Chapter II: Part 2

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.

PHOEBE

A Girl?

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