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 Cornell University Library 
 PR 4262.S13 1896 
 
 Saint Abe and his seven w'vesj f ff [e o' 
 
 3 1924 013 445 840 
 
SAINT ABE AND HIS 
 SEVEN WIVES 
 
WORKS WRITTEN & PUBLISHED 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 " The dumb wistful yearning in man to something higher — ^}-earning such as 
 the animal creation showed in the Greek period towards the human — has not as 
 yet found any interpreter equal to Buchanan." — Spectator. 
 
 " In the great power of appealing to universal humanity lies Buchanan's se- 
 curity. The light of Nature has been his guide, and the human heart his study. 
 He must unquestionably attain aii exalted rank among the poets of this century, 
 and produce works which cannot fail lo be accepted as incontestably great, and 
 worthy of the world's preservation." — Contemporary Review. 
 
 1. THE DEVIL'S CASE : a Bank^Holiday Interlude. With Sh 
 
 Grotesque Illustrations. Just Published. Price 6s. 
 
 2. THE CITY OF DBEAM. By Robert BUCHANAN. With 
 
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 3. POETICAL WOBKS OF EOBEBT BUCHANAN. With a 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013445840 
 
SAINT ABE AND HIS 
 
 
 SEVEN WIVES ;/'''^: 
 
 ^ ®aU of Salt italic GCttB 
 
 WITH A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 BY f^'" 
 
 Robert' Buchanan 
 
 FIRST CHEAP EDITION 
 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 36, GERRARD STREET, SHAFTESBURY AVENUE, W. 
 
 1896 
 
 T 
 
 PS 
 
'"i^u. 
 
 A. nusT^4- 
 
contp:nts. ■ 
 
 PARS 
 
 DEDICATION : TO OLD DAN CHAUCEK ... ^'' 
 APPKOACHING UTAH. — THE BOSS'S TALE: 
 
 PASSING IHE KANCHE 3 
 
 JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING 7 
 
 SAINT AND DISCIPLE 12 
 
 THE BOOK OF MORMON . . . . . . . 18 
 
 JOE ENDS HIS STORY. — FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH . 3I 
 THE CITY OF THE SAINTS : 
 
 AMONG THE PASTURES. — SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE 4I 
 
 WITHIN THE CITY. — SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN . 68 
 
 PROMENADE — MAIN STREET, UTAH 8 1 
 
 WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE. — SERMONIZETH THE PROPHET gS 
 
 THE FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT . . . . 108 
 
 LAST KPISTLE OF ST. ABE TO THE POLYGAMISTS . II8 
 
 IHE FARM IN THE VALLEY. — SUNSET (187I) , . ,.151 
 
TO OLD DAN CHAUCER. 
 
 Maypole daiue and Whitsun ale, 
 Sports of peasants in the dale, 
 Harvest mirth and junketling. 
 Fireside play and kiss-in-ring, 
 Ancietit fun ,and wit and ease,~- 
 Gone are one and all of these; 
 All the pleasant pastime planned 
 In the green old Mother-land: 
 Gone are these and gone the time 
 Of the breezy English rhyme, 
 Sung to make men glad and wise 
 By great Bards with twinkling eyes : 
 Gone the tale and gone the song 
 Sound as nut-brown ale and strong, 
 Freshening the sultry sense 
 Out of idle impotence. 
 
viii dedication: 
 
 Sowing features dull or briglit 
 With deep dimples of delight i 
 
 Thro' the. Mother-land I went. 
 Seeking these, half indolent : 
 Up and down, I saw them not: 
 Only f mind them, half forgot, 
 Buried in long-darken' d nooks 
 With thy barrels of old books. 
 Where the light and love and mirth 
 Of the morning days of earth 
 Sleeps, like light of sunken suns 
 Brooding deep in cob-webb'd tuns I 
 Everywhere I found instead, 
 Han^ng her dejected head. 
 Barbing shafts of bitter wit, 
 The pale Modern Spirit sit — 
 While her shadow, great as Go^s, 
 Cast upon the island fogs, 
 In the midst of all things dim 
 Loom'd, gigantically grim. 
 
BEDICATION. ix 
 
 Honest Chaucer, thee I greet 
 In a verse with Mithesomefeet, 
 And i'na modern bards may start. 
 Crack a passing joke with Care I 
 Take a merry song and true 
 Fraught with inner meanings too ! 
 Goodman Dull may croak and scoivl:-— 
 Leave him hooting to the owl! 
 Tight-laced Fruderj may turn 
 Angry hack with eyes that bum, 
 Reading on from page to page 
 Scrofulous novels of the age I 
 Fools may frown and humbugs rati, 
 Not for them I tell the Tale; 
 Not for them, hut souls like thee. 
 Wise old English Jollitv I 
 
 tfeuipoii, Octoier, jJ/i 
 
ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES. 
 
 Art thou unto a helpmate hound ? 
 
 Then stick to her, my brother 1 
 But host thou laid her in the ground ? 
 
 Don't go to seek another ! 
 Thou hast not sirCd, if thou hast wed. 
 
 Like Tnany of our nu?nher. 
 But thou hast spread a thorny ied, 
 
 And there alas ! must slumier ! 
 
 St. Paul, Cor. I., 7, 27-28. 
 
 O let thy fount of love he blest 
 
 And let thy wife rejoice. 
 Contented rest upon her hreast 
 
 And listen to her voice ; 
 Yea, he not ravish' d from her side 
 
 Whom thou at first has chosen, 
 Nor having tried one earthly hride 
 
 Go sighing for a Dozen ! 
 
 Sol. Prov. V., 18-20. 
 
■^■^ 
 
 APPROACHING UTAH.— THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
I. 
 
 PASSING THE RANCHE, 
 
 "GrRRR !" shrieked the boss, with teeth clench'd 
 
 tight, 
 Just as the lone ranche hove in sight, 
 And with a face of ghastly hue 
 He flogg'd the horses till they flew, 
 As if the devil were at their back. 
 Along the wild and stony track. 
 From side to side the waggon swung, 
 While to the quaking seat I clung. 
 Dogs bark'd ; on each side of the pass 
 The cattle grazing on the grass 
 Raised heads and stared ; and with a cry 
 Out the men rush'd as we roU'd by. 
 
4 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 "Grrr!" shriek'd the boss ; and o'er and o'er 
 He flogg'd the foaming steeds and swore ; 
 Harder and harder grew his face 
 As by the ranche we swept apace. 
 And faced the hill, and past the pond. 
 And gallop'd up the height beyond. 
 Nor tighten'd rein till field and farm 
 Were hidden by the mountain's arm 
 A mile behind ; when, hot and spent, 
 The horses paused on the ascent, 
 And mopping from his brow the sweat. 
 The boy glanced round with teeth still set, 
 And panting-, with his eyes on me, 
 Smil'd with a look of savage glee. 
 
 Joe "Wilson is the boss's name, 
 A Western boy well known to fame. 
 He goes about the dangerous land 
 His life for ever in his hand ; 
 
PASSING THE RANG HE. 
 
 Has lost three fingers in a fray, 
 
 Has scalp'd his Indian too they say ; 
 
 Between the white man and the red 
 
 Four times he hath been left for dead ; 
 
 Can drink, and swear, and laugh, and brawl, 
 
 And keeps his big heart thro' it all 
 
 Tender for babes and women. 
 
 He 
 Turned, smiled, and nodded savagely ; 
 Then, with a dark look in his eyes 
 In answer to my dumb surprise. 
 Pointed with jerk of the whip's heft 
 Back to the place that we had left, 
 And cried aloud, 
 
 " I guess you think 
 I'm mad, or vicious, or in drink. 
 But theer you're wrong. I never pass 
 The ranche down theer and bit of grass, 
 I never pass 'em, night nor day, 
 But the fit takes me jest that way ! 
 
6 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 The hosses know as well as me 
 What's coming, miles afore we see 
 The dern'd old corner of a place, 
 And they git ready for the race ! 
 Lord ! if I didr^t lash and sweer, 
 And ease my rage out passing theer. 
 Guess I should go clean mad, that's all. 
 And thet's the reason why I call 
 This turn of road where I am took 
 Jest Old Nick's Gallop!" 
 
 Then his look 
 Grew more subdued yet darker still ; 
 And as the horses up the hill 
 With loosen'd rein toil'd slowly, he 
 Went on in half soliloquy. 
 Indifferent almost if I heard. 
 And grimly grinding out each word. 
 
JOE VvILSON GOES A-COTJIITING . 
 
 " There was a time, and no mistake, 
 
 When thet same ranche down in the brake 
 
 Was pleasanter a heap to me 
 
 Than any sight on land or sea. 
 
 The hosses knew it like their master. 
 
 Smelt it miles orf, and spank'd the faster ! 
 
 Ay, bent to reach thet very spot, 
 
 Flew till they halted steaming hot 
 
 Sharp opposite the door, among 
 
 The chicks and children old and young ; 
 
 And down I'd jump, and all the go 
 
 Was 'Fortune, boss !' and 'Welcome, Joe !' 
 
 And Cissy with her shining face, 
 
 Tho' she was missus of the place, 
 
8 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 Stood larfing, hands upon her hips ; 
 
 And when upon her rosy lips 
 
 I put my mouth and gave her one, 
 
 She'd cuff me, and enjy the fun ! 
 
 She was a widow young and tight. 
 
 Her chap had died in a free fight, 
 
 And here she lived, and round her had 
 
 Two chicks, three brothers, and her dad. 
 
 All making money fast as hay. 
 
 And doing better every day. 
 
 Waal ! guess tho' I was peart and swift. 
 
 Spooning was never much my gift ; 
 
 But Cissy was a gal so sweet. 
 
 So fresh, so spicy, and so neat. 
 
 It put your wits all out o' place. 
 
 Only to star' into her face. 
 
 Skin whiter than a new-laid ^%%, 
 
 Lips full of juice, and sech a leg ! 
 
 A smell about her, morn and e'en, 
 
 Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green ; 
 
JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING. 
 
 And from her hand when she took mine, 
 The warmth ran up like sherry wine ; 
 And if in liquor I made free 
 To pull her larfing on my knee, 
 Why, there she'd sit, and feel so nice, 
 Her heer all scent, her breath all spice ! 
 See ! women hate, both young and old, 
 A chap that's over shy and cold, 
 And fire of all sorts kitches quick. 
 And Cissy seem'd to feel full slick 
 The same fond feelings, and at last 
 Grew kinder every time I passed ; 
 And all her face, from eyes to chin, 
 Said ' Bravo, Joe ! You're safe to win !' 
 And tho' we didn't fix, d'ye see. 
 In downright words that it should be, 
 Ciss and her fam'ly understood 
 That she and me would jine for good. 
 Guess I was like a thirsty hoss 
 Dead beat for days, who comes across 
 
10 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 A fresh clear beck, and on the brink 
 
 Scoops out his shaky hand to drink ; 
 
 Or like a gal or boy of three, 
 
 With eyes upon a pippin-tree ; 
 
 Or like some Injin cuss who sees 
 
 A bottle ot rum among the trees, 
 
 And by the bit of smouldering log, 
 
 Where squatters camp'd and took their grog 
 
 The night afore. Waal ! " (here he ground 
 
 His teeth again with savage sound) 
 
 " Waal, stranger, fancy, jest for fun. 
 
 The feelings of the thirsty one. 
 
 If, jest as he scoop'd out his hand, 
 
 The water turn'd to dust and sand ! 
 
 Or fancy how the lad would scream 
 
 To see thet fruit-tree jest a dream ! 
 
 Or guess how thet poor lujin cuss. 
 
 Would dance and swear, and screech and fuss, 
 
 If when he'd drawn the cork and tried 
 
 To get a gulp of rum inside. 
 
JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING. u 
 
 'Twam't anything in thet theer style, 
 But physic stuff or stinking ile ! 
 Ah ! you've a notion now, I guess, 
 Of how all ended in a mess. 
 And how when I was putting in 
 My biggest card and thought to win. 
 The Old One taught her how to cheat, 
 And yer I found myself, clean beat '" 
 
in. 
 
 SAINT AND DISCIPLE. 
 
 Joe Wilson paused, and gazed straight down, 
 
 With gritting teeth and bitter frown, 
 
 And not till I entreated him 
 
 Did he continue, — fierce and grim, 
 
 With knitted brow and teeth clench'd tight. 
 
 " Along this way one summer night. 
 Jest as I meant to take the prize. 
 Passed an Apostle — dern, his eyes ! 
 On his old pony, gravel-eyed, 
 His legs a-dangling down each side, 
 With twinkling eyes and wheedling smile, 
 Grinning beneath his broad-brimm'd tile, 
 
SAFNT AND DISCIPLE. 13 
 
 With heer all scent and shaven face. 
 
 He came a-trotting to the place. 
 
 My luck was bad, I wasn't near. 
 
 But busy many a mile from yer ; 
 
 And what I tell was told to me 
 
 By them as were at hand to see. 
 
 'Twarn't every day, I reckon, they 
 
 Saw an Apostle pass their way ! 
 
 And Cissy, being kind o' soft. 
 
 And empty in the upper loft, 
 
 Was full of downright joy and pride 
 
 To hev thet saint at her fireside — 
 
 One of the seventy they call 
 
 The holiest holy — dern 'em all ! 
 
 O he was 'cute and no mistake. 
 
 Deep as Salt Lake, and wide awake ! 
 
 Theer at the ranche three days he stayed, 
 
 And well he knew his lying trade. 
 
 'Twarn't long afore he heard full free 
 
 About her larks and thet with me, 
 
14 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 And how 'twas quite the fam'ly plan 
 
 To hev me for her second man. 
 
 At fust thet old Apostle said 
 
 Little, but only shooH his head ! 
 
 But you way bet he'd no intent 
 
 To let things go as things had went. 
 
 Three nights he stayed, and every night 
 
 He squeezed her hand a bit more tight j 
 
 And every night he didn't miss 
 
 To give a loving kiss to Ciss ; 
 
 And tho' his fust was on her brow, 
 
 He ended with her mouth, somehow. 
 
 O, but he was a knowing one. 
 
 The Apostle Hiram Higginson ! 
 
 Grrey as a badger's was his heer. 
 
 His age was over sixty year 
 
 (Her grandfather was little older), 
 
 So short, his head just touch'dher shoulder; 
 
 His face all grease, his voice' all puff. 
 
 His eyes two currants stuck in duff;— 
 
HOLY WOOING. 15 
 
 CdM thet a man !— then look at im ! 
 Thretty year old and six foot three, 
 Afeaf'd o' nothing morn nor night, 
 The man don't walk I wouldn't fight ! 
 Women Js women ! Thet's their style-;-. 
 Talk reasQn to them and they'll bile \ 
 But baste "em soft as any pigeon, 
 With lies and rubbish and religion j 
 Don't talk of flesh and blood and feeling, 
 But Holy Ghost and blessed healing j 
 Don't name things in too plain a way. 
 Look a heap warmer than you say, 
 Make 'em believe they're serving true 
 The Holy Spirit and not you. 
 Prove all the world but you's damnation, 
 And call your kisses jest salvation ; 
 Do this, and press 'em on the sly, 
 You're safe to win 'em. Jest you try ! 
 
 " Fust thing I heerd of all this game, 
 One night when to the ranche I came, 
 
i6 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 Jump'd down, ran in, saw Cissy theer, 
 And thought her kind o' cool and queer ; 
 For when I caught her with a kiss, 
 'Twarn't that she took the thing amiss, 
 But kept stone cool and gev a sigh, 
 And wiped her mouth upon the sly 
 On her white milkin'-apron. ' Waal,' 
 Says I, ' you're out o' sorts, my gel ! ' 
 And with a squeamish smile for me, 
 Like folks hev when they're sick at sea. 
 Says she, ' O, Joseph, ere too late, 
 I am awaken'd to my state — 
 How pleasant and how sweet it is 
 To be in sech a state of bliss ! ' 
 I stared and gaped, and turned to Jim 
 Her brother, and cried out to him, 
 ' Hullo, mate, what's the matter here ? 
 What's come to Cissy ? Is she queer ?' 
 Jim gev a grin and ajiswered * Yes, 
 A trifle out 6' sdrts, I guess.* 
 
cissy mcltNSS To PtETV. I) 
 
 But Cissy here spoke up and said, 
 
 ' It ain't my stomach, nor my head, 
 
 It ain't my flesh, it ain't my skin, 
 
 It's holy spirits here within ! ' 
 
 ' Waal,' says I, meanin' to be kind, 
 
 ' I must be off, for I'm behind ; 
 
 But next time that I pass this way 
 
 We'll fix ourselves without delay. 
 
 I know what your complaint is, Ciss, 
 
 I've seen the same in many a miss. 
 
 Keep up your spirits, thet's your plan. 
 
 You're lonely here without a man, 
 
 And you shall hev as good a one 
 
 As e'er druv hoss beneath the sun ! ' 
 
 At that I buss'd her with a smack, 
 
 Tum'd out, jump'd up, and took the track. 
 
 And larfing druv along the pass. 
 
 " Theer ! Guess I was as green as grass 1 " 
 
IV. 
 
 THE BOOK OF MORMON. 
 
 " 'Twas jest a week after thet daj'- 
 When down I druv again this way. 
 My heart was light ; and 'neath the box 
 I'd got a shawl and two fine frocks 
 For Cissy. On in spanking style 
 The hosses went mile arter mile j 
 The sun was blazing golden bright, 
 The sunflowers burning in the light, 
 The cattle in the golden gleer 
 Wading for coolness everywheer 
 Among the shinin' ponds, with flies 
 As thick as pepper round their eyes 
 And on their heads. See ! as I went 
 Whistling like mad and waal content, 
 
THE BOOK OF MORMON. ig 
 
 Altho' 'twas broad bright day all round, 
 A cock crow'd, and I thought the sound 
 Seem'd pleasant. Twice or thrice he 
 
 crow'd, 
 And then up to the ranche I rode. 
 Since then I've often heerd folk say 
 When a cock crows in open day 
 It's a had sign, announcin' clear 
 Black luck ot death to those thet hear. 
 
 " When I drew up, all things were still. 
 
 1 saw the boys far up the hill 
 
 Tossin' the hay ; but at the door 
 
 No Cissy stood as oft afore. 
 
 No, not a soul" there, left nor fight, 
 
 Her very chicks were out o' sight. 
 
 So down I jufflp'd, and ' Ciss ! ' I cried, 
 
 But not a sign of her outside. 
 
 With thet into the house I ran, 
 
 But found no sight of gel or man— 
 
10 TttF. BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 All empty. Thinks I, ' this is queer ! '— 
 Look'd in the dairy — no one theer ; 
 Then loiter'd round the kitchen track 
 Into the orchard at the back : 
 Under the fruit-trees' shade I pass'd, . . . 
 Thro' the green bushes, . . . and at last 
 Found, as the furthest path I trode, 
 The gel I wanted. Ye . . . s ! by ! 
 
 " The gel I wanted — ay, I found 
 More than I wanted, you'll be bound ! 
 Theer, seated on a wooden cheer. 
 With bows and ribbons in her heer, 
 Her hat a-swinging on a twig 
 Close by, sat Ciss in her best rig, 
 And at her feet that knowing one, 
 The Apostle Hiram Higginson ! 
 They were too keen to notice me, 
 So I held back behind a tree 
 
IN THE ORCHARD. »i 
 
 And watch'd 'em. Never night nor day 
 
 Did I see Cissy look so gay, 
 
 Her eyes all sparkling blue and bright, 
 
 Her face all sanctified delight. 
 
 She hed her gown tuck'd up to show 
 
 Embrider'd petticoat below, 
 
 And jest a glimpse, below the white. 
 
 Of dainty leg in stocking tight 
 
 With crimson clocks ; and on her knee 
 
 She held an open book, which he, 
 
 Thet dern'd Apostle at her feet, 
 
 With her low milking stool for seat, 
 
 Was reading out all clear and pat, 
 
 Keeping the place with finger fat ; 
 
 Creeping more close to book and letter 
 
 To feel the warmth of his text better. 
 
 His crimson face like a cock's head 
 
 With his emotion as he read, 
 
 And now and then his eyes he'd close 
 
 Jest like a cock does when he crows ! 
 
a 2 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 Above the heads of thet strange twc 
 The shade was deep, the sky was blue, 
 The place was full of warmth and smell, 
 All round the fruit and fruit-leaves fell, 
 And that Saint's voice, when all was 
 
 still, 
 Was like the groanin' of a mill. 
 
 " At last he stops for lack of wind. 
 And smiled with sarcy double-chinn'd 
 Fat face at Cissy, while she cried, 
 Rocking herself from side to side, 
 ' O Bishop, them are words of bliss ! ' 
 And then he gev a long fat kiss 
 On her warm hand, and edged his stool 
 Still closer. Could a man keep cool 
 And see it ? Trembling thro' and thro' 
 I walked right up to thet theer two, 
 And caught the dern'd old lump of duff 
 Jest by the breeches and the scruflF, 
 
JOE TAKES DESPERATE MEASURES. 23 
 
 And chuck'd him off, and with one kick 
 Sent his stool arter him right slick — 
 While Cissy scream'd with frighten'd face, 
 ' Spare him ! O spare that man of grace ! ' 
 
 "'Spare him !' I cried, and gov a shout, 
 ' What's this yer shine you air about-=— 
 What cuss is this that I jest see 
 With that big book upon your knee. 
 Cuddling up close and making sham 
 To read a heap of holy flam V. 
 Then Cissy clasp'd her hands, and said, 
 While that dern'd Saint sat fierce and 
 
 red, 
 Mopping his brow with a black frown. 
 And squatting where I chuck'd him down, 
 * Joe Wilson, stay your hand so bold, 
 Come not a wolf into the fold ; 
 Forbear to touch that holy one — 
 The Apostle Hiram Higginson.' 
 
24 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 ' Touch him,' said I, ' for half a pin 
 I'd flay and quarter him and skin ! 
 Waal may he look so white and skeer'd 
 For of his doings I have heard ; 
 Five wives he hev already done, 
 And him — not half the man for one ! ' 
 
 " And then I stoop'd and took a peep 
 At what they'd studied at so deep. 
 And read, for I can read a bit, 
 'The Book of Mormon ' — what was writ 
 By the first Saint of all the lot, 
 Mad Joseph, him the Yankees shot. 
 'What's the contents of this yer book r' 
 Says I, and fixed her with a look. 
 ' O Joe,' she answered, ' read aright. 
 It is a book of blessed light — 
 Thet holy man expounds it clear ; 
 Edification great is theer ! * 
 
JOE AND THE BISHOP. 25 
 
 Then, for my blood was up, I took 
 One kick at that infernal book, 
 And tho' the Apostle guv a cry, 
 Into the well I made it fly. 
 And turning to the Apostle cried, 
 Tho' thet theer Scriptur' is your guide, 
 You'd best depart without delay. 
 Afore you sink in the same way ! 
 And sure as fate you'll wet your skin 
 If you come courting yer agin ! ' 
 
 " At first he stared and puff'd and blew,- 
 'Git out !' I cried, and off he flew. 
 And not till he was out o' reach 
 Shook his fat fist and found his speech. 
 I turned to Cissy. ' Cicely Dunn,' 
 Ses I, ' is this a bit of fun 
 Or eernest ?' Reckon 'twas a sight 
 To see the way she stood upright. 
 
if, THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 Rolled her blue eyes up, tried to speak. 
 Made fust a giggle, then a squeak. 
 And said half crying, ' I despise 
 Your wicked calumnies and lies. 
 And what you would insinuate 
 Won't move me from my blessed state. 
 Now I perceive in time, thank hiven. 
 You are a man to anger given, 
 Jealous and vi'lent. Go away^ 
 And when you recollect this day, 
 And those bad words you've said to me, 
 Blush if you kin. Tehee ! tehee ! ' 
 And then she sobbed, and in her cheer 
 Fell crying : so I felt quite queer. 
 And stood like a dern'd fool, and star'd 
 Watchin' the pump a going hard ; 
 And then at last, I couldn't stand 
 The sight no more, but slipt my hand 
 Sharp into hers, and said quite kind, 
 'Say no more, Cissy — never mind; 
 
JOE AND CISS. vj 
 
 I know how queer you women's ways is — 
 Let the Apostle go to blazes ! ' 
 Now thet was plain and fair. With this 
 I would have put my arm round Ciss. 
 But Lord ! you should have seen her face, 
 When I attempted to embrace ; 
 Sprang to her feet and gev a cry, 
 Her back up like a cat's, her eye 
 All blazing, and cried fierce and clear, 
 'You villain, touch me if you deer!' 
 And jest then in the distance, fur 
 From danger, a voice echoed her, — 
 The dern'd Apostle's, from some place 
 Where he had hid his ugly face,^- 
 Crying out faint and thick and clear, 
 * Yes, villain, touch her if you deer ! ' 
 
 So riled I was, to be so beat, 
 
 I could have struck her to my feet 
 
i8 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 I didn't tho', tho' sore beset— 
 I never struck a woman yet. 
 
 " But off I walked right up the pass, 
 And found the men among the grass, 
 And when I came in sight said fiat, 
 ' What's this yer game Cissy is at ? 
 She's thrown me off, and taken pity 
 On an Apostle from the City. 
 Five wives already, too, has he — 
 Poor cussed things as e'er I see — 
 Does she mean mischief or a lark?' 
 Waal, all the men at thet look'd dark. 
 And scratch'd their heads and seem'd in 
 
 doubt. 
 At last her brother Jim spoke out — 
 ' Joe, don't blame us — by George, it's true. 
 We're chawed by this as much as you ; 
 We've done our best and tried and tried, 
 But Ciss is off her head with pride. 
 
And all her thoughts, both night and day, 
 Are with the Apostles fur away. 
 " O that I were in bliss with them 
 Theer in the new Jerusalem ! " 
 She says ; and when we laugh and sneer, 
 Ses we're jest raging wolves down here. 
 She's a bit dull at home d'ye see, 
 Allays liked heaps of company. 
 And now the foolish critter paints 
 A life of larks among the Saints. 
 We've done our best, don't hev a doubt. 
 To keep the old Apostle out : 
 We've trained the dogs to seize and bite him, 
 We've got up ghosts at night to fright him, 
 Doctor'd his boss and so upset him. 
 Put tickle-grass in bed to fret him, 
 Jalap'd his beer and snuffed his tea too. 
 Gunpowder in his pipe put free too ; 
 A dozen times we've well-nigh kill'd him. 
 We've skeer'd him, shaken him, and spill'd 
 him; 
 
JO THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 In fact, done all we deer,' said Jim, 
 •Against a powerful man like him ; 
 But all in vain we've hed our sport ; 
 Jest like a cat that cai^t be hurt, 
 With nine good lives if he hev one. 
 Is this same Hiram Higginson ! ' " 
 
V. 
 
 ;0E ENDS HIS STORY.— FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH. 
 
 Joe paused, for down the mountain's brow 
 His hastening horses trotted now. 
 Into a canyon green and light, 
 Thro' which a beck was sparkling light, 
 Quickly we wound. Joe Wilson lit 
 His cutty pipe, and suck'd at it 
 In silence grim ; and when it drew, 
 Puff after puff of smoke he blew, 
 With blank eye fixed on vacancy. 
 At last he turned again to me, 
 And spoke with bitter indignation 
 The epilogue of his narration. 
 
 " Waal, stranger, guess my story's told, 
 The Apostle beat and I was bowl'd. 
 
<i fits BOSS'S TaLE. 
 
 Reckon I might have won if I 
 
 Had allays been at hand to fry; 
 
 But I was busy oiit of sight, 
 
 And he was theer, morn, noon, and night, 
 
 Playing his cards, and waal it weer 
 
 For him I never caught him theer. 
 
 To cut the story short, I guess 
 
 He got the Prophet to say ' yes,' 
 
 And Cissy without much ado 
 
 Gev her consent to hev him too ; 
 
 And one fine morning off they druv 
 
 To what he called the Abode of Love— 
 
 A dern'd old place, it seems to me, 
 
 Jest like a dove-box on a tree. 
 
 Where every lonesome woman-soul 
 
 Sits shivering in her own hole, 
 
 And on the outside, free to choose. 
 
 The old cock -pigeon struts and coos. 
 
 I've heard from many a one that Ciss 
 
 Has found her blunder out by this. 
 
JOl: ENDS iilS STORY. 3 j 
 
 And she'd prefer for company 
 A -brisk young chap, tho' poor, like me. 
 Than the sixth part of him she's won^- 
 The holy Hiram Higgirison. 
 I've got a peep at her since then. 
 When she's crawl'd out of thet theer den. 
 But she's so pale and thin and tame 
 I shouldn't know her for the same. 
 No flesh to pinch upon her cheek. 
 Her legs gone thin, no voice to speak, 
 Dabby and crush'd, and sad and flabby, 
 Sucking a wretched squeaking baby ; 
 And all the fun and all the lie"ht 
 Gone from lier face, and left it white. 
 Her cheek '11 take £ leeble flush. 
 But hesn't blocd enough to blush ; 
 Tries to seem modest, peart and sly, 
 And brighten up if I go by. 
 But from the corner of her eyes 
 Peeps at me quietly, and sighs. 
 
34 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 Reckon her luck has been a stinger ! 
 
 She'd bolt if I held up my finger ; 
 
 But tho' I'm rough, and wild, and free. 
 
 Take a Satni's leavings — no not me ! 
 
 You've heerd of Vampires — them that rise 
 
 At dead o' night with flaming eyes. 
 
 And into women's beds '11 creep 
 
 To suck their blood when they're asleep. 
 
 I guess these Saints are jest the same. 
 
 Sucking the life out is their game ; 
 
 And tho' it ain't in the broad sun 
 
 Or in the open streets it's done. 
 
 There ain't a woman they clap eyes on 
 
 Their teeth don't touch, their touch don't pison ; 
 
 Thet's their dern'd way in this yer spot — 
 
 Grrr ! git along, hoss ! dern you, trot ! " 
 
 From pool to pool the wild beck sped 
 Beside us, dwindled to a thread. 
 
A SUMMER SCENE. 35 
 
 With mellow verdure fringed around 
 It sang along with summer sound : 
 Here gliding into a green glade ; 
 Here darting from a nest of shade 
 With sudden sparkle and quick cry, 
 As glad again to meet the sky ; 
 Here whirling oJff with eager will 
 And quickening tread to turn a mill ; 
 Then stealing from the busy place 
 With duskier depths and wearier pace 
 In the blue void above the beck 
 Sailed with us, dwindled to a speck. 
 The hen-hawk; and from pools below 
 The blue-wing'd heron oft rose slow. 
 And upward pass'd with measured beat 
 Of wing to seek some new retreat. 
 Blue was the heaven and darkly bright. 
 Suffused with throbbing golden light, 
 And in the burning Indian ray 
 A million insects hummed at play. 
 
36 THE BOSS'S TALE. 
 
 Soon, by the margin of the stream, 
 We passed a driver with his team 
 Bound for the City ; then a hound 
 Afar off made a dreamy sound ; 
 And suddenly the sultry track 
 Left the green canyon at our back. 
 And sweeping round a curve, behold! 
 We came into the yellow gold 
 Of perfect sunlight on the plain ; 
 And Joe, abruptly drawing rein. 
 Said quick and sharp, shading his eyes 
 With sunburnt hand, " See, theer it 
 
 lies — 
 Theer's Sodom !" 
 
 And even as he cried, 
 The mighty Valley we espied. 
 Burning below us in one ray 
 Of liquid light that summer day ; 
 
U'lAH AT LAST J 37 
 
 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 ? 
 
 rVliat flocks are these that thro' the golden gleam 
 
 Stray on hy freckled fields and shining stream ? 
 
 What glittering roofi .xnd white kiosks are these. 
 
 Up-peeping from the shade of emerald trees ? 
 
 Whose City is this thai 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 Sierras, 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 
 Sehold the City of these Latter Days! 
 Here may'st thou leave thy load and be forgiven, 
 4ind in anticipation taste of Heaven! 
 
AMONG THE PASTirRES. — SUMJfKR EVENING 
 
 biaxogue. 
 
 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, a] the' the 
 
 fix is vicious. 
 Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous plac<2 and fiU'd 
 
 our holy quivers. 
 The Yankee comes with dern'd long facu to give 
 
 us all the shivers I 
 
4.2 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 / 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 biler '11 bust^ but 'cause 
 
 of steam inside it ; 
 Yot if we went falootin' less, and made less 
 
 noise and flurry, 
 
THE BUL WARK OF THE FAITH. 43 
 
 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 Pkte. 
 
 Stranger, I'm with you there, indeed ; — it's been 
 the best of nusses ; 
 
4+ AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 J.:i 
 
 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 yoii were sound 
 
 and holy, 
 P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far 'ess 
 
 melancholy. 
 
BISHOP JOSS DESCRtBETIt ST. ABE. 4^ 
 
 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, hifn — 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. 
 
46 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 hy flocks 
 
 ■ — he was so winning ; 
 O but he had a lively style, describing saintly 
 
 blisses I 
 He made the spirit pant and smile, and seek 
 
 seraphic kisses ! 
 How the bright raptures of the Saint fresh lustre 
 
 seemed to borrow, 
 
ST. ABIE'S wi:akni:ss. 47 
 
 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, 
 
48 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 seniimental- 
 
 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 
 1 tertian fever. 
 
BISHOP PETE DEFINETH SAINTLINESS. 49 
 
 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 
 
 9,nd wonder ; 
 His notice is a blessed gift, his anger is blue 
 
 thunder . 
 
 E 
 
so AMONG THE PASTURES^ 
 
 No n'isgs vex the holy pjstce whepe 4.w§U thosg 
 
 blesged parties ; 
 Eagh missus shineth in her place,, and blithe and 
 
 meeK hep heaft is ! 
 Th(?y ?OWj they spin, they de-pn, they hem, theip 
 
 blessed babes they handle, 
 The Pevil neyep comes to (hem, 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 ! 
 
ST- AM'S mV^EHQW JPi:SCRIBED. 51 
 
 B13HOP Joss, 
 
 It aifi't a pajssion^ite flat like Abe can manage 
 
 things Xxiymr way ! 
 They teased that tnoet etarnal babe, tjU things 
 
 were in a poor way. 
 I used to watch his thorny bed, and bust my 
 
 sides with laughter, 
 Once give a female boss 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 fritky as a 
 
 filly. 
 One puU'd this way, and t'other that, ar.d m.ide 
 
 his life a mockery. 
 
52 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 ! 
 1 had an aunt, Tabitha Brooks, a virgin under 
 
 fifty, 
 
TABITHA WOOETH ABRAHAM. 53 
 
 She wam'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 with- 
 out a head that's ruling ? 
 
S4 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 Here is the paragon of wives to teach those 
 
 otners 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 ... 11 ! Abe was never anywhere against a 
 female party ! 
 
IfOW ST. ABE WAS SEALED TO TABITHA. 55 
 
 At first he seemed about to run, and then we 
 
 might have missed him ; 
 But Tabby was a tender one, she coUar'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 ; 
 
56 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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. 
 
 Strakger. 
 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. 57 
 
 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, eaf;h with tokens of 
 
 affection. 
 They dwell together, soft of speech, beneath their 
 
 Iprd's protection ; 
 
58 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 iolly. 
 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. 
 
HOW ANNE JONES CAME TO UTAH. 59 
 
 Still, things were better than before, though 
 
 somewhat trouble-iaden, • - 
 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 ymi 
 
 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 ! 
 
6o AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 ; 
 
JASON JONES'S LEGACY. 6i 
 
 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 ? 
 
6? AMQNQ mS PASTURES. 
 
 But O he was a erafty one, and soFrow couldn't 
 
 sh&me him ! 
 Th&t %9\ gpew upi and at eightgeji w^is pfettiey 
 
 far and neater— r 
 There were not many to fee seen about these 
 
 parts to beat her ; 
 Pe9.ft, 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 ! 
 
SISTER ANNE HATH MANY WOOERS. 63 
 
 As greedy 3,3 9, fwo-year l?abe a-grasping at 
 
 jnojaspes ! 
 When opce tjiose Shepherds of the flock began 
 
 to smile and beekon, 
 Jle ^creamed Uke any ftghtjpg eock, 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 ! 
 
64 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 Xhis 
 
 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. 
 
SISTER ANNE IS SEALED UNTO ST. ABE. 65 
 
 I never thought he'd dare to seal .-in other ; 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, lim 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 ^vcasoIs 
 come a-knocking. 
 
 F 
 
66 AMONG THE PASTURES. 
 
 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 pitj'^ 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 toour 
 
 nation, 
 
TWO MODEL SAINTS. 67 
 
 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. 
 
tx. 
 
 WITHIN THE CITY. — SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 Sister Tabitha, thirty odd, 
 
 Rising up witli a stare and a nod ; 
 
 Sister Amelia, sleepy and mild. 
 
 Freckled, Dudu-ish, 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, 
 
FADED FLOWERS. 69 
 
 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, 
 
70 SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 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, 
 
 \nd the others scarcely look at her. 
 
THE STRANGER ESSAYETH SMALL TALK. 71 
 
 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 — 
 
72 SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 A fresh spring whither the soul might turn, 
 When the road is rough, and the hot sands 
 
 burn ; 
 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. 
 
LOVING ONE'S OWN WIFE. 
 
 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 afiraid, when anotjier 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, 
 
 73 
 
74 SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE SAINT IN PRIVATE LIFE. 75 
 
 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' naoral 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. 
 
76 SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 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 — 
 
S/STFH ANNE. 77 
 
 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 ye*- awhile 
 Scatter'd about the homely Isle, 
 Not yet entirely eaten away 
 By the canker-novel of the day, 
 Or curling up and losing their scent 
 In a poisonous dew from the Continent. 
 
 There she sits, in her quiet nook, 
 Still bright tho' sadden'd ; and while I look, 
 My heart is filled and my eyes are dim. 
 And I hate the Saint when I turn to him ! 
 Ogre ! Blue Beard ! Oily and sly ! 
 His meekness a cheat, his quiet a lie ! 
 A roaring lion he'll walk the house 
 Tho' now he crouches like any mouse ! 
 Had 'not he pluck'd enough and to spare 
 Of roses like these set fading there, 
 
,8 SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 But he must seek to cajole and kiss - 
 
 Another yet, and a child like this I 
 
 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 r 
 
 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 ; 
 
BOTTLED THUNDER. 79 
 
 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-oif cocks seem crowing near ; — 
 
 Ev'n so in the pauses of talk, each breast 
 
 Is strangely conscious of the rest, 
 
8o SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN. 
 
 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 strengtli. 
 
trr. 
 
 promknade— main stkekt, 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 f 
 G 
 
82 MAIN STREET, UTAH. 
 
 A LOtJNGER. 
 
 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 
 
BISHOPS GREETING. 83 
 
 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. 
 
 Thet'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 bosses 
 
 Some Injin cuss has stol'n away. 
 
84 MAW STREET, VTAH. 
 
 Voices. 
 
 2oe, 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 ! ' • 
 
COQUETTING WITH THE ENEMY. 85 
 
 All berry brown, but looking scared as may be, 
 And each one but the oldest with a baby. 
 
 A Girl. 
 Phoebe ! 
 
 Another. 
 Yes, Grace ! 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 Don't seem to notice, dear. 
 That Yankee from the camp again is here, 
 Making such eyes, and following on the sly. 
 And coughing now and then to show he's nigh. 
 
 Second Girl. 
 
 Who's that along with him — the little scamp 
 Shaking his hair and nodding with a smile ? 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 Guess he's some new one just come down to 
 camp. 
 
86 MAIN STREET, UTAH. 
 
 Second Girx. 
 Isn't he handsome ? 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 No ; the first's my style ! 
 
 Stranger. 
 
 If my good friends, the Saints, could get theii 
 
 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 firown, 
 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 ; 
 
SI' ABE PASSETH. 87 
 
 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 beld as brass is. 
 
 Abe Clewson. 
 
 \_Passmg with his hamd 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. 
 
88 MAIN STREET, UTAH. 
 
 Too much of this life is beginning to try me, 
 I'm like a dern'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. 
 
A GROUP OF EMIGRANTS. 8g 
 
 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 hoi 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, 
 
go MAIN STREET, UTAH. 
 
 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 iiyou don't from Yorkshire hail, 
 I'll — ah, I thought so ; seldom fail. 
 
WELCOME TO CANAAN. 91 
 
 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 ? 
 
9t MAIN STREET, UTAH. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 {Shaking his head, and turning with a wink to the 
 £nglishJ\ 
 
 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. 
 
 Strajsiger. 
 
 \Str oiling 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 cotties, 
 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, . 
 
q+ MAIN STREET, UTAH. 
 
 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 modern 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 
 
THE LAST INDIAN. gj 
 
 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 i 
 
 Stranger. 
 With what a leer, half wheedling and half wink- 
 ing, 
 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. 
 
^6 MAW STRMT, VTAtt. 
 
 But no !— already drunken past a doubt, 
 Degenerate nomad of the plains, get out ! 
 
 \A railway zvhtstle 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 a;nd 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 ; 
 
WHITE MAN AND RED. 97 
 
 Off, quick! clear out! ay, drink your fUl 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 ! 
 
 M 
 
TV. 
 
 WITIUN THE SYNAGOGUE.— SERMCNIZETII TIIH 
 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. 
 
DESCRIBETH THE FLIGHT FROM EGYPT. 99 
 
 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! 
 
100 WiTHtN Tits syNAGOGUS. 
 
 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. 
 
ffOW THE CITY WAS FOUNDED. loi 
 
 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, 
 
102 WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE. 
 
 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 ^he'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. 
 
SAINTLY BLISS. 103 
 
 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 arms, and blossoms of eyes. 
 
 Festoon him round in his place of glory ; 
 Little cherubs float thick as bees 
 
 Round about him, and murmur " father I " 
 
104 WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE. 
 
 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 I 
 
 The Prophet. 
 
 Sisters and Brothers by love made wise. 
 
 Remember, when Satan attempts to quell 
 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 ! 
 
THE PROPHET DEFINETH HOLINESS. 105 
 
 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 ? 
 
io6 WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE. 
 
 Feminine Whispers. 
 
 Martha is growing a handsome gel. . . 
 
 Three at a birth r — that makes the dozen ■. 
 
 The Prophet. 
 
 Learning's a shadow, and books a jest, 
 
 One Book's a Light, but the rest are human. 
 Ihe 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 ! 
 
 FEMEsriNE Whispers. 
 The babby's growing black in the face ! 
 
 Carry him out— it's the heat of the weather 1 
 
THE PROPHET ENJOINETH FAITH. 107 
 
 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. 
 
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 firom their middle 
 Gave the answer to their riddle. 
 
PRSSCtENC^ OF THE PROPHElT. 109 
 
 And the lesser lights all holy, 
 Round the Lamp revolving slowly, 
 Thoxxght, 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. 
 
no FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT. 
 
 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 ! 
 
CONSTERNATION IN THE SESSION, in 
 
 Hallelujah, veneration, 
 Reckon that he licks creation ! " 
 
 Suddenly as they sat gleaming. 
 On them came an unbeseeming 
 Miirmur, 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 Ale'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 ; 
 
It! FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT. 
 
 " Goodman Jones, your cheeks are yellow, 
 Tell thy tale, and do not bellow ! 
 What's the reason of your crying — 
 Is our brother dead f—ox 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 Clewsonhas departed I'' 
 
 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, 
 
SISTEJi TABITHA EXPLAINETH. 113 
 
 " 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 \tfits 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 
 I 
 
114 FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT. 
 
 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 i 
 
 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 ! 
 
STRANGE TRANCE OF THE PROPHET. 1 1 s 
 
 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 
 
ii6 FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT. 
 
 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 
 
ST. ABE'S LETTER. 117 
 
 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 ! 
 
vt. 
 
 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE TO THE 
 POLYGAMISTS. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 1 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 ; 
 
BIS MESSAGE TO HIS WIDOWS. ng 
 
 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 ! 
 
120 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE 
 
 Tell Fanny to beware of men, and say I'm still 
 her debtor — 
 
 The' 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, 
 
ST ABE LAMENTETH HIS DO WNFALL. i z i 
 
 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 tate, 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 a]l 
 
 has ended ! 
 
122 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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. 
 Kxi6.you, believing I was strong, smiled on me 
 
 like a father, — 
 Said, " Blessed be this man, though young, who 
 
 the sweet lambs doth gather ! " 
 
ST. ABE DEFINETH VIRTUE. 123 
 
 At first it wjfs 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 ht's Sheep, the Sheep despised 
 
 the Pastor ! 
 
 G listen to the tale of dread, thou Light that 
 shines so brightly — 
 
 Virtue's a horse that drops down dead if over- 
 loaded slightly ! 
 
124 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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 ■^v&,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 boast's 
 position — 
 
 Unfit to bear a saintly weight, I sank and lost 
 condition ; 
 
 T lack'd the moral nerve and thaw, to fill so fine 
 a station — 
 
 Ah, if I'd had a head like you, and your deter- 
 mination ' 
 
WARNETH A GAINST SENTIMENT. 1 1 s 
 
 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 toe deli- 
 cate to mention ! 
 
126 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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, 
 
 Siftce 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 ; 
 
THE FLESH AND THE SPIRIT. 127 
 
 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 ; 
 
128 LAST EFISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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, 
 
SUBDUING OF THE FLESH. 129 
 
 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 snaflBe 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 
 
 strengfth is in it. 
 Use it, but conquer it, and bring its vice 3ow 
 
 every minute ! 
 
 K 
 
1 30 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 Into a v/oman's arms don't fall, as if you meant 
 
 to stay there, 
 yust 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 ! 
 
DIVIDETH MEN INTO TWO CLASSES. 131 
 
 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 iwo portions, 
 brother. 
 
 The first are Saints, so high in bliss that they the 
 Fiesh 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. 
 
132 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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. 
 Bom '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. 
 
HOW ST. ABE BLUNDERED IN SEALING. 133 
 
 Now, Brigham, / 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 : 
 
134 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 Each would a downright blessing be, and Peace 
 
 would ^itch 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. 
 
THE RAPTURES OF THE UNSAINTLY. 135 
 
 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 ! 
 
136 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 But ah, I had akeady got a quiver-fiill 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 
 
 beloved 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 ! " 
 
DESCRIBETH HIS WN JEALOUSY. 1 37 
 
 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, 
 / 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 noty you say ? Ah, yes, why not, from 
 
 your high point of vision ; 
 But I'm of an inferior lot, beyond the light 
 
 Elysian. 
 
138 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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, 
 
SISTI^Ji ANNE LAST OF THE SEVEN. 139 
 
 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. 
 
140 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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 show'd me all 
 my blunder. 
 
ffOW THE SIX DECLARED BATTLE. 141 
 
 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 M^asn'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. 
 
142 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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. 
 
ffOW SISTEH ANNE GREW SAD. 143 
 
 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 ! 
 
144 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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 1 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. 
 
HOW STSTER ANNE FELL SICK. 145 
 
 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 heir 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. 
 
 Brother, I can scarce express the agony of 
 
 those moments, 
 
 1 fear your perfect saintliness, and dread your 
 
 cutting comments ! 
 
146 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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 ! 
 
ST. ABE REGISTERETH A VOW. 147 
 
 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 dono, by my forlorn 
 
 embraces. 
 And call the brightness of the sun again into 
 
 their faces ; 
 
148 LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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, 
 
 Vfar unto the starless waste, where not a soul 
 shall find me. 
 
 I send my love, and Sister Anne joins cordiall)-, 
 agreeing 
 
 I never was the sort of man for your high state 
 of being; 
 
ST. ABE BIDDETH FAREWELL TO EDEN. 149 
 
 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. 
 
ISO LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE. 
 
 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 multtiude 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. 
 (3871.) 
 
THE FARM IN THE VALLEY, 
 
 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. 
 
iH THE FARM IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 Long the City of the Plain 
 Left its image on my brain : 
 White kiosks and gardens bright 
 Rising in a golden light ; 
 Busy figures ever}rwhere 
 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, 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. ,55 
 
 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, 
 
iS6 THE FARM IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 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 NJEW ENGLAND. 1 57 
 
 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, 
 
iS8 THE FARM IN THE VALLEY, 
 
 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 roundi 
 In a voice of mystery 
 Faintly cried the chickadee- 
 
THE HOMESTEADS. 159 
 
 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 baric 
 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 
 
I to THE FARM IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 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 sunlisrht 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 ; 
 
THE STRANGER PASSETH. i6i 
 
 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- 
 M 
 
1 62 THE FARM IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 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 rae, 
 Crying " Track'd, by all that's blue ! 
 Who'd have thought of seeing jyow.?" 
 
 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, 
 
S2: ABE AND SISTER ANNE. i6t 
 
 With a gleam of shining ware 
 For a background everywhere, 
 Free as any summer breeze. 
 With a bunch of liuswife'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 shamefacedness 
 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. 
 
1 64 ThS farm m THE VALLEY. 
 
 " 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 diy, 
 
 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), 
 
ST. ABE SURVEYETH THE PAST. 165 
 
 Couldn't sleep a single wink, 
 Couldn't eat, and couldn't drink. 
 Being kind of conscience-cleft 
 For those poor creatures I had left. 
 Not till I got news from there. 
 And I found their fate was fair. 
 Could I set to work, or find 
 Any comfort in my mind. 
 Well (here Abe smiled quietly). 
 Guess they didn't groan for me ! 
 Fanny and Amelia got 
 Sealed to Brigham on the spot ; 
 Emmy soon consoled herself 
 In the arms of Brother Delf ; 
 And poor Mary one fine day 
 Packed her traps and tript away 
 Down to Fresco with Fred Bates, 
 A young player from the States ; 
 While Sarah, 'twas the wisest plan, 
 Pick'd herself a single man — 
 
i66 THE FARM IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 A young joiner fresh come down 
 Out of Texas to the town — 
 And he took her with her baby, 
 And they're doing well as maybe." 
 
 Here the Saint with quiet smile, 
 Sipping at his grog the while. 
 Paused as if his tale was o'er. 
 Held his tongue and said no more. 
 " Good," I said, " but have you done \ 
 You have spoke of all save one — 
 All your Widows, so bereft, 
 Are most con^fortablv left, 
 But of one alone you said 
 Nothing. Is the lady dead '{ " 
 
 Then the good man's features broke 
 Into brightness as I spoke. 
 And with loud guffaw cried he, 
 «• What, Tabitha ? Dead ! Not she. 
 
LAST GLIMPSE OF SISTER TAEITHA. 167 
 
 All alone and doing splendid — 
 
 Jest you guess, now, how she's ended ! 
 
 Give it up ? This very week 
 
 I heard she's at Oneida Creek, 
 
 All alone and doing hearty, 
 
 Down with Brother Noyes's party. 
 
 Tried the Shakers first, they say. 
 
 Tired of them and went away. 
 
 Testing with a deal of bother 
 
 This community and t'other. 
 
 Till she to Oneida flitted. 
 
 And with trouble got admitted. 
 
 Bless you, she's a shining lamp, 
 
 Tho' I used her like a scamp, 
 
 And she's great in exposition 
 
 Of the Free Love folk's condition, 
 
 Vowing, tho' she found it late, 
 
 'Tis the only happy state. . . . 
 
 " As for me," added the speaker, 
 
 " I'm lower in the scale, and weakfT ; 
 
i6? THE FARM IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 Polygamy's beyond my merits, 
 Shakerism wears the spirits, 
 And as for Free Love, why you see 
 (Here the Saint wink'd wickedly) 
 With my whim it might have hung 
 Once, when I was spry and young ; 
 But poor Annie's love alone 
 Keeps my mind in proper tone, 
 And tho' my spirit mayn't be strong, 
 I'm lively — as the day is long." 
 
 As he spoke v/ith half a yawn, 
 Half a smile, I saw the dawn 
 Creeping faint into the gloom 
 Of the quickly-chilling room. 
 On the hearth the wood-log lay. 
 With one last expiring ray ; 
 Draining off his glass of grog, 
 Clewson rose and kick'd the log ; 
 
I'D BED! 
 
 i6g 
 
 As it crumbled into ashes, 
 Watched the last expiring flashes, 
 Gave anotlier yawn and said, 
 "Well ! I guess it's time for bed !" 
 
 THE KXL\ 
 
 PKINTHU BY VIRTUS AND CO., UMITED, CITY ROAU, LONUON. 
 
BIBLIOGBAPHICAL NOTB 
 
 ON 
 
 ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES. 
 
 Si. Abe and his Seven Wives was written in 1870, at a time when 
 all the Cockney bastions of criticism were swarming with sharp- 
 shooters on the ]ooli-out for "the d d Scotchman" who had 
 
 dared to denounce Logrolling. It was published anonymously, and 
 simultaneously The Drama of Kings appeared with the author's 
 name. The Diama was torn to shreds in every newspaper; the 
 Satire, because no one suspected who had written it, was at once 
 hailed as a masterpiece. Even the Aihenceum cried " all hail " to 
 the illustrious Unknown. The Pall Mall Gazette avowed in one 
 breath that Robert Buchanan was utterly devoid of dramatic power, 
 while the author of St. Abe was a man of dramatic genius. The 
 secret was well kept, and the bewildered Cocknies did not cease 
 braying their hosannahs even when another anonymous work, White 
 Rose and Red, was issued by the same publisher. St. Abe went 
 through numerous editions in a very short space of time. 
 
 To one famUiar with the process of book-reviewing, and aware of 
 the curious futility of even honest literary judgments, there is 
 nothing extraordinary in the facts which I have just stated. Printed 
 cackle about books will always be about as valuable as spoken cackle 
 about them, and the history of literature is one long record of the 
 march of genius through regions of mountainous stupidity. But 
 there were some points about the treatment of Si. Abe which are 
 worth noting, as illustrating the way in which reviewing " is done " 
 for leading newspapers. Example. The publisher sent out " early 
 sheets " to the great dailies, several of which printed eulogistic 
 reviews. The Daily Telegraph, however, was cautious. After 
 receiving the sheets, the acting or sub-editor sent a message round 
 to the publisher saying that a cordial review had been written and 
 was in type, but that "the Chief " wanted to be assured, before 
 committing himself to such an advertisement, about the authorship of 
 the work. "Is it by Lowell}" queried the jack-in-office ; "only 
 inform us in confidence, and the review shall appear." Mr. Strahau 
 either did not reply, or refused to answer the question. Result — 
 the cordial review never appeared at all ! 
 
 The general impression, however, was that the poem was written 
 by James Russell Lowell. One or two kind critics suggested Bret 
 Harte, but these were in a minority. No one suspected for one 
 moment that the work was written by a Scotchman who, up to that 
 date, had never even visited America. The Spectator (A Daniel 
 come to judgment !) devoted a long leading article to proving that 
 humour of this particular kind could have been produced only in the 
 Far West, while a leading magazine bewailed the fact that we had 
 no such humourists in England, since "with Thackeray our last 
 writer of humour left us." 
 
In America itself, the success of the book was less remarkable, 
 and the explanation was given to me in a letter from a publisher ir 
 the States, who asserted that gubhc feeling against the Monnonj 
 was so fierce and bitter that even a joke at their expense could not 
 be appreciated. " The very subject of Mormondom," wrote my 
 friend, "is regarded as indecent, unsavoury, and offensive." In 
 spite of all, the satire was appreciated, even in America. 
 
 Already, however, its subject has ceased to be contemporary and 
 become historical. Mormonism, as I depicted it, is as dead as 
 Slavery, for the Yankee — as I foreshadowed he would do, in this very 
 book — has put down Polygamy. Future generations, therefore, may 
 turn to this book as they will turn to Uncle Tom's Cabin, for a 
 record of a system which once flourished, and which, when all is said 
 and done, did quite as much good as harm. I confess, indeed, that 
 I am sorry for the Monnons ; for I think that they are more sinned 
 against than sinning. Polygamy is abohshed in America, but a far 
 fouler evil. Prostitution, flourishes, in both public and private life. 
 The Mormons crushed this evil and obliterated it altogether, and if 
 they substituted Polygamy, they only did openly and politically what 
 is done, and must be done, clandestinely, in every country, under 
 the present conditions of our civilisation. 
 
 The present is the first cheap edition of the book, and the first 
 which bears the author's name on the title page. It will be 
 followed by a cheap edition of White Rose and Red. I shall be 
 quite prepared to hear now, on the authority of the newspapers, that 
 the eulogy given to St. Abe on its first appearance was all a mistake, 
 and that the writer possesses no humour whatsoever. I was informed, 
 indeed, the other day, by a critic in the Daily News, that most of my 
 aberrations proceeded from " a fatal want of humour." The critic 
 was reviewing the Devil's Case, and his suggestion was, I presume, 
 that I ought to have perceived the joke of the Nonconformist Con- 
 science and latterday Christianity. I thought that I had done so, 
 but it appears that I had not been funny at all, ornot funny enough. 
 But my real misfortune was, that my name was printed on the title 
 page of the work then under review. 
 
 I cannot conclude this bibHographical note without a word con- 
 cerning the remarkable artist who famished St. Abe and his Seven 
 Wives with its original frontispiece. The genius of the late A. B. 
 Houghton is at last receiving some kind of tardy recognition, 
 chiefly through the efforts of Mr. Pennell, whose criticisms on art 
 have done so much to free the air of lingering folly and superstition. 
 When I sought out Mr. Houghton, and persuaded him to put 
 pencil to paper on my behalf, he was in the midst of his life-long 
 struggle against the powers of darkness. He died not long after- 
 wards, prematurely worn out with the hopeless fight. One of the 
 last of the true Bohemians, a man of undoubted genius, he never 
 learned the trick of wearing fine linen and touting for popularity ; 
 but those who value good work hold him in grateful remembrance, 
 and I am proud to think that so great a master in black and white 
 honoured me by associating himself with a book of mine. 
 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
AJfTlCiPAUORY dUlTIClSMS 
 
 ORIGINALLY PREFACED TO 
 
 SAINT ABE AND HIS 
 SEVEN WIVES. 
 
 TESTIMONIES OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS. 
 I. From P t G t, U.S. 
 
 Smart. Polygamy is Greek for Secesh. Guess Brigham will 
 have to make tracks. 
 
 II. -From R. W. E n, Boston, U.S. 
 
 Adequate expression is rare. I had fancied the oracles were 
 dumb, and had returned with a sigh to the enervating society of my 
 friends in Boston, when your book reached me. To think of it! 
 In this very epoch, at this very day, poetry has been secreting itself 
 silently and surely, and suddenly the whole ocean of human thought 
 is illumined by the accumulated phosphoresence of a subtle and 
 startling poetic life. . . . Your work is the story of Polygamy 
 written in colossal cipher for the study of all forthcoming ages, 
 'friflers will call you a caricaturist, empty solemnities will deem you 
 A jester. Fools ! who miss the pathetic symbolism of Falstaff, and 
 deem the Rabelaisan epos fit food for mirth. . . . I read it from 
 first page to last with solemn thoughts too deep for tears. I class 
 you aheady with the creators, with Shakespere, Dante, Whitman, 
 EUery Channing, and myself. 
 
 III. From W ^t W n, Washington, U.S. 
 
 I Our own feuillage ; 
 A leaf from the sweating branches of these States; 
 A fallen symbol, I guess, vegetable, living, human ; 
 A heart-beat from the hairy breast of a man. 
 
2 The Salon contents me not ; 
 
 The fine feathers of New England damsels content me not; 
 
 The ways of snobs, the falsettos of the prlino tenore, the legs 
 of Lydia Thomson's troupe of blondes, content me not ; 
 
 Nor tea-drinldng, nor the twaddle of Mr. Secretary Harlan, 
 nor the loafers of the hotel bar, nor Sham, nor Long- 
 fellow's Village Blacksmith. 
 
 3 But the Prairies content me ; 
 
 And the Red Indian dragging along his squaw by the scruff of 
 
 the neck ; 
 And the bones of mules and adventurous persons in Bitter 
 
 Creek ; 
 And the oaths of pioneers, and the ways of the unwashed, 
 
 large, undulating, majestic, virile, strong of scent, all 
 
 these content me. 
 
 4 Utah contents me ; 
 
 The City by the margin of the great Salt Lake contents me ; 
 And to have many wives contents me ; 
 
 Blessed is he who has a hundred wives, and peoples the 
 solitudes of these States. 
 
 5 Great is Brigham ; 
 
 Great is polygamy, great is monogamy, great is polyandry, 
 
 great is license, great is right, and great is wrong ; 
 And I say again that wrong is eveiy whit as good as right, and 
 
 not one jot better ; 
 And I say further there is no such thing as wrong, nor any 
 
 such thing as right, and that neither are accountable, and 
 
 both ejdst only by allowance. 
 
 6 1 am wonderful ; 
 
 And the world, and the sea, and joy and sorrow, and sense 
 
 and nonsense, all content me ; 
 And this book contents me, with its feuillage from the City ot 
 
 many wives. 
 
 IV. From Elder F k E s, of Mt. L n, U.S. 
 
 An amusing attempt to show that polygamy is a social failure. 
 None can peruse it without perceiving at once that the author 
 secretly inclines to the ascetic tenets of Shakerism. 
 
 V. From Brother T. H. N s, O A C k. 
 
 After perusing this subtle study, who can doubt that Free Love 
 is the natural human condition? The utter selfishness of the 
 
wretclied monogamist-hero repels and sickens us ; nor can we look 
 with anything but disgust on the obtusity of tlie heroine, in whom 
 the author vainly tries to awaken interest. It is quite clear that the 
 
 reconstruction of Utah on O a C k principles would yet 
 
 save the State from the crash which is impending. 
 
 VI. From E -A F nh m, of S n Island. 
 
 If Polygamy is to continue, then, I say, let Polyandry flourish ! 
 Woman is the sublimer Being, the subtler Type, the more delicate 
 Mechanism, and, strictly speaking, needs many pendants of the in- 
 ferior or masculine Type to fulfil her mission in perfect comfort. 
 Shall Brigham Young, a mere Man, have sixteen wives ; and shall 
 one wretched piece of humanity content me, that supreme Fact, a 
 perfect Woman, highest and truest of beings under Go n? No; if 
 these things be tolerated, I claim for each Woman, in the name of 
 Light and Law, twenty ministering attendants of the lower race ; 
 and the day is near when, if this boon, or any other boon we like to 
 ask, be denied us, it will be taken with a strong hand ! 
 
 VII. From T s C e, Esq., Chelsea, England. 
 
 The titanic humour of the Conception does not blind me to the 
 radical falseness of the Teaching, wherein, as I shall show you pre- 
 sently, you somewhat resemble the miserable Homuuculi of our 
 own literary Wagners ; for, if I rightly conceive, you would tacitly 
 and by inference urge that it is expressly part of the Divine Thought 
 that the Ewigweibliche, or Woman-Soul, should be hafpy. Now 
 Woman's mundane unhappiness, as I construe, comes of her in- 
 adequacy ; it is the stirring within her of the Infinite against the 
 Finite, a struggle of the spark upward, of the lower to the higher 
 Symbol. wSl Woman's Rights Agitators, and Monogamy, and 
 Political Tomfoolery, do what Millinery has failed to do, and waken 
 one Female to the sense of divine Function ? It is not happiness I 
 solicit for the Woman-Soul, but Identity ; and the prerogative of 
 Identity is great work. Adequacy, pre-eminent fulfilment of the 
 Function ; woman, in this country of rags and shams, being buried 
 quick under masses of Sophistication and Upholstery, oblivious of 
 her divine duty to increase the population and train the young 
 masculine Idea starivard. I do not care if the wives of Deseret 
 are pale, or faint, or uncultured, or unhappy ; it is enough for me 
 to know that they have a numerous progeny, and believe in Deity 
 or the Divine Essence ; and I will not conclude this letter without 
 recording my conviction that yonder man, Brigham Young by name, 
 is perhaps the clearest Intellect now brooding on this planet ; that 
 Friedrich was royaller but not greater, and that Bismarck is no 
 more than his equal ; and that he, this American, few in words, 
 mark you, but great in deeds, has decided a more stupendous 
 
Question than ever puzzled the strength of either of those others,— 
 the Question of the Sphere and Function in modem life of the ever- 
 agitating Feminine Principle. If, furthermore, as I have ever 
 held, the test of clearness of intellect and greatness of soul be 
 Success, at any price and under any circumstances, none but a 
 transcendental Windbag or a pedantic Baccalaureus ■will doubt my 
 assertion that Young is a stupendous intellectual, ethical, and 
 pohtical Force^a Master-Spirit — a Colossal Being, a moral Archi- 
 tect of sublime cunning — as such to be reverenced by every right- 
 thinking Man under the Sun, 
 
 VIII. From J n R n, Esq., London. 
 
 I am not generally appreciated in my own country, because I 
 frequently change my views about rehgion, art, architecture, poetry, 
 and things in general. Most of my early writings are twaddle, 
 but my present opinions are all valuable. I think this poem, with 
 its nervous Saxon Diction, its subtle humour, its tender pathos and 
 piteousness, the noblest specimen of narrative verse of modem 
 times ; and, indeed, I know not where to look, out of the pages of 
 Chaucer, for an equally successful blending of human laughter and 
 ethereal mystery. At the same time, the writer scarcely does 
 justice to the subject on the aesthetic side. A City where the 
 streets are broad and clean and well-watered, the houses surrounded 
 by gardens full of fruit and flowers; where the children, with 
 shining, clean-washed faces, curtsey to the Philosophers in the 
 public places ; where there are no brothels and no hells ; where 
 life runs fresh, free, and unpolluted, — such a City, I say, can hardly 
 be the symbol of feminine degradation. More than once, tired of 
 pubhshing my prophetic warnings in the Daily Telegraph, I have 
 thought of bending my weary footsteps to the new Jerusalem ; and 
 I might have carried out my intention long ago, if I had had a less 
 profound sense of my own unfitness for the duties of a Saint. 
 
 IX. From M w A d, Esq., England. 
 
 Your poem possesses a certain rough primitive humour, though 
 it appears to me deficient in the higher graces of sweetness and 
 light. St. Paul would have entirely objected to the monogamical 
 inference drawn in your epilogue ; and the fact that you draw any 
 such inference at all is to me a distressing proof that your tendency 
 is to the Phihstinisni of those authors who write for the British 
 Matron. I fear you have not read " Merope." 
 
SAINT ABE AND HIS 
 
 SEVEN WIVES: 
 
 a ©ale of =baU Unk ©itg. 
 
 SOME NOTICES OF THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 From the "GRAPHIC." 
 
 " Such vigorous, racy, determined satire has not been met with 
 for many a long day. It is at once fresh and salt as the sea. . . . 
 The humour is exquisite, and as regards literary execution, the 
 ■work is masterly." 
 
 From the "PALL MALL GAZETTE." 
 
 " Althoxigh in a striking address to Chaucer the author intimates 
 an expectation that Prudery may turn from his pages, and though 
 his theme is certainly a delicate one, there is nothing in the book 
 that a modest man may not read without blinking, and therefore, 
 we suppose, no modest woman. On the other- hand, the whole 
 poem is marked with so much natural strength, so much of the 
 inborn faculties of literature — (though they are wielded in a light, 
 easy, trifling way) — that they take possession of our admiration as 
 of right. The chief characteristics of the book are mastery of 
 verse, strong and simple diction, delicate, accurate description of 
 scenery, and that quick and forcible discrimination of character 
 which belongs to men of dramatic genius. This has the look of 
 exaggerated praise. We propose, therefore, to give one or two 
 large samples of the author's quality, leaving our readers to judge 
 from them whether we are not probably right. If they turn to the 
 book and read it through, we do not doubt that they will agree 
 with us." 
 
 From the "ILLUSTRATED REVIEW." 
 
 "The tale, however, is not to be read from reviews. . . . The 
 variety of interest, the versatility of fancy, the richness of descrip- 
 tion with which the dilferent lays and cantos are replete, will 
 preclude the possibility of tediousness. To open the book is to 
 read it to the end. It is like some Greek comedy in its shifting 
 scenes, its vivid pictures, its rapidly passing ' dramatis personse ' 
 and supernumeraries. . . . The author of ' St. Abe,' who can 
 write Uke this, may do more if he wfll, and even found a new 
 school of reahstic and satirical poetry." 
 
 N 
 
Prom the " DAILY NEWS." 
 
 " If the author of a ' Tale of Salt Lake City ' be not a new poet, 
 he is certainly a writer of exceedingly clever and effective verses. 
 They have the ring of originality, and they indicate ability to pro- 
 duce something still more remarkable than this very remarkable 
 Kttle piece. It merits a place among works which every one reads 
 with genuine satisfaction. It is a piece which subserves one of the 
 chief ends of poetry, that of telhng a tale in an unusually forcible 
 and pleasant way. . . . If it be the author's purpose to furnish a 
 new argument against polygamous Mormons, by showing the ridi- 
 culous side of their system, he has perfectly succeeded. The 
 extracts we have given show the varied, fluent, and forcible character 
 of his verse. None who read about Saint Abe and his Seven 
 Wives can fail to be amused and to be gratified alike by the manner 
 of the verse and the matter of the tale." 
 
 From the " SCOTSMAN." 
 
 "This book does not need much commendation, but it deserves 
 a great deal. The author of ' The Biglow Papers ' might have 
 written it, but there are passages which are not unhke Bret Harte ; 
 and him we suspect. The authorship, however, may be left out of 
 notice. Men inquire who has written a good book, that they may 
 honour him ; but if his name never be heard, the book is none the 
 less prized. In design and construction this work has high merit. 
 It is a good story and it is good poetry. The author is a humourist 
 and a satirist, and he has here displayed all his qualities lavishly." 
 
 From the " NONCONFOKMIST." 
 
 "Amazingly clever. . . . Besides its pure tone deserves warm 
 recognition. The humour is never coarse. There is a high deli- 
 cacy, which is sufficient to colour and sweeten the whole, as the 
 open spring breeze holds everything in good savour." 
 
 From the "SPECTATOR." 
 
 "We believe that the new book which has just appeared, 
 ■ St. Abe and His Seven Wives,' will paralyze Mormon resistance 
 far more than any amount of speeches in Congress or messages 
 from President Grant, by bringing home to the minds of the 
 millions the ridiculous-diabolic side of the peculiar institution. The 
 canto called ' The Last Epistle of St. Abe to the Polygamists,' with 
 its humorous narrative of the way in which the Saint, sealed to 
 seven wives, fell in love with one, and thenceforward could not 
 abide the jealousy felt by the other six, wiU. do more to weaken the 
 last defence of Mormonism — that after all, the women like it — than 
 a whole ream of narratives about the discontent in Utah. Thou- 
 sands on whom narrative and argument would make little or no 
 impression, will feel how it must be when many wives with burning 
 
J 
 
 hearts watch the husband's growing love for one, when the favourite 
 is sick unto death, and how ' they set their lips and sneered at me 
 and watched the situation,' and will understand that the first price 
 paid for polygamy is the suppression of love, and the second, the 
 slavery of women. The letter in which the first point is proved is 
 too long for quotation, and would be spoiled by extracts ; but the 
 second could hardly be better proved than in these humorous lines. 
 . . . The descriptions of Saint Abe and his Seven Wives will be 
 relished by roughs in California as much as by the self-indulgent 
 philosophers of Boston. . . . Pope would have been proud, we 
 fancy, of these terrible Unes, uttered by a driver whose fiancee has 
 just been beguiled away by a Mormon saint." 
 
 From the " ATHEN-ffiUm." 
 
 "'Saint Abe and his Seven Wives' has a freshness and an 
 originality, altogether wanting in Mr. Longfellow's new work, 
 ' The Divine Tragedy.' In quaint and forcible language^anguage 
 admirably suited to the theme — the author takes us to the wondrous 
 city of the saints, and describes its inhabitants in a series of graphic 
 sketches. The hero of the story is Saint Abe, or Abraham Clewson, 
 and in giving us his history the author has really given us the inner 
 life of the Mormon settlement. In his pages we see the origin of 
 the movement, the reasons why it has increased, the internal weak- 
 ness of the system, and the eifect it produces on its adherents. We 
 are introduced to the saints, whom we see among their pastures, in 
 their homes, in their promenades, and in their synagogue." 
 
 From the "FREEMAN." 
 
 " A remarkable poem. . . . The production is anonymous, but 
 whoever the author may be there can be no question that he is a 
 poet, and one of vast and varied powers. The inner life of Mor- 
 mondom is portrayed with a caustic humour equal to anything in 
 ' The Biglow Papers ' ; and were it not for the exquisite elegance 
 of the verse we should think that some parts of the poem were 
 written by Robert Browning. The hero of the poem is a Mormon, 
 who fares so badly as a polygamist that he elopes with one of his 
 seven wives — the one whom he really loves ; and the story is a 
 most effective exposure of the evils which necessarily attach to 
 polygamy." 
 
 From the WEEKLY REVIEW." 
 
 " There can be no doubt that it is worthy of the author of ' The 
 Biglow Papers.' Since that work was published, we have received 
 many humorous volumes from across the Atlantic, but nothing 
 equal to 'St. Abe.' As to its form, it shows that Mr. Lowell 
 has been making advances in the poetic art ; and the substance of 
 it is as strong as anything in the entire range of English satirical 
 literature." 
 
8 
 
 From the " BRITISH QTJAKTERLY REVIEW." 
 
 " The writer has an easy mastery over various kinds of metre, and 
 a felicity of easy rhyming which is not unworthy of our best writers 
 of satire. . . . The prevailing impression of the whole is of that 
 easy strength which does what it likes with language and rhythm. 
 .... The style is light and playful, with admirable touches of 
 fine discrimination and rich humour; but the purpose is earnest. 
 .... The book is a very clever and a very wholesome one. It is 
 one of those strong, crushing, dramatic satires, which do more exe- 
 cution than a thousand arguments." 
 
 From "TEMPLE BAR." 
 
 "It is said to be by LoweU. Truly, if America has more than 
 one writer who can write in such a rich vein of satire, humour, 
 pathos, and wit, as we have here, England must look to her 
 laurels. . . . This is poetry of a high order. Would that in England 
 we had humourists who could write as well. But with Thackeray 
 oxu- last writer of humour left us." 
 
 From the " WESTMINSTER REVIEW." 
 
 " ' Saint Abe and his Seven Wives ' may lay claim to many rare 
 qualities. The author possesses simplicity and directness. To 
 this he adds genuine humour and intense dramatic power. Lastly, 
 he has contrived to give a local flavour, something of the salt of 
 the Salt Lake to his characters, which enables us to thoroughly 
 realise them. . . . We wiU not spoU the admirable canto ' Within 
 the Synagogue ' by any quotation, which, however long, cannot 
 possibly do it justice. We will merely say that this one bit is 
 worth the price of the whole book. In the author we recognise a 
 true poet, with an entirely original vein of humour." 
 
 From the "MANCHESTER GUARDIAN." 
 
 " It is thoroughly American, now rising into a true imaginative 
 intensity, but oftener falling into a satirical vein, dealing plainly 
 enough with the plague-spots of Salt Lake society and its wily, 
 false prophets. . . . Like most men capable of humour, the author 
 has command of a sweeter and more harmonious manner. Indeed, 
 the beautiful descriptive and lyrical fragments stand in vivid and 
 refieshiiig relief to the homely staple of the poem." 
 
 From the "TORONTO GLOBE." 
 
 " It is impossible to deny that the praises bestowed on ' St. 
 Abe and his Seven Wives ' as a work of literary power are de- 
 served."