This paper was not the very first, but was one of the first papers I ever delivered at a conference. I’m posting it here because of something that came up on Threads recently. I regret that I cannot post the illustrations, although I hope someday in the not distant future to be able to post them. (As a testament to how far we have come in such matters, note that my illustrations in 2002 were not PowerPoint, but old-fashioned transparencies that I had to change by hand as I was speaking.
Hatumai: Wizard of the Wasatch
Ardis E. Parshall
Utah State History Association Annual Meeting, 2002
Proposal:
“Out of the cavernous canyons of the Wasatch, shaking off the misty mystery of centuries, in all his magic splendor and mystifying majesty, the Wizard of the Wasatch will come into the city of Salt Lake on the evening of August 9 …”
There was a time when Salt Lake City had ambitions – not entirely unrealistic – of rivaling New Orleans as a destination city for revelers. Civic boosters hosted a series of successful annual carnivals featuring festival kings, “salt princesses,” electrical parades, processions of decorated automobiles, and roped-off blocks downtown where music, dancing, vendors, and novelty acts entertained thousands of partygoers late into the night.
By far the most successful of the carnivals was the series featuring “Hatumai, Wizard of the Wasatch” and his consort “Sirrah, Queen of the Oquirrhs.” Salt Lakers created an elaborate back-story for the couple, whom they hoped would eclipse the King of the Mardi Gras, at least in the western states. Prominent citizens vied for the honor of portraying Hatumai and Sirrah, who wore gorgeous robes and were escorted on their inspection tours of their favorite city by legions of costumed imps and gnomes, many of whom had their own mystical names and back-stories. Contests rewarded local poets, songsters, and artists who celebrated the legend of Hatumai (a few contest relics lie unnoticed in Utah archives today). A semi-secret organization showed signs of evolving into a lodge with a ritual, officers, and progressive degrees, all based on the newly-created legend of a benign spirit who delighted in promoting the fortunes of Salt Lake City.
And then it all abruptly ended. While New Orleans’ Mardi Gras and Omaha’s Ak-Sar-Ben survived to become prominent features of their respective cities, Salt Lake’s Wizard of the Wasatch returned to his cavern in the hills east of town, his acolytes disbanded, and his name forgotten.
Might he still be languishing there, awaiting an invitation to return?
—
This paper will chronicle the history of Salt Lake City’s early twentieth-century civic parties from the first “flower festivals” through the demise of the secular carnivals, leaving a vacuum that was later only partially filled by “Covered Wagon Days” and “Days of ’47” celebrations. Most attention will be paid to the Hatumai legend. Without making an explicit case, this paper will offer some suggestions and cautions applicable to the current mayoral and city council effort to create a night life in downtown Salt Lake City.
Research has been conducted primarily through newspapers, with some work in civic and club records. I have also made a search for artifacts and plan to illustrate the paper with photographs of the parades and the costumed portrayers of Hatumai and Sirrah, and, if I can secure the necessary artistic assistance, a sampling of the poetry and music associated with Hatumai.
Utah State History Association Annual Meeting, 2002
“Out of the cavernous canyons of the Wasatch, shaking off the misty mystery of centuries, in all his magic splendor and mystifying majesty, the Wizard of the Wasatch will come into the city of Salt Lake on the evening of August 9 …”
To most readers of the Salt Lake newspapers in the years before the First World War, those words made perfect sense. They knew that the Wizard of the Wasatch was named Hatumai, that he lived in a cavern far up City Creek Canyon with his consort, Queen Sirrah of the Oquirrhs, that he was attended by legions of imps and necromancers and fairies, and that Salt Lake was his favorite city. If asked how they knew all that, most would have feigned wide-eyed surprise at your ignorance – then they might have taken you aside and let you in on the secret:
[transparency: Hatumai/Sirrah] Hatumai was the great Spirit of the state, the one who eons ago had laid down the veins of precious metals and conditioned the soil to bring forth fruits and flowers and grains. He had guarded the native Indians and guided the pioneers and miners, and once each year he visited his capital city to inspect the progress his people had made. Most Salt Lakers would not have been so crass as to tell you directly the meaning of his name, but they might suggest that you read his name in a new way, or hint that “the last shall be first, and the first shall be last.”
If you were really dense, or insisted that as a hard-headed businessman you had no time for such nonsense, some member of the Salt Lake Commercial Club might drag you down to the “Cave” – known in more mundane seasons of the year as the basement of the Commercial Club building – and tell you about Fisher Sanford Harris. [transparency: Harris/Hatumai]
Harris, who listed his profession as “optimist,” would have made a success wherever he landed, but he landed in Salt Lake and made this town his town, its people his people. He arrived as a 21-year-old in 1886 with little more to his credit than a pretty bride, the soft cadences of his native Virginia, and an uncanny ability to make friends. One Salt Lake businessman wrote:
Far too often is it the case that the first good word ever published of a man’s life is in his epitaph; and that is not said until after he is … dead! … I am going to say a kind word for a man who is actually alive and in the enjoyment of reasonably good health. … No one will be more surprised than he to see this in print. The only apology or reason I shall give for saying what I do about the man is that I like him. I not only want others to know it, but above all I want the man himself to know it.
His eulogizer noted that Harris had spent most of his Salt Lake life as a hotel clerk, a humble position of registering guests, distributing keys and letters, one that paid so poorly that Harris never owned his own home. But Harris
knew every guest by name, for each of whom he always had a smile and a kind word. … If there was one thing in the whole world that he could do better than any other it was to talk … the purest and the sweetest of English. He, with an ease that was proverbial, could always find the right word and put it in its right place. I doubt exceedingly that he had an equal in the state; indeed I feel warranted in saying that it has not been my pleasure to meet his peer at any time or place, for plain Anglo-Saxon.
Harris loved Utah and found it to be a magical place. He loved its scenery, believed its natural resources exceeded those of any other place, and had faith that its people were the wisest, the most industrious, destined to surpass every other people on earth. Typically, when he had rallied the businessmen of Salt Lake and organized its first Commercial Club, he would accept no position loftier than that of its secretary, preferring not to lead but to lift and boost and be the servant of all.
“Mr. Harris,” wrote another biographer, “acquired a very widespread reputation as an orator. He had the power of swaying his hearers … by the magic of his eloquence, and Salt Lake owes to him the presence of a number of conventions, literally entranced by his silvery voice to vote for the Utah metropolis.”
The legend of the Wizard of the Wasatch was born in the brain of Fisher Harris one evening in 1908 while he stood in the crush of people throwing confetti and enjoying yet another parade he had organized for the entertainment of yet another convention he had brought to Utah.
There is more romance and beauty hidden in the history of these hills and valleys around us than in any other part of the earth [he said]. That beauty and romance has lain hidden away long enough. It should now be brought out and exhibited to the world. If worked into a carnival it will bring to Salt Lake thousands of people annually, and it will soon become famous the world over. Other cities of the United States have their annual carnivals, but they haven’t nearly as much to back them in the way of romance and beauty as has Utah.
Harris asked for suggestions on how Salt Lake might implement a carnival that would rival the Mardi Gras of New Orleans or the Veiled Prophet of St. Louis. Call it the “Carnival Escalante,” suggested one; “King Copper Carnival,” volunteered another; “The Wizard of the Wasatch,” offered a third.
The Wizard of the Wasatch … Something about it caught the imagination of Fisher Harris, and overnight – literally, overnight – the legend of the Wizard took shape. The newspapers announced:
Fisher Harris, secretary of the Commercial club, optimist, booster, secretary of the dry farming congress and prime mover in a hundred things that has meant the advancement of this city and state, has a new title. He has been appointed official scribe to the “Wizard of the Wasatch …”
As official scribe, Harris received his orders directly from Hatumai and transmitted them to the members of the Commercial Club, who reorganized themselves during carnival season as the Wards of the Wizard of the Wasatch. The Wards discovered, under the influence of Harris, that they had alternate personas as members of the Wizard’s retinue. One learned, for example, that he was Hultzilopochtil, the Chief Necromancer, and another that he was Blowit, a herald. Others Wards represented the spirits of rain and thunder, and learned that they had staged a rebellion against their master when the first Wizard’s parade was rained out; they were not allowed to ride in their chariots during the rescheduled parade, but followed the Wizard on foot, in shackles and shame.
[transparency: program cover] With Harris’s encouragement, the Wards were not at all modest in their plans for the annual carnivals, as the official title of the 1914 program shows. They managed to pack an unbelievable number of elaborate events into each of the three-day festivals.
Three days translated into four, five or even six parades. Automobiles were still novelties in those years, so a parade of decorated cars, trucks, and motorcycles was a yearly feature. [transparency: Pushmobile] The judges awarded prizes to the best decorated Pierce-Arrow or Hudson, or the prettiest car driven by a woman; the prizes included luxury add-ons, like speedometers, horns, and even car trunks, as well as cash, and the cash was awarded in gold coins. [transparency: Hupmobile] Hundreds of cars registered for the parade – and no wonder, after most of the cars in town had been earlier tagged with bright orange placards reading: “[R]eward to any person or persons who will furnish the name of the man who is too mean to decorate his automobile and enter the big automobile parade August 22. For further information, … call Wards of the Wizard.”
Because the festivals were intended to highlight Utah progress, one yearly parade focused on Utah’s people – mothers pushing baby carriages, schools and fraternal organizations marching together, and military units in formation. [transparency: newsboys] Salt Lake’s newsboys, who had recently been organized into a junior police force as much to tame the lawless tendencies of the hard-living youngsters as to use them as informants, proudly wore their uniforms and showed off their newly-acquired marching skills. Yet another parade was dedicated to commerce, where the sponsors of the festivals could enter floats advertising their businesses. [transparency: commercial floats]
By far the favorite of the yearly parades, however, was the illuminated night-time parade escorting the Wizard and his Queen into the city. This parade was a tightly controlled one, where artists designed floats following the year’s theme. [transparency: floats under construction] Sponsors built the floats, but no advertising was allowed, and no modifications from the artist’s designs were permitted. One year the theme was the Wizard’s domain, with floats representing minerals, fire, water, fruits, flowers, the sun, the moon. Another year the theme was legendary characters ranging from Columbia, to Robinson Crusoe, to the stars of the funny papers. [transparency: artist’s rendering] The floats in these parades were linked to the overhead electrical lines that propelled the street cars; in contrast to city streets that were not yet routinely lighted at night, these illuminated floats were as magical as Fisher Harris could have wished. [transparency: illuminated floats]
The last floats in the illuminated parades bore the king and queen of the carnival, prominent local citizens whose identities were concealed until the evening of the parade. All carnival visitors were encouraged to wear masks and costumes, and fall into the parade after the Wizard’s float passed, and escort the royal couple to a hall where a formal ball was held, sponsored by the governor, the mayor, chief officers from Fort Douglas, and social figures from around the state. [transparencies: Sirrah; Hatumai and Sirrah] (Queen Sirrah posed for her picture every year, but photos of Hatumai are surprisingly difficult to find)
Citizens who preferred a more free-wheeling form of amusement repaired to the “Gulch,” an area on Second East from Third to Fourth South, fenced off and devoted to what was discretely called “the spirit of revelry.” There the bands that had provided music for the parades played until midnight while partyers danced in the streets and the tented dance hall. Booths and tents offered vaudeville acts, magic shows, exotic animals. City police were hard-put to maintain basic standards of public decency: they threatened to close down the python exhibit unless chickens were humanely killed before being fed to the snake; they threatened to close down the “for men only” tent, until an officer paid to go inside, then exited with a sheepish look on his face – the newspapers do not reveal what was displayed there, but it evidently was not what the officer feared. Worst of all, from the point of view of the police, David O. McKay, and editorialists for the Deseret News was the lewd and lascivious dancing that occurred in full public view on the streets: young people were shamelessly, shockingly, daringly dancing to RAGTIME music!! No one was arrested for such behavior at the Gulch, although a young man had been arrested at Saltair a week earlier and sentenced to ten days’ jail time for “unlawfully and wilfully and with intent to commit a misdemeanor, engag[ing] in an improper and obscene dance, commonly known as ‘ragging,’ contrary to the provisions of the law.”
Such immoral nighttime displays were hardly the only events that caused palpitations during Salt Lake’s festivals. Plenty of hearts were set to pounding by the daily displays. In 1913, most Salt Lakers had their first clear view of an airplane, when Silas Christofferson, the Birdman of San Francisco, brought two biplanes to town. His 15-minute flights took place morning and afternoon; a siren at the train depot alerted residents to his imminent take-offs, and thousands of people rushed to the streets and stood with their faces turned upwards. Sometimes Christofferson took off from North Temple near the Jordan River and landed near Fort Douglas; other flights ran the other way. During all flights, watchers held their breath as Christofferson dipped low over the spires of the temple; until they became comfortable with the way the plane dipped below their sight line when landing, watchers feared that the disappearing plane had crashed. Christofferson gave daily interviews about the perils of flying in thin mountain air with unpredictable currents flowing from the canyons, insisting it was far too dangerous for him to allow any passenger to ride with him. Such interviews, of course, stirred yet more interest in the next day’s flights.
Whether they were aware of the symbolism or not, Salt Lake festival-goers did a lot of such upward gazing. One year a traveling salesman stopped in Salt Lake to peddle a new fire escape he had developed. A user unafraid of heights could propel himself down a wire from the upper floors of hotels, using an ingenious braking device to slow his descent. It didn’t take long for a resourceful Ward of the Wizard to recognize the potential of this fire escape as a carnival stunt; the salesman stayed for the festival and leaped from the top of the Walker Building to the pavement below, time and time again, to the delighted terror of his audience. Not to be outdone by an amateur, the Salt Lake Fire Department raised its highest ladder, and firemen took turns jumping into rescue nets held by their fellows.
This competitiveness of the firemen extended to the athletic field, where an ongoing rivalry with the police department was played out. The Wards of the Wizard invested a sizable amount in a huge leather pushball. The goal of this “reverse tug-of-war” was for one team to overpower the pushers on the other side, and propel the heavy ball over a goal line. [transparencies: Policeman/Fireman w/Pushball; Pushball team; Pushball action]
As this photo grouping suggests, a rodeo was part of every carnival. In addition to the usual races and competitions, a group of Murray horsewomen displayed their riding skills and fancy costumes, [transparency: cowboys] and other groups performed complicated choreography on horseback. There were staged “cowboys-and-Indians” battles as well – the record seems to indicate that the cowboys always won.
Although the Wizard of the Wasatch festivals were wildly successful in terms of local participation and the number of tourists they drew, the Commercial Club, under new officers in 1916, decided to try some innovations. [transparency: copper plate] Early that summer, Salt Lake newspaper readers learned of the discovery of an ancient copper plate in a nearby canyon, covered with mysterious symbols. Of course, in Utah the report of such a discovery provoked a different response than it might have drawn elsewhere and soon a battle was raging between those who were sure the artifact represented an ancient American civilization and those who scoffed at such an idea. The scoffers were vindicated when further artifacts were found; this time, symbols painted on plates – real, china, dinner plates. [transparency: Salt Princess poster] Soon Herbert S. Auerbach provided the translation of the symbols in a series of stories about No-ni-shee, an Indian princess who had been banished by her father and found refuge in a cave by the Great Lake, which she transformed into the Great Salt Lake through her copious tears. The 1916 carnival became the Festival of the Salt Princess, and incorporated all of the features of the Wizard of the Wasatch carnivals.
A novel feature of the Festival of the Salt Princess was a huge arch spanning the width of Main Street at South Temple. [transparencies: architect’s rendering; arch under construction] The central arch was 75 feet tall and wide enough to allow the street car to pass through. It was flanked by two smaller arches allowing for the passing of wagons and motorcars, and the whole was sprayed with bath after bath of salt water until it became thickly crusted with salt crystals. It became a triumphal arch through which all the parades passed that summer.
The Salt Lake Commercial Club announced at the end of the 1916 festival that they planned to continue the annual carnival, either as the Festival of the Salt Princess or with some newly-invented central character. By carnival season of 1917, however, the United States had entered World War I, and Utah, anxious to cement its still-shaky position as a loyal and most patriotic state, threw all her energy into martial drills, patriotic displays, and Red Cross work. The world changed during the years of the war and the terrors of the flu epidemic with which it closed, and Salt Lake put aside the naive and whimsical boosting of its pre-war youth to focus instead on the serious adult business of women’s rights, child labor, and liquor control. Hat-um-ai, and Sirrah, and No-ni-shee retired to their mountain caverns or lonely lakeside retreats, and so far as I have been able to learn, their names have never since been publicly honored until this meeting today.
Have they left us forever, or might they still be waiting patiently for an invitation to return? If all the talk of prolonging the Olympic spirit, or reviving Salt Lake’s business prosperity and sense of fun, are really Hat-um-ai’s whispers, here are some lessons a modern-day Fisher Harris might catch from the Wasatch breezes:
The early festivals had a unifying theme. It isn’t enough to have random musical acts and graffiti-covered plywood pyramids cluttering downtown streets. The early Salt Lake festivals were far more than momentary amusement or excuses for sidewalk sales. They brought people together to celebrate one grand theme: Utah is great and growing ever greater. We her people share Utah’s present greatness and future glory.
The celebrations caught people’s imagination with their charm and playfulness. The Wizard of the Wasatch festivals were not slick productions by professional showmen, nor were they manipulative sales pitches for their sponsors. The people of Utah were themselves the entertainment: They decorated their own automobiles and watched each other drive by. They created the carnival atmosphere of the Gulch by wearing their own costumes, laughing at the costumes of their friends, and, yes, even shocking each other by their scandalous ragtime dancing. They created their own personas within the Wizard’s retinue, and above all they shared in the joke of pretending to believe the legend of the Wizard, much as everyone old enough to share in the secret of Santa Claus today conspires to indulge the fantasies of small children.
Perhaps most importantly for the hair-trigger sensitivities of Utah, the Wizard of the Wasatch festivals were utterly inclusive. There was not the slightest hint of a Mormon/non-Mormon divide. There was no need to strain the definition of “pioneer” to include all peoples, nor any excuse to feel that the pioneers of 1847 were slighted by the effort to include others. Instead, as his name so explicitly stated, Hat-um-ai was Utah, and anyone – Mormon, Jew or Gentile, newcomer or first family, of European, American, or any other origin – could celebrate an affection for Utah with no other strings attached.
Is Hat-um-ai still waiting in the Wasatch? Does Sirrah still preside over the Oquirrhs? I hope so.
Long live the Wizard!