In Defense of Edwin D. Woolley, 152 Years Later
Before we get to the accusation, a very quick introduction to Edwin D. Woolley is probably in order.
Edwin was born into a Quaker family in Pennsylvania, joined the Latter-day Saints, came west, and eventually became a prominent businessman, territorial legislator, Salt Lake County recorder, and bishop of Salt Lake City’s 13th Ward—a position he held for twenty-seven years.
He also moved in some fairly important circles in early Utah history, which is my way of saying Edwin was not exactly standing quietly in the background waiting for history to happen to other people.
He also happens to be my great-great-great-grandfather, which apparently means that 152 years later I have appointed myself counsel for the defense.
And apparently, according to one newspaper correspondent in 1874, he was also robbing the citizens of Utah.
This came as news to me.
I recently found a letter published in the Salt Lake Weekly Tribune under the understated headline:
“ROBBERY.”
Not subtle.
Underneath came the equally restrained subtitle:
“How a Mormon Bishop Builds Fine Houses.”
Well.
Apparently we were going to have words.
The Case Against Grandpa Woolley
The article—or, more accurately, letter to the editor—was written by someone signing himself only “J.C.Y.”
J.C.Y. had a grievance.
At the time, Edwin was serving as Salt Lake County recorder. According to J.C.Y.’s description of the law, the recorder could charge fifty cents for the first hundred words recorded and twenty cents for each additional hundred.
J.C.Y. then did some arithmetic.
An ordinary deed, he claimed, would produce a legal recording fee of about $1.30.
Edwin, according to J.C.Y., charged $2.
Seventy cents.
And J.C.Y. was not letting those seventy cents go.
He accused Edwin of carrying on a “regular system of petty swindling.” He complained that Edwin supposedly did not even make exceptions for widows.
Then he looked around at Edwin’s property and apparently decided he had cracked the case.
Edwin, he wrote, had built “two or three fine houses” from the proceeds of his office.
This is where I became skeptical.
Not necessarily because Edwin was my ancestor.
Because seventy cents was apparently doing some astonishing work in 1874.
Let’s Talk About Those Houses
According to J.C.Y., Edwin was charging seventy cents too much on an ordinary deed.
Then somehow:
Deed.
House.
Another deed.
House.
Presumably after a particularly busy week:
Third house.
This seems like something we should examine before convicting the man.
Edwin wasn’t simply a county employee who suddenly emerged from his office carrying sacks of suspicious recorder money. By 1874, he had been involved in business for decades.
So if we are going to accuse him of building houses with improperly collected recording fees, I would like slightly more evidence than:
Edwin charged $2.
Edwin owns houses.
I have connected these facts myself.
ROBBERY.
That is a magnificent newspaper headline.
It is not quite an audit.
I realize I am 152 years late to the cross-examination, but I have some questions.
Exhibit A: Where Are the Receipts?
Here is where J.C.Y. may actually have had a legitimate complaint.
Territorial Utah did not leave county recorders free to charge whatever they felt like charging. The law established fees for recording documents, while copies, certificates, signatures, and other services could have charges of their own.
So the important question isn’t:
Was J.C.Y. irritated about paying $2?
The better question is:
Was he actually being charged more than territorial law permitted?
J.C.Y. tells us what Edwin charged.
He tells us what he believed Edwin was legally entitled to charge.
What this particular letter does not establish is precisely what that $2 covered.
Was the word-based recording charge the entire bill?
Were there additional lawful services involved?
Did different documents require different services?
Was $2 Edwin’s standard charge, or was that the total for one particular transaction?
Those aren’t tiny details.
They’re basically the entire case.
Perhaps J.C.Y. was completely correct. If Edwin was collecting fees he wasn’t legally entitled to collect, I don’t intend to defend that simply because his name appears on my family tree.
But I would like evidence before accepting ROBBERY as the official historical verdict.
Especially when the prosecution appears to consist of one irritated man with initials who apparently kept writing to the newspaper.
Exhibit B: Bring In the Widows
J.C.Y. also makes sure readers know that Edwin “never discriminates even in favor of widows.”
That is good nineteenth-century outrage writing.
Don’t merely tell readers that a public official overcharges.
Bring in the widows.
Now I’m picturing Edwin sitting behind his desk while a trembling widow approaches clutching her deed.
“Please, Bishop Woolley. I only have $1.30.”
Edwin slowly extends his hand.
“Two dollars.”
All that is missing is a thunderstorm outside the window and an Ebenezer Scrooge lighting scheme.
I suspect reality was considerably less theatrical.
But J.C.Y. knew how to write a complaint.
I’ll give him that.
There is also something unintentionally funny about accusing Edwin of failing to discriminate in favor of widows.
In other words, according to the accusation, he charged them exactly what he charged everyone else.
Apparently equal-opportunity billing was not the public-relations strategy J.C.Y. preferred.
Exhibit C: The Fine Houses
Then we arrive at the really suspicious behavior:
Edwin was prosperous.
J.C.Y. claimed Edwin had built “two or three fine houses” out of the “fatness of his office.”
First question:
What exactly qualifies as a fine house?
Are we talking imported chandeliers?
Carved staircases?
A particularly impressive parlor?
Did somebody inspect the curtains?
Because Edwin had been involved in business for decades by this point. The fact that a successful businessman eventually owned nice property does not, by itself, establish where the money for that property came from.
Maybe improperly collected recorder fees contributed to it.
But that requires evidence.
He has money and I think he overcharged me are still two separate facts.
J.C.Y. seems determined to staple them together.
Edwin Was Apparently Feathering His Nest
The writer eventually declares that the compensation Edwin received was sufficient for “feathering the nest of himself and numerous family.”
There it is.
We have now moved beyond a dispute over county fees.
We have Edwin’s houses.
His religion.
His family.
His prosperity.
And the implication that all of those things together somehow make the disputed seventy cents more sinister.
Yes, Edwin had a large family.
He was supporting one.
That tells us absolutely nothing about whether a particular fee was legal.
And by 1874, Edwin had also been bishop of the 13th Ward for about twenty years.
That doesn’t prove he never made a financial mistake. Twenty years as bishop does not produce a certificate reading:
INCAPABLE OF OVERCHARGING FOR DEEDS.
But it does mean that J.C.Y.’s accusation exists alongside a much larger public record of Edwin living, working, conducting business, and serving in the same community for years.
If the charge is that Edwin had established a systematic practice of stealing from that community, I would like more than one newspaper letter before declaring the case solved.
The Hundred-Word Problem
I am also fascinated by the fee system itself.
Fifty cents for the first hundred words.
Twenty cents for every additional hundred.
This immediately made me think of Three Amigos, when the woman sending a telegram starts cutting words from her message because every additional word costs money.
Which means that, for once, Three Amigos has become relevant to my family-history research.
I did not see that coming.
But it also raises a deeply uncomfortable possibility about my own family history.
If nineteenth-century government fees increased according to how many words you used, perhaps Edwin’s true mistake was associating with people who refused to get to the point.
And as his great-great-great-granddaughter, I probably shouldn’t pursue this particular line of questioning too aggressively.
If excessive word usage runs in families, I may be Exhibit A.
The apple apparently did not fall far from the tree.
My friends can attest to that.
It just kept writing until it reached another hundred words.
And Apparently We Needed Boss Tweed
J.C.Y. wasn’t satisfied with accusing Edwin of petty swindling and financing fine houses.
He also invoked Boss Tweed.
For anyone unfamiliar with the comparison, William “Boss” Tweed had become nationally notorious as the symbol of a corrupt New York political machine.
So that is quite an escalation.
We started with:
I believe this deed should have cost $1.30.
And somehow we have arrived at:
Let us discuss one of America’s most famous symbols of political corruption.
J.C.Y., sir.
You have made your point.
You may now put down the thesaurus.
The Defense Would Like to Enter a Few Things Into Evidence
So, 152 years later, I would like to reopen the case of:
The People—or Possibly Just J.C.Y.—v. Edwin D. Woolley.
The defense stipulates that Edwin owned nice property.
The defense acknowledges that J.C.Y. believed he was being overcharged.
The defense would very much like to see the complete territorial fee schedule, the actual transaction, examples of Edwin’s other recording charges, and evidence establishing precisely what the disputed $2 covered.
And if further research proves J.C.Y. was right?
Fair enough.
Historical relatives do not need us to pretend they were incapable of doing anything wrong.
But what I won’t do is convict Edwin solely because somebody managed to get the word ROBBERY printed above his name.
There is a rather large distance between:
“I believe you overcharged me seventy cents.”
and
“You built two or three houses by systematically swindling the people of Salt Lake County.”
I would like to see what happened in the space between those two sentences.
Case Pending
Maybe someday I will discover that J.C.Y. was absolutely right.
Maybe I’ll discover that Edwin was perfectly entitled to his $2.
Maybe I’ll discover that the explanation is somewhere frustratingly in between, because history enjoys doing that.
Until then, I am keeping the case open.
And if Edwin was completely entitled to his money, I expect an immediate correction from the newspaper.
I am willing to accept it at any time.
No rush.
They have already had 152 years.
Until then, J.C.Y., please consider this your long-overdue response.
Your complaint has finally reached the Woolley family.
We apologize for the delay.
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