Chapter I: Part 1

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

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.