V—JOE ENDS HIS STORY.—FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH.
Joe paused, for down the mountain's brow
His hastening horses trotted now.
Into a canyon green and light,
Thro' which a beck was sparkling light,
Quickly we wound. Joe Wilson lit
His cutty pipe, and suck'd at it
In silence grim; and when it drew,
Puff after puff of smoke he blew,
With blank eye fixed on vacancy.
At last he turned again to me,
And spoke with bitter indignation
The epilogue of his narration.
"Waal, stranger, guess my story's told,
The Apostle beat and I was bowl'd.
Reckon I might have won if I
Had allays been at hand to try;
But I was busy out of sight,
And he was theer, morn, noon, and night,
Playing his cards, and waal it weer
For him I never caught him theer.
To cut the story short, I guess
He got the Prophet to say 'yes,'
And Cissy without much ado
Gev her consent to hev him too;
And one fine morning off they druv
To what he called the Abode of Love—
A dem'd old place, it seems to me,
Jest like a dove-box on a tree,
Where every lonesome woman-soul
Sits shivering in her own hole,
And on the outside, free to choose,
The old cock-pigeon struts and coos.
I've heard from many a one that Ciss
Has found her blunder out by this,
And she'd prefer for company
A brisk young chap, tho' poor, like me,
Than the sixth part of him she's won—
The holy Hiram Iligginson.
I've got a peep at her since then,
When she's crawl'd out of thet theer den,
But she's so pale and thin and tame
I shouldn't know her for the same,
No flesh to pinch upon her cheek,
Her legs gone thin, no voice to speak,
Dabby and crush'd, and sad and flabby,
Sucking a wretched squeaking baby;
And all the fun and all the light
Gone from her face, and left it white.
Her cheek 'll take 'feeble flush,
But hesn't blood enough to blush;
Tries to seem modest, peart and sly,
And brighten up if I go by,
But from the corner of her eyes
Peeps at me quietly, and sighs.
Reckon her luck has been a stinger!
She'd bolt if I held up my finger;
But tho' I'm rough, and wild, and free,
Take a Saint's leavings—no not me!
You've heerd of Vampires—them that rise
At dead o' night with flaming eyes,
And into women's beds'll creep
To suck their blood when they're asleep.
I guess these Saints are jest the same,
Sucking the life out is their game;
And tho' it ain't in the broad sun
Or in the open streets it's done,
There ain't a woman they clap eyes on
Their teeth don't touch, their touch don't pison;
Thet's their dem'd way in this yer spot—
Grrr! git along, hoss! dem you, trot!"
From pool to pool the wild beck sped
Beside us, dwindled to a thread.
With mellow verdure fringed around
It sang along with summer sound:
Here gliding into a green glade;
Here darting from a nest of shade
With sudden sparkle and quick cry,
As glad again to meet the sky;
Here whirling off with eager will
And quickening tread to turn a mill;
Then stealing from the busy place
With duskier depths and wearier pace
In the blue void above the beck
Sailed with us, dwindled to a speck,
The hen-hawk; and from pools below
The blue-wing'd heron oft rose slow,
And upward pass'd with measured beat
Of wing to seek some new retreat.
Blue was the heaven and darkly bright,
Suffused with throbbing golden light,
And in the burning Indian ray
A million insects hummed at play.
Soon, by the margin of the stream,
We passed a driver with his team
Bound for the City; then a hound
Afar off made a dreamy sound;
And suddenly the sultry track
Left the green canyon at our back,
And sweeping round a curve, behold!
We came into the yellow gold
Of perfect sunlight on the plain;
And Joe, abruptly drawing rein,
Said quick and sharp, shading his eyes
With sunburnt hand, "See, theer it
lies—
Theer's Sodom!"
And even as he cried,
The mighty Valley we espied,
Burning below us in one ray
Of liquid light that summer day;
And far away, 'mid peaceful gleams
Of flocks and herds and glistering streams,
Rose, fair as aught that fancy paints,
The wondrous City of the Saints!
THE CITY OF THE SAINTS.
O Saints that shine around the heavenly Seat!
What heaven is this that opens at my feet?
What flocks are these that thro' the golden gleam
Stray on by freckled fields and shining stream?
What glittering roofs and white kiosks are these,
Up-peeping from the shade of emerald trees?
Whose City is this that rises on the sight
Fair and fantastic as a city of light
Seen in the sunset? What is yonder sea
Opening beyond the City cool and free.
Large, deep, and luminous, looming thro' the heat.
And lying at the darkly shadowed feet
Of the Sierrasy which with jagged line
Burning to amber in the light divine,
Close in the Valley of the happy land,
With heights as barren as a dead man's hand?
O pilgrim, halt! O wandering heart, give praise
Behold the City of these Latter Days!
Here may'st thou leave thy load and be forgiven,
And in anticipation taste of Heaven!
AMONG THE PASTURES.—SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE.
BISHOP PETE, BISHOP JOSS, STRANGER.
BISHOP PETE.
Ah, things down here, as you observe, are getting
more pernicious,
And Brigham's losing all his nerve, altho' the
fix is vicious.
Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous place and fill'd
our holy quivers,
The Yankee comes with dern'd long face to give
us all the shivers!
And on his jaws a wicked grin prognosticates
disaster,
And, jest as sure as sin is sin, he means to be
the master.
"Pack up your traps," I hear him cry, "for here
there's no remainin',"
And winks with his malicious eye, and progues
us out of Canaan.
BISHOP JOSS.
It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour
nor the stranger—
No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive
the danger.
The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm
wants hands to guide it,
Tain't from without the tiler'll bust, but 'cause
of steam inside it;
Yet if we went falootin' less, and made less
noise and flurry,
It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in a
hurry.
But there's sedition east and west, and secret
revolution,
There's canker in the social breast, rot in the
constitution;
And over half of us, at least, are plunged in mad
vexation,
Forgetting how our race increased, our very
creed's foundation.
What's our religion's strength and force, its
substance, and its story?
STRANGER.
Polygamy, my friend, of course! the law of love
and glory!
BISHOP PETE.
Stranger, I'm with you there, indeed:—it's been
the best of nusses;
Polygamy is to our creed what meat and drink
to us is.
Destroy that notion any day, and all the rest is
brittle,
And Mormondom dies clean away like one in
want of vittle.
It's meat and drink, it's life, it's power! to
heaven its breath doth win us!
It warms our vitals every hour! it's Holy Ghost
within us!
Jest lay that notion on the shelf, and all life's
springs are frozen!
I've half-a-dozen wives myself, and wish I had a
dozen!
BISHOP JOSS.
If all the Elders of the State like you were sound
and holy,
P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far less
melancholy.
You air a man of blessed toil, far-shining and
discerning,
A heavenly lamp well trimm'd with oil, upon the
altar burning.
And yet for every one of us with equal resolu-
tion,
There's twenty samples of the Cuss, as mean as
Brother Clewson.
STRANGER.
St. Abe?
BISHOP JOSS.
Yes, him—the snivelling sneak—his very name
provokes me,—
Altho' my temper's milky-meek, he sours me
and he chokes me.
To see him going up and down with those meek
lips asunder,
Jest like a man about to drown, with lead to sink
him under,
His grey hair on his shoulders shed, one leg than
t'other shorter,
No end of cuteness in his head, and him—as
weak as water!
BISHOP PETE.
And yet how well I can recall the time when
Abe was younger—
Why not a chap among us all went for the
notion stronger.
When to the mother-country he was sent to wake
the sinning,
He shipp'd young lambs across the sea by flocks
—he was so winning;
O but he had a lively style, describing saintly
blisses!
He made the spirit pant and smile, and seek
seraphic kisses!
How the bright raptures of the Saint fresh lustre
seemed to borrow,
While black and awful he did paint the one-wived
sinner's sorrow!
Each woman longed to be his bride, and by his
side to slumber—
"The more the blesseder!" he cried, still adding
to the number.
STRANGER.
How did the gentleman contrive to change his
skin so quickly?
BISHOP JOSS.
The holy Spirit couldn't thrive because the Flesh
was sickly!
Tho' day by day he did increase his flock, his
soul was shallow,
His brains were only candle-grease, and wasted
down like tallow.
He stoop'd a mighty heap too much, and let his
household rule him,
The weakness of the man was such that any face
could fool him.
Ay! made his presence cheap, no doubt, and so
contempt grew quicker,—
Not measuring his notice out in smallish drams,
like liquor.
His house became a troublous house, with mis-
chief overbrimmin',
And he went creeping like a mouse among the
cats of women.
Ah, womenfolk are hard to rule, their tricks is
most surprising,
It's only a dern'd spoony fool goes sentimental-
ising!
But give'em now and then a bit of notice and a
present,
And lor, they're just like doves, that sit on one
green branch, all pleasant!
But Abe's love was a queer complaint, a sort of
tertian fever,
Each case he cured of thought the Saint a
thorough-paced deceiver;
And soon he found, he did indeed, with all their
whims to nourish,
That Mormonism ain't a creed where fleshly
follies flourish.
BISHOP PETE.
Ah, right you air! A creed it is demandin' iron
mettle!
A will that quells, as soon as riz, the biling of
the kettle!
With wary eye, with manner deep, a spirit
overbrimmin',
Like to a shepherd 'mong his sheep, the Saint is
'mong his women;
And unto him they do uplift their eyes in awe
and wonder;
His notice is a blessed gift, his anger is blue
thunder.
No n'ises vex the holy place where dwell those
blessed parties;
Each missus shineth in her place, and blithe and
meek her heart is!
They sow, they spin, they darn, they hem, their
blessed babes they handle,
The Devil never comes to them, lit by that holy
candle!
When in their midst serenely walks their
Master and their Mentor,
They're hush'd, as when the Prophet stalks down
holy church's centre!
They touch his robe, they do not move, those
blessed wives and mothers,
And, when on one he shineth love, no envy fills
the others;
They know his perfect saintliness, and honour
his affection—
And, if they did object, I guess he'd settle that
objection!
BISHOP JOSS
It ain't a passionate flat like Abe can manage
things in your way!
They teased that most etarnal babe, till things
were in a poor way.
I used to watch his thorny bed, and bust my
sides with laughter,
Once give a female hoss her head you'll never
stop her after.
It's one thing getting seal'd, and he was mighty
fond of Sealing,
He'd all the human heat, d'ye see, without the
saintly feeling.
His were the wildest set of gals that ever drove
man silly,
Each full of freaks and fal-de-lals, as frisky as a
filly.
One pull'd this way, and t'other that, and made
his life a mockery,
They'd all the feelings of a cat scampaging
'mong the crockery.
I saw Abe growing pale and thin, and well I
knew what ail'd him—
The skunk went stealing out and in, and all his
spirit failed him;
And tho' the tanning-yard paid well, and he
was money-making,
His saintly home was hot as Hell, and, ah!
how he was baking!
Why, now and then at evening-time, when his
day's work was over,
Up this here hill he used to climb and squat
among the clover,
And with his fishy eye he'd glare across the
Rocky Mountains,
And wish he was away up there, among the
heavenly fountains!
I had an aunt, Tabitha Brooks, a virgin under
fifty,
She warn't so much for pretty looks, but she
was wise and thrifty;
She'd seen the vanities of life, was good at
'counts and brewin'—
Thinks I, "Here's just the sort of Wife to save
poor Abe from ruin."
So, after fooling many a week, and showing
him she loved him,
And seeing he was shy to speak, whatever
feelings moved him,
At last I took her by the hand, and led her to
him straightway,
One day when we could see him stand jest close
unto the gateway.
My words were to the p'int and brief: says I,
"My brother Clewson,
There'll be an end to all your grief, if you've got
resolution.
Where shall you find a house that thrives without
a head that's ruling?
Here is the paragon of wives to teach those
others schooling!
She'll be to you not only wife, but careful as a
mother—
A little property for life is hers; you'll share it,
brother.
I've seen the question morn and eve within your
eyes unspoken,
You're slow and nervous I perceive, but now—the
ice is broken.
Here is a guardian and a guide to bless a man
and grace him;"
And then I to Tabitha cried, "Go in, old gal-
embrace him!"
STRANGER.
Why, that was acting fresh and fair;—but Abe,
was he as hearty?
BISHOP JOSS.
We...ll! Abe was never anywhere against a
female party!
At first he seemed about to run, and then we
might have missed him;
But Tabby was a tender one, she collar'd him
and kissed him.
And round his neck she blushing hung, part
holding, part caressing,
And murmur'd, with a faltering tongue, "O, Abe,
I'll be a blessing."
And home they walk'd one morning, he just
reaching to her shoulders,
And sneaking at her skirt, while she stared
straight at all beholders.
Swinging her bonnet by the strings, and setting
her lips tighter,
In at his door the old gal springs, her grim eyes
growing brighter;
And, Lord! there was the devil to pay, and
lightning and blue thunder,
For she was going to have her way, and hold
the vixens under;
They would have torn old Abe to bits, they
were so anger-bitten,
But Tabby saved him from their fits, as a cat
saves her kitten.
STRANGER.
It seems your patriarchal life has got its
botherations,
And leads to much domestic strife and infinite
vexations!
But when the ladies couldn't lodge in peace one
house-roof under,
I thought that 'twas the saintly dodge to give
them homes asunder?
BISHOP JOSS.
And you thought right; it is a plan by many
here affected—
Never by me—I ain't the man—I'll have my will
respected.
BISHOP JOSS'S OWN DOMESTIC SYSTEM.
If all the women of my house can't fondly pull
together,
And each as meek as any mouse, look out for
stormy weather!—
No, no, I don't approve at all of humouring my
women,
And building lots of boxes small for each one
to grow grim in.
I teach them jealousy's a sin, and solitude's just
bearish,
They nuss each other lying-in, each other's babes
they cherish;
It is a family jubilee, and not a selfish plea-
sure,
Whenever one presents to me another infant
treasure!
All ekal, all respected, each with tokens of
affection,
They dwell together, soft of speech, beneath their
lord's protection;
And if by any chance I mark a spark of shindy
raising,
I set my heel upon that spark,—before the house
gets blazing!
Now that's what Clewson should have done, but
couldn't, thro' his folly,
For even when Tabby's help was won, he wasn't
much more jolly.
Altho' she stopt the household fuss, and husht
the awful riot,
The old contrairy stupid Cuss could not enj'y
the quiet.
His house was peaceful as a church, all solemn,
still, and saintly;
And yet he'd tremble at the porch, and look
about him faintly;
And tho' the place was all his own, with hat in
hand he'd enter,
Like one thro' public buildings shown, soft
treading down the centre.
Still, things were better than before, though
somewhat trouble-laden,.
When one fine day unto his door there came a
Yankee maiden.
"Is Brother Clewson in?" she says; and when
she saw and knew him,
The stranger gal to his amaze scream'd out and
clung unto him.
Then in a voice all thick and wild, exclaim'd that
gal unlucky,
"O Sir, I'm Jason Jones's child—he's dead—
stabb'd in Kentucky!
And father's gone, and O I've come to you
across the mountains."
And then the little one was dumb, and Abe's
eyes gushed like fountains....
He took that gal into his place, and kept her as
his daughter—
Ah, mischief to her wheedling face and the bad
wind that brought her!
BISHOP PETE.
I knew that Jones;—used to faloot about Emanci-
pation—
It made your very toe-nails shoot to hear his
declamation.
And when he'd made all bosoms swell with
wonder at his vigour,
He'd get so drunk he couldn't tell a white man
from a nigger!
Was six foot high, thin, grim, and pale,—his
troubles can't be spoken—
Tarred, feathered, ridden on a rail, left beaten,
bruised, and broken;
But nothing made his tongue keep still, or stopt
his games improper,
Till, after many an awkward spill, he came the
final cropper.
BISHOP JOSS.
... That gal was fourteen years of age, and sly
with all her meekness;
It put the fam'ly in a rage, for well they knew
Abe's weakness.
But Abe (a cuss, as I have said, that any fool
might sit on)
Was stubborn as an ass's head, when once he
took the fit on!
And, once he fixed the gal to take, in spite of
their vexation,
Not all the rows on earth would break his firm
determination.
He took the naggings as they came, he bowed
his head quite quiet,
Still mild he was and sad and tame, and ate the
peppery diet;
But tho' he seemed so crush'd to be, when this
or that one blew up,
He stuck to Jones's Legacy and school'd her till
she grew up.
Well! there! the thing was said and done, and
so far who could blame him?
But O he was a crafty one, and sorrow couldn't
shame him!
That gal grew up, and at eighteen was prettier
far and neater—
There were not many to be seen about these
parts to beat her;
Peart, brisk, bright-eyed, all trim and tight, like
kittens fond of playing,
A most uncommon pleasant sight at pic-nic or
at praying.
Then it became, as you'll infer, a simple public
duty,
To cherish and look after her, considering her
beauty;
And several Saints most great and blest now
offer'd their protection,
And I myself among the rest felt something of
affection.
But O the selfishness of Abe, all things it beats
and passes!
As greedy as a two-year babe a-grasping at
molasses!
When once those Shepherds of the flock began
to smile and beckon,
He screamed like any lighting cock, and raised
his comb, I reckon!
First one was floor'd, then number two, she
wouldn't look at any;
Then my turn came, although I knew the
maiden's faults were many.
"My brother Abe," says I, "I come untoe your
house at present
To offer sister Anne a home which she will find
most pleasant.
You know I am a saintly man, and all my ways
are lawful"—
And in a minute he began abusing me most
awful.
"Begone," he said, "you're like the rest,—
wolves, Wolves with greedy clutches!
Poor little lamb; but in my breast I'll shield her
from your touches!"
"Come, come," says I, "a gal can't stay a child
like that for ever,
You'll hev to seal the gal some day; " but Abe
cried fiercely, "Never!"
Says I, "Perhaps it's in your view yourself this
lamb to gather?"
And "If it is, what's that to you?" he cried;
"but I'm her father!
You get along, I know your line, it's crushing,
bullying, wearing,
You'll never seal a child of mine, so go, and
don't stand staring!"
This was the man once mild in phiz as any
farthing candle—
A hedgehog now, his quills all riz, whom no
one dared to handle!
But O I little guessed his deal, nor tried to
circumvent it,
I never thought he'd dare to seal another; but
he meant it!
Yes, managed Brigham on the sly, for fear his
plans miscarried,
And long before we'd time to cry, the two were
sealed and married.
BISHOP PETE.
Well, you've your consolation now—he's pun-
ished clean, I'm thinking,
He's ten times deeper in the slough, up to his
neck and sinking.
There's vinegar in Abe's pale face enough to
sour a barrel,
Goes crawling up and down the place, neglect-
ing his apparel,
Seems to have lost all heart and soul, has fits of
absence shocking—
His home is like a rabbit's hole when weasels
come a-knocking.
And now and then, to put it plain, while falling
daily sicker,
I think he tries to float his pain by copious goes
of liquor.
BISHOP JOSS.
Yes, that's the end of selfishness, it leads to
long vexation—
No man can pity Abe, I guess, who knows his
situation;
And, Stranger, if this man you meet, don't take
him for a sample,
Although he speaks you fair and sweet, he's set
a vile example.
Because you see him ill at ease, at home, and
never hearty,
Don't think these air the tokens, please, of a
real saintly party!
No, he's a failure, he's a sham, a scandal to our
nation,
Not fit to lead a single lamb, unworthy of his
station;
No! if you want a Saint to see, who rules lambs
when he's got 'em,
Just cock your weather-eye at me, or Brother
Shufflebotham.
We don't go croaking east and west, afraid of
women's faces,
We bless and we air truly blest in our domestic
places;
We air religious, holy men, happy our folds to
gather,
Each is a loyal citizen, also a husband—rather.
But now with talk you're dry and hot, and
weary with your ride here.
Jest come and see my fam'ly lot,—they're waiting
tea inside here.