WITHIN THE SYNAGOGUE.—SERMONIZETH THE PROPHET.
Sisters and brothers who love the right,
Saints whose hearts are divinely beating,
Children rejoicing in the light,
I reckon this is a pleasant meeting.
Where's the face with a look of grief?—
Jehovah's with us and leads the battle;
We've had a harvest beyond belief,
And the signs of fever have left the cattle;
All still blesses the holy life
Here in the land of milk and honey.
FEMININE WHISPERS
Brother Shuttleworth's seventeenth wife,..
Her with the heer brushed up so funny!
THE PROPHET
Out of Egypt hither we flew,
Through the desert and rocky places;
The people murmur'd, and all look'd blue,
The bones of the martyr'd filled our traces.
Mountain and valley we crawl'd along,
And every morning our hearts beat quicker.
Our flesh was weak, but our souls were strong.
And we'd managed to carry some kegs of
liquor.
At last we halted on yonder height,
Just as the sun in the west was blinking.
FEMININE WHISPERS
Isn't Jedge Hawkins's last a fright?...
I'm suttin that Brother Abe's been drinking!
THE PROPHET.
That night, my lambs, in a wondrous dream,
I saw the gushing of many fountains;
Soon as the morning began to beam,
Down we went from yonder mountains,
Found the water just where I thought,
Fresh and good, though a trifle gritty,
Pitch'd our tents in the plain, and wrought
The site and plan of the Holy City.
"Pioneers of the blest," I cried,
"Dig, and the Lord will bless each spade-
ful."
FEMININE WHISPERS
Brigham's sealed to another Bride...
How worn he's gittin'! he's aging dread-
ful.
THE PROPHET
This is a tale so often told,
The theme of every eventful meeting;
Yes! you may smile and think it old;
But yet it's a tale that will bear repeating.
That's how the City of Light began,
That's how we founded the saintly nation,
All by the spade and the arm of man,
And the aid of a special dispensation.
"Work" was the word when we begun,
"Work" is the word now we have plenty.
FEMININE WHISPERS.
Heard about Sister Euphemia's son?..
Sealing already, though only twenty!
THE PROPHET.
I say just now what I used to say,
Though it moves the heathens to mock and
laughter,
From work to prayer is the proper way—
Labour first, and Religion after.
Let a big man, strong in body and limb,
Come here inquiring about his Maker,
This is the question I put to him,
"Can you grow a cabbage, or reap an
acre?"
What's the soul but a flower sublime,
Grown in the earth and upspringing surely!
FEMININE WHISPERS
O yes! she's hed a most dreadful time!
Twins, both thriving, though she's so
poorly.
THE PROPHET.
Beauty, my friends, is the crown of life,
To the young and foolish seldom granted;
After a youth of honest strife
Comes the reward for which you've panted.
O blessed sight beyond compare,
When life with its halo of light is rounded,
To see a Saint with reverend hair
Sitting like Solomon love-surrounded!
One at his feet and one on his knee,
Others around him, blue-eyed and dreamy!
FEMININE WHISPERS.
All very well, but as for me,
My man had better!—I'd pison him,
Pheemy!
THE PROPHET
There in the gate of Paradise
The Saint is sitting serene and hoary,
Tendrils of euros, and blossoms of eyes,
Festoon him round in his place of glory;
Little cherubs float thick as bees
Round about him, and murmur "father!"
The sun shines bright and he sits at-ease,
Fruit all round for his hand to gather.
Blessed is he and for ever gay,
Floating to Heaven and adding to it!
FEMININE WHISPERS
Thought I should have gone mad that day
He brought a second; I made him rue it!
THE PROPHET
Sisters and Brothers by love made wise.
Remember, when Satan attempts to quel]
you,
If this here Earth isn't Paradise
You'll never see it, and so I tell you.
Dig and drain, and harrow and sow,
God will bless you beyond all measure;
Labour, and meet with reward below,
For what is the end of all labour? Plea-
sure!
Labour's the vine, and pleasure's the grape;
The one delighting, the other bearing.
FEMININE WHISPERS
Higginson's third is losing her shape.
She hes too many—it's dreadful wearing.
THE PROPHET
But I hear some awakening spirit cry,
"Labour is labour, and all men know it;
But what is pleasure?" and I reply,
Grace abounding and Wives to show it!
Holy is he beyond compare
Who tills his acres and takes his blessing,
Who sees around him everywhere
Sisters soothing and babes caressing.
And his delight is Heaven's as well,
For swells he not the ranks of the chosen?
FEMININE WHISPERS.
Martha is growing a handsome gel...
Three at a birth?—that makes the dozen.
THE PROPHET.
Learning's a shadow, and books a jest,
One Book's a Light, but the rest are human.
The kind of study that I think best
Is the use of a spade and the love of a
woman.
Here and yonder, in heaven and earth,
By big Salt Lake and by Eden river,
The finest sight is a man of worth,
Never tired of increasing his quiver.
He sits in the light of perfect grace
With a dozen cradles going together!
FEMININE WHISPERS.
The babby's growing black in the face!
Carry him out—it's the heat of the weather!
THE PROPHET
A faithful vine at the door of the Lord,
A shining flower in the garden of spirits,
A lute whose strings are of sweet accord,
Such is the person of saintly merits.
Sisters and brothers, behold and strive
Up to the level of his perfection;
Sow, and harrow, and dig, and thrive,
Increase according to God's direction.
This is the Happy Land, no doubt,
Where each may flourish in his vocation.
Brother Bantam will now give out
The hymn of love and of jubilation.
V—THE FALLING OF THE THUNDERBOLT
Deep and wise beyond expression
Sat the Prophet holding session,
And his Elders, round him sitting
With a gravity befitting,
Never rash and never fiery,
Chew'd the cud of each inquiry,
Weigh'd each question and discussed it.
Sought to settle and adjust it,
Till, with sudden indication
Of a gush of inspiration,
The grave Prophet from their middle
Gave the answer to their riddle,
And the lesser lights all holy,
Round the Lamp revolving slowly,
Thought, with eyes and lips asunder,
"Right, we reckon, he's a wonder!"
Whether Boyes, that blessed brother,
Should be sealed unto another,
Having, tho' a Saint most steady,
Very many wives already?
Whether it was held improper,
If a woman drank, to drop her?
Whether unto Brother Fleming
Formal praise would be beseeming,
Since from three or four potatoes
(Not much bigger than his great toes)
He'd extracted, to their wonder,
Four stone six and nothing under?
Whether Bigg be reprimanded
For his conduct underhanded.
Since he'd packed his prettiest daughter
To a heathen o'er the water?
How, now Thompson had departed,
His poor widows, broken-hearted,
Should be settled? They were seven,
Sweet as cherubs up in heaven;
Three were handsome, young, and pleasant,
And had offers on at present—
Must they take them?.. These and other
Questions proffer'd by each brother,
The great Prophet ever gracious,
Free and easy, and sagacious,
Answer'd after meditation
With sublime deliberation;
And his answers were so clever
Each one whisper'd, "Well I never!"
And the lesser lights all holy,
Round the Prophet turning slowly,
Raised their reverend heads and hoary,
Thinking, "To the Prophet, glory!
Hallelujah, veneration,
Reckon that he licks creation!"
Suddenly as they sat gleaming,
On them came an unbeseeming
Murmur, tumult, and commotion,
Like the breaking of the ocean;
And before a word was utter'd,
In rush'd one with voice that fluttered
Arms uplifted, face the colour
Of a bran-new Yankee dollar,
Like a man whose wits are addled.
Crying—"Brother Abe's skedaddled!"
Then those Elders fearful-hearted
Raised a loud cry and upstarted,
But the Prophet, never rising,
Said, "Be calm! this row's surprising!"
And as each Saint sank unsinew'd
In his arm-chair he continued:
"Goodman Jones, your cheeks are yellow,
Tell thy tale, and do not bellow!
What's the reason of your crying—
Is our brother dead!—or dying?"
As the Prophet spake, supremely
Hushing all the strife unseemly,
Sudden in the room there entered
Shapes on whom all eyes were centred—
Six sad female figures moaning,
Trembling, weeping, and intoning,
"We are widows broken-hearted—
Abraham Clewson has departed!"
While the Saints again upleaping
Joined their voices to the weeping,
For a moment the great Prophet
Trembled, and look'd dark as Tophet.
But the cloud pass'd over lightly.
"Cease!" he cried, but sniffled slightly,
"Cease this murmur and be quiet—
Dead men won't awake with riot.
Tis indeed a loss stupendous—
When will Heaven his equal send us?
Speak, then, of our brother cherish'd,
Was it fits by which he perish'd?
Or did Death come even quicker,
Thro' a bolting horse or kicker?"
At the Prophet's question scowling,
All the Wives stood moaning, howling,
Crying wildly in a fever,
"O the villain! the deceiver!"
But the oldest stepping boldly,
Curtseying to the Session coldly,
Cried in voice like cracking thunder,
"Prophet, don't you make a blunder?
Abraham Clewson isn't dying—
Hasn't died, as you're implying
No! he's not the man, my brothers,
To die decently like others!
Worse! he's from your cause revolted—
Run away! ske-daddled! bolted!"
Bolted! run away! skedaddled!
Like to men whose wits are addled,
Echoed all those Lights so holy,
Round the Prophet shining slowly
And the Prophet, undissembling,
Underneath the blow sat trembling,
While the perspiration hovered
On his forehead, and he covered
With one trembling hand his features
From the gaze of smaller creatures.
Then at last the high and gifted
Cough'd and craved, with hands uplifted,
Silence. When 'twas given duly,
"This," said he, "'s a crusher truly!
Brother Clewson fall'n from glory!
I can scarce believe your story,
O my Saints, each in his station,
Join in prayer and meditation!"
Covering up each eyelid saintly
With a finger tip, prayed faintly,
Shining in the church's centre,
Their great Prophet, Lamp, and Mentor;
And the lesser Lights all holy,
Round the Lamp revolving slowly,
Each upon his seat there sitting,
With a gravity befitting,
Bowed their reverend heads and hoary,
Saying, "To the Prophet glory!
Hallelujah, veneration!
Reckon that he licks creation!"
Lastly, when the trance was ended.
And, with face where sorrow blended
Into pity and compassion,
Shone the Light in common fashion;
Forth the Brother stept who brought them
First the news which had distraught them,
And, while stood the Widows weeping,
Gave into the Prophet's keeping
A seal'd paper, which the latter
Read, as if 'twere solemn matter—
Gravely pursing lips and nodding,
While they watch'd in dark foreboding,
Till at last, with voice that quivered,
He these woeful words delivered:—
"Sisters, calm your hearts unruly,
Tis an awful business truly;
Weeping now will save him never,
He's as good as lost for ever;
Yes, I say with grief unspoken,
Jest a pane crack'd, smash'd, and broken
In the windows of the Temple—
Crack'd's the word—so take example!
Had he left ye one and all here
On our holy help to call here,
Fled alone from every fetter,
I could comprehend it better!
Flying, not with some strange lady,
But with her he had already,
With his own seal'd Wife eloping—
It's a case of craze past hoping!
List, O Saints, each in his station.
To the idiot's explanation!"
Then, while now and then the holy
Broke the tale of melancholy
With a grunt contempt expressing,
And the widows made distressing
Murmurs of recrimination
Here and there in the narration,
The great Prophet in affliction
Read this awful Valediction!
VI—LAST EPISTLE OF ST. ABE TO THE POLYGAMISTS.
O Brother, Prophet of the Light!—don't let my
state distress you,
While from the depths of darkest night I cry,
"Farewell! God bless you!"
I don't deserve a parting tear, nor even a male-
diction,
Too weak to fill a saintly sphere, I yield to my
affliction;
Down like a cataract I shoot into the depths
below you,
While you stand wondering and mute, my last
adieu I throw you;
Commending to your blessed care my well-be-
loved spouses,
My debts (there's plenty and to spare to pay
them), lands, and houses,
My sheep, my cattle, farm and fold, yea, all by
which I've thriven:
These to be at the auction sold, and to my
widows given.
Bless them! to prize them at their worth was
far beyond my merit,
Just make them think me in the earth, a poor
departed spirit.
I couldn't bear to say good-bye, and see their
tears up-starting;
I thought it best to pack and fly without the
pain of parting!
O tell Amelia, if she can, by careful educa-
tion,
To make her boy grow up a man of strength
and saintly station!
Tell Fanny to beware of men, and say I'm still
her debtor—
Tho' she cut sharpish now and then, I think it
made me better!
Let Emily still her spirit fill with holy consola-
tions—
Seraphic soul, I hear her still a-reading "Reve-
lations!"
Bid Mary now to dry her tears—she's free of her
chief bother;
And comfort Sarah—I've my fears she's going to
be a mother;
And to Tabitha give for me a tender kiss of
healing—
Guilt wrings my soul—I seem to see that well-
known face appealing!
And now,—before my figure fades for ever from
your vision,
Before I mingle with the shades beyond your
light Elysian,
Now, while your faces all turn pale, and you
raise eyes and shiver,
Let me a round unvarnish'd tale (as Shakspere
says) deliver;
And let there be a warning text in my most
shameful story,
When some poor sheep, perplext and vext, goes
seeking too much glory.
O Brigham, think of my poor fate, a scandal to
beholders,
And don't again put too much weight before
you've tried the shoulders!
Though I'd the intellectual gift, and knew the
rights and reasons;
Though I could trade, and save, and shift,
according to the seasons;
Though I was thought a clever man, and was at
spouting splendid,—
Just think how finely I began, and see how all
has ended!
In principle unto this hour I'm still a holy
being—
But oh, how poorly is my power proportion'd to
my seeing!
You've all the logic on your side, you're right in
each conclusion,
And yet how vainly have I tried, with eager
resolution!
My will was good, I felt the call, although my
strength was meagre,
There wasn't one among you all to serve the
Lord more eager!
I never tired in younger days of drawing lambs
unto me,
My lot was one to bless and praise, the fire of
faith thrill'd through me.
And you, believing I was strong, smiled on me
like a father,—
Said, "Blessëd be this man, though young, who
the sweet lambs doth gather! "
At first it was a time full blest, and all my
earthy pleasure
Was gathering lambs unto my breast to cherish
and to treasure;
Ay, one by one, for heaven's sake, my female
flock I found me,
Until one day I did awake and heard them
bleating round me,
And there was sorrow in their eyes, and mute
reproach and wonder,
For they perceived to their surprise their Shep-
herd was a blunder.
O Brigham, think of it and weep, my firm and
saintly Master—
The Pastor trembled at his Sheep, the Sheep despised
the Pastor!
O listen to the tale of dread, thou Light that
shines so brightly—
Virtue's a horse that drops down dead if over-
loaded slightly!
She's all the will, she wants to go, she'd carry
every tittle;
But when you see her flag and blow, just ease
her of a little!
One wife for me was near enough, two might
have fixed me neatly,
Three made me shake, four made me puff, five
settled me completely,—
But when the sixth came, though I still was
glad and never grumbled,
I took the staggers, kick'd, went ill, and in the
traces tumbled!
Ah, well may I compare my state unto a beast's
position—
Unfit to bear a saintly weight, I sank and lost
condition;
I lack'd the moral nerve and thew, to fill so fine
a station—
Ah, if I'd had a head like you, and your deter-
mination!
Instead of going in and out, like a superior
party,
I was too soft of heart, no doubt, too open, and
too hearty.
When I began with each young sheep I was too
free and loving,
Not being strong and wise and deep, I set her
feelings moving;
And so, instead of noticing the gentle flock in
common,
I waken'd up that mighty thing—the Spirit of a
Woman.
Each got to think me, don't you see,—so foolish
was the feeling,—
Her own especial property, which all the rest
were stealing!
And, since I could not give to each the whole of
my attention,
All came to grief, and parts of speech too deli-
cate to mention!
Bless them! they loved me far too much, they
erred in their devotion,
I lack'd the proper saintly touch, subduing mere
emotion:
The solemn air sent from the skies, so cold, so
tranquillising, .
That on the female waters lies, and keeps the
same from rising,
But holds them down all smooth and bright,
and, if some wild wind storms 'em,
Comes like a cold frost in the night, and into ice
transforms 'em!
And there, between ourselves, I see the diffi-
culty growing,
Since most men are as meek as me, too pas-
sionate and glowing;
They cannot in your royal way dwell like a
guest from Heaven
Within this tenement of clay, which for the Soul
is given;
They cannot like a blessed guest come calm and
strong into it,
Eating and drinking of its best, and calmly
gazing thro' it.
No, every mortal's not a Saint, and truly very
few are,
So weak they are, they cannot paint what holy
men like you are.
Instead of keeping well apart the Flesh and
Spirit, brother,
And making one with cunning art the nigger of
the other,
They muddle and confuse the two, they mix and
twist and mingle,
So that it takes a cunning view to make out
either single.
The Soul gets mingled with the Flesh beyond all
separation,
The Body holds it in a mesh of animal sensa-
tion;
The poor bewilder'd Being, grown a thing in
nature double,
Half light and soul, half flesh and bone, is given
up to trouble.
He thinks the instinct of the clay, the glowings
of the Spirit,
And when the Spirit has her say, inclines the
Flesh to hear it.
The slave of every passing whim, the dupe of
every devil,
Inspired by every female limb to love, and light,
and revel,
Impulsive, timid, weak, or strong, as Flesh or
Spirit makes him,
The lost one wildly moans along till mischief
overtakes him;
And when the Soul has fed upon the Flesh till
life's spring passes,
Finds strength and health and comfort gone—
the way of last year's grasses,
And the poor Soul is doom'd to bow, in deep
humiliation,
Within a place that isn't now a decent habitation.
No! keep the Soul and Flesh apart in pious
resolution,
Don't let weak flutterings of the heart lead you
to my confusion!
But let the Flesh be as the horse, the Spirit as
the rider,
And use the snaffle first of course, and ease her
up and guide her;
And if she's going to resist, and won't let none
go past her,
Just take the curb and give a twist, and show
her you're the Master.
The Flesh is but a temporal thing, and Satan's
strength is in it,
Use it, but conquer it, and bring its vice dowN
every minute!
Into a woman's arms don't fall, as if you meant
to stay there,
Just come as if you'd made a call\ and idly found
your way there;
Don't praise her too much to her face, but keep
her calm and quiet,—
Most female illnesses take place thro' far too
warm a diet;
Unto her give your fleshly kiss, calm, kind, and
patronising,
Then—soar to your own sphere of bliss, before
her heart gets rising!
Don't fail to let her see full clear, how in your
saintly station
The Flesh is but your nigger here obeying your
dictation;
And tho' the Flesh be e'er so warm, your Soul
the weakness smothers
Of loving any female form much better than the
others!
O Brigham, I can see you smile to hear the
Devil preaching;—
Well, I can praise your perfect style, tho' far
beyond my reaching.
Forgive me, if in shame and grief I vex you with
digression,
And let me come again in brief to my own dark
confession.
The world of men divided is into two portions,
brother,
The first are Saints, so high in bliss that they the
Flesh can smother;
God meant them from fair flower to flower to
flutter, smiles bestowing,
Tasting the sweet, leaving the sour, just hover-
ing,—and going.
The second are a different set, just halves of
perfect spirits,
Going about in bitter fret, of uncompleted
merits,
Till they discover, here or there, their other half
(or woman),
Then these two join, and make a Pair, and so
increase the human.
The second Souls inferior are, a lower spirit-
order,
Born 'neath a less auspicious star, and taken by
soft sawder;—
And if they do not happen here to find their fair
Affinity,
They come to grief and doubt and fear, and end
in asininity;
And if they try the blessed game of those
superior to them,
They're very quickly brought to shame,—their
passions so undo them.
In some diviner sphere, perhaps, they'll look and
grow more holy,—
Meantime they're vessels Sorrow taps and grim
Remorse sucks slowly.
Now, Brigham, I was made, you see, one of
those lower creatures,
Polygamy was not for me, altho' I joined its
preachers.
Instead of, with a wary eye, seeking the one
who waited,
And sticking to her, wet or dry, because the
thing was fated,
I snatch'd the first whose beauty stirred my soul
with tender feeling!
And then another! then a third! and so con-
tinued Sealing!
And duly, after many a smart, discovered,
sighing faintly,
I hadn't found my missing part, and wasn't
strong and saintly!
O they were far too good for me, altho' their
zeal betrayed them;—
Unfortunately, don't you see, heaven for some
other made them:
Each would a downright blessing be, and Peace
would pitch the tent for her,
If "she" could only find the "he" originally
meant for her!
Well, Brother, after many years of bad domestic
diet,
One morning I woke up in tears, still weary and
unquiet,
And (speaking figuratively) lo! beside my bed
stood smiling
The Woman, young and virgin snow, but beckon-
ing and beguiling.
I started up, my wild eyes rolled, I knew her,
and stood sighing,
My thoughts throng'd up like bees of gold out of
the smithy flying.
And as she stood in brightness there, familiar,
tho' a stranger,
I looked at her in dumb despair, and trembled
at the danger.
But, Brother Brigham, don't you think the
Devil could so undo me,
That straight I rushed the cup to drink too late
extended to me.
No, for I hesitated long, ev'n when I found she
loved me,
And didn't seem to think it wrong when love
and passion moved me.
O Brigham, you're a Saint above, and know not
the sensation
The ecstasy, the maddening love, the rapturous
exultation,
That fills a man of lower race with wonder past
all speaking,
When first he finds in one sweet face the Soul he
has been seeking!
When two immortal beings glow in the first
fond revealing,
And their inferior natures know the luxury of
feeling!
But ah, I had already got a quiver-full of bless-
ing,
Had blundered, tho' I knew it not, six times
beyond redressing,
And surely it was time to stop, tho' still my lot
was lonely:
My house was like a cobbler's shop, full, tho'
with "misfits" only.
And so I should have stopt, I swear, the
wretchedest of creatures,
Rather than put one mark of care on her
belovéd features:
But that it happen'd Sister Anne (ah, now the
secret's flitted!)
Was left in this great world of man unto my
care committed.
Her father, Jason Jones, was dead, a man whose
faults were many,
"O, be a father, Abe," he said, "to my poor
daughter, Annie!"
And so I promised, so she came an Orphan to
this city,
And set my foolish heart in flame with mingled
love and pity;
And as she prettier grew each day, and throve
'neath my protection,
I saw the Saints did cast her way some tokens of
affection.
O, Brigham, pray forgive me now;—envy and
love combining,
I hated every saintly brow, benignantly in-
clining!
Sneered at their motives, mocked the cause,
went wild and sorrow-laden,
And saw Polygamy's vast jaws a-yawning for
the maiden.
Why not, you say? Ah, yes, why not, from
your high point of vision;
But I'm of an inferior lot, beyond the light
Elysian.
I tore my hair, whined like a whelp, I loved her
to distraction,
I saw the danger, knew the help, yet trembled
at the action.
At last I came to you, my friend, and told my
tender feeling;
You said, "Your grief shall have an end—this is
a case for Sealing;
And since you have deserved so well, and made
no heinous blunder,
Why, brother Abraham, take the gel, but mind