Part 3

Or curling up and losing their scent

In a poisonous dew from the Continent.

There she sits, in her quiet nook,

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

My heart is filled and my eyes are dim,

And I hate the Saint when I turn to him!

Ogre! Blue Beard! Oily and sly!

His meekness a cheat, his quiet a lie!

A roaring lion he'll walk the house

Tho' now he crouches like any mouse!

Had not he pluck'd enough and to spare

Of roses like these set fading there,

But he must seek to cajole and kiss

Another yet, and a child like this?

A maid on the stalk, just panting to prove

The honest joy of a virgin love;

A girl, a baby, an innocent child,

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

Scarce able the difference to fix

Of polygamy and politics!

Led to the altar like a lamb,

And sacrificed to the great god _Sham!_

Deluded, martyr'd, given to woe,

Last of seven who have perish'd so;

For who can say but the flowers I see

Were once as rosy and ripe as she?

Already the household worm has begun

To feed on the cheeks of the little one;

Already her spirit, fever-fraught,

Droops to the weight of its own thought;

Already she saddens and sinks and sighs,

Watched by the jealous dragonish eyes.

Even Amelia, sleepy and wan,

Sharpens her orbs as she looks at Anne;

While Sister Tabby, when she can spare

Her gaze from the Saint in his easy-chair,

Fixes her with a gorgon glare.

All is still and calm and polite,

The Sisters bolster themselves upright,

And try to smile, but the atmosphere

Is charged with thunder and lightning here.

Heavy it seems, and close and warm,

Like the air before a summer storm;

And at times,--as in that drowsy dream

Preluding thunder, all sounds will seem

Distinct and ominously clear,

And the far-off cocks seem crowing near

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

Is strangely conscious of the rest,

And the tick of the watch of Abe the Saint

Breaks on the air, distinct though faint,

Like the ticking of his heart!

I rise

To depart, still glancing with piteous eyes

On Sister Anne; and I find her face

Turn'd questioning still to the same old place--

The face of the Saint. I stand and bow,

Curtsies again are bobbing now,

Dresses rustling... I know no more

Till the Saint has led me to the door,

And I find myself in a day-dream dim,

Just after shaking hands with him.

Standing and watching him sad and slow

Into the dainty dwelling go,

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

... Hark, _distant thunder!_--'tis as I said:

The air was far too close;--at length

The Storm is breaking in all its strength.

III--PROMENADE--MAIN STREET, UTAH.

THE STRANGER.

Along the streets they're thronging, walking,

Clad gaily in their best and talking,

Women and children quite a crowd;

The bright sun overhead is blazing,

The people sweat, the dust they're raising

Arises like a golden cloud.

Still out of every door they scatter,

Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter.

That such a flock of folks I see?

A LOUNGER

They're off to hear the Prophet patter,

This yer's a day of jubilee.

VOICES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

STRANGER

Afar the hills arise with cone and column

Into a sky of brass serene and solemn;

And underneath their shadow in one haze

Of limpid heat the great salt waters blaze,

While faint and filmy through the sultry veil

The purple islands on their bosom sail

Like floating clouds of dark fantastic air.

How strangely sounds (while 'mid the Indian

glare

Moves the gay crowd of people old and young)

The bird-like chirp of the old Saxon tongue!

The women seem half weary and half gay,

Their eyes droop in a melancholy way,--

I have not seen a merry face to-day.

A BISHOP

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

How are things looking, down with you?

SECOND BISHOP

Not over bright with one nor 'tother,

Taters are bad, tomatoes blue.

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

Buried his wife and spiled his hay.

And the three best of Hornby's hosses

Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.

VOICES.

Zoë, jest fix up my gown...

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

Drat the babby, he's so crusty--

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

Come along, I'm almost sinking...

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

Stranger.

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

How shining were her eyes, how true and

steady,

Not drooping down in guilty Mormon fashion,

But shooting at the soul their power and passion.

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

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

Half glancing round at his poor sheep to scare

'em--

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

harem!

All berry brown, but looking scared as may be,

And each one but the oldest with a baby.

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--