Part 2

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,