch's record of his excursions through Mormon country. It did not end his travels, of course; and his adventures in Mexico and Hawaii merit additional attention. When he retired, however, he seems to have done it with no regrets. The 1910 census-taker found An tone F. Zamlich [sic] living contentedly in Oakland, California, at age sixty-one with his wife, Elizabeth, nine years his junior. At this point, four children were still apparently contented members of the household: thirty-year-old Antonette, twentysix-year-old Claude, twenty-four-year-old Archie, and Carl, age twenty. Anton died at the age of eighty-three.

Zamloch seems to have been a genial and gentle observer of the Mormon scene. His extensive memoir contains not the slightest hint that he knew anything about Mormon doctrine or cared to learn. He evaluates Mormonism by Mormons and how they behaved, and he seldom indulges in generalizations beyond the individuals he describes. Instead he leaves us memorable portraits—the gouging and inhospitable family at the hotel outside St. George, the gratefully remembered Widow Mcintosh of Toquerville, the poor but hospitable family of Centerville, and his own colorful troupe braving the weather and distances to entertain local audiences with wondrous feats of magic.

NOTES

Mr Zolman is a family historian living in Salt Lake City He encountered the memoir from which this article is taken while working with a genealogical client, Archer W Zamloch II, grandson of George Anton Zamloch Mr Zolman acknowledges with appreciation the excellent editorial assistance received from Lavina Fielding Anderson and Larry L Piatt.

1 George Anton Zamloch, "Zamloch Travels," carbon of typescript, 1912, 344 pp. in possession of Archer W. Zamloch II who lives in Los Angeles, California.

2 Ira A. Glazier and P. William Filby, Germans to America: Lists of Passengers Arriving at U.S. Ports (Wilmington: Scholarly Resources, Inc., 1991), 15:195 In 1878-79 the San Francisco city directory lists him as a waiter at the New York Bakery.

3 George A Thompson and Fraser Buck, Treasure Mountain Home: Park City Revisited (Salt Lake City: Dream Garden Press, 1981), p 45.

4 Ibid., p. 47.

5 Ibid., p. 48.

6 Zamloch does not identify the hotel, but Park City in the early 1880s had three prominent ones: the Salt Lake House in the center of town, the Park City Hotel, and the Park Hotel Ibid., p 46.

7 Paul Dean Proctor and Morris A Shirts, Silver, Sinners, and Saints: A History of Old Silver Reef, Utah (n.p.: Paulmar, Inc., 1991), p 24.

8 AndrewJenson, Latter-day Saint Biographical Encyclopedia, 4 vols (Salt Lake City, 1901), 1:227—32 This Bishop Hunter is almost certainly Edward Hunter, the third presiding bishop, who had considerable oversight of the ward bishops scattered throughout Utah during his term of office, April 7, 1851-October 16, 1883 A prosperous Quaker businessman when hejoin the LDS church in Philadelphia, he was a bishop in both Nauvoo and Winter Quarters, then became bishop of the Thirteenth Ward in Salt Lake City in February 1849 When Newell K Whitney died in 1850, Hunter was appointed to succeed him Although I am not aware of his giving traveling entertainers letters of recommendation, he did have corrsiderable correspondence with the bishops, particular during the exchanges of tithing in kind which involved transferring or crediting herds of cattle and loads of wheat throughout the territory.

9 The identity of this "little Englishman" is not clear The 1880 census of Washington County shows four Harrison men, but none of them lived in St George Peter Harrison, age fifty, was a furniture dealer and lived in Silver Reef. The other three lived in Pine Valley. Richard Harrison had been born in England, the only one of the four who could be said to be an "Englishman," but in addition to living in Pine Valley, he was seventy-two John H Harrison, age forty-four, was a farmer, and Brigham Harrison, age twenty-two, was a freighter.

10 It is possible that this young printer was Lorenzo Dow Young, the sixth child among Brigham Young's and Emmeline Free Young's ten children. St. George, according to the 1880 census, had ttvo printers: Charles Ellis Johnson and Joseph W. Carpenter. Johnson, then age twenty-three and a native of England, had a nineteen-year-old wife, Ruth Young Johnson, the daughter of Brigham Young and Emmeline Free Young She had been born March 4, 1861, and at age seventeen married Charles on January 31, 1878 Living with Ruth and Charles at the time the census was taken was Ardelle (name written by the census-taker as "Adella") Young, Ruth's fifteen-year-old sister; so it is possible that another of Ruth's siblings could have been sharing the household two years later and working with her husband Ruth had three surviving brothers, two of them already married The third was Lorenzo Young, born in 1856; he was five years older than Ruth and thus would have been about twenty-four at the time of Zamloch's visit. He had returned from a two-year mission to Europe in 1878 but waited to marry until age forty (1896). As a side note, Ardelle married a man named Frank Harrison. Could he be the "little Englishman"? If so, then the recommendation of his brother-in-law would have cleared the way for Zamloch's magic show.

11 Mabel S Randall, "Centerville," East ofAntelope Island, 4th ed (n.p.: Daughters of Utah Pioneers, North Davis County Company, 1971), pp. 60-73.

12 Centerville had no formal theatre during this period; most likely he meant the substantial rock meetinghouse, which had been built a few years earlier in 1879 or, less likely, the stone school/meeting place for the Sunday School and Primary which had been constructed in 1864 Ibid., p 66 The Young Men's Club, organized in 1872, had built themselves a "substantial rock building known as the Young Men's Hall for a meeting place for study and debates and to house a collection of books." Ibid., p. 67. Zamloch's references to "the theatre" and its apparent location near the center of town suggest the meetinghouse.