For the Times and Seasons.
March 14, 1842.
President Joseph Smith:—
I see, in the last ‘War saw Signal,’ a very wanton and ungen tlemanly attack upon yourself, made by the of that paper. The editor’s article, however, is in perfect keeping with his fell and natural spirit for calum niating the innocent and oppressed. I have, for some time past, been a con stant reader of that paper, and feel my self perfectly safe in saying, that scarce ly a single number of it has ever been is sued, that was not surcharged with epi thets of the foulest and basest character, perpetrated against a high-minded and intelligent portion of community, and fab ricated by himself—or some individual equally as corrupt—to answer his own wicked and nefarious purposes.
What I allude to, more particularly, is his remarks relative to a marriage no tice which appeared in a former num ber of the Times and Seasons, charging you with being its author. I should have remained silent upon this subject, had he made the attack upon any individual but yourself. But justice to your character renders it an imperious duty for me to speak and exonerate you from the false imputations of the . Therefore, be it known to that gentleman—if his heart is not wholly impervious to declarations of TRUTH—that the little notice that has so much ruffled his very chaste and moral feelings. emenated from the pen of no indi vidual other than—myself (!) “Urekah! Urekah!!” Then I would say to the sa gacious editor of the Signal—
“Hush, babe, lay still and slumber!”
I speak knowingly when I say, that notice went in the Times and Seasons entirely without your sanction, and you knew nothing of its existence until that edition had been ‘worked off’ and circu lated—the proof sheet not being examin ed by you.
After this declaration, I hope the edi tor of the Signal will do you the justice to exculpate you from the wholesale char ges which I have been, in some degree, the means of calling upon your head; and, if he must blame any person for the notice, let his anathemas, like an ava lanche, flow upon me—I will bear the burthen of my own foibles.
With sentiments of respect,
I remain, Sir, your ob’t serv’t,
L[yman] O. LITTLEFIELD.