University of Virginia Library

A TALE OF SALT LAKE CITY.

DEDICATION: TO OLD DAN CHAUCER.

APPROACHING UTAH.—THE BOSS'S TALE.

I. Passing the Ranche.

II. Joe Wilson goes a-Courting.

‘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,
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 egg,
Lips full of juice, and sech a leg!
A smell about her, morn and e'en,
Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green;
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 boss
Dead beat for days, who comes across
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 of 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 Injin 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,
'Twarn'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!’

III. Saint and Disciple.

IV. The Book of Mormon.

V. Joe ends his Srory—First Glimpse of Utah.

THE CITY OF THE SAINTS.

I. 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 biler'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 resolution,
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 mischief 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 sentimentalising!
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.
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 pleasure,
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 Emancipation—
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 fighting 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 punish'd 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, neglecting 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.

II. Within the City. St. Abe and the Seven.

III. Promenade—Main Street, Utah.

THE STRANGER.
Along the streets they're thronging, walking,
Clad gaily in their best and talking,
Women and children, quite a crowd;
The bright sun overhead is blazing,
The people sweat, the dust they're raising
Arises like a golden cloud.
Still out of every door they scatter,
Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter,
That such a flock of folks I see?

A LOUNGER.
They're off to hear the Prophet patter,
This yer's a day of jubilee.

VOICES.
Come along, we're late I reckon. . .
There's our Matt, I see him beckon. . .
How d'ye do, marm? glad to meet you. . .
Silence, Hiram, or I'll beat you. . .
Emm, there's brother Jones a-looking. . .
Here's warm weather, how I'm cooking!

STRANGER.
Afar the hills arise with cone and column
Into a sky of brass serene and solemn;
And underneath their shadow in one haze
Of limpid heat the great salt waters blaze,
While faint and filmy through the sultry veil
The purple islands on their bosom sail
Like floating clouds of dark fantastic air.
How strangely sounds (while 'mid the Indian glare
Moves the gay crowd of people old and young)
The bird-like chirp of the old Saxon tongue!
The women seem half weary and half gay,
Their eyes droop in a melancholy way,—
I have not seen a merry face to-day.

A BISHOP.
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 hosses
Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.

VOICES.
Zoë, jest fix up my gown. . .
There's my hair a-coming down. . .
Drat the babby, he's so crusty—
It's the heat as makes him thusty. . .
Come along, I'm almost sinking. . .
There's a stranger, and he's winking.

STRANGER.
That was a fine girl with the grey-hair'd lady,
How shining were her eyes, how true and steady,
Not drooping down in guilty Mormon fashion,
But shooting at the soul their power and passion.
That's a big fellow, six foot two, not under,
But how he struts, and looks as black as thunder,
Half glancing round at his poor sheep to scare 'em—
Six, seven, eight, nine,—O Abraham, what a harem!
All berry brown, but looking scared as may be,
And each one but the oldest with a baby.

A GIRL.
Phœbe!

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.

SECOND GIRL.
Isn't he handsome?

FIRST GIRL.
No; the first's my style!

STRANGER.
If my good friends, the Saints, could get their will,
These Yankee officers would fare but ill;
Wherever they approach the folk retire,
As if from veritable coals of fire;
With distant bow, set lips, and half-hid frown,
The Bishops pass them in the blessed town;
The women come behind like trembling sheep,
Some freeze to ice, some blush and steal a peep.
And often, as a band of maidens gay
Comes up, each maid ceases to talk and play,
Droops down her eyes, and does not look their way;
But after passing where the youngsters pine,
All giggle as at one concerted sign,
And tripping on with half-hush'd merry cries,
Look boldly back with laughter in their eyes!

VOICES.
Here we are, . . how folk are pushing! . .
Mind the babby in the crushing. . .
Pheemy! . . Yes, John! . . Don't go staring
At that Yankee—it's past bearing.
Draw your veil down while he passes,
Reckon you're as bold as brass is.

ABE CLEWSON.
(Passing with his hand to his head, attended by his Wives.)
Head in a whirl, and heart in a flutter,
Guess I don't know the half that I utter.
Too much of this life is beginning to try me,
I'm like a dern'd miller the grind always nigh me;
Praying don't soothe 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 yon;
Sister Anne's a disgrace, tho' you think her a martyr,
And she's tuck'd up her petticoat nigh to her garter.

STRANGER.
What group is this, begrim'd with dust and heat,
Staring like strangers in the open street?
The women, ragged, wretched, and half dead,
Sit on the kerbstone hot and hang the head,
And clustering at their side stand children brown,
Weary, with wondering eyes on the fair town.
Close by in knots beside the unhorsed team
The sunburn'd men stand talking in a dream,
For the vast tracts of country left behind
Seem now a haunting mirage in the mind.
Gaunt miners folding hands upon their breasts,
Big-jointed labourers looking ox-like down,
And sickly artizans with narrow chests
Still pallid from the smoke of English town.
Hard by to these a group of Teutons stand,
Light hair'd, blue-eyed, still full of Father-land,
With water-loving Northmen, who grow gay
To see the mimic sea gleam far away.
Now to this group, with a sharp questioning face,
Cometh a holy magnate of the place
In decent black; shakes hands with some; and then
Begins an eager converse with the men:
All brighten; even the children hush their cries,
And the pale women smile with sparkling eyes.

BISHOP.
The Prophet welcomes you, and sends
His message by my mouth, my friends;
He'll see you snug, for on this shore
There's heaps of room for millions more! . .
Scotchman, I take it? . . Ah, I know
Glasgow—was there a year or so. . .
And if you don't from Yorkshire hail,
I'll—ah, I thought so; seldom fail.
Make yourselves snug and rest a spell,
There's liquor coming—meat as well.
All welcome! We keep open door—
Ah, we don't push away the poor;
Tho' he's a fool, you understand,
Who keeps poor long in this here land.
The land of honey you behold—
Honey and milk—silver and gold!

AN ARTIZAN.
Ah, that's the style—Bess, just you hear it;
Come, come, old gal, keep up your spirit:
Silver and gold, and milk and honey,
This is the country for our money!

A GERMAN.
Es lebe die Stadt! es lebe dran!
Das heilige Leben steht mir an!

A NORTHMAN.
Taler du norske?

BISHOP.
(Shaking his head, and turning with a wink to the English.)
No, not me!
Saxon's the language of the free!
The language of the great Evangels!
The language of the Saints and Angels!
The only speech that Joseph knew!
The speech of him and Brigham too!
Only the speech by which we've thriven
Is comprehended up in Heaven! . .
Poor heathens! but we'll make 'em spry,
They'll talk like Christians by-and-by.

STRANGER.
(Strolling out of the streets.)
From east, from west, from every worn-out land,
Yearly they stream to swell this busy band.
Out of the fever'd famine of the slums,
From sickness, shame, and sorrow, Lazarus comes,
Drags his sore limbs o'er half the world and sea,
Seeking for freedom and felicity.
The sewer of ignorance and shame and loss,
Draining old Europe of its dirt and dross,
Grows the great City by the will of God;
While wondrously out of the desert sod,
Nourished with lives unclean and weary hearts,
The new faith like a splendid weed upstarts.
A splendid weed! rather a fair wild-flower,
Strange to the eye in its first birth of power,
But bearing surely in its breast the seeds
Of higher issues and diviner deeds.
Changed from Sahara to a fruitful vale
Fairer than ever grew in fairy tale,
Transmuted into plenteous field and glade
By the slow magic of the white man's spade,
Grows Deseret, filling its mighty nest
Between the eastern mountains and the west,
While—who goes there? What shape antique looks down
From this green mound upon the festive town,
With tall majestic figure darkly set
Against the sky in dusky silhouette?
Strange his attire: a blanket edged with red
Wrapt royally around him; on his head
A battered hat of the strange 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 buflalo, and elk, and deer
Heaven help him! In his mien grief and despair
Seem to contend, as he stands musing there;
Until he notices that I am nigh,
And lo! with outstretched hands and glistening eye
Swift he descends—Does he mean mischief? No;
He smiles and beckons as I turn to go.

INDIAN.
Me Medicine Crow. White man gib drink to me.
Great chief; much squaw; papoose, sah, one, two, three!

STRANGER.
[A railway whistle sounds in the far distance.

IV. Within the Synagogue. Sermonizeth the Prophet.

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 spadeful.

FEMININE WHISPERS.
Brigham's sealed to another Bride . . .
How worn he's gittin'! he's aging dreadful.

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 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!’
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 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? Pleasure!
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.

VI. Last Epistle of St. Abe to the Polygamists.

THE FARM IN THE VALLEY—SUNSET.

(1871.)