The Project Gutenberg eBook of Saint Abe and His Seven Wives

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Title: Saint Abe and His Seven Wives

Author: Robert Williams Buchanan

Release date: June 30, 2016 [eBook #52459]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAINT ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES ***

SAINT ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES

A Tale of Salt Lake City

With A Bibliographical Note

By Robert Buchanan

First Cheap Edition

London

1896

TO OLD DAN CHAUCER.

Maypole dance and Whitsun ale,

Sports of peasants in the dale,

Harvest mirth and junketting,

Fireside play and kiss-in-ring,

Ancient fun and wit and ease, —

Gone are one and all of these;

All the pleasant pastime planned

In the green old Mother-land:

Gone are these and gone the time

Of the breezy English rhyme,

Sung to make men glad and wise

By great Bards with twinkling eyes:

Gone the tale and gone the song

Sound as nut-brown ale and strong,

Freshening the sultry sense

Out of idle impotence,

Sowing features dull or bright

With deep dimples of delight!

Thro' the Motherland I went

Seeking these, half indolent:

Up and down, saw them not:

Only found them, half forgot.

Buried in long-darken'd nooks

With thy barrels of old books,

Where the light and love and mirth

Of the morning days of earth

Sleeps, like light of sunken suns

Brooding deep in cob-webb'd tuns!

Everywhere I found instead,

Hanging her dejected head,

Barbing shafts of bitter wit,

The pale Modern Spirit sit—

While her shadow, great as Gog's

Cast upon the island fogs,

In the midst of all things dim

Loom'd, gigantically grim.

Honest Chaucer, thee I greet

In a verse with blithesomefeet.

And ino' modern bards may stare,

Crack a passing joke with Care!

Take a merry song and true

Fraught with inner meanings too!

Goodman Dull may croak and scowl:—

Leave him hooting to the owl!

Tight-laced Prudery may turn

Angry back with eyes that burn,

Reading on from page to page

Scrofulous novels of the age!

Fools may frown and humbugs rail,

Not for them I tell the Tale;

Not for them,, but souls like thee.

Wise old English Jollity!

Newport, October, 1872

CONTENTS

ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES

APPROACHING UTAH.—THE BOSS'S TALE.

I—PASSING THE HANCHE.

II—JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING.

III—SAINT AND DISCIPLE.

IV—THE BOOK OF MORMON.

V—JOE ENDS HIS STORY.—FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH.

THE CITY OF THE SAINTS.

AMONG THE PASTURES.—SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE.

WITHIN THE CITY.—SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN.

III—PROMENADE—MAIN STREET, UTAH.

WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE.—SERMONIZETH THE PROPHET.

V—THE FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT

VI—LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE TO THE POLYGAMISTS.

THK FARM IN THE VALLEY—SUNSET.

SUNSET IN NEW ENGLAND

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.

ORIGINALLY PREFACED TO SAINT ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.

SOME NOTICES OF THE FIRST EDITION.

ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES

Art thou unto a helpmate bound?

Then stick to her, my brother!

But hast thou laid her in the ground?

Don't go to seek another!

Thou hast not sin'd, if thou hast wed,

Like many of our number,

But thou hast spread a thorny bed,

And there alas! must slumber!

St. Paul, Cor. I., 7, 27-28.

O let thy fount of love be blest

And let thy wife rejoice,

Contented rest upon her breast

And listen to her voice;

Yea, be not ravish'd from her side

Whom thou at first has chosen,

Nor having tried one earthly bride

Go sighing for a Dozen!

Sol. Prov. V., 18-20.

APPROACHING UTAH.—THE BOSS'S TALE.

I—PASSING THE HANCHE.

"Grrr!" shrieked the boss, with teeth clench'd

tight,

Just as the lone ranche hove in sight,

And with a face of ghastly hue

He flogg'd the horses till they flew,

As if the devil were at their back,

Along the wild and stony track.

From side to side the waggon swung,

While to the quaking seat I clung.

Dogs bark'd; on each side of the pass

The cattle grazing on the grass

Raised heads and stared; and with a cry

Out the men rush'd as we roll'd by.

"Grrr!" shriek'd the boss; and o'er and o'er

He flogg'd the foaming steeds and swore;

Harder and harder grew his face

As by the rançhe we swept apace,

And faced the hill, and past the pond,

And gallop'd up the height beyond,

Nor tighten'd rein till field and farm

Were hidden by the mountain's arm

A mile behind; when, hot and spent,

The horses paused on the ascent,

And mopping from his brow the sweat.

The boy glanced round with teeth still set,

And panting, with his eyes on me,

Smil'd with a look of savage glee.

Joe Wilson is the boss's name,

A Western boy well known to fame.

He goes about the dangerous land

His life for ever in his hand;

Has lost three fingers in a fray,

Has scalp'd his Indian too they say;

Between the white man and the red

Four times he hath been left for dead;

Can drink, and swear, and laugh, and brawl,

And keeps his big heart thro' it all

Tender for babes and women.

He

Turned, smiled, and nodded savagely;

Then, with a dark look in his eyes

In answer to my dumb surprise,

Pointed with jerk of the whip's heft

Back to the place that we had left,

And cried aloud,

"I guess you think

I'm mad, or vicious, or in drink.

But theer you're wrong. I never pass

The ranche down theer and bit of grass,

I never pass 'em, night nor day,

But the fit takes me jest that way!

The hosses know as well as me

What's coming, miles afore we see

The dem'd old corner of a place,

And they git ready for the race!

Lord! if I didn't lash and sweer,

And ease my rage out passing theer,

Guess I should go clean mad, that's all.

And thet's the reason why I call

This turn of road where I am took

Jest Old Nick's Gallop!"

Then his look

Grew more subdued yet darker still;

And as the horses up the hill

With loosen'd rein toil'd slowly, he

Went on in half soliloquy,

Indifferent almost if I heard,

And grimly grinding out each word.

II—JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING.

"There was a time, and no mistake,

When thet same ranche down in the brake

Was pleasanter a heap to me

Than any sight on land or sea.

The hosses knew it like their master,

Smelt it miles orf, and spank'd the faster!

Ay, bent to reach thet very spot,

Flew till they halted steaming hot

Sharp opposite the door, among

The chicks and children old and young;

And down I'd jump, and all the go

Was 'Fortune, boss!' and 'Welcome, Joe!'

And Cissy with her shining face,

Tho' she was missus of the place,

Stood larfing, hands upon her hips;

And when upon her rosy lips

I put my mouth and gave her one,

She'd cuff me, and enjy the fun!

She was a widow young and tight,

Her chap had died in a free fight,

And here she lived, and round her had

Two chicks, three brothers, and her dad,

All making money fast as hay,

And doing better every day.

Waal! guess tho' I was peart and swift,

Spooning was never much my gift;

But Cissy was a gal so sweet,

So fresh, so spicy, and so neat,

It put your wits all out o' place,

Only to star' into her face.

Skin whiter than a new-laid egg,

Lips full of juice, and sech a leg!

A smell about her, morn and e'en,

Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green;

And from her hand when she took mine,

The warmth ran up like sherry wine;

And if in liquor I made free

To pull her larfing on my knee,

Why, there she'd sit, and feel so nice,

Her heer all scent, her breath all spice!

See! women hate, both young and old,

A chap that's over shy and cold,

And fire of all sorts kitches quick,

And Cissy seem'd to feel full slick

The same fond feelings, and at last

Grew kinder every time I passed;

And all her face, from eyes to chin,

Said *'Bravo, Joe! You're safe to win!'

And tho' we didn't fix, d'ye see,

In downright words that it should be,

Ciss and her fam'ly understood

That she and me would jine for good.

Guess I was like a thirsty hoss

Dead beat for days, who comes across

A fresh clear beck, and on the brink

Scoops out his shaky hand to drink;

Or like a gal or boy of three,

With eyes upon a pippin-tree;

Or like some Injin cuss who sees

A bottle of rum among the trees,

And by the bit of smouldering log,

Where squatters camp'd and took their grog

The night afore. Waal!" (here he ground

His teeth again with savage sound)

"Waal, stranger, fancy, jest for fun,

The feelings of the thirsty one,

If, jest as he scoop'd out his hand,

The water turn'd to dust and sand!

Or fancy how the lad would scream

To see thet fruit-tree jest a dream!

Or guess how thet poor Injin cuss,

Would dance and swear, and screech and fuss,

If when he'd drawn the cork and tried

To get a gulp of rum inside,

'Twarn't anything in thet theer style,

But physic stuff or stinking ile!

Ah! you've a notion now, I guess,

Of how all ended in a mess,

And how when I was putting in

My biggest card and thought to win,

The Old One taught her how to cheat,

And yer I found myself, clean beat!"

III—SAINT AND DISCIPLE.

Joe Wilson paused, and gazed straight down,

With gritting teeth and bitter frown,

And not till I entreated him

Did he continue,—fierce and grim,

With knitted brow and teeth clench'd tight.

"Along this way one summer night,

Jest as I meant to take the prize,

Passed an Apostle—dern his eyes!

On his old pony, gravel-eyed,

His legs a-dangling down each side,

With twinkling eyes and wheedling smile,

Grinning beneath his broad-brimm'd tile,

With heer all scent and shaven face.

He came a-trotting to the place.

My luck was bad, I wasn't near,

But busy many a mile from yer;

And what I tell was told to me

By them as were at hand to see.

'Twam't every day, I reckon, they

Saw an Apostle pass their way!

And Cissy, being kind o' soft,

And empty in the upper loft,

Was full of downright joy and pride

To hev thet saint at her fireside—

One of the seventy they call

The holiest holy—dern 'em all!

O he was 'cute and no mistake,

Deep as Salt Lake, and wide awake!

Theer at the ranche three days he stayed,

And well he knew his lying trade.

'Twarn't long afore he heard full free

About her larks and thet with me,

And how 'twas quite the fam'ly plan

To hev me for her second man.

At fust thet old Apostle said

Little, but only shook his head;

But you may bet he'd no intent

To let things go as things had went.

Three nights he stayed, and every night

He squeezed her hand a bit more tight;

And every night he didn't miss

To give a loving kiss to Ciss;

And tho' his fust was on her brow,

He ended with her mouth, somehow.

O, but he was a knowing one,

The Apostle Hiram Higginson!

Grey as a badger's was his heer,

His age was over sixty year

(Her grandfather was little older),

So short, his head just touch'd her shoulder;

His face all grease, his voice all puff,

His eyes two currants stuck in duff;—

Call thet a man!—then look at me!

Thretty year old and six foot three,

Afear'd o' nothing morn nor night,

The man don't walk I wouldn't fight!

Women is women! Thet's their style—

Talk reason to them and they'll bile;

But baste'em soft as any pigeon,

With lies and rubbish and religion;

Don't talk of flesh and blood and feeling,

But Holy Ghost and blessed healing;

Don't name things in too plain a way.

Look a heap warmer than you say,

Make'em believe they're serving true

The Holy Spirit and not you,

Prove all the world but you's damnation,

And call your kisses jest salvation;

Do this, and press'em on the sly,

You're safe to win'em. Jest you try!

"Fust thing I heerd of all this game,

One night when to the ranche I came,

Jump'd down, ran in, saw Cissy theer,

And thought her kind o' cool and queer;

For when I caught her with a kiss,

Twarn't that she took the thing amiss,

But kept stone cool and gev a sigh,

And wiped her mouth upon the sly

On her white milkin'-apron. 'Waal,'

Says I, 'you're out o' sorts, my gel!'

And with a squeamish smile for me,

Like folks hev when they're sick at sea,

Says she, 'O, Joseph, ere too late,

I am awaken'd to my state—

How pleasant and how sweet it is

To be in sech a state of bliss!'

I stared and gaped, and turned to Jim

Her brother, and cried out to him,

'Hullo, mate, what's the matter here?

What's come to Cissy? Is she queer?'

Jim gev a grin and answered 'Yes,

A trifle out o' sorts, I guess.'

But Cissy here spoke up and said,

'It ain't my stomach, nor my head,

It ain't my flesh, it ain't my skin,

It's holy spirits here within!'

'Waal,' says I, meanin' to be kind,

'I must be off, for I'm behind;

But next time that I pass this way

We'll fix ourselves without delay.

I know what your complaint is, Ciss,

I've seen the same in many a miss,

Keep up your spirits, thet's your plan.

You're lonely here without a man,

And you shall hev as good a one

As e'er druv hoss beneath the sun!'

At that I buss'd her with a smack.

Turn'd out, jump'd up, and took the track,

And larfing druv along the pass.

"Theer! Guess I was as green as grass!"

IV—THE BOOK OF MORMON.

"'Twas jest a week after thet day

When down I druv again this way.

My heart was light; and 'neath the box

I'd got a shawl and two fine frocks

For Cissy. On in spanking style

The hosses went mile arter mile;

The sun was blazing golden bright,

The sunflowers burning in the light,

The cattle in the golden gleer

Wading for coolness everywheer

Among the shinin' ponds, with flies

As thick as pepper round their eyes

And on their heads. See! as I went

Whistling like mad and waal content,

Altho' 'twas broad bright day all round,

A cock crow'd, and I thought the sound

Seem'd pleasant. Twice or thrice he

crow'd,'

And then up to the ranche I rode.

Since then I've often heerd folk say

When a cock crows in open day

It's a bad sign, announcin' clear

Black luck or death to those thet hear.

"When I drew up, all things were still.

I saw the boys far up the hill

Tossin' the hay; but at the door

No Cissy stood as oft afore.

No, not a soul there, left nor right,

Her very chicks were out o' sight.

So down I jump'd, and 'Ciss!' I cried,

But not a sign of her outside.

With thet into the house I ran,

But found no sight of gel or man—

All empty. Thinks I, 'this is queer!'—

Look'd in the dairy—no one theer;

Then loiter'd round the kitchen' track

Into the orchard at the back:

Under the fruit-trees' shade I pass'd,...

Thro' the green bushes,... and at last

Found, as the furthest path I trode,

The gel I wanted. Ye... s! by——!

The gel I wanted—ay, I found

More than I wanted, you'll be bound!

Theer, seated on a wooden cheer,

With bows and ribbons in her heer,

Her hat a-swinging on a twig

Close by, sat Ciss in her best rig,

And at her feet that knowing one,

The Apostle Hiram Higginson!

They were too keen to notice me,

So I held back behind a tree

And watch'd'em. Never night nor day

Did I see Cissy look so gay,

Her eyes all sparkling blue and bright,

Her face all sanctified delight.

She hed her gown tuck'd up to show

Embrider'd petticoat below,

And jest a glimpse, below the white,

Of dainty leg in stocking tight

With crimson clocks; and on her knee

She held an open book, which he,

Thet dem'd Apostle at her feet,

With her low milking stool for seat,

Was reading out all clear and pat,

Keeping the place with finger fat;

Creeping more close to book and letter

To feel the warmth of his text better,

His crimson face like a cock's head

With his emotion as he read,

And now and then his eyes he'd close

Jest like a cock does when he crows!

Above the heads of thet strange two

The shade was deep, the sky was blue,

The place was full of warmth and smell,

All round the fruit and fruit-leaves fell,

And that Saint's voice, when all was

still,

Was like the groanin' of a mill.

"At last he stops for lack of wind,

And smiled with sarcy double-chinn'd

Fat face at Cissy, while she cried,

Rocking herself from side to side,

'O Bishop, them are words of bliss!'

And then he gev a long fat kiss

On her warm hand, and edged his stool

Still closer. Could a man keep cool

And see it? Trembling thro' and thro'

I walked right up to thet theer two,

And caught the dem'd old lump of duff

Jest by the breeches and the scruff.

And chuck'd him off, and with one kick

Sent his stool arter him right slick—

While Cissy scream'd with frighten'd face,

'Spare him! O spare that man of grace!'

"'Spare him!' I cried, and gev a shout,

'What's this yer shine you air about—

What cuss is this that I jest see

With that big book upon your knee,

Cuddling up close and making sham

To read a heap of holy flam?'

Then Cissy clasp'd her hands, and said,

While that dem'd Saint sat fierce and

red,

Mopping his brow with a black frown,

And squatting where I chuck'd him down,

'Joe Wilson, stay your hand so bold,

Come not a wolf into the fold;

Forbear to touch that holy one—

The Apostle Hiram Higginson.'

'Touch him,' said I, 'for half a pin

I'd flay and quarter him and skin!

Waal may he look so white and skeer'd

For of his doings I have heerd;

Five wives he hev already done,

And him—not half the man for one!'

And then I stoop'd and took a peep

At what they'd studied at so deep,

And read, for I can read a bit,

'The Book of Mormon '—what was writ

By the first Saint of all the lot,

Mad Joseph, him the Yankees shot.

'What's the contents of this yer book?'

Says I, and fixed her with a look.

O Joe,' she answered, 'read aright,

It is a book of blessed light—

Thet holy man expounds it clear \

Edification great is theer!'

Then, for my blood was up, I took

One kick at thet infernal book,

And tho' the Apostle guv a cry,

Into the well I made it fly,

And turning to the Apostle cried,

Tho' thet theer Scriptur' is your guide,

You'd best depart without delay,

Afore you sink in the same way!

And sure as fate you'll wet your skin

If you come courting yer agin!'

"At first he stared and puff'd and blew,—

Git out!' I cried, and off he flew,

And not till he was out o' reach

Shook his fat fist and found his speech.

I turned to Cissy. 'Cicely Dunn,'

Ses I, 'is this a bit of fun

Or eernest?' Reckon 'twas a sight

To see the way she stood upright,

Rolled her blue eyes up, tried to speak,

Made fust a giggle, then a squeak,

And said half crying, 'I despise

Your wicked calumnies and lies,

And what you would insinuate

Won't move me from my blessed state.

Now I perceive in time, thank hiven,

You are a man to anger given,

Jealous and vi'lent. Go away!

And when you recollect this day,

And those bad words you've said to me,

Blush if you kin. Tehee! tehee!'

And then she sobbed, and in her cheer

Fell crying: so I felt quite queer,

And stood like a dern'd fool, and star'd

Watchin' the pump a going hard;

And then at last, I couldn't stand

The sight no more, but slipt my hand

Sharp into hers, and said quite kind,

Say no more, Cissy—never mind;

I know how queer you women's ways is—

Let the Apostle go to blazes!'

Now thet was plain and fair. With this

I would have put my arm round Ciss.

But Lord! you should have seen her face,

When I attempted to embrace;

Sprang to her feet and gev a cry,

Her back up like a cat's, her eye

All blazing, and cried fierce and clear,

You villain, touch me if you deer!'

And jest then in the distance, fur

From danger, a voice echoed her,—

The dem'd Apostle's, from some place

Where he had hid his ugly face,—

Crying out faint and thick and clear,

Yes, villain, touch her if you deer!'

So riled I was, to be so beat,

I could have Struck her to my feet

I didn't tho', tho' sore beset—

I never struck a woman yet.

"But off I walked right up the pass,

And found the men among the grass,

And when I came in sight said flat,

What's this yer game Cissy is at?

She's thrown me off, and taken pity

On an Apostle from the City.

Five wives already, too, has he—

Poor cussed things as e'er I see—

Does she mean mischief or a lark?'

Waal, all the men at thet look'd dark,

And scratch'd their heads and seem'd in

doubt.

At last her brother Jim spoke out—

Joe, don't blame us—by George, it's true,

We're chawed by this as much as you;

We've done our best and tried and tried,

But Ciss is off her head with pride,

And all her thoughts, both night and day,

Are with the Apostles fur away.

"O that I were in bliss with them

Theer in the new Jerusalem!"

She says; and when we laugh and sneer,

Ses we're jest raging wolves down here.

She's a bit dull at home d'ye see,

Allays liked heaps of company,

And now the foolish critter paints

A life of larks among the Saints.

We've done our best, don't hev a doubt,

To keep the old Apostle out:

We've trained the dogs to seize and bite him,

We've got up ghosts at night to fright him,

Doctor'd his hoss and so upset him,

Put tickle-grass in bed to fret him,

Jalap'd his beer and snuffed his tea too,

Gunpowder in his pipe put free too;

A dozen times we've well-nigh kill'd him,

We've skeer'd him, shaken him, and spiff'd

him;

In fact, done all we deer,' said Jim,

Against a powerful man like him;

But all in vain we've hed our sport;

Jest like a cat that can't be hurt,

With nine good lives if he hev one.

Is this same Hiram Higginson!'"

V—JOE ENDS HIS STORY.—FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH.

Joe paused, for down the mountain's brow

His hastening horses trotted now.

Into a canyon green and light,

Thro' which a beck was sparkling light,

Quickly we wound. Joe Wilson lit

His cutty pipe, and suck'd at it

In silence grim; and when it drew,

Puff after puff of smoke he blew,

With blank eye fixed on vacancy.

At last he turned again to me,

And spoke with bitter indignation

The epilogue of his narration.

"Waal, stranger, guess my story's told,

The Apostle beat and I was bowl'd.

Reckon I might have won if I

Had allays been at hand to try;

But I was busy out of sight,

And he was theer, morn, noon, and night,

Playing his cards, and waal it weer

For him I never caught him theer.

To cut the story short, I guess

He got the Prophet to say 'yes,'

And Cissy without much ado

Gev her consent to hev him too;

And one fine morning off they druv

To what he called the Abode of Love—

A dem'd old place, it seems to me,

Jest like a dove-box on a tree,

Where every lonesome woman-soul

Sits shivering in her own hole,

And on the outside, free to choose,

The old cock-pigeon struts and coos.

I've heard from many a one that Ciss

Has found her blunder out by this,

And she'd prefer for company

A brisk young chap, tho' poor, like me,

Than the sixth part of him she's won—

The holy Hiram Iligginson.

I've got a peep at her since then,

When she's crawl'd out of thet theer den,

But she's so pale and thin and tame

I shouldn't know her for the same,

No flesh to pinch upon her cheek,

Her legs gone thin, no voice to speak,

Dabby and crush'd, and sad and flabby,

Sucking a wretched squeaking baby;

And all the fun and all the light

Gone from her face, and left it white.

Her cheek 'll take 'feeble flush,

But hesn't blood enough to blush;

Tries to seem modest, peart and sly,

And brighten up if I go by,

But from the corner of her eyes

Peeps at me quietly, and sighs.

Reckon her luck has been a stinger!

She'd bolt if I held up my finger;

But tho' I'm rough, and wild, and free,

Take a Saint's leavings—no not me!

You've heerd of Vampires—them that rise

At dead o' night with flaming eyes,

And into women's beds'll creep

To suck their blood when they're asleep.

I guess these Saints are jest the same,

Sucking the life out is their game;

And tho' it ain't in the broad sun

Or in the open streets it's done,

There ain't a woman they clap eyes on

Their teeth don't touch, their touch don't pison;

Thet's their dem'd way in this yer spot—

Grrr! git along, hoss! dem you, trot!"

From pool to pool the wild beck sped

Beside us, dwindled to a thread.

With mellow verdure fringed around

It sang along with summer sound:

Here gliding into a green glade;

Here darting from a nest of shade

With sudden sparkle and quick cry,

As glad again to meet the sky;

Here whirling off with eager will

And quickening tread to turn a mill;

Then stealing from the busy place

With duskier depths and wearier pace

In the blue void above the beck

Sailed with us, dwindled to a speck,

The hen-hawk; and from pools below

The blue-wing'd heron oft rose slow,

And upward pass'd with measured beat

Of wing to seek some new retreat.

Blue was the heaven and darkly bright,

Suffused with throbbing golden light,

And in the burning Indian ray

A million insects hummed at play.

Soon, by the margin of the stream,

We passed a driver with his team

Bound for the City; then a hound

Afar off made a dreamy sound;

And suddenly the sultry track

Left the green canyon at our back,

And sweeping round a curve, behold!

We came into the yellow gold

Of perfect sunlight on the plain;

And Joe, abruptly drawing rein,

Said quick and sharp, shading his eyes

With sunburnt hand, "See, theer it

lies—

Theer's Sodom!"

And even as he cried,

The mighty Valley we espied,

Burning below us in one ray

Of liquid light that summer day;

And far away, 'mid peaceful gleams

Of flocks and herds and glistering streams,

Rose, fair as aught that fancy paints,

The wondrous City of the Saints!

THE CITY OF THE SAINTS.

O Saints that shine around the heavenly Seat!

What heaven is this that opens at my feet?

What flocks are these that thro' the golden gleam

Stray on by freckled fields and shining stream?

What glittering roofs and white kiosks are these,

Up-peeping from the shade of emerald trees?

Whose City is this that rises on the sight

Fair and fantastic as a city of light

Seen in the sunset? What is yonder sea

Opening beyond the City cool and free.

Large, deep, and luminous, looming thro' the heat.

And lying at the darkly shadowed feet

Of the Sierrasy which with jagged line

Burning to amber in the light divine,

Close in the Valley of the happy land,

With heights as barren as a dead man's hand?

O pilgrim, halt! O wandering heart, give praise

Behold the City of these Latter Days!

Here may'st thou leave thy load and be forgiven,

And in anticipation taste of Heaven!

AMONG THE PASTURES.—SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE.

BISHOP PETE, BISHOP JOSS, STRANGER.

BISHOP PETE.

Ah, things down here, as you observe, are getting

more pernicious,

And Brigham's losing all his nerve, altho' the

fix is vicious.

Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous place and fill'd

our holy quivers,

The Yankee comes with dern'd long face to give

us all the shivers!

And on his jaws a wicked grin prognosticates

disaster,

And, jest as sure as sin is sin, he means to be

the master.

"Pack up your traps," I hear him cry, "for here

there's no remainin',"

And winks with his malicious eye, and progues

us out of Canaan.

BISHOP JOSS.

It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour

nor the stranger—

No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive

the danger.

The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm

wants hands to guide it,

Tain't from without the tiler'll bust, but 'cause

of steam inside it;

Yet if we went falootin' less, and made less

noise and flurry,

It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in a

hurry.

But there's sedition east and west, and secret

revolution,

There's canker in the social breast, rot in the

constitution;

And over half of us, at least, are plunged in mad

vexation,

Forgetting how our race increased, our very

creed's foundation.

What's our religion's strength and force, its

substance, and its story?

STRANGER.

Polygamy, my friend, of course! the law of love

and glory!

BISHOP PETE.

Stranger, I'm with you there, indeed:—it's been

the best of nusses;

Polygamy is to our creed what meat and drink

to us is.

Destroy that notion any day, and all the rest is

brittle,

And Mormondom dies clean away like one in

want of vittle.

It's meat and drink, it's life, it's power! to

heaven its breath doth win us!

It warms our vitals every hour! it's Holy Ghost

within us!

Jest lay that notion on the shelf, and all life's

springs are frozen!

I've half-a-dozen wives myself, and wish I had a

dozen!

BISHOP JOSS.

If all the Elders of the State like you were sound

and holy,

P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far less

melancholy.

You air a man of blessed toil, far-shining and

discerning,

A heavenly lamp well trimm'd with oil, upon the

altar burning.

And yet for every one of us with equal resolu-

tion,

There's twenty samples of the Cuss, as mean as

Brother Clewson.

STRANGER.

St. Abe?

BISHOP JOSS.

Yes, him—the snivelling sneak—his very name

provokes me,—

Altho' my temper's milky-meek, he sours me

and he chokes me.

To see him going up and down with those meek

lips asunder,

Jest like a man about to drown, with lead to sink

him under,

His grey hair on his shoulders shed, one leg than

t'other shorter,

No end of cuteness in his head, and him—as

weak as water!

BISHOP PETE.

And yet how well I can recall the time when

Abe was younger—

Why not a chap among us all went for the

notion stronger.

When to the mother-country he was sent to wake

the sinning,

He shipp'd young lambs across the sea by flocks

—he was so winning;

O but he had a lively style, describing saintly

blisses!

He made the spirit pant and smile, and seek

seraphic kisses!

How the bright raptures of the Saint fresh lustre

seemed to borrow,

While black and awful he did paint the one-wived

sinner's sorrow!

Each woman longed to be his bride, and by his

side to slumber—

"The more the blesseder!" he cried, still adding

to the number.

STRANGER.

How did the gentleman contrive to change his

skin so quickly?

BISHOP JOSS.

The holy Spirit couldn't thrive because the Flesh

was sickly!

Tho' day by day he did increase his flock, his

soul was shallow,

His brains were only candle-grease, and wasted

down like tallow.

He stoop'd a mighty heap too much, and let his

household rule him,

The weakness of the man was such that any face

could fool him.

Ay! made his presence cheap, no doubt, and so

contempt grew quicker,—

Not measuring his notice out in smallish drams,

like liquor.

His house became a troublous house, with mis-

chief overbrimmin',

And he went creeping like a mouse among the

cats of women.

Ah, womenfolk are hard to rule, their tricks is

most surprising,

It's only a dern'd spoony fool goes sentimental-

ising!

But give'em now and then a bit of notice and a

present,

And lor, they're just like doves, that sit on one

green branch, all pleasant!

But Abe's love was a queer complaint, a sort of

tertian fever,

Each case he cured of thought the Saint a

thorough-paced deceiver;

And soon he found, he did indeed, with all their

whims to nourish,

That Mormonism ain't a creed where fleshly

follies flourish.

BISHOP PETE.

Ah, right you air! A creed it is demandin' iron

mettle!

A will that quells, as soon as riz, the biling of

the kettle!

With wary eye, with manner deep, a spirit

overbrimmin',

Like to a shepherd 'mong his sheep, the Saint is

'mong his women;

And unto him they do uplift their eyes in awe

and wonder;

His notice is a blessed gift, his anger is blue

thunder.

No n'ises vex the holy place where dwell those

blessed parties;

Each missus shineth in her place, and blithe and

meek her heart is!

They sow, they spin, they darn, they hem, their

blessed babes they handle,

The Devil never comes to them, lit by that holy

candle!

When in their midst serenely walks their

Master and their Mentor,

They're hush'd, as when the Prophet stalks down

holy church's centre!

They touch his robe, they do not move, those

blessed wives and mothers,

And, when on one he shineth love, no envy fills

the others;

They know his perfect saintliness, and honour

his affection—

And, if they did object, I guess he'd settle that

objection!

BISHOP JOSS

It ain't a passionate flat like Abe can manage

things in your way!

They teased that most etarnal babe, till things

were in a poor way.

I used to watch his thorny bed, and bust my

sides with laughter,

Once give a female hoss her head you'll never

stop her after.

It's one thing getting seal'd, and he was mighty

fond of Sealing,

He'd all the human heat, d'ye see, without the

saintly feeling.

His were the wildest set of gals that ever drove

man silly,

Each full of freaks and fal-de-lals, as frisky as a

filly.

One pull'd this way, and t'other that, and made

his life a mockery,

They'd all the feelings of a cat scampaging

'mong the crockery.

I saw Abe growing pale and thin, and well I

knew what ail'd him—

The skunk went stealing out and in, and all his

spirit failed him;

And tho' the tanning-yard paid well, and he

was money-making,

His saintly home was hot as Hell, and, ah!

how he was baking!

Why, now and then at evening-time, when his

day's work was over,

Up this here hill he used to climb and squat

among the clover,

And with his fishy eye he'd glare across the

Rocky Mountains,

And wish he was away up there, among the

heavenly fountains!

I had an aunt, Tabitha Brooks, a virgin under

fifty,

She warn't so much for pretty looks, but she

was wise and thrifty;

She'd seen the vanities of life, was good at

'counts and brewin'—

Thinks I, "Here's just the sort of Wife to save

poor Abe from ruin."

So, after fooling many a week, and showing

him she loved him,

And seeing he was shy to speak, whatever

feelings moved him,

At last I took her by the hand, and led her to

him straightway,

One day when we could see him stand jest close

unto the gateway.

My words were to the p'int and brief: says I,

"My brother Clewson,

There'll be an end to all your grief, if you've got

resolution.

Where shall you find a house that thrives without

a head that's ruling?

Here is the paragon of wives to teach those

others schooling!

She'll be to you not only wife, but careful as a

mother—

A little property for life is hers; you'll share it,

brother.

I've seen the question morn and eve within your

eyes unspoken,

You're slow and nervous I perceive, but now—the

ice is broken.

Here is a guardian and a guide to bless a man

and grace him;"

And then I to Tabitha cried, "Go in, old gal-

embrace him!"

STRANGER.

Why, that was acting fresh and fair;—but Abe,

was he as hearty?

BISHOP JOSS.

We...ll! Abe was never anywhere against a

female party!

At first he seemed about to run, and then we

might have missed him;

But Tabby was a tender one, she collar'd him

and kissed him.

And round his neck she blushing hung, part

holding, part caressing,

And murmur'd, with a faltering tongue, "O, Abe,

I'll be a blessing."

And home they walk'd one morning, he just

reaching to her shoulders,

And sneaking at her skirt, while she stared

straight at all beholders.

Swinging her bonnet by the strings, and setting

her lips tighter,

In at his door the old gal springs, her grim eyes

growing brighter;

And, Lord! there was the devil to pay, and

lightning and blue thunder,

For she was going to have her way, and hold

the vixens under;

They would have torn old Abe to bits, they

were so anger-bitten,

But Tabby saved him from their fits, as a cat

saves her kitten.

STRANGER.

It seems your patriarchal life has got its

botherations,

And leads to much domestic strife and infinite

vexations!

But when the ladies couldn't lodge in peace one

house-roof under,

I thought that 'twas the saintly dodge to give

them homes asunder?

BISHOP JOSS.

And you thought right; it is a plan by many

here affected—

Never by me—I ain't the man—I'll have my will

respected.

BISHOP JOSS'S OWN DOMESTIC SYSTEM.

If all the women of my house can't fondly pull

together,

And each as meek as any mouse, look out for

stormy weather!—

No, no, I don't approve at all of humouring my

women,

And building lots of boxes small for each one

to grow grim in.

I teach them jealousy's a sin, and solitude's just

bearish,

They nuss each other lying-in, each other's babes

they cherish;

It is a family jubilee, and not a selfish plea-

sure,

Whenever one presents to me another infant

treasure!

All ekal, all respected, each with tokens of

affection,

They dwell together, soft of speech, beneath their

lord's protection;

And if by any chance I mark a spark of shindy

raising,

I set my heel upon that spark,—before the house

gets blazing!

Now that's what Clewson should have done, but

couldn't, thro' his folly,

For even when Tabby's help was won, he wasn't

much more jolly.

Altho' she stopt the household fuss, and husht

the awful riot,

The old contrairy stupid Cuss could not enj'y

the quiet.

His house was peaceful as a church, all solemn,

still, and saintly;

And yet he'd tremble at the porch, and look

about him faintly;

And tho' the place was all his own, with hat in

hand he'd enter,

Like one thro' public buildings shown, soft

treading down the centre.

Still, things were better than before, though

somewhat trouble-laden,.

When one fine day unto his door there came a

Yankee maiden.

"Is Brother Clewson in?" she says; and when

she saw and knew him,

The stranger gal to his amaze scream'd out and

clung unto him.

Then in a voice all thick and wild, exclaim'd that

gal unlucky,

"O Sir, I'm Jason Jones's child—he's dead—

stabb'd in Kentucky!

And father's gone, and O I've come to you

across the mountains."

And then the little one was dumb, and Abe's

eyes gushed like fountains....

He took that gal into his place, and kept her as

his daughter—

Ah, mischief to her wheedling face and the bad

wind that brought her!

BISHOP PETE.

I knew that Jones;—used to faloot about Emanci-

pation—

It made your very toe-nails shoot to hear his

declamation.

And when he'd made all bosoms swell with

wonder at his vigour,

He'd get so drunk he couldn't tell a white man

from a nigger!

Was six foot high, thin, grim, and pale,—his

troubles can't be spoken—

Tarred, feathered, ridden on a rail, left beaten,

bruised, and broken;

But nothing made his tongue keep still, or stopt

his games improper,

Till, after many an awkward spill, he came the

final cropper.

BISHOP JOSS.

... That gal was fourteen years of age, and sly

with all her meekness;

It put the fam'ly in a rage, for well they knew

Abe's weakness.

But Abe (a cuss, as I have said, that any fool

might sit on)

Was stubborn as an ass's head, when once he

took the fit on!

And, once he fixed the gal to take, in spite of

their vexation,

Not all the rows on earth would break his firm

determination.

He took the naggings as they came, he bowed

his head quite quiet,

Still mild he was and sad and tame, and ate the

peppery diet;

But tho' he seemed so crush'd to be, when this

or that one blew up,

He stuck to Jones's Legacy and school'd her till

she grew up.

Well! there! the thing was said and done, and

so far who could blame him?

But O he was a crafty one, and sorrow couldn't

shame him!

That gal grew up, and at eighteen was prettier

far and neater—

There were not many to be seen about these

parts to beat her;

Peart, brisk, bright-eyed, all trim and tight, like

kittens fond of playing,

A most uncommon pleasant sight at pic-nic or

at praying.

Then it became, as you'll infer, a simple public

duty,

To cherish and look after her, considering her

beauty;

And several Saints most great and blest now

offer'd their protection,

And I myself among the rest felt something of

affection.

But O the selfishness of Abe, all things it beats

and passes!

As greedy as a two-year babe a-grasping at

molasses!

When once those Shepherds of the flock began

to smile and beckon,

He screamed like any lighting cock, and raised

his comb, I reckon!

First one was floor'd, then number two, she

wouldn't look at any;

Then my turn came, although I knew the

maiden's faults were many.

"My brother Abe," says I, "I come untoe your

house at present

To offer sister Anne a home which she will find

most pleasant.

You know I am a saintly man, and all my ways

are lawful"—

And in a minute he began abusing me most

awful.

"Begone," he said, "you're like the rest,—

wolves, Wolves with greedy clutches!

Poor little lamb; but in my breast I'll shield her

from your touches!"

"Come, come," says I, "a gal can't stay a child

like that for ever,

You'll hev to seal the gal some day; " but Abe

cried fiercely, "Never!"

Says I, "Perhaps it's in your view yourself this

lamb to gather?"

And "If it is, what's that to you?" he cried;

"but I'm her father!

You get along, I know your line, it's crushing,

bullying, wearing,

You'll never seal a child of mine, so go, and

don't stand staring!"

This was the man once mild in phiz as any

farthing candle—

A hedgehog now, his quills all riz, whom no

one dared to handle!

But O I little guessed his deal, nor tried to

circumvent it,

I never thought he'd dare to seal another; but

he meant it!

Yes, managed Brigham on the sly, for fear his

plans miscarried,

And long before we'd time to cry, the two were

sealed and married.

BISHOP PETE.

Well, you've your consolation now—he's pun-

ished clean, I'm thinking,

He's ten times deeper in the slough, up to his

neck and sinking.

There's vinegar in Abe's pale face enough to

sour a barrel,

Goes crawling up and down the place, neglect-

ing his apparel,

Seems to have lost all heart and soul, has fits of

absence shocking—

His home is like a rabbit's hole when weasels

come a-knocking.

And now and then, to put it plain, while falling

daily sicker,

I think he tries to float his pain by copious goes

of liquor.

BISHOP JOSS.

Yes, that's the end of selfishness, it leads to

long vexation—

No man can pity Abe, I guess, who knows his

situation;

And, Stranger, if this man you meet, don't take

him for a sample,

Although he speaks you fair and sweet, he's set

a vile example.

Because you see him ill at ease, at home, and

never hearty,

Don't think these air the tokens, please, of a

real saintly party!

No, he's a failure, he's a sham, a scandal to our

nation,

Not fit to lead a single lamb, unworthy of his

station;

No! if you want a Saint to see, who rules lambs

when he's got 'em,

Just cock your weather-eye at me, or Brother

Shufflebotham.

We don't go croaking east and west, afraid of

women's faces,

We bless and we air truly blest in our domestic

places;

We air religious, holy men, happy our folds to

gather,

Each is a loyal citizen, also a husband—rather.

But now with talk you're dry and hot, and

weary with your ride here.

Jest come and see my fam'ly lot,—they're waiting

tea inside here.

WITHIN THE CITY.—SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN.

Sister Tabitha, thirty odd,

Rising up with a stare and a nod;

Sister Amelia, sleepy and mild,

Freckled, Duduish, suckling a child;

Sister Fanny, pert and keen,

Sister Emily, solemn and lean,

Sister Mary, given to tears,

Sister Sarah, with wool in her ears;—

All appearing like tapers wan

In the mellow sunlight of Sister Anne.

With a tremulous wave of his hand, the Saint

Introduces the household quaint,

And sinks on a chair and looks around,

As the dresses rustle with snakish sound,

As curtsies are bobb'd, and eyes cast down

Some with a simper, some with a frown,

And Sister Anne, with a fluttering breast,

Stands trembling and peeping behind the rest

Every face but one has been

Pretty, perchance, at the age of eighteen,

Pert and pretty, and plump and bright;

But now their fairness is faded quite,

And every feature is fashion'd here

To a flabby smile, or a snappish sneer.

Before the stranger they each assume

A false fine flutter and feeble bloom,

And a little colour comes into the cheek

When the eyes meet mine, as I sit and speak;

But there they sit and look at me,

Almost withering visibly,

And languidly tremble and try to blow—

Six pale roses all in a row!

Six? ah, yes; but at hand sits one,

The seventh, still full of the light of the sun.

Though her colour terribly comes and goes,

Now white as a lily, now red as a rose,

So sweet she is, and so full of light,

That the rose seems soft, and the lily bright.

Her large blue eyes, with a tender care,

Steal to her husband unaware,

And whenever he feels them he flushes red,

And the trembling hand goes up to his head!

Around those dove-like eyes appears

A redness as of recent tears.

Alone she sits in her youth's fresh bloom

In a dark corner of the room,

And folds her hands, and does not stir,

and the others scarcely look at her,

But crowding together, as if by plan,

Draw further and further from Sister Anne.

I try to rattle along in chat,

Talking freely of this and that—

The crops, the weather, the mother-land,

Talk a baby could understand;

And the faded roses, faint and meek,

Open their languid lips to speak,

But in various sharps and flats, all low,

Give a lazy "yes" or a sleepy "no."

Yet now and then Tabitha speaks,

Snapping her answer with yellow cheeks,

And fixing the Saint who is sitting by

With the fish-like glare of her glittering eye,

Whenever the looks of the weary man

Stray to the corner of Sister Anne.

Like a fountain in a shady place

Is the gleam of the sadly shining face—

A fresh spring whither the soul might turn,

When the road is rough, and the hot sands

bum;

Like a fount, or a bird, or a blooming tree,

To a weary spirit is such as she!

And Brother Abe, from his easy chair,

Looks thither by stealth with an aching care,

And in spite of the dragons that guard the

brink

Would stoop to the edge of the fount, I think,

And drink! and drink!

"Drink? Stuff and fiddlesticks," you cry,

Matron reader with flashing eye:

"Isn't the thing completely his,

His wife, his mistress, whatever you please?

Look at her! Dragons and fountains! Absurd!"

Madam, I bow to every word;

But truth is truth, and cannot fail,

And this is quite a veracious tale.

More like a couple of lovers shy,

Who flush and flutter when folk are by,

Were man and wife, or (in another

And holier parlance) sister and brother.

As a man of the world I noticed it,

And it made me speculate a bit,

For the situation was to my mind

A phenomenon of a curious kind—

A person in love with his wife, 'twas clear,

But afraid, when another soul was near,

Of showing his feelings in any way

Because—there would be the Devil to pay!

The Saint has been a handsome fellow,

Clear-eyed, fresh-skinn'd, if a trifle yellow,

And his face though somewhat soft and plain

Ends in a towering mass of brain.

His locks, though still an abundant crop,

Are thinning a little at the top,

But you only notice here and there

The straggling gleam of a silver hair.

A man by nature rolled round and short,

Meant for the Merry Andrew's sport,

But sober'd down by the wear and tear

Of business troubles and household care:

Quiet, reticent, gentle, kind,

Of amorous heart and extensive mind,

A Saint devoid of saintly sham,

Is little Brother Abraham.

Brigham's right hand he used to be—

Mild though he seems, and simple, and free;

Sound in the ways of the world, and great

In planning potent affairs of state;

Not bright, nor bumptious, you must know,

Too retiring for popular show,

But known to conceive on a startling scale

Gigantic plans that never fail;

To hold with a certain secret sense

The Prophet under his influence,

To be, I am led to understand,

The Brain, while the Prophet is the Hand,

And to see his intellectual way

Thro' moral dilemmas of every day,

By which the wisest are led astray.

Here's the Philosopher!—here he sits,

Here, with his vaguely wandering wits,

Among the dragons, as I have said,

Smiling, and holding his hand to his head.

What mighty thoughts are gathering now

Behind that marble mass of brow?

What daring schemes of polity

To set the popular conscience free,

And bless humanity, planneth he?

His talk is idle, a surface-gleam,

The ripple on the rest of the stream,

But his thoughts—ah, his thoughts—where do

they fly,

While the wretched roses under his eye

Flutter and peep? and in what doth his plan

Turn to the counsel of Sister Anne?

For his eyes give ever a questioning look,

And the little one in her quiet nook

Flashes an answer, and back again

The question runs to the Brother's brain,

And the lights of speculation flit

Over his face and trouble it.

Follow his eyes once more, and scan

The fair young features of Sister Anne:

Frank and innocent, and in sooth

Full of the first fair flush of youth.

Quite a child—nineteen years old;

Not gushing, and self-possessed, and bold,

Like our Yankee women at nineteen,

But low of voice, and mild of mien—

More like the fresh young fruit you see

In the mother-land across the sea—

More like that rosiest flower on earth,

A blooming maiden of English birth.

Such as we find them yet awhile

Scatter'd about the homely Isle,

Not yet entirely eaten away

By the canker-novel of the day,

Or curling up and losing their scent

In a poisonous dew from the Continent.

There she sits, in her quiet nook,

Still bright tho' sadden'd; and while I look,

My heart is filled and my eyes are dim,

And I hate the Saint when I turn to him!

Ogre! Blue Beard! Oily and sly!

His meekness a cheat, his quiet a lie!

A roaring lion he'll walk the house

Tho' now he crouches like any mouse!

Had not he pluck'd enough and to spare

Of roses like these set fading there,

But he must seek to cajole and kiss

Another yet, and a child like this?

A maid on the stalk, just panting to prove

The honest joy of a virgin love;

A girl, a baby, an innocent child,

To be caught by the first man's face that smiled!

Scarce able the difference to fix

Of polygamy and politics!

Led to the altar like a lamb,

And sacrificed to the great god Sham!

Deluded, martyr'd, given to woe,

Last of seven who have perish'd so;

For who can say but the flowers I see

Were once as rosy and ripe as she?

Already the household worm has begun

To feed on the cheeks of the little one;

Already her spirit, fever-fraught,

Droops to the weight of its own thought;

Already she saddens and sinks and sighs,

Watched by the jealous dragonish eyes.

Even Amelia, sleepy and wan,

Sharpens her orbs as she looks at Anne;

While Sister Tabby, when she can spare

Her gaze from the Saint in his easy-chair,

Fixes her with a gorgon glare.

All is still and calm and polite,

The Sisters bolster themselves upright,

And try to smile, but the atmosphere

Is charged with thunder and lightning here.

Heavy it seems, and close and warm,

Like the air before a summer storm;

And at times,—as in that drowsy dream

Preluding thunder, all sounds will seem

Distinct and ominously clear,

And the far-off cocks seem crowing near

Ev'n so in the pauses of talk, each breast

Is strangely conscious of the rest,

And the tick of the watch of Abe the Saint

Breaks on the air, distinct though faint,

Like the ticking of his heart!

I rise

To depart, still glancing with piteous eyes

On Sister Anne; and I find her face

Turn'd questioning still to the same old place—

The face of the Saint. I stand and bow,

Curtsies again are bobbing now,

Dresses rustling... I know no more

Till the Saint has led me to the door,

And I find myself in a day-dream dim,

Just after shaking hands with him.

Standing and watching him sad and slow

Into the dainty dwelling go,

With a heavy sigh, and his hand to his head.

... Hark, distant thunder!—'tis as I said:

The air was far too close;—at length

The Storm is breaking in all its strength.

III—PROMENADE—MAIN STREET, UTAH.

THE STRANGER.

Along the streets they're thronging, walking,

Clad gaily in their best and talking,

Women and children quite a crowd;

The bright sun overhead is blazing,

The people sweat, the dust they're raising

Arises like a golden cloud.

Still out of every door they scatter,

Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter.

That such a flock of folks I see?

A LOUNGER

They're off to hear the Prophet patter,

This yer's a day of jubilee.

VOICES.

Come along, we're late I reckon...

There's our Matt, I see him beckon...

How d'ye do, marm? glad to meet you.

Silence, Hiram, or I'll beat you...

Emm, there's brother Jones a-looking...

Here's warm weather, how I'm cooking!

STRANGER

Afar the hills arise with cone and column

Into a sky of brass serene and solemn;

And underneath their shadow in one haze

Of limpid heat the great salt waters blaze,

While faint and filmy through the sultry veil

The purple islands on their bosom sail

Like floating clouds of dark fantastic air.

How strangely sounds (while 'mid the Indian

glare

Moves the gay crowd of people old and young)

The bird-like chirp of the old Saxon tongue!

The women seem half weary and half gay,

Their eyes droop in a melancholy way,—

I have not seen a merry face to-day.

A BISHOP

Ther's a smart hoss you're riding, brother!

How are things looking, down with you?

SECOND BISHOP

Not over bright with one nor 'tother,

Taters are bad, tomatoes blue.

You've heer'd of Brother Simpson's losses?—

Buried his wife and spiled his hay.

And the three best of Hornby's hosses

Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.

VOICES.

Zoë, jest fix up my gown...

There's my hair a-coming down...

Drat the babby, he's so crusty—

It's the heat as makes him thusty...

Come along, I'm almost sinking...

There's a stranger, and he's winking.

Stranger.

That was a fine girl with the grey-hair'd lady,

How shining were her eyes, how true and

steady,

Not drooping down in guilty Mormon fashion,

But shooting at the soul their power and passion.

That's a big fellow, six foot two, not under,

But how he struts, and looks as black as thunder,

Half glancing round at his poor sheep to scare

'em—

Six, seven, eight, nine,—O Abraham, what a

harem!

All berry brown, but looking scared as may be,

And each one but the oldest with a baby.

A GIRL

Phoebe!

ANOTHER

Yes, Grace!

FIRST GIRL

Don't seem to notice, dear,

That Yankee from the camp again is here,

Making such eyes, and following on the sly,

And coughing now and then to show he's nigh.

SECOND GIRL

Who's that along with him—the little scamp

Shaking his hair and nodding with a smile?

FIRST GIRL

Guess he's some new one just come down to

SECOND GIRL

Isn't he handsome?

FIRST GIRL

No; the first's my style!

STRANGER

If my good friends, the Saints, could get then

will,

These Yankee officers would fare but ill;

Wherever they approach the folk retire,

As if from veritable coals of fire;

With distant bow, set lips, and half-hid frown,

The Bishops pass them in the blessed town;

The women come behind like trembling sheep,

Some freeze to ice, some blush and steal a peep.

And often, as a band of maidens gay

Comes up, each maid ceases to talk and play,

Droops down her eyes, and does not look their

way;

But after passing where the youngsters pine,

All giggle as at one concerted sign,

And tripping on with half-hush'd merry cries,

Look boldly back with laughter in their eyes!

VOICES

Here we are, how folk are pushing...

Mind the babby in the crushing...

Pheemy!.. Yes, John!.. Don't go staring

At that Yankee—it's past bearing.

Draw your veil down while he passes,

Reckon you're as bold as brass is.

ABE CLEWSON

[Passing with his hand to his head, attended by his

Wives.]

Head in a whirl, and heart in a flutter,

Guess I don't know the half that I utter.

Too much of this life is beginning to try me,

I'm like a dem'd miller the grind always nigh

me;

Praying don't sooth me nor comfort me any,

My house is too full and my blessings too

many—

The ways o' the wilderness puzzle me greatly.

SISTER TABITHA.

Do walk like a Christian, and keep kind o'

stately!

And jest keep an eye on those persons behind

you,

You call 'em your Wives, but they tease you and

blind you;

Sister Anne's a disgrace, tho' you think her a

martyr,

And she's tuck'd up her petticoat nigh to her

garter.

STRANGER

What group is this, begrim'd with dust and

heat,

Staring like strangers in the open street?

The women, ragged, wretched, and half dead,

Sit on the kerbstone hot and hang the head,

And clustering at their side stand children

brown,

Weary, with wondering eyes on the fair town.

Close by in knots beside the unhorsed team

The sunburn'd men stand talking in a dream,

For the vast tracts of country left behind

Seem now a haunting mirage in the mind.

Gaunt miners folding hands upon their breasts,

Big-jointed labourers looking ox-like down,

And sickly artizans with narrow chests

Still pallid from the smoke of English town.

Hard by to these a group of Teutons stand,

Light-hair'd, blue-eyed, still full of Fatherland,

With water-loving Northmen, who grow gay

To see the mimic sea gleam far away.

Now to this group, with a sharp questioning

face,

Cometh a holy magnate of the place

In decent black; shakes hands with some;

and then

Begins an eager converse with the men:

All brighten; even the children hush their cries,

And the pale women smile with sparkling eyes.

BISHOP.

The Prophet welcomes you, and sends

His message by my mouth, my friends;

He'll see you snug, for on this shore

There's heaps of room for millions more!..

Scotchman, I take it?.. Ah, I know

Glasgow—was there a year or so...

And if you don't from Yorkshire hail,

I'll—ah, I thought so; seldom fail.

Make yourselves snug and rest a spell,

There's liquor coming—meat as well.

All welcome! We keep open door—

Ah, we don't push away the poor;

Tho' he's a fool, you understand,

Who keeps poor long in this here land.

The land of honey you behold—

Honey and milk—silver and gold!

AN ARTIZAN

Ah, that's the style—Bess, just you hear it;

Come, come, old gal, keep up your spirit:

Silver and gold, and milk and honey,

This is the country for our money!

A GERMAN.

Es lebe die Stadt! es lebe dran!

Das heilige Leben steht mir an!

A NORTHMAN.

Taler du norske

BISHOP.

[Shaking his head. and turning with a wink to the

English.]

No, not me!

Saxon's the language of the free:

The language of the great Evangels!

The language of the Saints and Angels!

The only speech that Joseph knew!

The speech of him and Brigham too!

Only the speech by which we've thriven

Is comprehended up in Heaven!..

Poor heathens! but we'll make'em spry,

They'll talk like Christians by and by.

STRANGER

[Strolling out of the streets.]

From east, from west, from every worn-out land,

Yearly they stream to swell this busy band.

Out of the fever'd famine of the slums,

From sickness, shame, and sorrow, Lazarus comes,

Drags his sore limbs o'er half the world and sea,

Seeking for freedom and felicity.

The sewer of ignorance and shame and loss,

Draining old Europe of its dirt and dross,

Grows the great City by the will of God;

While wondrously out of the desert sod,

Nourished with lives unclean and weary hearts

The new faith like a splendid weed upstarts.

A splendid weed! rather a fair wild-flower,

Strange to the eye in its first birth of power,

But bearing surely in its breast the seeds

Of higher issues and diviner deeds.

Changed from Sahara to a fruitful vale

Fairer than ever grew in fairy tale,

Transmuted into plenteous field and glade

By the slow magic of the white man's spade,

Grows Deseret, filling its mighty nest

Between the eastern mountains and the west,

While—who goes there? What shape antique

looks down

From this green mound upon the festive town,

With tall majestic figure darkly set

Against the sky in dusky silhouette?

Strange his attire: a blanket edged with red

Wrapt royally around him; on his head

A battered hat of the strange modem sort

Which men have christened "chimney pots" in

sport;

Mocassins on his feet, fur-fringed and grand,

And a large green umbrella in his hand.

Pensive he stands with deep-lined dreamy face,

Last living remnant of the mighty race

Who on these hunting-fields for many a year

Chased the wild buffalo, and elk, and deer.

Heaven help him! In his mien grief and despair

Seem to contend, as he stands musing there;

Until he notices that I am nigh,

And lo! with outstretched hands and glistening

eye

Swift he descends—Does he mean mischief?

No;

He smiles and beckons as I turn to go.

INDIAN

Me Medicine Crow. White man gib drink to me.

Great chief; much squaw; papoose, sah, one,

two, three!

STRANGER

With what a leer, half wheedling and half winking,

The lost one imitates the act of drinking;

His nose already, to his woe and shame,

Carbuncled with the white man's liquid flame!

Well, I pull out my flask, and fill a cup

Of burning rum—how quick he gulps it up;

And in a moment in his trembling grip

Thrusts out the cup for more with thirsty lip.

But no!—already drunken past a doubt,

Degenerate nomad of the plains, get out!

[A railway whistle sounds in the far distance.]

Fire-hearted Demon tamed to human hand,

Rushing with smoky breath from land to land,

Screaming aloud to scare with rage and wrath

Primaeval ignorance before his path,

Dragging behind him as he runs along

His lilliputian masters, pale and strong,

With melancholy sound for plain and hill

Man's last Familiar Spirit whistles shrill.

Poor devil of the plains, now spent and frail,

Hovering wildly on the fatal trail,

Pass on!—there lies thy way and thine abode,

Get out of Jonathan thy master's road.

Where? anywhere!—he's not particular where,

So that you clear the road, he does not care;

Off, quick! clear out! ay, drink your fill and die;

And, since the Earth rejects you, try the Sky!

And see if He, who sent your white-faced

brother

To hound and drive you from this world you

bother,

Can find a comer for you in another!

WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE.—SERMONIZETH THE PROPHET.

Sisters and brothers who love the right,

Saints whose hearts are divinely beating,

Children rejoicing in the light,

I reckon this is a pleasant meeting.

Where's the face with a look of grief?—

Jehovah's with us and leads the battle;

We've had a harvest beyond belief,

And the signs of fever have left the cattle;

All still blesses the holy life

Here in the land of milk and honey.

FEMININE WHISPERS

Brother Shuttleworth's seventeenth wife,..

Her with the heer brushed up so funny!

THE PROPHET

Out of Egypt hither we flew,

Through the desert and rocky places;

The people murmur'd, and all look'd blue,

The bones of the martyr'd filled our traces.

Mountain and valley we crawl'd along,

And every morning our hearts beat quicker.

Our flesh was weak, but our souls were strong.

And we'd managed to carry some kegs of

liquor.

At last we halted on yonder height,

Just as the sun in the west was blinking.

FEMININE WHISPERS

Isn't Jedge Hawkins's last a fright?...

I'm suttin that Brother Abe's been drinking!

THE PROPHET.

That night, my lambs, in a wondrous dream,

I saw the gushing of many fountains;

Soon as the morning began to beam,

Down we went from yonder mountains,

Found the water just where I thought,

Fresh and good, though a trifle gritty,

Pitch'd our tents in the plain, and wrought

The site and plan of the Holy City.

"Pioneers of the blest," I cried,

"Dig, and the Lord will bless each spade-

ful."

FEMININE WHISPERS

Brigham's sealed to another Bride...

How worn he's gittin'! he's aging dread-

ful.

THE PROPHET

This is a tale so often told,

The theme of every eventful meeting;

Yes! you may smile and think it old;

But yet it's a tale that will bear repeating.

That's how the City of Light began,

That's how we founded the saintly nation,

All by the spade and the arm of man,

And the aid of a special dispensation.

"Work" was the word when we begun,

"Work" is the word now we have plenty.

FEMININE WHISPERS.

Heard about Sister Euphemia's son?..

Sealing already, though only twenty!

THE PROPHET.

I say just now what I used to say,

Though it moves the heathens to mock and

laughter,

From work to prayer is the proper way—

Labour first, and Religion after.

Let a big man, strong in body and limb,

Come here inquiring about his Maker,

This is the question I put to him,

"Can you grow a cabbage, or reap an

acre?"

What's the soul but a flower sublime,

Grown in the earth and upspringing surely!

FEMININE WHISPERS

O yes! she's hed a most dreadful time!

Twins, both thriving, though she's so

poorly.

THE PROPHET.

Beauty, my friends, is the crown of life,

To the young and foolish seldom granted;

After a youth of honest strife

Comes the reward for which you've panted.

O blessed sight beyond compare,

When life with its halo of light is rounded,

To see a Saint with reverend hair

Sitting like Solomon love-surrounded!

One at his feet and one on his knee,

Others around him, blue-eyed and dreamy!

FEMININE WHISPERS.

All very well, but as for me,

My man had better!—I'd pison him,

Pheemy!

THE PROPHET

There in the gate of Paradise

The Saint is sitting serene and hoary,

Tendrils of euros, and blossoms of eyes,

Festoon him round in his place of glory;

Little cherubs float thick as bees

Round about him, and murmur "father!"

The sun shines bright and he sits at-ease,

Fruit all round for his hand to gather.

Blessed is he and for ever gay,

Floating to Heaven and adding to it!

FEMININE WHISPERS

Thought I should have gone mad that day

He brought a second; I made him rue it!

THE PROPHET

Sisters and Brothers by love made wise.

Remember, when Satan attempts to quel]

you,

If this here Earth isn't Paradise

You'll never see it, and so I tell you.

Dig and drain, and harrow and sow,

God will bless you beyond all measure;

Labour, and meet with reward below,

For what is the end of all labour? Plea-

sure!

Labour's the vine, and pleasure's the grape;

The one delighting, the other bearing.

FEMININE WHISPERS

Higginson's third is losing her shape.

She hes too many—it's dreadful wearing.

THE PROPHET

But I hear some awakening spirit cry,

"Labour is labour, and all men know it;

But what is pleasure?" and I reply,

Grace abounding and Wives to show it!

Holy is he beyond compare

Who tills his acres and takes his blessing,

Who sees around him everywhere

Sisters soothing and babes caressing.

And his delight is Heaven's as well,

For swells he not the ranks of the chosen?

FEMININE WHISPERS.

Martha is growing a handsome gel...

Three at a birth?—that makes the dozen.

THE PROPHET.

Learning's a shadow, and books a jest,

One Book's a Light, but the rest are human.

The kind of study that I think best

Is the use of a spade and the love of a

woman.

Here and yonder, in heaven and earth,

By big Salt Lake and by Eden river,

The finest sight is a man of worth,

Never tired of increasing his quiver.

He sits in the light of perfect grace

With a dozen cradles going together!

FEMININE WHISPERS.

The babby's growing black in the face!

Carry him out—it's the heat of the weather!

THE PROPHET

A faithful vine at the door of the Lord,

A shining flower in the garden of spirits,

A lute whose strings are of sweet accord,

Such is the person of saintly merits.

Sisters and brothers, behold and strive

Up to the level of his perfection;

Sow, and harrow, and dig, and thrive,

Increase according to God's direction.

This is the Happy Land, no doubt,

Where each may flourish in his vocation.

Brother Bantam will now give out

The hymn of love and of jubilation.

V—THE FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT

Deep and wise beyond expression

Sat the Prophet holding session,

And his Elders, round him sitting

With a gravity befitting,

Never rash and never fiery,

Chew'd the cud of each inquiry,

Weigh'd each question and discussed it.

Sought to settle and adjust it,

Till, with sudden indication

Of a gush of inspiration,

The grave Prophet from their middle

Gave the answer to their riddle,

And the lesser lights all holy,

Round the Lamp revolving slowly,

Thought, with eyes and lips asunder,

"Right, we reckon, he's a wonder!"

Whether Boyes, that blessed brother,

Should be sealed unto another,

Having, tho' a Saint most steady,

Very many wives already?

Whether it was held improper,

If a woman drank, to drop her?

Whether unto Brother Fleming

Formal praise would be beseeming,

Since from three or four potatoes

(Not much bigger than his great toes)

He'd extracted, to their wonder,

Four stone six and nothing under?

Whether Bigg be reprimanded

For his conduct underhanded.

Since he'd packed his prettiest daughter

To a heathen o'er the water?

How, now Thompson had departed,

His poor widows, broken-hearted,

Should be settled? They were seven,

Sweet as cherubs up in heaven;

Three were handsome, young, and pleasant,

And had offers on at present—

Must they take them?.. These and other

Questions proffer'd by each brother,

The great Prophet ever gracious,

Free and easy, and sagacious,

Answer'd after meditation

With sublime deliberation;

And his answers were so clever

Each one whisper'd, "Well I never!"

And the lesser lights all holy,

Round the Prophet turning slowly,

Raised their reverend heads and hoary,

Thinking, "To the Prophet, glory!

Hallelujah, veneration,

Reckon that he licks creation!"

Suddenly as they sat gleaming,

On them came an unbeseeming

Murmur, tumult, and commotion,

Like the breaking of the ocean;

And before a word was utter'd,

In rush'd one with voice that fluttered

Arms uplifted, face the colour

Of a bran-new Yankee dollar,

Like a man whose wits are addled.

Crying—"Brother Abe's skedaddled!"

Then those Elders fearful-hearted

Raised a loud cry and upstarted,

But the Prophet, never rising,

Said, "Be calm! this row's surprising!"

And as each Saint sank unsinew'd

In his arm-chair he continued:

"Goodman Jones, your cheeks are yellow,

Tell thy tale, and do not bellow!

What's the reason of your crying—

Is our brother dead!—or dying?"

As the Prophet spake, supremely

Hushing all the strife unseemly,

Sudden in the room there entered

Shapes on whom all eyes were centred—

Six sad female figures moaning,

Trembling, weeping, and intoning,

"We are widows broken-hearted—

Abraham Clewson has departed!"

While the Saints again upleaping

Joined their voices to the weeping,

For a moment the great Prophet

Trembled, and look'd dark as Tophet.

But the cloud pass'd over lightly.

"Cease!" he cried, but sniffled slightly,

"Cease this murmur and be quiet—

Dead men won't awake with riot.

Tis indeed a loss stupendous—

When will Heaven his equal send us?

Speak, then, of our brother cherish'd,

Was it fits by which he perish'd?

Or did Death come even quicker,

Thro' a bolting horse or kicker?"

At the Prophet's question scowling,

All the Wives stood moaning, howling,

Crying wildly in a fever,

"O the villain! the deceiver!"

But the oldest stepping boldly,

Curtseying to the Session coldly,

Cried in voice like cracking thunder,

"Prophet, don't you make a blunder?

Abraham Clewson isn't dying—

Hasn't died, as you're implying

No! he's not the man, my brothers,

To die decently like others!

Worse! he's from your cause revolted—

Run away! ske-daddled! bolted!"

Bolted! run away! skedaddled!

Like to men whose wits are addled,

Echoed all those Lights so holy,

Round the Prophet shining slowly

And the Prophet, undissembling,

Underneath the blow sat trembling,

While the perspiration hovered

On his forehead, and he covered

With one trembling hand his features

From the gaze of smaller creatures.

Then at last the high and gifted

Cough'd and craved, with hands uplifted,

Silence. When 'twas given duly,

"This," said he, "'s a crusher truly!

Brother Clewson fall'n from glory!

I can scarce believe your story,

O my Saints, each in his station,

Join in prayer and meditation!"

Covering up each eyelid saintly

With a finger tip, prayed faintly,

Shining in the church's centre,

Their great Prophet, Lamp, and Mentor;

And the lesser Lights all holy,

Round the Lamp revolving slowly,

Each upon his seat there sitting,

With a gravity befitting,

Bowed their reverend heads and hoary,

Saying, "To the Prophet glory!

Hallelujah, veneration!

Reckon that he licks creation!"

Lastly, when the trance was ended.

And, with face where sorrow blended

Into pity and compassion,

Shone the Light in common fashion;

Forth the Brother stept who brought them

First the news which had distraught them,

And, while stood the Widows weeping,

Gave into the Prophet's keeping

A seal'd paper, which the latter

Read, as if 'twere solemn matter—

Gravely pursing lips and nodding,

While they watch'd in dark foreboding,

Till at last, with voice that quivered,

He these woeful words delivered:—

"Sisters, calm your hearts unruly,

Tis an awful business truly;

Weeping now will save him never,

He's as good as lost for ever;

Yes, I say with grief unspoken,

Jest a pane crack'd, smash'd, and broken

In the windows of the Temple—

Crack'd's the word—so take example!

Had he left ye one and all here

On our holy help to call here,

Fled alone from every fetter,

I could comprehend it better!

Flying, not with some strange lady,

But with her he had already,

With his own seal'd Wife eloping—

It's a case of craze past hoping!

List, O Saints, each in his station.

To the idiot's explanation!"

Then, while now and then the holy

Broke the tale of melancholy

With a grunt contempt expressing,

And the widows made distressing

Murmurs of recrimination

Here and there in the narration,

The great Prophet in affliction

Read this awful Valediction!

VI—LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE TO THE POLYGAMISTS.

O Brother, Prophet of the Light!—don't let my

state distress you,

While from the depths of darkest night I cry,

"Farewell! God bless you!"

I don't deserve a parting tear, nor even a male-

diction,

Too weak to fill a saintly sphere, I yield to my

affliction;

Down like a cataract I shoot into the depths

below you,

While you stand wondering and mute, my last

adieu I throw you;

Commending to your blessed care my well-be-

loved spouses,

My debts (there's plenty and to spare to pay

them), lands, and houses,

My sheep, my cattle, farm and fold, yea, all by

which I've thriven:

These to be at the auction sold, and to my

widows given.

Bless them! to prize them at their worth was

far beyond my merit,

Just make them think me in the earth, a poor

departed spirit.

I couldn't bear to say good-bye, and see their

tears up-starting;

I thought it best to pack and fly without the

pain of parting!

O tell Amelia, if she can, by careful educa-

tion,

To make her boy grow up a man of strength

and saintly station!

Tell Fanny to beware of men, and say I'm still

her debtor—

Tho' she cut sharpish now and then, I think it

made me better!

Let Emily still her spirit fill with holy consola-

tions—

Seraphic soul, I hear her still a-reading "Reve-

lations!"

Bid Mary now to dry her tears—she's free of her

chief bother;

And comfort Sarah—I've my fears she's going to

be a mother;

And to Tabitha give for me a tender kiss of

healing—

Guilt wrings my soul—I seem to see that well-

known face appealing!

And now,—before my figure fades for ever from

your vision,

Before I mingle with the shades beyond your

light Elysian,

Now, while your faces all turn pale, and you

raise eyes and shiver,

Let me a round unvarnish'd tale (as Shakspere

says) deliver;

And let there be a warning text in my most

shameful story,

When some poor sheep, perplext and vext, goes

seeking too much glory.

O Brigham, think of my poor fate, a scandal to

beholders,

And don't again put too much weight before

you've tried the shoulders!

Though I'd the intellectual gift, and knew the

rights and reasons;

Though I could trade, and save, and shift,

according to the seasons;

Though I was thought a clever man, and was at

spouting splendid,—

Just think how finely I began, and see how all

has ended!

In principle unto this hour I'm still a holy

being—

But oh, how poorly is my power proportion'd to

my seeing!

You've all the logic on your side, you're right in

each conclusion,

And yet how vainly have I tried, with eager

resolution!

My will was good, I felt the call, although my

strength was meagre,

There wasn't one among you all to serve the

Lord more eager!

I never tired in younger days of drawing lambs

unto me,

My lot was one to bless and praise, the fire of

faith thrill'd through me.

And you, believing I was strong, smiled on me

like a father,—

Said, "Blessëd be this man, though young, who

the sweet lambs doth gather! "

At first it was a time full blest, and all my

earthy pleasure

Was gathering lambs unto my breast to cherish

and to treasure;

Ay, one by one, for heaven's sake, my female

flock I found me,

Until one day I did awake and heard them

bleating round me,

And there was sorrow in their eyes, and mute

reproach and wonder,

For they perceived to their surprise their Shep-

herd was a blunder.

O Brigham, think of it and weep, my firm and

saintly Master—

The Pastor trembled at his Sheep, the Sheep despised

the Pastor!

O listen to the tale of dread, thou Light that

shines so brightly—

Virtue's a horse that drops down dead if over-

loaded slightly!

She's all the will, she wants to go, she'd carry

every tittle;

But when you see her flag and blow, just ease

her of a little!

One wife for me was near enough, two might

have fixed me neatly,

Three made me shake, four made me puff, five

settled me completely,—

But when the sixth came, though I still was

glad and never grumbled,

I took the staggers, kick'd, went ill, and in the

traces tumbled!

Ah, well may I compare my state unto a beast's

position—

Unfit to bear a saintly weight, I sank and lost

condition;

I lack'd the moral nerve and thew, to fill so fine

a station—

Ah, if I'd had a head like you, and your deter-

mination!

Instead of going in and out, like a superior

party,

I was too soft of heart, no doubt, too open, and

too hearty.

When I began with each young sheep I was too

free and loving,

Not being strong and wise and deep, I set her

feelings moving;

And so, instead of noticing the gentle flock in

common,

I waken'd up that mighty thing—the Spirit of a

Woman.

Each got to think me, don't you see,—so foolish

was the feeling,—

Her own especial property, which all the rest

were stealing!

And, since I could not give to each the whole of

my attention,

All came to grief, and parts of speech too deli-

cate to mention!

Bless them! they loved me far too much, they

erred in their devotion,

I lack'd the proper saintly touch, subduing mere

emotion:

The solemn air sent from the skies, so cold, so

tranquillising, .

That on the female waters lies, and keeps the

same from rising,

But holds them down all smooth and bright,

and, if some wild wind storms 'em,

Comes like a cold frost in the night, and into ice

transforms 'em!

And there, between ourselves, I see the diffi-

culty growing,

Since most men are as meek as me, too pas-

sionate and glowing;

They cannot in your royal way dwell like a

guest from Heaven

Within this tenement of clay, which for the Soul

is given;

They cannot like a blessed guest come calm and

strong into it,

Eating and drinking of its best, and calmly

gazing thro' it.

No, every mortal's not a Saint, and truly very

few are,

So weak they are, they cannot paint what holy

men like you are.

Instead of keeping well apart the Flesh and

Spirit, brother,

And making one with cunning art the nigger of

the other,

They muddle and confuse the two, they mix and

twist and mingle,

So that it takes a cunning view to make out

either single.

The Soul gets mingled with the Flesh beyond all

separation,

The Body holds it in a mesh of animal sensa-

tion;

The poor bewilder'd Being, grown a thing in

nature double,

Half light and soul, half flesh and bone, is given

up to trouble.

He thinks the instinct of the clay, the glowings

of the Spirit,

And when the Spirit has her say, inclines the

Flesh to hear it.

The slave of every passing whim, the dupe of

every devil,

Inspired by every female limb to love, and light,

and revel,

Impulsive, timid, weak, or strong, as Flesh or

Spirit makes him,

The lost one wildly moans along till mischief

overtakes him;

And when the Soul has fed upon the Flesh till

life's spring passes,

Finds strength and health and comfort gone—

the way of last year's grasses,

And the poor Soul is doom'd to bow, in deep

humiliation,

Within a place that isn't now a decent habitation.

No! keep the Soul and Flesh apart in pious

resolution,

Don't let weak flutterings of the heart lead you

to my confusion!

But let the Flesh be as the horse, the Spirit as

the rider,

And use the snaffle first of course, and ease her

up and guide her;

And if she's going to resist, and won't let none

go past her,

Just take the curb and give a twist, and show

her you're the Master.

The Flesh is but a temporal thing, and Satan's

strength is in it,

Use it, but conquer it, and bring its vice dowN

every minute!

Into a woman's arms don't fall, as if you meant

to stay there,

Just come as if you'd made a call\ and idly found

your way there;

Don't praise her too much to her face, but keep

her calm and quiet,—

Most female illnesses take place thro' far too

warm a diet;

Unto her give your fleshly kiss, calm, kind, and

patronising,

Then—soar to your own sphere of bliss, before

her heart gets rising!

Don't fail to let her see full clear, how in your

saintly station

The Flesh is but your nigger here obeying your

dictation;

And tho' the Flesh be e'er so warm, your Soul

the weakness smothers

Of loving any female form much better than the

others!

O Brigham, I can see you smile to hear the

Devil preaching;—

Well, I can praise your perfect style, tho' far

beyond my reaching.

Forgive me, if in shame and grief I vex you with

digression,

And let me come again in brief to my own dark

confession.

The world of men divided is into two portions,

brother,

The first are Saints, so high in bliss that they the

Flesh can smother;

God meant them from fair flower to flower to

flutter, smiles bestowing,

Tasting the sweet, leaving the sour, just hover-

ing,—and going.

The second are a different set, just halves of

perfect spirits,

Going about in bitter fret, of uncompleted

merits,

Till they discover, here or there, their other half

(or woman),

Then these two join, and make a Pair, and so

increase the human.

The second Souls inferior are, a lower spirit-

order,

Born 'neath a less auspicious star, and taken by

soft sawder;—

And if they do not happen here to find their fair

Affinity,

They come to grief and doubt and fear, and end

in asininity;

And if they try the blessed game of those

superior to them,

They're very quickly brought to shame,—their

passions so undo them.

In some diviner sphere, perhaps, they'll look and

grow more holy,—

Meantime they're vessels Sorrow taps and grim

Remorse sucks slowly.

Now, Brigham, I was made, you see, one of

those lower creatures,

Polygamy was not for me, altho' I joined its

preachers.

Instead of, with a wary eye, seeking the one

who waited,

And sticking to her, wet or dry, because the

thing was fated,

I snatch'd the first whose beauty stirred my soul

with tender feeling!

And then another! then a third! and so con-

tinued Sealing!

And duly, after many a smart, discovered,

sighing faintly,

I hadn't found my missing part, and wasn't

strong and saintly!

O they were far too good for me, altho' their

zeal betrayed them;—

Unfortunately, don't you see, heaven for some

other made them:

Each would a downright blessing be, and Peace

would pitch the tent for her,

If "she" could only find the "he" originally

meant for her!

Well, Brother, after many years of bad domestic

diet,

One morning I woke up in tears, still weary and

unquiet,

And (speaking figuratively) lo! beside my bed

stood smiling

The Woman, young and virgin snow, but beckon-

ing and beguiling.

I started up, my wild eyes rolled, I knew her,

and stood sighing,

My thoughts throng'd up like bees of gold out of

the smithy flying.

And as she stood in brightness there, familiar,

tho' a stranger,

I looked at her in dumb despair, and trembled

at the danger.

But, Brother Brigham, don't you think the

Devil could so undo me,

That straight I rushed the cup to drink too late

extended to me.

No, for I hesitated long, ev'n when I found she

loved me,

And didn't seem to think it wrong when love

and passion moved me.

O Brigham, you're a Saint above, and know not

the sensation

The ecstasy, the maddening love, the rapturous

exultation,

That fills a man of lower race with wonder past

all speaking,

When first he finds in one sweet face the Soul he

has been seeking!

When two immortal beings glow in the first

fond revealing,

And their inferior natures know the luxury of

feeling!

But ah, I had already got a quiver-full of bless-

ing,

Had blundered, tho' I knew it not, six times

beyond redressing,

And surely it was time to stop, tho' still my lot

was lonely:

My house was like a cobbler's shop, full, tho'

with "misfits" only.

And so I should have stopt, I swear, the

wretchedest of creatures,

Rather than put one mark of care on her

belovéd features:

But that it happen'd Sister Anne (ah, now the

secret's flitted!)

Was left in this great world of man unto my

care committed.

Her father, Jason Jones, was dead, a man whose

faults were many,

"O, be a father, Abe," he said, "to my poor

daughter, Annie!"

And so I promised, so she came an Orphan to

this city,

And set my foolish heart in flame with mingled

love and pity;

And as she prettier grew each day, and throve

'neath my protection,

I saw the Saints did cast her way some tokens of

affection.

O, Brigham, pray forgive me now;—envy and

love combining,

I hated every saintly brow, benignantly in-

clining!

Sneered at their motives, mocked the cause,

went wild and sorrow-laden,

And saw Polygamy's vast jaws a-yawning for

the maiden.

Why not, you say? Ah, yes, why not, from

your high point of vision;

But I'm of an inferior lot, beyond the light

Elysian.

I tore my hair, whined like a whelp, I loved her

to distraction,

I saw the danger, knew the help, yet trembled

at the action.

At last I came to you, my friend, and told my

tender feeling;

You said, "Your grief shall have an end—this is

a case for Sealing;

And since you have deserved so well, and made

no heinous blunder,

Why, brother Abraham, take the gel, but mind

you keep her under."

Well! then I went to Sister Anne, my inmost

heart unclothing,

Told her my feelings like a man, concealing

next to nothing,

Explain'd the various characters of those I had

already,

The various tricks and freaks and stirs peculiar

to each lady,

And, finally, when all was clear, and hope

seem'd to forsake me,

"There! it's a wretched chance, my dear—you

leave me, or you take me."

Well, Sister Annie look'd at me, her inmost

heart revealing

(Women are very weak, you see, inferior, full of

feeling),

Then, thro' her tears outshining bright, "I'll

never never leave you!

"O Abe," she said, "my love, my light, why

should I pain or grieve you?

I do not love the way of life you have so sadly

chosen,

I'd rather be a single wife than one in half a

dozen;

But now you cannot change your plan, tho'

health and spirit perish,

And I shall never see a man but you to love and

cherish.

Take me, I'm yours, and O, my dear, don't

think I miss your merit,

I'll try to help a little here your true and loving

spirit."

"Reflect, my love," I said, "once more," with

bursting heart, half crying,

"Two of the girls cut very sore, and most of

them are trying!"

And then that' gentle-hearted maid kissed me

and bent above me,

"O Abe," she said, "don't be afraid,—I'll try to

make them love me!"

Ah well! I scarcely stopt to ask myself, till all

was over,

How precious tough would be her task who

made those dear souls love her!

But I was seal'd to Sister Anne, and straight-

way to my wonder

A series of events began which showed me all

my blunder.

Brother, don't blame the souls who erred thro'

their excess of feeling—

So angrily their hearts were stirred by my last

act of sealing;

But in a moment they forgot the quarrels they'd

been wrapt in,

And leagued together in one lot, with Tabby for

the Captain.

Their little tiffs were laid aside, and all com-

bined together,

Preparing for the gentle Bride the blackest sort

of weather.

It wasn't feeling made them flout poor Annie in

that fashion,

It wasn't love turn'd inside out, it wasn't jealous

passion,

It wasn't that they cared for me, or any other

party,

Their hearts and sentiments were free, their ap-

petites were hearty.

But when the pretty smiling face came blossom-

ing and blooming,

Like sunshine in a shady place the fam'ly Vault

illuming,

It naturally made them grim to see its sunny

colour,

While like a row of tapers dim by daylight, they

grew duller.

She tried her best to make them kind, she

coaxed and served them dumbly,

She watch'd them with a willing mind, deferred

to them most humbly;

Tried hard to pick herself a friend, but found her

arts rejected,

And fail'd entirely in her end, as one might

have expected.

But, Brother, tho' I'm loathe to add one word to

criminate them,

I think their conduct was too bad,—it almost

made me hate them.

Ah me, the many nagging ways of women are

amazing,

Their cleverness solicits praise, their cruelty is

crazing!

And Sister Annie hadn't been a single day their

neighbour,

Before a baby could have seen her life would be

a labour.

But bless her little loving heart, it kept its

sorrow hidden,

And if the tears began to start, suppressed the

same unbidden.

She tried to smile, and smiled her best, till I

thought sorrow silly,

And kept in her own garden nest, and lit it like

a lily.

O I should waste your time for days with talk

like this at present,

If I described her thousand ways of making

things look pleasant!

But, bless you, 'twere as well to try, when

thunder's at its dire work,

To clear the air, and light the sky, by penny-

worths of firework.

These gentle ways to hide her woe and make

my life a blessing,

Just made the after darkness grow more gloomy

and depressing.

Taunts, mocks, and jeers, coldness and sneers,

insult and trouble daily,

A thousand stabs that brought the tears, all

these she cover'd gaily;

But when her fond eyes fell on me, the light of

love to borrow,

And Sister Anne began to see I knew her secret

sorrow,

All of a sudden like a mask the loving cheat

forsook her,

And reckon I had all my task, for illness over-

took her.

She took to bed, grew sad and thin, seem'd like

a spirit flying,

Smiled thro' her tears when I went in, but when

I left fell crying;

And as she languish'd in her bed, as weak and

wan as water,

I thought of what her father said, "Take care of

my dear daughter!"

Then I look'd round with secret eye upon her

many Sisters,

And close at hand I saw them lie, ready for use

—like blisters;

They seemed with secret looks of glee, to keep

their wifely station;

They set their lips and sneer'd at me, and

watch'd the situation.

O Brother, I can scarce express the agony of

those moments,

1 fear your perfect saintliness, and dread your

cutting comments!

I prayed, I wept, I moan'd, I cried, I anguish'd

night and morrow,

I watch'd and waited, sleepless-eyed, beside

that bed of sorrow.

At last I knew, in those dark days of sorrow

and disaster,

Mine wasn't soil where you could raise a Saint

up, or a Pastor;

In spite of careful watering, and tilling night

and morning,

The weeds of vanity would spring without a

word of warning.

I was and ever must subsist, labell'd on every

feature,

A wretched poor Monogamist, a most inferior

creature—

Just half a soul, and half a mind, a blunder and

abortion,

Not finish'd half till I could find the other

missing portion!

And gazing on that missing part which I at last

had found out,

I murmur'd with a burning heart, scarce strong

to get the sound out,

"If from the greedy clutch of Fate I save this

chief of treasures,

I will no longer hesitate, but take decided mea-

sures!

A poor monogamist like me can not love half a

dozen,

Better by far, then, set them free! and take the

Wife I've chosen!

Their love for me, of course, is small, a very

shadowy tittle,

They will not miss my face at all, or miss it very

little.

I can't undo what I have done, by my forlorn

embraces,

And call the brightness of the sun again into

their faces;

But I can save one spirit true, confiding and

unthinking,

From slowly curdling to a shrew or into swine-

dom sinking."

These were my bitter words of woe, my fears

were so distressing,

Not that I would reflect—O no!—on any living

blessing.

Thus, Brother, I resolved, and when she rose,

still frail and sighing,

I kept my word like better men, and bolted,—

and I'm flying.

Into oblivion I haste, and leave the world be-

hind me,

Afar unto the starless waste, where not a soul

shall find me.

I send my love, and Sister Anne joins cordially,

agreeing

I never was the sort of man for your high state

of being;

Such as I am, she takes me, though; and after

years of trying,

From Eden hand in hand we go, like our first

parents flying;

And like the bright sword that did chase the

first of sires and mothers,

Shines dear Tabitha's flaming face, surrounded

by the others:

Shining it threatens there on high, above the

gates of heaven,

And faster at the sight we fly, in naked shame,

forth-driven.

Nothing of all my worldly store I take, 'twould

be improper,

I go a pilgrim, strong and poor, without a single

copper.

Unto my Widows I outreach my property com-

pletely.

There's modest competence for each, if it is

managed neatly.

That, Brother, is a labour left to your sagacious

keeping;—

Comfort them, comfort the bereft! I'm good as

dead and sleeping!

A fallen star, a shooting light, a portent and an

omen,

A moment passing on the sight, thereafter seen

by no men!

I go, with backward-looking face, and spirit

rent asunder.

O may you prosper in your place, for you're a

shining wonder!

So strong, so sweet, so mild, so good!—by

Heaven's dispensation,

Made Husband to a multitude and Father to a

nation!

May all the saintly life ensures increase and

make you stronger!

Humbly and penitently yours,

A. Clewson (Saint no longer).

THK FARM IN THE VALLEY—SUNSET.

Still the saintly City stands,

Wondrous work oF busy hands;

Still the lonely City thrives,

Rich in worldly goods and wives,

And with thrust-out jaw and set

Teeth, the Yankee threatens yet—

Half admiring and half riled,

Oft by bigger schemes beguiled,

Turning off his curious stare

To communities elsewhere.

Always with unquiet eye

Watching Utah on the sly.

Long the City of the Plain

Left its image on my brain:

White kiosks and gardens bright

Rising in a golden light;

Busy figures everywhere

Bustling bee-like in the glare;

And from dovecots in green places,

Peep'd out weary women's faces,

Flushing faint to a thin cry

From the nursery hard by.

And the City in my thought

Slept fantastically wrought,

Till the whole began to seem

Like a curious Eastern dream,

Like the pictures strange we scan

In the tales Arabian:

Tales of magic art and sleight,

Cities rising in a night,

And of women richly clad,

Dark-eyed, melancholy, sad,

Ever with a glance uncertain,

Trembling at the purple curtain,

Lest behind the black slave stand

With the bowstring in his hand

Happy tales, within whose heart

Founts of weeping eyes upstart,

Told, to save her pretty head,

By Scheherazad in bed!

All had faded and grown faint,

Save the figure of the Saint

Who that memorable night

Left the Children of the Light,

Flying o'er the lonely plain

From his lofty sphere of pain

Oft his gentle face would flit

O'er my mind and puzzle it,

Ever waking up meanwhile

Something of a merry smile,

Whose quick light illumined me

During many a reverie,

When I puffed my weed alone.

Faint and strange the face had grown,

Tho' for five long years or so

I had watched it come and go,

When, on busy thoughts intent,

I into New England went,

And one evening, riding slow

By a River that I know,

(Gentle stream! I hide thy name,

Far too modest thou for fame!)

I beheld the landscape swim

In the autumn hazes dim,

And from out the neighbouring dales

Heard the thumping of the flails.

All was hush'd; afar away

(As a novelist would say)

SUNSET IN NEW ENGLAND

Sank the mighty orb of day,

Staring with a hazy glow

On the purple plain below,

Where (like burning embers shed

From the sunset's glowing bed,

Dying out or burning bright,

Every leaf a blaze of light)

Ran the maple swamps ablaze;

Everywhere amid the haze,

Floating strangely in the air,

Farms and homesteads gather'd fair;

And the River rippled slow

Thro' the marshes green and low,

Spreading oft as smooth as glass

As it fringed the meadow grass,

Making 'mong the misty fields

Pools like golden gleaming shields.

Thus I walked my steed along,

Humming a low scrap of song,

Watching with an idle eye

White clouds in the dreamy sky

Sailing with me in slow pomp.

In the bright flush of the swamp,

While his dogs bark'd in the wood,

Gun in hand the sportsman stood;

And beside me, wading deep,

Stood the angler half asleep,

Figure black against the gleam

Of the bright pools of the stream;

Now and then a wherry brown

With the current drifted down

Sunset-ward, and as it went

Made an oar-splash indolent;

While with solitary sound,

Deepening the silence round,

In a voice of mystery

Faintly cried the chickadee-

Suddenly the River's arm

Rounded, and a lonely Farm

Stood before me blazing red

To the bright blaze overhead;

In the homesteads at its side,

Cattle lowed and voices cried,

And from out the shadows dark

Came a mastiff's measured bark.

Fair and fat stood the abode

On the path by which I rode,

And a mighty orchard, strown

Still with apple-leaves wind-blown,

Raised its branches gnarl'd and bare

Black against the sunset air,

And with greensward deep and dim,

Wander'd to the River's brim.

Close beside the orchard walk

Linger'd one in quiet talk

With a man in workman's gear.

As my horse's feet drew near,

The labourer nodded rough "good-day,"

Turned his back and loung'd away.

Then the first, a plump and fat

Yeoman in a broad straw hat,

Stood alone in thought intent,

Watching while the other went,

And amid the sunlight red

Paused, with hand held to his head.

In a moment, like a word

Long forgotten until heard,

Like a buried sentiment

Born again to some stray scent,

Like a sound to which the brain

Gives familiar refrain,

Something in the gesture brought

Things forgotten to my thought;

Memory, as I watched the sight.

Flashed from eager light to light

Remember'd and remember'd not,

Half familiar, half forgot.

Stood the figure, till at last,

Bending eyes on his, I passed,

Gazed again, as loth to go,

Drew the rein, stopt short, and so

Rested, looking back; when he,

The object of my scrutiny,

Smiled and nodded, saying, "Yes!

Stare your fill, young man! I guess

You'll know me if we meet again!"

In a moment all my brain

Was illumined at the tone,

All was vivid that had grown

Faint and dim, and straight I knew; him,

Holding out my hand unto him,

Smiled, and called him by his name.

Wondering, hearing me exclaim.

Abraham Clewson (for'twas he)

Came more close and gazed at me,

As he gazed, a merry grin

Brighten'd down from eyes to chin:

In a moment he, too, knew me,

Reaching out his hand unto me,

Crying "Track'd, by all that's blue

Who'd have thought of seeing you?

Then, in double quicker time

Than it takes to make the rhyme,

Abe, with face of welcome bright,

Made me from my steed alight;

Call'd a boy, and bade him lead

The beast away to bed and feed;

And, with hand upon my arm,

Led me off into the Farm,

Where, amid a dwelling-place

Fresh and bright as her own face,

With a gleam of shining ware

For a background everywhere,

Free as any summer breeze,

With a bunch of huswife's keys

At her girdle, sweet and mild

Sister Annie blush'd and smiled,—

While two tiny laughing girls,

Peeping at me through their curls,

Hid their sweet shamefacëdness

In the skirts of Annie's dress.

That same night the Saint and I

Sat and talked of times gone by,

Smoked our pipes and drank our grog

By the slowly smouldering log,

While the clock's hand slowly crept

To midnight, and the household slept

"Happy?" Abe said with a smile,

"Yes, in my inferior style,

Meek and humble, not like them

In the New Jerusalem."

Here his hand, as if astray,

For a moment found its way

To his forehead, as he said,

"Reckon they believe I'm dead?

Ah, that life of sanctity

Never was the life for me.

Couldn't stand it wet nor dry,

Hated to see women cry;

Couldn't bear to be the cause

Of tiffs and squalls and endless jaws

Always felt amid the stir

Jest a whited sepulchre;

And I did the best I could

When I ran away for good.

Yet, for many a night, you know

(Annie, too, would tell you so),

Couldn't sleep a single wink,

Couldn't eat, and couldn't drink,

Being kind of conscience-cleft

For those poor creatures I had left,

Not till I got news from there,

And I found their fate was fair,

Could I set to work, or find

Any comfort in my mind.

Well (here Abe smiled quietly),

Guess they didn't groan for me!

Fanny and Amelia got

Sealed to Brigham on the spot;

Emmy soon consoled herself

In the arms of Brother Delf;

And poor Mary one fine day

Packed her traps and tript away

Down to Fresco with Fred Bates,

A young player from the States:

While Sarah,'twas the wisest plan,

Pick'd herself a single man—

A young joiner fresh come down

Out of Texas to the town—

And he took her with her baby,

And they're doing well as maybe.'"

Here the Saint with quiet smile,

Sipping at his grog the while,

Paused as if his tale was o'er,

Held his tongue and said no more.

"Good," I said, "but have you done?

You have spoke of all save one—

All your Widows, so bereft,

Are most comfortably left,

But of one alone you said

Nothing. Is the lady dead?"

Then the good man's features broke

Into brightness as I spoke,

And with loud guffaw cried he,

"What, Tabitha? Dead! Not she.

All alone and doing splendid—

Jest you guess, now, how she's ended!

Give it up? This very week

I heard she's at Oneida Creek,

All alone and doing hearty,

Down with Brother Noyes's party.

Tried the Shakers first, they say,

Tired of them and went away,

Testing with a deal of bother

This community and t'other,

Till she to Oneida flitted,

And with trouble got admitted.

Bless you, she's a shining lamp,

Tho' I used her like a scamp,

And she's great in exposition

Of the Free Love folk's condition,

Vowing, tho' she found it late,

Tis the only happy state....

"As for me," added the speaker,

"I'm lower in the scale, and weaker;

Polygamy's beyond my merits,

Shakerism wears the spirits,

And as for Free Love, why you see

(Here the Saint wink'd wickedly)

With my whim it might have hung

Once, when I was spry and young;

But poor Annie's love alone

Keeps my mind in proper tone,

And tho' my spirit mayn't be strong,

I'm lively—as the day is long."

As he spoke with half a yawn,

Half a smile, I saw the dawn

Creeping faint into the gloom

Of the quickly-chilling room.

On the hearth the wood-log lay,

With one last expiring ray;

Draining off his glass of grog,

Clewson rose and kick'd the log;

As it crumbled into ashes,

Watched the last expiring flashes,

Gave another yawn and said,

"Well! I guess it's time for bed!"

THE END.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.

St. Abe and his Seven Wives was written in 1870, at a time when all the Cockney bastions of criticism were swarming with sharp-shooters on the look-out for "the d———d Scotchman" who had dared to denounce Logrolling. It was published anonymously, and simultaneously The Drama of Kings appeared with the author's name. The Drama was torn to shreds in every newspaper; the Satire, because no one suspected who had written it, was at once hailed as a masterpiece. Even the Athenaum cried "all hail" to the illustrious Unknown. The Pall Mall Gazette avowed in one breath that Robert Buchanan was utterly devoid of dramatic power, while the author of St. Abe was a man of dramatic genius. The secret was well kept, and the bewildered Cocknies did not cease braying their hosannahs even when another anonymous work, White Rose and Red, was issued by the same publisher. St. Abe went through numerous editions in a very short space of time.

To one familiar with the process of book-reviewing, and aware of the curious futility of even honest literary judgments, there is nothing extraordinary in the facts which I have just stated. Printed cackle about books will always be about as valuable as spoken cackle about them, and the history of literature is one long record of the march of genius through regions of mountainous stupidity. But there were some points about the treatment of St. Abe which are worth noting, as illustrating the way in which reviewing "is done" for leading newspapers. Example. The publisher sent out "early sheets" to the great dailies, several of which printed eulogistic reviews. The Daily Telegraph, however, was cautious. After receiving the sheets, the acting or sub-editor sent a message round to the publisher saying that a cordial review had been written and was in type, but that "the Chief" wanted to be assured, before committing himself to such an advertisement, about the authorship of the work. "Is it by Lowell?" queried the jack-in-office; "only inform us in confidence, and the review shall appear." Mr. Strahan either did not reply, or refused to answer the question. Result—the cordial review never appeared at all!

The general impression, however, was that the poem was written by James Russell Lowell. One or two kind critics suggested Bret Harte, but these were in a minority. No one suspected for one moment that the work was written by a Scotchman who, up to that date, had never even visited America. The Spectator (A Daniel come to judgment!) devoted a long leading article to proving that humour of this particular kind could have been produced only in the Far West, while a leading magazine bewailed the fact that we had no such humourists in England, since "with Thackeray our last writer of humour left us."

In America itself, the success of the book was less remarkable, and the explanation was given to me in a letter from a publisher in the States, who asserted that public feeling against the Mormons was so fierce and bitter that even a joke at their expense could not be appreciated. "The very subject of Mormondom," wrote my friend, "is regarded as indecent, unsavoury, and offensive." In spite of all, the satire was appreciated, even in America.

Already, however, its subject has ceased to be contemporary and become historical. Mormonism, as I depicted it, is as dead as Slavery, for the Yankee—as I foreshadowed he would do, in this very book—has put down Polygamy. Future generations, therefore, may turn to this book as they will turn to Uncle Tom's Cabin, for a record of a system which once flourished, and which, when all is said and done, did quite as much good as harm. I confess, indeed, that I am sorry for the Mormons; for I think that they are more sinned against than sinning. Polygamy is abolished in America, but a far fouler evil, Prostitution, flourishes, in both public and private life. The Mormons crushed this evil and obliterated it altogether, and if they substituted Polygamy, they only did openly and politically what is done, and must be done, clandestinely, in every country, under the present conditions of our civilisation.

The present is the first cheap edition of the book, and the first which bears the author's name on the title page. It will be followed by a cheap edition of White Rose and Red. I shall be quite prepared to hear now, on the authority of the newspapers, that the eulogy given to St. Abe on its first appearance was all a mistake, and that the writer possesses no humour whatsoever. I was informed, indeed, the other day, by a critic in the Daily News, that most of my aberrations proceeded from "a fatal want of humour." The critic was reviewing the Devil's Case, and his suggestion was, I presume, that I ought to have perceived the joke of the Nonconformist Conscience and latterday Christianity. I thought that I had done so, but it appears that I had not been funny at all, or not funny enough. But my real misfortune was, that my name was printed on the title page of the work then under review.

I cannot conclude this bibliographical note without a word concerning the remarkable artist who furnished St. Abe and his Seven Wives with its original frontispiece. The genius of the late A. B. Houghton is at last receiving some kind of tardy recognition, chiefly through the efforts of Mr. Pennell, whose criticisms on art have done so much to free the air of lingering folly and superstition. When I sought out Mr. Houghton, and persuaded him to put pencil to paper on my behalf, he was in the midst of his life-long struggle against the powers of darkness. He died not long afterwards, prematurely worn out with the hopeless fight. One of the last of the true Bohemians, a man of undoubted genius, he never learned the trick of wearing fine linen and touting for popularity; but those who value good work hold him in grateful remembrance, and I am proud to think that so great a master in black and white honoured me by associating himself with a book of mine.

Robert Buchanan.

ORIGINALLY PREFACED TO SAINT ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.

TESTIMONIES OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.

I. From P—————t G———t, U.S. Smart. Polygamy is Greek for Secesh. Guess Brigham will have to make tracks.

II. From R. W. E———n, Boston, U.S.

Adequate expression is rare. I had fancied the oracles were dumb, and had returned with a sigh to the enervating society of my friends in Boston, when your book reached me. To think of it! In this very epoch, at this very day, poetry has been secreting itself silently and surely, and suddenly the whole ocean of human thought is illumined by the accumulated phosphoresence of a subtle and startling poetic life.. . . Your work is the story of Polygamy written in colossal cipher the study of all forthcoming ages. Triflers will call you a caricaturist, empty solemnities will deem you a jester. Fools! who miss the pathetic symbolism of Falstaff, and deem the Rabelaisan epos fit food for mirth.... I read it from first page to last with solemn thoughts too deep for tears. I class you already with the creators, with Shakespere, Dante, Whitman, Ellery Channing, and myself.

III. From W———t W—————n, Washington, U.S.

I

Our own feuillage;

A leaf from the sweating branches of these States;

A fallen symbol, I guess, vegetable, living, human;

A heart-beat from the hairy breast of a man.

2

The Salon contents me not;

The fine feathers of New England damsels content me not;

The ways of snobs, the falsettos of the primo tenore, the legs

of Lydia Thomson's troupe of blondes, content me not;

Nor tea-drinking, nor the twaddle of Mr. Secretary Harlan,

nor the loafers of the hotel bar, nor Sham, nor Long-

fellow's Village Blacksmith.

3

But the Prairies content me;

And the Red Indian dragging along his squaw by the scruff of

the neck;

And the bones of mules and adventurous persons in Bitter

Creek;

And the oaths of pioneers, and the ways of the unwashed,

large, undulating, majestic, virile, strong of scent, all

these content me.

4

Utah contents me;

The City by the margin of the great Salt Lake contents me;

And to have many wives contents me;

Blessed is he who has a hundred wives, and peoples the

solitudes of these States.

5

Great is Brigham;

Great is polygamy, great is monogamy, great is polyandry,

great is license, great is right, and great is wrong;

And I say again that wrong is every whit as good as right, and

not one jot better;

And I say further there is no such thing as wrong, nor any

such thing as right, and that neither are accountable, and

both exist only by allowance.

6

O I am wonderful;

And the world, and the sea, and joy and sorrow, and sense

and nonsense, all content me;

And this book contents me, with its feuillage from the City of

many wives.

IV. From Elder F———k E—————s, of Mt. L———n, U.S.

An amusing attempt to show that polygamy is a social failure. None can peruse it without perceiving at once that the author secretly inclines to the ascetic tenets of Shakerism.

V. From Brother T. H. N———s, O—————a C————k.

After perusing this subtle study, who can doubt that Free Love is the natural human condition? The utter selfishness of the wretched monogamist-hero repels and sickens us; nor can we look with anything but disgust on the obtusity of the heroine, in whom the author vainly tries to awaken interest. It is quite clear that the reconstruction of Utah on O————a C———k principles would yet save the State from the crash which is impending.

VI. From E————-a F———-n H———-m, of S—————n Island.

If Polygamy is to continue, then, I say, let Polyandry flourish! Woman is the sublimer Being, the subtler Type, the more delicate Mechanism, and, strictly speaking, needs many pendants of the inferior or masculine Type to fulfil her mission in perfect comfort. Shall Brigham Young, a mere Man, have sixteen wives; and shall one wretched piece of humanity content me, that supreme Fact, a perfect Woman, highest and truest of beings under God? No; if these things be tolerated, I claim for each Woman, in the name of Light and Law, twenty ministering attendants of the lower race; and the day is near when, if this boon, or any other boon we like to ask, be denied us, it will be taken with a strong hand!

VII. From T———s C————e, Esq., Chelsea, England.

The titanic humour of the Conception does not blind me to the radical falseness of the Teaching, wherein, as I shall show you presently, you somewhat resemble the miserable Homunculi of our I own literary Wagners; for, if I rightly conceive, you would tacitly and by inference urge that it is expressly part of the Divine Thought that the Ewigweibliche, or Woman-Soul, should be happy. Now Woman's mundane unhappiness, as I construe, comes of her inadequacy; it is the stirring within her of the Infinite against the Finite, a struggle of the spark upward, of the lower to the higher Symbol. Will Woman's Rights Agitators, and Monogamy, and Political Tomfoolery, do what Millinery has failed to do, and waken one Female to the sense of divine Function? It is not happiness I solicit for the Woman-Soul, but Identity; and the prerogative of Identity is great work, Adequacy, pre-eminent fulfilment of the Function; woman, in this country of rags and shams, being buried quick under masses of Sophistication and Upholstery, oblivious of her divine duty to increase the population and train the young masculine Idea starward. I do not care if the wives of Deseret are pale, or faint, or uncultured, or unhappy; it is enough for me to know that they have a numerous progeny, and believe in Deity or the Divine Essence; and I will not conclude this letter without recording my conviction that yonder man, Brigham Young by name, is perhaps the clearest Intellect now brooding on this planet; that Friedrich was royaller but not greater, and that Bismarck is no more than his equal; and that he, this American, few in words, mark you, but great in deeds, has decided a more stupendous Question than ever puzzled the strength of either of those others,—the Question of the Sphere and Function in modern life of the ever-agitating Feminine Principle. If, furthermore, as I have ever held, the test of clearness of intellect and greatness of soul be Success, at any price and under any circumstances, none but a transcendental Windbag or a pedantic Baccalaureus will doubt my assertion that Young is a stupendous intellectual, ethical, and political Force—a Master-Spirit—a Colossal Being, a moral Architect of sublime cunning—as such to be reverenced by every right-thinking Man under the Sun.

VIII. From J———n R———n, Esq., London.

I am not generally appreciated in my own country, because I frequently change my views about religion, art, architecture, poetry, and things in general. Most of my early writings are twaddle, but my present opinions are all valuable. I think this poem, with its nervous Saxon Diction, its subtle humour, its tender pathos and piteousness, the noblest specimen of narrative verse of modern times; and, indeed, I know not where to look, out of the pages of Chaucer, for an equally successful blending of human laughter and ethereal mystery. At the same time, the writer scarcely does justice to the subject on the aesthetic side. A City where the streets are broad and clean and well-watered, the houses surrounded by gardens full of fruit and flowers; where the children, with shining, clean-washed faces, curtsey to the Philosophers in the public places; where there are no brothels and no hells; where life runs fresh, free, and unpolluted,—such a City, I say, can hardly be the symbol of feminine degradation. More than once, tired of publishing my prophetic warnings in the Daily Telegraph, I have thought of bending my weary footsteps to the new Jerusalem; and I might have carried out my intention long ago, if I had had a less profound sense of my own unfitness for the duties of a Saint.

IX. From M————w A————d, Esq., England.

Your poem possesses a certain rough primitive humour, though it appears to me deficient in the higher graces of sweetness and light. St. Paul would have entirely objected to the monogamical inference drawn in your epilogue; and the fact that you draw any such inference at all is to me a distressing proof that your tendency is to the Philistinism of those authors who write for the British Matron. I fear you have not read "Merope."

SOME NOTICES OF THE FIRST EDITION.

From the "GRAPHIC."

"Such vigorous, racy, determined satire has not been met with for many a long day. It is at once fresh and salt as the sea.... The humour is exquisite, and as regards literary execution, the work is masterly."

From the "PALL MALL GAZETTE."

"Although in a striking address to Chaucer the author intimates an expectation that Prudery may turn from his pages, and though his theme is certainly a delicate one, there is nothing in the book that a modest man may not read without blinking, and therefore, we suppose, no modest woman. On the other hand, the whole poem is marked with so much natural strength, so much of the inborn faculties of literature—(though they are wielded in a light, easy, trifling way)—that they take possession of our admiration as of right. The chief characteristics of the book are mastery of verse, strong and simple diction, delicate, accurate description of scenery, and that quick and forcible discrimination of character which belongs to men of dramatic genius. This has the look of exaggerated praise. We propose, therefore, to give one or two large samples of the author's quality, leaving our readers to judge from them whether we are not probably right. If they turn to the book and read it through, we do not doubt that they will agree with us."

From the "ILLUSTRATED REVIEW."

"The tale, however, is not to be read from reviews.... The variety of interest, the versatility of fancy, the richness of description with which the different lays and cantos are replete, will preclude the possibility of tediousness. To open the book is to read it to the end. It is like some Greek comedy in its shifting scenes, its vivid pictures, its rapidly passing 'dramatis personae' and supernumeraries.. .. The author of 'St. Abe,' who can write like this, may do more if he will, and even found a new school of realistic and satirical poetry."

From the "DAILY NEWS."

"If the author of a 'Tale of Salt Lake City' be not a new poet, he is certainly a writer of exceedingly clever and effective verses. They have the ring of originality, and they indicate ability to produce something still more remarkable than this very remarkable little piece. It merits a place among works which every one reads with genuine satisfaction. It is a piece which subserves one of the chief ends of poetry, that of telling a tale in an unusually forcible and pleasant way.... If it be the author's purpose to furnish a new argument against polygamous Mormons, by showing the ridiculous side of their system, he has perfectly succeeded. The extracts we have given show the varied, fluent, and forcible character of his verse. None who read about Saint Abe and his Seven Wives can fail to be amused and to be gratified alike by the manner of the verse and the matter of the tale."

From the "SCOTSMAN."

"This book does not need much commendation, but it deserves a great deal. The author of 'The Biglow Papers' might have written it, but there are passages which are not unlike Bret Harte; and him we suspect. The authorship, however, may be left out of notice. Men inquire who has written a good book, that they may honour him; but if his name never be heard, the book is none the less prized. In design and construction this work has high merit. It is a good story and it is good poetry. The author is a humourist and a satirist, and he has here displayed all his qualities lavishly."

From the "NONCONFORMIST."

"Amazingly clever.... Besides its pure tone deserves warm recognition. The humour is never coarse. There is a high delicacy, which is sufficient to colour and sweeten the whole, as the open spring breeze holds everything in good savour."

From the "SPECTATOR."

We believe that the new book which has just appeared, 'St. Abe and His Seven Wives,' will paralyze Mormon resistance far more than any amount of speeches in Congress or messages from President Grant, by bringing home to the minds of the millions the ridiculous-diabolic side of the peculiar institution. The canto called 'The Last Epistle of St. Abe to the Polygamists,' with its humorous narrative of the way in which the Saint, sealed to seven wives, fell in love with one, and thenceforward could not abide the jealousy felt by the other six, will do more to weaken the last defence of Mormonism—that after all, the women like it—than a whole ream of narratives about the discontent in Utah. Thousands on whom narrative and argument would make little or no impression, will feel how it must be when many wives with burning hearts watch the husband's growing love for one, when the favourite is sick unto death, and how 'they set their lips and sneered at me and watched the situation,' and will understand that the first price paid for polygamy is the suppression of love, and the second, the slavery of women. The letter in which the first point is proved is too long for quotation, and would be spoiled by extracts; but the second could hardly be better proved than in these humorous lines.

The descriptions of Saint Abe and his Seven Wives will be relished by roughs in California as much as by the self-indulgent philosophers of Boston.... Pope would have been proud, we fancy, of these terrible lines, uttered by a driver whose fiancée has just been beguiled away by a Mormon saint.

From the "ATHENÆUM."

"'Saint Abe and his Seven Wives' has a freshness and an originality, altogether wanting in Mr. Longfellow's new work, 'The Divine Tragedy.' In quaint and forcible language—language admirably suited to the theme; the author takes us to the wondrous city of the saints, and describes its inhabitants in a series of graphic sketches. The hero of the story is Saint Abe, or Abraham Clewson, and in giving us his history the author has really given us the inner life of the Mormon settlement. In his pages we see the origin of the movement, the reasons why it has increased, the internal weakness of the system, and the effect it produces on its adherents. We are introduced to the saints, whom we see among their pastures, in their homes, in their promenades, and in their synagogue."

From the "FREEMAN."

"A remarkable poem.... The production is anonymous, but whoever the author may be there can be no question that he is a poet, and one of vast and varied powers. The inner life of Mormondom is portrayed with a caustic humour equal to anything in 'The Biglow Papers'; and were it not for the exquisite elegance of the verse we should think that some parts of the poem were written by Robert Browning. The hero of the poem is a Mormon, who fares so badly as a polygamist that he elopes with one of his seven wives—the one whom he really loves; and the story is a most effective exposure of the evils which necessarily attach to polygamy."

From the "WEEKLY REVIEW."

"There can be no doubt that it is worthy of the author of 'The Biglow Papers.' Since that work was published, we have received many humorous volumes from across the Atlantic, but nothing equal to 'St. Abe.' As to its form, it shows that Mr. Lowell has been making advances in the poetic art; and the substance of it is as strong as anything in the entire range of English satirical literature."

From the "BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW."

"The writer has an easy mastery over various kinds of metre, and a felicity of easy rhyming which is not unworthy of our best writers of satire..., The prevailing impression of the whole is of that easy strength which does what it likes with language and rhythm. .... The style is light and playful, with admirable touches of fine discrimination and rich humour; but the purpose is earnest. .... The book is a very clever and a very wholesome one. It is one of those strong, crushing, dramatic satires, which do more execution than a thousand arguments."

From "TEMPLE BAR."

"It is said to be by Lowell. Truly, if America has more than one writer who can write in such a rich vein of satire, humour, pathos, and wit, as we have here, England must look to her laurels.... This is poetry of a high order. Would that in England we had humourists who could write as well. But with Thackeray our last writer of humour left us."

From the "WESTMINSTER REVIEW."

"'Saint Abe and his Seven Wives' may lay claim to many rare qualities. The author possesses simplicity and directness. To this he adds genuine humour and interposes dramatic power. Lastly, he has contrived to give a local flavour, something of the salt of the Salt Lake to his characters, which enables us to thoroughly realise them.... We will not spoil the admirable canto 'Within the Synagogue' by any quotation, which, however long, cannot possibly do it justice. We will merely say that this one hit is worth the price of the whole book. In the author we recognise a true poet, with an entirely original vein of humour."

From the "MANCHESTER GUARDIAN."

"It is thoroughly American, now rising into a true imaginative intensity, but oftener falling into a satirical vein, dealing plainly enough with the plague-spots of Salt Lake society and its wily, false prophets.... Like most men capable of humour, the author has command of a sweeter and more harmonious manner. Indeed, the beautiful descriptive and lyrical fragments stand in vivid and reflecting relief to the homely staple of the poem."

From the "TORONTO GLOBE."

"It is impossible to deny that the praises bestowed on 'St. Abe and his Seven Wives' as a work of literary power are deserved."

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