Rather than tell the story of Fannie Smith and George Spilsbury myself, I will use words written by Maybelle Harmon Anderson. She wrote a history of Fannie in a story form as though written by Fannie herself, and titled it "You'll Be Sorry--A Story of a Christmas Present from God Delivered One Hundred and Twenty-three Years Ago in England." Here are some excerpts from this amazing story:
"'You'll be Sorry.' I can hear it just as clearly today as I did many years ago. The voice was that of my father, Richard Smith. The place was Liverpool, England. Would you care to hear a true story about a fair, rather small young English lady? It began about six thousand miles from here. The year was 1842.
"My home in England was very comfortable because my father was a well-to-do squire. I was his only child and love was showered upon me. I loved him dearly, too. I was his Christmas present. I arrived on the soil of England [on] December 25, 1823. As my father cuddled me, his first born and only child in his arms, he said: 'She is my Christmas present from God.'
"As I grew up, our relationship was one of mutual admiration and love. Our household was taken care of by a housekeeper who trained me in the gentle art of beauty, culture and romances, as my mother wished her to do. She taught me sewing and fine embroidery work until I was a young lady. Then events electrifying and undeniable, seemed to take possession of me.
"Some girl friends came over to our house one evening and begged me to go with them to hear some funny men from America preach about a new religion that had started in America.
"Now, it was a curious fact that they should ask me to go because I belonged to the Church of England. I was always filled with fear when they talked about Hell, and even our church's idea of Heaven seemed unreal and cold to me. I was truly not happy in my religion.
"Well, we all went giggling to hear about the religion and see the Americans. As the missionaries were Latter-day Saints, they preached of their prophet and the plates he had found in the hill Cumorah telilng of the civilization that existed on the American continent in ancient times. Everything he said seemed real and I was touched to the depths of my being. I believed every word I heard that night. Many nights after that, I sought out the preachers and attended their meeting. I wanted to join them, but knew that my father would never consent. If I joined, it would have to be done in secret.
"Therefore, I went to them one night at meeting time and was baptized in a river where the ice had to be broken to perform the baptism. When walking home with my wet clothes freezing about me, my spirit carried me along as if I were a cloud...
"Do you know who confirmed me a member of the church...? It was George Spilsbury, one of our own fair, curly-haired, blue-eyed English boys. Later when we became better acquainted, he told me that he was the fourth son of Joseph and Hannah Spilsbury and was born in Leigh, Worcestershire, England, April 21, 1823.
"When George was sixteen he had a remarkable experience. He was lying under a large oak tree near his home when a voice declared: 'You shall be a minister of the gospel.' Consequently, he was ready and waiting when he heard Mormonism preached at the home of George Brooks in Leigh Parish. He was baptized and confirmed a Latter-day Saint that same evening, October 11, 1840. The following February he was ordained a priest and in July started on a mission in Wales, from which he returned in the summer of 1842, having baptized seventeen persons.
"I was one of those seventeen. My heart began its song of love as George and I spent more time with each other. We were joined in holy wedlock on the fifth of September, 1842. After our marriage, George went to work as a brick-layer and plasterer. I told my father of joining the Church and he almost disowned me. He tried in every way he knew to dissuade me from my religion and husband. He now thought his gift from God was from the other place. He even tried to prevent me from leaving England for America.
"He would not allow me to take any of my lovely things. How could my father feel so strongly against something which seemed so right to me? He made my life miserable until I went to work as a milliner. I was resourceful and soon became head milliner and saved the money that I earned to help pay our way to the home of our new religion.
"When we were ready to sail, my father was broken hearted and came to me and said: 'Fannie, my daughter, if I cannot change your mind, I can warn you that those Mormons in their wild country are ruthless and will never allow you to write and certainly never allow you to come back to me. I will put this locket and chain around your neck. Send it to me as a sign and I will know that you are sorry, and I will make it possible for you to come home!'
"As we sailed away from the shore, my young-girl heart ached and sorrowful tears streamed from my eyes. 'Farewell, my father, my mother, whom I knew such a little while, my native land, farewell!' I never saw them again.
"My young-wifehood heart and eyes turned to my husband, and together we turned toward the west, our new home and the hardships which we knew were ahead of us. Of course, we never dreamed of the persecution and tragedy we would have to endure as we sailed from Liverpool, England, on that day long ago. Would I be sorry? No, never. I shall have no regrets.
"As my eyes start to fade as I near my eightieth birthday in my wheelchair, where I have been for some twelve years, I hold my locket in my hand and I can hear my father say, oh! so long ago: 'Fannie, you'll be sorry!' I wonder why he couldn't have known, as I did, that I was doing the right thing for myself and my children's children. I am glad that we are in America. We hope we have planted well, that our children's children might have the faith that was our choicest possession, and remember the last part of the thirteenth Article of Faith: 'If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.'
"My thoughts turn to things promised in this land of ours and the equal rights of all who come here, and, as my eyes grow dim and close to death this third day of June 1903, I whisper: 'I was never sorry! No there are no regrets.'"
