The Autobiography of Parley Parker Pratt One of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Embracing His Life, Ministry, and Travels — Reading Companion

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Pratt, Parley P. (Parley Parker), 1807-1857, Pratt, Parley P. (Parley Parker), 1837-1897 [Editor] Project Gutenberg 2014 Not confirmed
Pratt, Parley P. (Parley Parker), 1807-1857; Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints -- Apostles -- Biography Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 161,515
Reading time 703 min
Text sections 17

The source record for The Autobiography of Parley Parker Pratt One of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Embracing His Life, Ministry, and Travels — Reading Companion measures this digital text at 161,515 words, 11 hr 43 min estimated reading time, and 17 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 25.2 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Pratt, Parley P. (Parley Parker), 1807-1857,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Parley P. Pratt's autobiography, edited by his son, blends firsthand missionary narrative with poetic interludes. The text shifts between vivid prison visions and precise travelogue, revealing a voice that oscillates between spiritual rapture and legal frustration.
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This did not satisfy me; for it was plain and manifest perversion of common sense and language easy to be understood. It was as much as to say: Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to the Apostles; and the Apostles that believe and are baptized shall be saved; and the Apostles that believe not shall be damned; and these signs shall follow the Apostles that believe. Thus, by logical consistency, confining the whole commission and gospel to the Apostles, with all its benefits, by the same rule that we would confine the promise of the signs following to them.

CHAPTER III. ------------------------

Reverses:--Loss of our Farm:--Strange Resolve:--Travels West:--Forest Life:--Another New Farm.

Time passed; harvest came; a fine crop, but no market; and consequently the payment came due on our land and there was no means of payment.

The winter rolled round; spring came again; and with it a prosecution on the part of Mr. Morgan for money due on land. The consequence was that all our hard earnings, and all our improvements in the wilderness, were wrested from us in a moment. Mr. Morgan retained the land, the improvements and the money paid.

Weary and disconsolate, I left the country and my father, who took charge of our crops and all unsettled business.

I spent a few months with my uncles, Ira and Allen Pratt, in Wayne County, N. Y., and in the autumn of 1826 I resolved to bid farewell to the civilized world--where I had met with little else but disappointment, sorrow and unrewarded toil; and where sectarian divisions disgusted and ignorance perplexed me--and to spend the remainder of my days in the solitudes of the great West, among the natives of the forest.

There, at least, thought I, there will be no buying and selling of lands,--no law to sweep all the hard earnings of years to pay a small debt,--no wranglings about sects, and creeds, and doctrines. I will win the confidence of the red man; I will learn his language; I will tell him of Jesus; I will read to him the Scriptures; I will teach him the arts of peace; to hate war, to love his neighbor, to fear and love God, and to cultivate the earth. Such were my resolutions.

In October, 1826, I took leave of my friends and started westward. I paid most of my money in Rochester for a small pocket Bible, and continued my journey as far as Buffalo. At this place I engaged a passage for Detroit, on board a steamer; as I had no money, I agreed to work for the same.

After a rough passage and many delays, I was at length driven by stress of weather to land at Erie, in Pennsylvania; from whence I travelled by land till I came to a small settlement about thirty miles west of Cleveland, in the State of Ohio. The rainy season of November had now set in; the country was covered with a dense forest, with here and there a small opening made by the settlers, and the surface of the earth one vast scene of mud and mire; so that travelling was now very difficult, if not impracticable.

Alone in a land of strangers, without home or money, and not yet twenty years of age, I became discouraged, and concluded to stop for the winter; I procured a gun from one of the neighbors; worked and earned an axe, some breadstuff and other little extras, and retired two miles into a dense forest and prepared a small hut, or cabin, for the winter. Some leaves and straw in my cabin served for my lodging, and a good fire kept me warm. A stream near my door quenched my thirst; and fat venison, with a little bread from the settlements, sustained me for food. The storms of winter raged around me; the wind shook the forest, the wolf howled in the distance, and the owl chimed in harshly to complete the doleful music which seemed to soothe me, or bid me welcome to this holy retreat. But in my little cabin the fire blazed pleasantly, and the Holy Scriptures and a few other books occupied my hours of solitude. Among the few books in my cabin, were McKenzie's travels in the Northwest, and Lewis and Clark's tour up the Missouri and down the Columbia rivers.

Spring came on again; the woods were pleasant, the flowers bloomed in their richest variety, the birds sung pleasantly in the groves; and, strange to say, my mind had become attached to my new abode. I again bargained for a piece of forest land; again promised to pay in a few years, and again commenced to clear a farm and build a house.

Parley P. Pratt's autobiography, edited by his son, opens with a preface that frames the work as both a personal record and a piece of church history. The narrative voice is immediately distinctive: Pratt writes with a lawyer's eye for detail and a preacher's cadence, often shifting between precise descriptions of physical settings and ecstatic accounts of spiritual experiences. In the excerpt from his imprisonment, for instance, he moves from the "doleful noise of the guards" to a vision of his deceased wife, whose "soft hand seemed placed within my own." This juxtaposition of harsh reality and transcendent comfort defines the book's emotional range.

Prison and Vision: A Shift in Register

The most striking passage in the excerpts recounts a vision Pratt experienced while imprisoned in Richmond, Missouri. The language here is markedly different from the surrounding legal and narrative prose. Pratt describes his wife's spirit with a tenderness that feels almost novelistic: "a glowing cheek was laid in tenderness and warmth upon mine." The dialogue that follows is terse and oracular—her answers are given in capital letters: "YES" and "THAT THING IS NOT MADE KNOWN TO ME YET." This shift from descriptive to dialogic, from earthly to otherworldly, creates a sudden change in pace. The reader moves from the slow grind of imprisonment to a compressed, almost theatrical exchange. Pratt then returns to the prison's "doleful noise," but now "Heaven and hope were in my soul." The vision functions as a narrative pivot, altering the emotional trajectory of the captivity account.

Landscape as Relief and Symbol

After months in a "dark and loathsome dungeon," Pratt's description of his transfer to Columbia, Boone County, is a study in contrast. The prose expands into a lyrical catalogue of natural beauty: "the leaves on the trees were full grown, and the forest presented a freshness of beauty and loveliness which reminded me of Paradise." The pace slows, lingering on "wild flowers of the prairie" and "sweet odors on every breeze." This is not mere scene-setting; it is a deliberate counterpoint to the cramped, foul prison. Pratt uses the landscape to mark a psychological release. The careful enumeration of sensory details—sight, smell, touch—suggests a narrator reawakening to the world. Yet the passage is undercut by the knowledge that he remains in chains, "coupled together in pairs, with irons locked on our wrists." The beauty is real but temporary, a respite before an uncertain trial.

The Judge's Guilt: A Study in Body Language

Pratt's portrayal of Judge Austin A. King is notable for its focus on physical demeanor rather than legal argument. King "hung his head and looked like a culprit before his betters about to receive his doom." Pratt reads the judge's body as a text of guilt: "The looks of guilt and misery portrayed in his countenance during that brief interview bespoke more of misery than we had suffered during our confinement." This inversion—the judge as the truly suffering figure—is a rhetorical move that shifts moral authority. Pratt claims to "actually pity him in my heart," a gesture that elevates the prisoner above the judge. The scene is brief but dense, compressing power dynamics into a single, awkward encounter. Pratt's narrative voice here is coolly observational, almost clinical, which makes the emotional claim of pity all the more striking.

Readers should attend to the way Pratt modulates his voice across different contexts: the legalistic precision of his complaints, the lyrical expansiveness of his natural descriptions, and the compressed intensity of his visionary dialogues. The autobiography is not a single, steady narrative but a series of tonal shifts that reflect the extremes of his life—from dungeon to prairie, from despair to revelation. These changes in pace and register are the book's most distinctive feature, offering a window into how Pratt experienced and made sense of his tumultuous world.

Reading Pratt’s prison visions, I remembered sitting alone one winter evening, tracing my grandfather’s journal entries about his own westward crossings. The same ache for a promised land surfaced in Memoirs of John R. Young, Utah Pioneer, 1847 — Context and Discussion, where young John’s quiet faith felt like a hand on my shoulder across the years. Both books whisper that endurance can be holy.

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