JUDAS WART AND SUFFERIN’ WIMMIN.

One mornin’, not long after Miss Bobbet’s visit, I was a doin’ up my

mornin’s work. I had been a little belated, for my companion Josiah,

while fodderin’, had been took in his back sudden and violent with a

stitch.

He is subject to such stitches, but they are very painful and

inconvenient. All the way he could walk round the house was by leanin’

upon a broom-stick. He found the broom-handle in the barn, and come in

leanin’ heavy on it, and groanin’ powerful and frequent. It skairt me

awfully.

I never hinted to him that I thought more’n as likely as not that stitch

was sent as a judgment; no, I held firm, and kep’ my tongue still with

almost giant force. That day, when the sun had rose up clear and lofty

in the heavens, was the time I had calculated to tackle him. But I was

too honorable to tackle a pardner who was down with a stitch.

No, I treated him well, bathed his back in linament, and he was a lyin’

behind the stove on the lounge, as comfortable as anybody could be in

his situation of back and conscience.

[Illustration: ELDER JUDAS WART.]

As I said, I was a washin’ up my dishes in the buttery, when all of a

sudden in walked Elder Judas Wart. The door was open, it bein’ a

pleasant mornin’, and he jest rapped at the side of the door, and walked

in.

I guess he didn’t see Josiah, the lounge bein’ kinder behind the door;

but he seemed dretful tickled to see me—tickleder fur than I was.

Though, havin’ my mission in view, I used him well, and sot him a chair.

But little did I think what was before me; little did I think what the

awfulness of his first words to me would be. He hadn’t been in that

house five minutes, for I know I had only jest hung up my dish-cloth

(for knowin’ what a tussle of principle was ahead of me, and feelin’ as

if I should need all my strength in the conflict, I left the heaviest of

my dishes to wash at noon, for the first time in over fourteen months).

Wall, if you can believe it, jest as I got that dish-cloth hung up, that

man, with no phraseoligies or excuses or anything, that man up and says:

[Illustration: RESCUING THE ELDER.]

“I have heard, and I see for myself, that you are a very smart woman,

and you could do wonders in the true church if you was married to some

leadin’ man,—to me, for instance,” says he, bold as brass, “or was

sealed to me,” says he, spittin’ hard onto the floor. But that man

hadn’t hardly got that seal and that tobacco-juice out of his mouth,

when Josiah Allen sprung up and leveled that broom-stick at him with a

deadly aim. I sprung forward and threw the end of the broom-stick up

jest in time to save the Elder’s life. I forced him to desist, I and the

stitch; for truly the effort was too much for him. The stitch griped him

awful, and he sunk back with a agonizin’ groan.

I wanted Josiah to stay his hand and the broom-stick for two reasons.

One was, I didn’t want the Elder killed quite so quick—not till after I

had had a chance to convert him. And another reason was, I thought of my

deep agony and a Widder Bump, and thinkses I to myself, though the

medicine is fearful to administer, as gaulin’ and bitter as wormwood and

sicuta biled down in tar and vinegar, still I felt it was what my

companion needed to show him the nefariousness and heniousness of

Mormonism, in its true light.

I wouldn’t in his present weakness of mind and back, throw the Widder

Bump in his face, as I might have done. Some pardners would have jest

turned round on him, as he lay there on that lounge, and throwed that

woman full and square in his face. But I didn’t. I see he was a

sufferin’ enough without that. He was takin’ the matter to himself like

a blister, as anybody has got to, in order to feel the smart. A blister

don’t draw half so powerful, nor feel half so bad, when it is on

somebody else’es back, as it does when it is on our’n. He was a

meditatin’ how it would seem to his heart to lose the companion of his

youth and middle age. He was a eatin’ of that sass which ganders think

is quite good for geese to eat. He was seein’ now how it would relish to

a gander. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart, his looks was such.

But Elder Judas Wart had no such feelin’s of pity and sympathy, and

bein’ excited by Josiah’s ragin’ wrath, and maddened by the broom-stick,

he spoke out, in a angry, sarcastical tone:

“Your husband felt different on this subject last spring. He seemed

almost inclined at one time to take to himself another helpmate. There

was a certain widder, there”—

“You lie, sir!” says Josiah, springin’ up to his feet. “There wuzn’t no

widder there, and I never was there.”

“Never was where?” says I, in a awful voice; for curiosity and various

other emotions was a hunchin’ me, as hard as ever a woman was hunched by

’em.

“I never was anywhere! I never was to their meetin’s, nor to nowhere

else.”

“Where wuz you, then?” says I, in that same strange voice.

“I told you I wuzn’t _nowhere_, didn’t I?” he yelled out in fearful

axents.

But Elder Judas Wart went right on a talkin’ to me, stiddy as fate, and

as hard to be turned round as she.

“He seemed then to look at the Widder”—

“I never looked at a widder! I never see none! I never see a widder in

my life!”

Says I: “Josiah Allen, be calm!”

“I tell you I won’t be calm! And I tell you there hain’t no widders

there—nor hain’t never been any—nor nowhere else—nor I never heard of

any.”

He was delerious, and I see that he was. But Elder Judas Wart kep’ right

on, with a haughty, proud axent:

“He seemed then to look favorably upon the widder I have lately

espoused. The Widder Bump; don’t you remember her?”

“No! I don’t remember no such widder, and I don’t believe there was any

by that name.”

“Why,” says I, “Josiah Allen, she made that coat you have got on. Don’t

you remember it?”

“No! I don’t! She didn’t make it! It wuzn’t made! I never had none.”

“Why, Josiah Allen,” says I, “what will become of you if you tell such

stories?”

“There won’t nothin’ become of me, nor never will; there never has

nothin’ become of me.”

But jest as he said this, the stitch ketched him agin powerful and

strong, and he sunk down on the lounge, a groanin’ violent.

I see he was delerious with pain of body, and fur deeper, more agonizin’

pain of mind, contrition, shame, remorse, and various other emotions.

And then, oh, the strength and power of woman’s love! As that man lay

there, with all his past weakness and wickedness brought out before me,

stricken with agony, remorse, and stitches, I loved him, and I pitied

him. I felt that devoted, yearnin’, tender feelin’ for him to that

extent that I felt in my heart that if it were possible I could take

that stitch upon me, and bear it onward myself, and relieve my pardner.

Women’s love is a beautiful thing, a holy thing, but curious, very.

I reviled my pardner not, but covered him tenderly up with my old woolen

shawl, sot the broomstick up against the lounge, and he lay there and

never said another word, only at intervals—when a pain of uncommon size

would ketch him in his back or conscience, he would groan loud and

agonizin’. But I see it was no use to argue with him then about the

Widder Bump.

But if you’ll believe it, I can’t make him to this day say nothin’

different. I have had a great many talks with him on the subject, but,

he says, “She is a woman he never see.”

And the nearest I ever made him own up to it was once when I had talked

real good to him, talked to him about his past wickedness and tottlin’

morals, and told him how I knew his morals was straightened and propped

up now, good and sound, and his affections stabled and firm sot where

they should be sot. I talked awful good to him, and he seemed to be sort

o’ melted down. And he owned up “that it did seem to him as if he had

heard, when he was a child, of a woman by that name, that lived

somewhere near here. It was either that name, or Bumper—he couldn’t for

his life tell which.”

And I gin up then. Truly there are strange pages in a man’s nater,

filled with curious language, curiouser than conundrums: who can read

’em?

As I said, havin’ the aim in my mind that I did have, havin’ a desire to

let Josiah Allen get a full taste of that sass that he, as well as other

ganders, find is fur different to eat themselves, and to stand haughtily

on one leg (to foller out the gander simely) and see their mates eat it.

Havin’ a desire to let him get a full glimpse of the awful depth and

blackness and horrer of the abyss he had suspended himself over, I did

not rebuke Elder Judas Wart as I should, had it not been for that. I

merely told him, when he said sunthin’ agin about my bein’ sealed to

him—I merely said to him, with dignity and firmness:

Says I, “If you say that word seal to me agin, I’ll seal you in a way

you won’t never want to be sealed!” Says I, in still more awful tones,

glancin’ at the bilin’ teakettle, “If you say that word to me agin in my

house, I’ll scald you, if it is the last work I ever do in my life, and

I am hung for it the next minute.”

My face was red; I was fearfully excited with my almost giant efforts to

control myself. To think that he should dare to approach me! me! Josiah

Allen’s wife! with his infamous offer. He see that my looks was gettin’

terrible and scareful, and he hastened to say:

“I meant it in a religious way.”

And I was that excited and mad, that I spoke right up and says, “Wall!

I’ll scald you in a religious way;” and I added, in a firm, low tone,

“But I’ll bet a cent you won’t never want to be scalded agin as long as

you live.”

Says he, in a sort of a apologizin’, meachin’ way, “It is my religion to

marry various wives.”

[Illustration: HOT WATER.]

“Wall,” says I, still clingin’ to my simely, as great oriters always do,

“It is my religion to scald you, if you don’t stop your insultin’ talk

instantly and to once! You can’t talk no such stuff in the house of her

who was once Smith,” says I, glancin’ agin at the teakettle, and

steppin’ up a little nearer to it.

“Be composed, mum,” says he, a hitchin’ up his chair a little nearer the

door; “Be composed! I was speakin’ in a strictly religious sense.”

Says I, “You can’t never make me think a crime can be committed

religiously.” And agin I looked longin’ly at that teakettle.

“Compose yourself down, mum, and let us argue for a brief spell,” says

he.

His tone was sort o’ implorin’ and beseechin’. And he took a plug of

tobacco out of his coat-pocket, and bit a great chew off’en it, and put

it into his mouth, I s’pose to try to show off and make himself

attractive. But good land! how foolish it was in him. He didn’t look

half so well to me as he did before, and that hain’t sayin’ but a very

little, a very little indeed.

He wadded the tobacco all up on one side of his mouth, till his cheek

stood out some like a wen, and the tobacco-juice started and run down on

each side of his chin. And so, havin’ fixed himself, I s’pose, so his

looks suited him, he says agin:

“Less argue the subject.”

I see that here was the chance I had wanted to convince him of his

iniquity. I see that Duty was leadin’ a war-horse up in front of me all

saddled and bridled, ready for me to mount and career onward nobly on

the path of Right.

[Illustration: “LESS ARGUE.”]

I see that Duty was holdin’ in this charger by the martingills with one

hand, and with the other she was holdin’ out a pair of spurs to me. And

though never, never, did a war-horse look so prancin’ and dangerous to

me, and never did spurs look so heavy and sharp and tejus to my achin’

heels, yet Josiah Allen’s wife is not one to turn her back to Duty’s

call—no, my desire to battle with the wrong, my martyrous spirit curbed

me in and let me hear him talk.

And he went on to tell me that in the first place he wanted to lay

before me the rise, progress, and glory of the Mormon Church. Says he,

“In the first place, you know, mum, that God made a distinct revelation

to us. Our bible was found written on plates of gold. Them plates”—

I am naturally very well-bread. And thinkin’ mebby it would influence

him towards the right, I didn’t lay out to interrupt him, or disturb his

arguments, till he had got through presentin’ of ’em. But the idee of

such imposture—imposture in the name of God—so worked on me, that I

spoke right out, in a firm, dignified tone, but very solemn:

“Elder Judas Wart, you jest pass them plates.”

Says he: “Why should I pass ’em? The revelation of God is written on

’em.”

“Revelation!” says I. “I should jest as soon go into my buttery, and

read my meat plates and platters, as to read ’em. I should find jest as

much of a revelation on ’em.” And agin I says, with dignity: “You pass

them plates.”

Says he: “I wont pass ’em.” And he begun agin, in a sort of a boastin’

way: “September 22, 1827, the angel Moroni placed in Joseph Smith’s hand

our Mormon bible, or that is, the plates, that”—

Says I: “Hain’t I told you to pass them plates? Your bible is a romance

writ by Solomon Spaulding jest for fun, jest to see how near he could

write like the bible. And it is a powerful lesson to me, and should be

to everybody, of the terrible harvest that may spring up from one

careless, thoughtless deed. The awful consequences, the sin, and the woe

that followed that one irreverent, thoughtless act might well make us

all more thoughtful, more mindful of the terrible responsibility that

follows all our acts, the smallest as well as the greatest. We can’t

shake off that personal responsibility. It follers us tight as our

shadders even into our hours of recreation, showin’ us that we should

not only work nobly, but recreate nobly and innocently and reverently.”

“But,” says he “them plates”—

But I was so rousted up with my emotions, that I waved out my right hand

with awful dignity, and says I:

“You _shall_ pass them plates.”

And I held firm, and made him pass ’em. And he went to bringin’ up the

miracles that had been done by the early church—curing the lame and

deaf, healing the sick, and et cetery, and so forth. Says he: “I have

heard that you are a woman that loves reason and fair play,” and says

he, “you can’t get over those miracles, can you?”

Says I candidly: “I don’t want to get over no miracles, and hain’t tried

to. But I can say with the poet, that so far as believin’ of ’em is

concerned, miracles is sunthin’ I had rather see done myself than to

hear of ’em. Howsumever, I hain’t a goin’ to say that you hain’t done

’em. As to healin’ the sick, the wonderful power and magnetism one

strong mind can exert over a weaker one, when the weaker one has perfect

faith in it, has a great many times performed deeds that looked

miracilas, out of the Mormon church, and most probable in it. But even

if you have raised the dead, which I don’t think you claim you have

done, it would make me no more a believer in mormonism; for we read of a

woman not religious, who did that. And I never hankered after keepin’

company with Miss Endor, or wanted to neighbor with her, or appear like

her.”

“You are unreasonable, mum,” says he.

“I don’t mean to be,” says I. “I have allowed all you want me to, and

more too. What more can you want?”

“You deride our holy church. Our church foundered on the Commandments of

God.”

“Which one?” says I enquirin’ly.

“Which one?” says he haughtily. “Every one of ’em; every one of ’em.”

“Wall,” says I calmly and reasonably, but with quite a lot of dignity,

“we’ll see.” And I was risin’ up to go and get the Bible offen the

stand, for I was determined he should see ’em in black and white, when

he spoke out haughtily and proudly:

“Keep your seat, mum; keep your seat. I have the Bible here in my breast

pocket. Our church bein’ foundered on the Commandments, leanin’ up

aginst ’em as we do for all our strength and safety, I don’t depend on

Bibles layin’ round loose on stands, and so forth. I carry a copy all

the time right over my heart, or pretty near over it—on the left side of

my vest, anyway.”

Says I: “There is different ways of carryin’ things in the heart. But

that is a deep subject, and I will not begin to episode upon it, for if

I should begin, no knowin’ how fur I should episode to, but will merely

say that there is other ways of carryin’ things in your heart besides

carryin’ ’em in your vest pocket. But howsumever, read off the first

one.” And he read it:

“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.”

He read it off jest like a text. And the minute he stopped I begun to

talk on it a good deal like preachin’, only shorter; but with jest about

the same dignity and mean that preachers have.

Says I, in that firm, preachin’ tone: “You have made Brigham Young a

God. Your preacher, whom you call a ‘model saint,’ openly avowed that he

was God. You have pretended to believe, and have taught to the people

his blasphemus doctrine that he had power to save souls in the heavenly

kingdom, or to shut ’em out of it.” Says I: “I could spread out this

awful idee, and cover hours with it, and then not make it very thin,

either; there is so much that could be said on the awfulness of it. But

I have got nine more jobs jest like it ahead on me to tackle, so enough,

and suffice it to say, fetch on your next one.

He was goin’ to branch out and say sunthin’, but I held to my first

idee, and wouldn’t let him. I told him if I argued with him at all, he

had got to read those Commandments off jest like texts, and let me

preach on ’em. I told him after I had got through with ’em, then he

could rise up and explain his mind, and talk; but jest at present it was

the commands of God I wanted to hear—not the words of Elder Judas Wart.

And I held firm, and made him. And when he would begin to argue I would

call for another one, and kep’ him at it.

“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image * * * * thou shalt not

bow down to them, nor serve them”—

Says I: “You have done that and worse. You have worshipped and revered

an image of clay—rather weak clay, too, though held up by a mighty will

and ambition. Why, most anybody would say that a graven image would be

sounder than he was—more sort o’ solid and substantial. Anyway, it

wouldn’t wobble round as he wobbled, preachin’ one thing to-day, and

denyin’ it to-morrow, jest as his own interests dictated. And the graven

image wouldn’t have been so selfish and graspin’ and unscrupulus. It

would have been fur honester, and wouldn’t have wanted more’n a hundred

wives. But that image of clay, such as it was, you sot up and

worshipped, and you needn’t deny it.”

He didn’t try to. He knew it wouldn’t be no use to, and says he:

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”

Says I, in a firm, awful axent, “You have taken it in vain, the weakest

kind of vanity, and you have taken it wickedly, the wickedest kind of

wickedness, in darin’ to commit this sin in the name of God.”

Says he, “Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.”

Says I, “You have kept it holy, by teachin’ this unholy sin. By

assemblin’ at the tabernacle to listen to words so low, and vulgar, and

weak that they would be contemptible, if they were not so wicked and

blasphemous.”

Says he, “Honor thy father and thy mother.” He spoke up awful quick and

some haughty. He felt what I had said, I knew it by his mean, and he

seemed to read this with a air as if this was sunthin’ he could lean

aginst hard, and nobody could hender its bein’ a support to him. He

looked sort o’ independent and overbearin’ at me as he finished readin’

it, and he spit on the floor in a sort of a proud way.

But I went right on, in a deep and impressive axent, and says I, “You

have made that commandment impossible for your children to follow. You

have wickedly deprived your children of one of the holiest and most

sacred things in life. A child’s right to honor the parents they love,

and feel it their duty to reverence. But how can anybody, unless he is a

fool or a luny, honor what hain’t honorable? How can a child honor a

parent whose hands are stained with innocent blood, who is enriched by

theft and rapine, who is living in open shame—in open defiance to the

commonest rules of morality—who breaks all the commandments of God, and

calls it religion?”

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN MEADOWS.]

Says he, “Thou shalt not kill.”

Says I, “The teachers of your religion say, Thou _shalt_ kill, if it is

for the safety and enrichment of the Mormon church. And, following their

commands instead of God’s, you killed one hundred and 20 innocent men,

wimmen, and children in one day. And how many other murders have been

committed by orders of your church, in those lonely deserts and mountain

roads and canyons, will never be known till the searchin’ light of the

great day of doom reveals all secret things. Why,” says I, “Brigham

Young taught that Mormons should shed each other’s blood for the

remission of sins.”

He looked meachin’, very. He didn’t try to argue on this—he couldn’t,

for he knew I could prove what I had said. And he looked meachiner yet,

as he read the next one:

“Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

Says I, “The hull Mormon church is built up on the ruins of this broken

commandment, and you know it. And you teach this doctrine, that the more

pieces you break this commandment into, the higher it is goin’ to boost

you up into heaven. The meaner and lower you be on earth, the higher

place you will have in the heavenly kingdom—”

Says he, interruptin’ of me with a look of fearful meach restin’ on his

eyebrow, and speakin’ up dretful quick:

“Thou shalt not steal.”

Says I, “Your church teaches, ‘thou _shalt_ steal.’ And you have to do

it too, and you know it.”

Says he, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighber.”

Says I, “Ask the unhappy Gentiles who have incurred the displeasure or

aroused the cupidity of the Mormon church, whether the Mormon

commandment, ‘Thou _shalt_ bear false witness against thy neighber,’ has

not been followed, and followed, too, to the death.”

“Thou shalt not covet”—and he said over the hull on ’em—wife, property,

and maidservant.

Says I, “Your church teaches thou shalt covet ’em, every one of ’em, and

get ’em, too, the hull on ’em—wife, property, and maidservant,

’specially the maidservant.”

He quailed. And right there, while he was a quailin’, I spoke, and says

coldly:

“Now, Elder Judas Wart, you have read off the commandments of God, one

by one, and I have preached on ’em; now tell me, and tell me plain,

which one do you lean on the hardest?”

Says he, “As it were—that is, you know—”

“No!” says I, with dignity, “I don’t know, nor you don’t, nuther.”

Says he, “I—that is—you—you are unreasonable, mum.” And he looked

curious, and spit fiercely onto the stone hearth and the floor.

“I don’t mean to be,” says I. “I sot out in this talk with principles as

hefty as I ever hefted in my life, and if I hain’t a good judge of the

common heft of principles, nobody ever was. Why,” says I, “the rights

and wrongs of my sect has for years been held nearer to my heart than

any earthly object, exceptin’ my Josiah. And I can tell you, and tell

you plain, that I have laid awake nights a thinkin’ over what my sect

has endured a settin’ under that Mormon church. And daytimes I have sot

a knittin’ and thought of the agonies of them female wimmen till there

wuzn’t a dry eye in my head, and I couldn’t tell for my life whether I

was a seamin’ or a knittin’ plain, or what I was a doin’. For of all the

sufferin’s my sect has suffered from the hands of man, this doctrine of

polygamy is the very crown, the crown of thorns. Other wrongs and woes

have spilte earth for her time and agin, but this destroys her hope of

heaven. When other sorrows and wrongs broke her heart, killed her, she

could still look to the time when she could take the hand of Death, the

Healer, and he would lead her into Repose, give her the peace earth had

denied her. She could think that all her burdens of sorrows and wrongs

would drop from her into the grave; and in that land where all tears are

wiped away—that land of eternal beauty—of sweet consolation for the

weary—she could find rest. But this last hope of the broken-hearted,

your accursed doctrine has destroyed. Your infamous belief teaches that

if a woman won’t do wrong, won’t submit to man’s tyrannical will on

earth, commit sin for his sake, he won’t let her go to heaven! Good

land!” says I, “it makes me sweat to think on’t.” And I wiped my forward

on my apron.

Says he: “As it were, you know.”

“No, I don’t know it,” says I warmly. “Nor I never shall know it.”

Says he: “And so forth, and so on.”

He acted embarassed and skairt, and well he might. Why, the abomination

of their doctrine is so abominable, that when it is presented to ’em in

a eloquent, high-toned way by a woman who talks but little, but that

little earnest and deep; when she places it before ’em in the axent she

always handles when talkin’ on principle, and with the soarin’, deep

look of her spectacles she always uses on them occasions—why, it is

enough to skair anybody to death.

But in a moment or so he sort o’ rousted up, and says he:

“If you think so much of female wimmen as you say you do, I should think

you would think about what the position of these plural wives would be

if polygimy were abolished. What would they be thought of? What would

they be?”

Says I, in awful tones: “What be they now?”

“Wall,” says he, “if they should be divorced they wouldn’t be looked

upon as they are now.”

“No,” says I, “that is very true; they wouldn’t, not at all, not by me.”

Says he: “They would be looked down upon more.”

Says I, with dignity: “Stoppin’ sinnin’ hadn’t ort to make anybody

thought less on,” says I. “That hain’t accordin’ to my creed or my

skripter.”

Says he: “If they was divorced their situation would be very painful and

humiliatin’.”

Says I, very dryly: “It is now, in my estimation.”

Says he: “Look at the position of the childern of these unions, that

would be left fatherless. What a sad scene it would be; helpless infancy

made a mark for contumely and sneers; babyhood blamed, scorned.”

Says I: “They wouldn’t be scorned, not by anybody whose scorn would be

worth havin’. Nobody but a fool or a luny is in the habit of blamin’

folks for doin’ what they can’t help doin’, and bein’ what they can’t

help bein’. Blame the childern! Why, good land!” says I, “I should jest

as soon set out and scold a mornin’-glory or a white violet for the

looks of the ground they sprung from. God’s own purity is writ in the

clear eyes of babyhood, and in the blue heart of them mornin’-glories.

Blossoms of light, mornin’-glories, springin’, God knows how or why, out

of the black mould, out of darkness and decay. Who could look scoffin’ly

or irreverently on ’em, or on them other blossoms of innocence,

springin’ as mysteriously from as dark a soil, and touched by the hand

of God with as pure and divine a beauty.”

“Unpractical, unpractical female, led away as females ever are by

sympathies and views of right and wrong. Oh! thank Heaven! thank Heaven!

such dangerous qualities are not incorporated into politics. I should

tremble for the nation if it were so.”

And agin he looked fiercely at the stove-hearth.

“Unpractical female, what would become of the childern left, as it were,

fatherless?”

Says I: “If the parents of the childern are rich enough, let ’em support

’em; and the poor ones—I know a man who will adopt the hull lot, and be

glad of the chance,” says I proudly. “It is a uncle of mine, a uncle I

am proud to own. Samuel is his name, and nobility and generosity is his

nater.” Says I: “Let these childern and the wimmen, if necessary, be

took care of by the government, and let the evil end with this

generation.”

“But what would the position of these wimmen be in society; what would

they be?”

“What be they _now_?” says I agin. And I snapped out that “now”

considerable snappish, for I was gettin’ a good deal wore out with him.

Says I: “You seem to think it would be the death-blow to their

reputation to stop sinnin’, stop livin’ in wickedness; but there is

where you and I differ. I should think as much agin of ’em.”

And says I: “If a evil is a goin’ to stop, it has got to begin to stop

sometime, or else it won’t never get stopped. More of these unholy

unions have taken place durin’ the past year than ever before in the

same length of time. Powerful efforts are bein’ made to strengthen and

extend the power of the system. And it must either be stopped, or else

go on widening and spreading, and destroying this beautiful new world as

it destroyed so many other strong, proud nations that were glorious in

the past.” Says I: “Can I set still and see it go on, and can Josiah set

still, and other female pardners, and other Josiahs, and not long to

lift a hand to turn back this flood of woe and desolation?”

Here Josiah groaned aloud. He had his thoughts there on that lounge,

though he lay middlin’ still. His thoughts goared him worse than that

stitch did, ten times over. And I felt sorry for him, my feelin’s for

him are such; and I brought his name in in a friendly way, just because

my love for him was so strong, and I forgive him so.

Says I: “Elder Judas Wart, I won’t take you back to the old Jewish

nations, round by Italy, Spain, and other roundabout ways, as I might

do, and as some wimmen who are more talkative than I be probable would,

and show you all the way the ruins of the nations ruined by this crime

of polygimy. But I am a woman who says but little, but that little I

mean, and I will merely hold up Turkey before you. And while I am

holdin’ up that Turkey, I will merely mention the fact to you, that you

and everybody else knows, and that Turkey knows it well, and if it

should speak up and own the truth it would say that it was the effects

of this system that made it so weak and impotent. Weaker as a nation

than our old turkey-gobbler; fur weaker than a hen-turkey. (I make use

of the gobbler as a poetical metafor, and would wish to be so

understood.)

“Will not America and Josiahs heed these warnin’s?” says I, lookin’

right up at the ceilin’, in a rapped way. “Will they not listen to the

voice of doom that rises from the ruins of other nations, glorious and

proud and strong in the past, that has crumbled into ashes from the

effects of this sin? Will they not,” I went on in a still more rapped,

eloquent way, “will they not bend down their ears and hear the wail of

warnin’ that seems to float along over the dust of the desert from old

Babylon herself, warnin’ to this new, fresh, western world to escape

this enervatin’, destroyin’ sin, and escape her doom? Will not America

and Josiahs take warnin’ by the fate of these nations? or will they go

on in careless merriment and feastin’, unheedin’ those terrible words

‘_mean! mean!_’ writ up in the blue vault above, till it is too late;

till the land is given to the enimy; till weakness, ruin, and decay take

the septer from Columbia’s tremblin’, shakin’ grasp, and rain over this

once strong, lovely land.”

I sithed, I almost wept—I was so fearfully agitated—and says I: “If this

threat’nin’ doom that threatens our beloved land is to be averted, if

this evil is to be stopped, when is there a better time than the present

to stop it in, now,” says I, wipin’ my eyes on my apron, “now, while

America has got me to help her?” And agin I sithed, and agin I almost

shed tears, and wept.

He see my agitation, and took advantage of it. Says he: “You seem to be

tender-hearted, Josiah Allen’s wife, and to have a great affection for

the female sect, and yet you don’t seem to think of the hearts that

would be wrung by the agony of seperation. Why,” says he, “if they

should part with their companions, they would be unhappy.”

Says I, lookin’ out of the open window, fur away over the tree-tops,

over the blue lake beyond—and beyond—

My spectacles seemed to look very fur off. They had a very deep and sort

o’ soarin’ look to ’em, somewhat happy, and somewhat sorrowful and

solemn. And says I:

“I don’t know as there has any law ever been made, in Heaven or on

earth, that we had got to be happy. There is a law made that we should

do right, should not do evil, but not that we must be happy. Why, some

paths we have to foller lead right away from happiness.” And says I,

still lookin’ fur off, in that same sort of a solemn, deep way:

“That path always leads to something better, more beautiful, more

divine.”

“What can be better than happiness?” says he, in a enquirin’ way.

“Blessedness!” says I. “The two hain’t to be compared no more than a

flower growin’ out of earthly soil is to be compared to one springin’ up

in the valleys of God. One is lit with earth’s sun, and the other is

shinin’ with Heaven’s own light. One is mortal, the other immortal.”

Says he, still follerin’ up his old theme, still tryin’ to head me off

in some way:

“Wouldn’t you be sorry for these females, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

Says I firmly: “If they suffered from the wrenchin’ away of old ties, I

should be sorry for ’em to that extent that there wouldn’t be a sithe

left in my breast, nor a dry eye in my head. At the same time, if they

made the sacrifice willin’ly, from a sense of duty, for the ransom of

their people, for the deliverance of the land from peril, my very soul

would kneel in reverence to them, and they should be honored by all as

those who come out of great tribulations.

“But,” says I, in a slower, more thoughtful way, “there is different

kinds of tribulations. And you can look at subjects with the sentimental

eye of your specks, and then agin you can turn the other eye onto ’em.

And in lookin’ through that other eye at ’em, you might possibly see

that the married life of these plural wives is wretched—full of

jealousies, divisions, and sizms.

“Woman’s love, when it has room to grow, is a tremendous thing to spread

itself. But (still lookin’ through that common sense eye of our specks)

we would say that the divine plant of love _can’t_ grow so thrifty in

one-twentieth part of a man’s heart as it could in a more expanded and

roomy place. We would say (still lookin’ through that eye) that it was

too cramped a spot—some like growin’ a oak in a bottle. You can make it

sprout; but there can’t be so deep roots nor so strong a strength to it,

and it wouldn’t take nigh so much of a pull to wrench it up by the

roots.

“And so, to foller up the simely, as simelys ort to be follered, we

would think that the first wife is the one who would suffer most; she

who thought she was marryin’ a hull man, who dwelt for awhile in a hull

heart, and whose affections, therefore, had naturally took deep root,

and spread themselves. We would say (still lookin’ through that eye of

the speck, and still follerin’ up simelys) that she is the one who would

be most wrung with agony.”

“Wall,” says Elder Judas Wart, seemin’ly ketchin’ holt of the first

argument that presented itself in front of his mind, for truly he didn’t

seem to care how crooked his argument was, nor how wobblin’. Says he:

“Sufferin’ is a divine agent to draw souls heavenward.”

“Yes, heaven-sent sufferin’,” says I, “will draw our hearts up nearer to

the heavenly home it come from. But when sufferin’ comes up from below,

from another place, scented with brimstone, and loaded with iniquity, it

will do its best to draw us down to it where it come from.”

“Pain sometimes teaches divine lessons,” says Elder Judas Wart. And I

never see a mouth puckered and twisted down into a more hypocritical

pucker than hisen was.

Says I: “Don’t you s’pose I know that?” And then I went on awful

eloquent, and grew eloquenter and eloquenter all the time for as much as

five minutes or more, entirely unbeknown to me, not thinkin’ who was

there, or who I was a talkin’ to, or where, or when:

“Don’t I know,” says I, “that no soul has reached its full might, no

soul has ever really lived, till it has learned to bless God for the

divine ministry of sorrow? Don’t I certainly know that of all God’s

angels the one who brings us divinest gifts is the blessed angel of

Pain?”

And I went on again, in that fearfully eloquent way of mine, when I get

entirely rousted up in eloquence, and know not where I am, or who is

hearin’ of me, or why, or which:

“If we bar this angel from our door, resist her gentle voice pleadin’ at

our heart, woe be to us; for she can come as a avenger, a destroyer. But

if we greet her as indeed a heavenly visitant, believe that God sent

her, hold her in our weak arms close to our hearts, she gives us

divinest strength.

“Though we turn away, and fear her greeting, we find that the touch of

her lips on our burning brow leaves calm. She lays on our throbbing,

aching hearts soft hands of peace. Her eyes have a sorry look for us,

that make our tears flow, and then we see that those sad, sweet eyes are

looking up from earth to where our own, tear-blinded, are fain to

follow—up beyond the vail, into that beautiful city where our treasures

and our hopes are.

[Illustration: AN ANGEL OF PEACE.]

To no other angel has God given the power to so reveal to us the glory

and the mystery of life and of death. No other hand but hers has such

power to unlock the very doors of heaven and send down into our hearts

heaven’s peace and glory. Don’t I know this? don’t I know that in the

hour of our bitterest sorrow, our deepest affliction, when the one that

made our world lies silent before us, deaf for the first time to our

tears and our sorrow; when all the world looks black and desolate, and

hatred and envy and malice seem to surround us, and our human strength

is gone, and human help is vain; don’t I know that this divine angel of

Pain opens the very doors of Heaven, and lets down a perfect flood of

glory into our soul—not happiness, but blessedness.

“Yes, the crosses this angel brings us from a lovin’ Father we will bear

in God’s name. But,” says I, firmly, “other folks must do as they are a

mind to; but I never will, not if I know it, bend my back, and let old

Belzebub lay one of his crosses acrost my shoulder-blades. No, I will

throw off that cross, and stamp onto it. And this cross of Mormonism is

one of hisen, if he ever had one. It is made out of Belzebub’s own

timber, nailed together by man’s selfishness and brutality and cruelty,

the very worst part of his nature. It is one of the very heaviest

crosses ever tackled by wimmen, and bore along by ’em, wet with their

blood and sweat and tears. And Samantha will do her best to stamp onto

’em, every one of ’em, and break ’em up into kindlin’-wood, and build

fires with ’em to burn up this putryfyin’ crime of polygimy, root and

branch; make a cleansin’ blaze of it to try to purify God’s sweet air it

has defiled.”

“Oh!” says Elder Judas Wart, with a low deep groan, “oh! how unpractical

females always are. Females are carried away by their sympathies and

religious feelings and sense of right and duty, making them a most

dangerous element in politics, a very striking and unwholesome contrast

to the present admirable system of government, if they were ever

incorporated into the body politic; in short, if they ever vote. Let us

look on the subject in a practical light.”

And I was so beat out by my eloquent emotions (such emotions are

beautiful to have by you, but fatiguin’ to handle, as I handle ’em, and

I can’t deny it); and bein’ also almost completely out of wind, I sot

still, and let him go on.

And he talked, I should judge, well on to a quarter of a hour about

Communism, Socialism, its principles, its rise, and progress; and I let

him go on, and didn’t hardly say a word, only I would merely throw in

little observations occasionally, such as, when he argued that everybody

should own the same amount of property, and there should be no rich and

no poor.

I merely threw in this question to him: Whether he thought shiftlessness

and laziness should have the same reward as industry and frugality?

And when he was a goin’ on about everybody bein’ educated the same so

one could not be intellectually superior to the other, I simply asked

him whether he thought Nature was a Socialist.

Says he: “Why?”

“Oh!” says I, “I was a thinkin’ if she was one, she didn’t live up to

her belief. She didn’t equalize brains and thrift and economy.”

“Wall, as I was a sayin’” says he, “as it were, you know”—

“No,” says I, coldly, “I don’t know it, nor I never did. I know,” says

I, lookin’ keen at him, “that some are born almost fools, and keep on

so; and some,” says I, with a sort of modest, becomin’ look, “some are

very smart.”

He kep’ perfectly still for a minute, or mebby a minute and a ½. he

seemed to collect his strength agin, and broke out, in a loud, haughty

tone:

“The fault of our old civilization is that property is controlled by the

few. How can a man have the same love for his home, for his

hearth-stone, if he works the land of some great landed proprietor? In

case of war, now, foreign invasion, if each man owned property of his

own, if each man was a Mormon, in fact, he would be fighting for his own

interest; not for the interest of some great landed lord. He would be

fightin’ for his own hearth-stone; the sacred and holy hearth-stone.”

Says I, in reasonable axents: “I hain’t a word to aginst the sacredness

of the hearth-stun. I hain’t a word to say aginst the stun. But wouldn’t

it be apt to take off a little of the sacredness of the stun to have

thirty or forty wimmen a settin’ on it; each claimin’ it as her own

stun? Wouldn’t it have to be a pretty large stun, and a pretty firm one,

to stand the gusts and whirlwinds of temper that would be raised round

it? And to tell the plain truth, Elder Judas Wart, don’t you believe

that every man that owned such a stun, and 30 or 40 wimmen a settin’ on

it, and childern accordin’ly, don’t you believe that such a man instead

of discouragin’ war would do all in his power to welcome and encourage

it, so he could go forth into the battle-field, and find a little peace

and repose; that is, if he was a gentle, amiable man, who loved quiet?”

He never said one word in answer to this deep argument, he see it was

too deep and sound for him to grapple with; but he kep’ right on, and

says, thinkin’ mebby it would skair me, says he:

“Our order was founded by Thalos of Chalcedon.”

“Wall,” says I, “Mr. Thalos is a man that I hain’t no acquaintance

with,—I, nor Josiah; so I can’t form any opinion what sort of a

character he has got, or what for a man he would be to neighbor with.”

Says he, in a still prouder and haughtier way: “Plato believed in it.”

“How do you know?” says I. “He never told me that he did. If he had, I

should have argued sound with him.” And says I, lookin’ keen and

searchin’ at him:

“Did he tell you that he believed in it?” says I. “You can hear most

anything.”

“Why, no,” says he, “he didn’t tell me. He died twenty-two hundred years

ago.”

“Wall,” says I, coolly, “I thought you got it by hearsay. I didn’t

believe you got it from the old gentleman himself, or from any of his

relations. I remember Mr. Plato myself, now. I have heard Thomas J. read

about him frequent. A sort of a schoolmaster, I believe—a man that

travelled a good deal—and had considerable of a noble mean. If I

remember right, I have seen him myself on a bust. But as I was a sayin’,

s’posen Mr. Plato did believe in it. Don’t you s’pose that old gentleman

had his faults? He was a nice old man, and very smart. His writings are

truly beautiful and inspirin’.

“Why some of his dialogues are almost as keen and sensible and flowery

as them that have taken place between a certain woman that I won’t

mention the name of, and her pardner Josiah. Why, jest the fact that he

got sold once for talkin’ so plain in the cause of Right, endeared him

to me. And the fact that he didn’t fetch only twenty minnys (and we all

know what small fish they be) didn’t make him seem any the less valuable

to me. No, not at all so; it wouldn’t, if he hadn’t fetched more than

one little chub.

“Them views of his’en, them witherin’ idees aginst tyrany that he was

preachin’ to a tyrent, whales couldn’t lug, nor sharks. They was too big

and hefty to be bought or sold. But because Mr. Plato was all right in

some things, we mustn’t think he was in all. We are apt to think so, and

we are apt to think that that because a gulf of a thousand or two years

lay between us and a certain person, that it seperates them from all our

mortal errors and simplicities.

“But it hain’t so. That old man had other human weaknesses besides

writin’ poetry. I persume Miss Plato had to deal real severe with him

lots of times, jest as I do with Josiah. I dare persume to say she had

hard work to get along with him more’n half the time. And if he believed

in Mormonism, he believed in sunthin’ wicked and abominable, and if I

had been on intimate terms with him and her, I should have talked to him

like a sister, right before her, so she would feel all right about it,

and not get oneasy and jealous. I should have talked powerful to him,

and if he is the man I take him to be, I could have convinced him in ten

minutes, I know I could.”

[Illustration: Mr. and Mrs. Plato.]

“Wall,” says he, “bringin’ the history of our church down to Christ’s

day: He was a believer in it.”

I riz right up in a awful dignity and power, and I says, in a tone that

was fearful to hear, it was so burnin’ indignant:

“You say that agin in my house, if you dare.”

He dassent, my tone was such. He never said a word, but sot kinder

scroochin’ and meachin’ on his chair, and I went on, resumin’ my seat

agin, knowin’ as I did that my principles was so hefty I had better save

myself all the extra weariness that I could. Says I:

“You dare to say that He, the Deliverer of His people from sin and

evil—He, the Teacher of all purity, morality, honesty, and all Christian

virtues, who came bringin’ peace on earth, good will to men—He, who

taught that a man should have one wife, and be tender and constant to

her, even as He loved the Church and gave Himself for it—He, whose life

was so pure and self-denyin’ and holy that it brought the divine down to

the comprehension of the human—the love and purity of God manifest in

the flesh—how dare you tell me that He was a Mormon?”

He dassent say it agin. He dast as well die as to say it. I s’pose, in

fact I know, from my feelin’s which I was a feelin’, that my mean was

awfuler and more majesticker than it had been for years and years.

Says he, “As it were—” and then he stopped short off, seemin’ly to

collect his thoughts together, and then he kinder coughed, and begun

agin— “And so forth, and so on,” says he. He acted fairly afraid. And I

don’t wonder at it a mite. My looks must have been awful, and witherin’

in the extreme.

But finally he says, “We read of this sect in the Bible, anyway. The

Essenes was Mormons, or sort o’ Mormony,” says he, glancin’ at me and

then at the teakettle, in a sort of a fearful way.

But says I, coldly, “We read in the Bible of droves of swine that was

full of evil spirits; and we read in it of lunaticks, and barren

fig-trees, and Judas, and the—the David—callin’ him David, as a

Methodist and member of the meetin’-house, who does not want to say

Satan if she can possibly help it.

“Now,” says I, “you have brought up every commandment of God, and I have

preached on ’em, and you find every one of ’em is aginst you—the old

law, and the divine new law made manifest in Christ. Now,” says I,

coolly, leanin’ back in my chair, full of martyrdom and eloquence and

victory and everything, “bring on your next argument, bring it right

here, and let me lay holt of it, and vanquish it, and overthrow it”

“Wall,” says he, “I hold that the perfect faith that thousands have in

our religion and its founder, is one of the very strongest proofs of its

divine origin.”

“I don’t think so,” says I. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for,

but things don’t always turn out to be what you hoped they was. Now,

there is hash, for instance: and in order to enjoy hash, you have got to

have perfect confidence in it and its maker. But still you may have that

perfect confidence in it, and eat it in faith, believin’ it is good beef

and pork, while at the same time there may be ingredients in it that you

know not of, such as Skotch snuff, lily white, hairpins, and etcetery.

Hash is a great mystery, and often deceivin’ to the partaker, no matter

how strong his faith in it may be.

“And I might foller up this strikin’ simely of hash into other eloquent

metafors, such as pills, preachin’, wimmen’s complexion, and etcetery.

Some is good and true, and some hain’t good and true, but they all find

somebody to believe in ’em.

“This is a very deep subject, and solemn, if handled solemnly. I have

handled it only in a light parable way, showin’ that them that do

honestly believe in this Mormon doctrine, if there are any, are

partakin’ (unbeknown to them) of a hash that is full of abomination and

uncleanness, full of humiliation, sorrow, and degradation. Oh!” says I,

fallin’ back on the side of the subject nearest to my heart, “when I

think of the woes of my sect there in Utah, I feel feelin’s that never

can be told or sung. No, there never could be a tune made mournful and

solemn enough to sing ’em in.”

Says he, bold as brass, and not thinkin’ how he was a wobblin’ round in

his argument, “They enjoy it.”

Says I, firm as Bunker Hill, and as lofty, “They don’t enjoy it.”

Says he, “They do.”

Says I, “Elder Judas Wart, you tell me that agin, and I’ll know the

reason why.”

“Why,” says he, “they have petitioned Congress to not meddle with the

laws.”

Says I, “Can you tell me, Elder Judas Wart, can you tell me honestly

that there wasn’t man’s influence lookin’ right out of that petition?”

“No, mum, there wuzn’t. They done it of their own wills and acords.”

Says I, firmly, “I don’t believe it. And if I did, it would only show to

me the blightin’, corruptin’, influence of your belief.”

“Why,” says he, “some of our wimmen are the most active in our

church—full of religious zeal.”

Says I, coolly, “All kinds of zeal hain’t religious zeal.” Says I, “The

kind that makes a mother throw her child into the Ganges, and burn

herself with the dead body of her husband—you can call it religious

zeal, if you want to, but I call it fanatical frenzy.”

Says he, “They are perfectly happy in their belief.”

[Illustration: THE HINDOO MOTHER.]

Says I, “You needn’t never say that agin to me, thinkin’ I will believe

it, for before Mormonism was ever made, human nature was made, wimmen’s

hearts was made. And when you show me a man who would enjoy havin’ his

right hand cut off, or his eyes plucked out of his head, then I will

show you a woman, a womanly woman, who enjoys sharin’ the love of the

man she worships—enjoys seein’ it passin’ away from her, given to

another. Why, it is aginst nater, as much as it is for the sun to shine

at midnight. Blackness and despair and gloom is what rains when the sun

of love is gone down—it’s nater, and can’t be helped, no more than the

sun can, or the moon, or anything. No woman ever enjoyed this wretched

doctrine—that is, no good woman, no pure, tender-hearted, affectionate

woman.”

“Why,” says he, “I s’posed you thought all wimmen was perfect.”

“No, I don’t, sir, no sir. A woman can lose all that is sweet and lovely

in her nature—all the traits that make her so attractive, her

tenderness, her affection, her constancy, her modesty, her purity. She

can get very low down in the scale of being, lower, I think, than a man

can get. You know the further up any one is, the worse it hurts ’em to

fall.

“Now the angels that fell down from heaven, I s’pose it changed ’em, and

disfigured ’em, and spilte ’em as bad agin as it would to fall down

suller. Josiah fell a week ago last Wednesday night, with a hammer in

one hand, and a box of nails in the other. He was fixin’ up a cupboard

for me in the sullerway. He fell flat down and lay his hull length on

the suller bottom. Skairt me awfully. Skairt him, too, and sort o’

madded him, as it always will a man when they fall. I was gettin’ the

supper onto the table, and I started on the run for the suller door, and

says I, in agitated axents, and weak as a cat with my emotions:

“Did it hurt you, Josiah?”

Says he, sort o’ surly, “It didn’t do me any good.”

But he got up, and was all right the next day. I have used this poetical

simely, of its hurtin’ anybody worse to fall down from such a lofty

height than to fall down the sullerway, to show my meanin’ that a pure

woman’s nature is naturally very pure and lofty, and if she loses it she

falls very low indeed.

[Illustration: A FALLEN ANGEL.]

“Lose it she can—all that makes her sweet and lovely and lovable; but

while she keeps her woman’s heart and nature, her life, in your

religion, must be a constant martyrdom, and must be in its nature

demoralizin’ and debasin’, dealin’ the morals fearful and totterin’

blows.

“Why, don’t you s’pose I can take it to myself? Now, Home is the most

heavenly word we know. We hain’t learnt the heavenly alphabet yet, none

of us, and so can’t spell out the word Heaven as it ort to be spelt. We

are children that hain’t learnt God’s language yet. But Home in its true

meanin’ is sunthin’ as near heaven as we can translate and spell out

below. Home, when it is built as any home must be in order to stand, on

a true love, and in the fear of God, such a home is almost a heaven

below. I know it, for a certain home was built on these very foundations

upwards of 20 years ago, and not a j’int has moved, not a sleeper

decayed. Such a home means delight, rest, comfort. I know it, and my

Josiah knows it.

“But let Josiah Allen bring home one more wife, let alone a dozen or

fifteen of ’em—let him bring home one small wife besides Samantha, and I

should find that home meant sunthin’ very different from peace and rest

and happiness. And Josiah Allen would find out that it did, too. He

would, if I know my own heart, and am not deceived in myself. And when I

think of it, think of what my own sect are a sufferin’ right here in our

own land, it makes my blood bile up in my vains, and the tears jest

start to every eye in my head, and if I had two dozen eyes I could cry

and weep with every one of ’em, a thinkin’ how I should feel under them

circumstances—a thinkin’ of the desecration of all that is holiest, and

purest, and most blessed. Thinkin’ of the agony of remembrance, and

regret, and despair that would sweep over me—remembrance of the old,

happy days when I was blest with the love that had gone from me—regret

for all the happy days, happy words of love and tenderness, happy hours

of confidence and affection—mine once, gone forever. Despair, utter,

black despair that all was past.

“And besides this sufferin’, think of the ravages it would make in my

morals, as well as his’en. I know jest how much my morals can stand, I

know to a inch jest how much strain I can put onto ’em. And I know, jest

as well as I know my name was once Smith, that another wife would make

’em totter. And, to be perfectly plain and truthful, I know that wife

would make ’em fall perfectly flat down, and break ’em all into pieces,

and ruin ’em. I shouldn’t have a single moral left sound and hull, and I

know it. I should be ugly.”

Says I, with a added eloquence and bitterness of tone, as my mind roved

back onto a certain widder:

“To have another woman come a snoopin’ into my house and my pardner’s

heart—why, language hain’t made mean enough to tell what my meanness

would be under the circumstances. And her morals, too—why, don’t you

s’pose her morals would be flat as a pancake? Yea, verily. And where

would my Josiah’s morals be? He wouldn’t have none, not a moral, nor a

vestige of any. And there would be three likely persons spilte,

entirely, and eternally spilte. And do you s’pose we three persons are

so different from any other three persons? No, human nature (man human

nature, and woman human nature) is considerable the same all over the

world.”

And agin as that fearful scene presented itself to my imagination, of

another woman enterin’ into my Josiah’s heart, I sithed powerful, and

went on with renewed eloquence. I was fearfully eloquent, and smart as I

could be; deep.

Says I, “One man’s heart hain’t of much account, viewed in a permiscus

way, but to the woman that loves him it’s a good deal, it is all. Wimmen

are foolish about some things, and this is one of ’em. Her love is to

her the very breath she breathes—it is the best part of her. Men don’t

feel this way as a general thing (my Josiah duz, but he is a shinin’

exception). But as a general thing love is to them a sort of a

side-show, a tolerable good entertainment, but it hain’t the hull

circus.

“No, a man’s heart hain’t none too large for one woman to dwell in,

especially if she is hefty, not at all too large, quite the reverse. And

I can tell you, Elder Judas Wart, and tell it firm and solemn, that when

it comes to dividin’ up that heart that was a tight fit in the first

place, and lettin’ one woman after another come a troopin’ in, a pushin’

the lawful owner out of the way, jammin’ her round, bruisin’ of her, and

in the end crowdin’ her completely out in the cold, I say, may God pity

such a woman, for human pity can’t be made pitiful enough to reach her.”

Says Elder Judas Wart, “Men that hain’t Mormons sometimes has more than

one woman inside of their hearts.”

“I know it,” says I. “But the law gets right onto such a man and stamps

onto him. And public sentiment sets down on him hard. And I can tell you

that when the hull community and law and religion and everything are all

a settin’ on a man, and settin’ heavy, that man finds it is a pretty

tuckerin’ business; he gets sick of it, and is glad to do better and be

let up. But you make the iniquity lawful. You make law and religion and

public sentiment all get under such a man, and boost him up—make out

that the more crimes a man commits, the more wives he has, the higher

place he will have in heaven. Why,” says I, “when I think it over, it

hain’t no wonder to me that the Mormon leaders, before they let loose

this shameful doctrine and putrifyin’ sin of polygamy, they settled down

by a salt lake. I should have thought they would have needed salt. But

salt never was made salt enough to save ’em, and they’ll find out so.”

He quailed a very little, or, that is, it looked like quail, though it

might have been meachin’ness strong and severe. Powerful meach looks

some like quail, at a first look. But he recovered himself in half a

moment, and went on, in the haughtiest, impudentest tone he had used as

yet:

“Wall, whether salt has helped us, or whatever did, we have

flourished—nobody can deny that. We have made the desert blossom like a

rose. We are industrious, stiddy, prudent, equinomical, hard-working.

You can’t deny the good we have done in that way. We are full of good

qualities, brim full of ’em.”

Says I, coldly, almost frigidly, “No amount of white-wash can cover up a

whited sepulker so that my specks can’t see through it, and see the

sepulker. Good store clothes can’t cover up a bad soul worth a cent. A

blue satin vest, or even a pink velvet one, buttoned up over a bad

heart, can’t make that heart none the purer. The vest might look well,

and probable would. But when you know the bad heart beats under it, vile

and wicked beats, why, that vest don’t seem no better to you, nor seem

to set the man off no more, than if it was calico, with leather buttons.

Material good can never make up for moral degradation.

“And your good qualities only make your sinful practices more dangerous,

more successful in luring souls to destruction. It is like wreathin’ a

sword with flowers, for folks to grip holt of and get their hands cut

off (morally). It is like coverin’ a bottomless gulf with blossoming

boughs, for folks to walk off on, and break their necks (as it were).”

“Wall,” says he proudly, “we have flourished, and are flourishin’ and

are goin’ to still more. We are goin’ to extend our doctrine of polygamy

further and further. We are goin’ to carry it into Arizona and all the

other new territories—”

I riz right up, I was so agitated, and says I: “You shan’t carry it, not

one step.”

Says he, firmly: “We will!”

Says I: “I tell you agin that you shan’t; and if you do I’ll know the

reason why. I tell you that you shall drop it right there, by that salt

lake, and let it lay there. It needs brine if anything ever did. You

shan’t make no move to carry it a step further. You shall not carry this

godless crime, a disgrace to religion and civilization, into new

territories. The green turf of them lands is too fresh and bright to be

blood-stained by the feet of weepin’ wimmen, bearin’ this heaviest of

crosses that was ever tackled by ’em. You shall not darken the sunny

skies and pollute the sweet air of new lands with this moral

pestilence.”

Says he: “We will!”

Says I, firmly and sternly: “You won’t; and when I say you won’t, I mean

it.”

“Wall,” says he, with a proud mean, “how are you goin’ to help

yourself?”

Says I, in loud, excited axents: “If I can’t stop you myself, I know who

can, and I will go to Uncle Sam myself. I’ll have a plain talk with that

good old man. I’ll jest put it into his head what you are a tryin’ to

do, and I’ll hunch him up, and make him stop you.”

Says he: “Don’t you s’pose sin and sorrow will ever be carried into the

territories only as they are carried in by Mormons?”

[Illustration: THE OLD MAN.]

“Yes, I do,” says I. “I s’pose that whenever humanity is sot down under

the light of the Eternal, it will forevermore, as it has forever in the

past, be followed by two shadows, the joyful and the sorrowful. Human

nature can’t help itself; the Eternal Soul above will shine on, and the

human nature below will throw its shadows—the dark one and the light

one, first one and then the other, unbeknown to us, followin’ us all the

time, and will follow us till the darkness of the human is all lost in

the light of the divine. There hain’t no territories been discovered

distant enough for the human soul to escape from itself—from the shadow

of sorrow. I hain’t said there wuz. Neither have I said it could escape

from sin. I s’pose the old man in human nature won’t never be wholly

drove out of it this side of Eternity; and I s’pose wherever that old

man is there will be caperin’ and cuttin’ up and actin’. But, as I have

said more’n forty times, you ort to whip that old man, make him behave

himself as well as you possibly can, be awful severe with him, and keep

him under. But you don’t try to. You jest pet that old man, and humor

him, and encourage him in his caperin’s. You try to make sin and cuttin’

up and actin’ respectable; protect it by the law.

“Why, sin is what all good men and wimmen must fight aginst; educate

public sentiment aginst it; make it obnoxious; or what will become of

everybody and the world if they don’t? Why, they will be ondone, they

and the hull world, if they don’t. I will,” says I firmly, “I will see

Uncle Sam about it at once.”

“Oh,” says he, in a impudent, pert tone, “Uncle Sam won’t do nothin’ to

hinder us. He has always protected us. He has done well by us. He has

let us do about as we was a mind to.”

“I know it,” says I, “but I’ll tell you,” says I, ontyin’ my

apron-strings in a absent-minded sort of a mechanicle way, and then

tyin’ ’em up agin in the same way (or about the same), “I’ll tell you

what,” says I, for I was fairly determined to find some excuse for

Samuel, if I possibly could, “the fact is, that old man hain’t been well

for quite a number of years. He has seemed to be sort o’ runnin’ down;

his constitution hain’t seemed right to me. And he has had miserable

doctors; or that is, he has got help in some directions, good help, and

in others he has had the poorest kind of physic. But,” says I, firmly,

“that old man means well; there hain’t a well-meanin’er, conscientiouser

old creeter on the face of the earth than that old man is.”

“Yes,” says he, “he has done well by us. We hain’t no fault to find with

him.”

Oh! how that madded me. But I was determined to find all the excuses for

Samuel that I could (though I was at my wit’s end, or pretty nigh there,

to find ’em, and I can’t deny it). Says I,

[Illustration: THE CALL TO DUTY.]

“That old man has been more than half crazy for a number of years back.

What with fightin’ and bloodshed right in his own family, amongst his

own childern—and the injins screechin’ and warhoopin’ round his

frontiers, and the Chinamen a cuttin’ up behind his back, and his

neighbors a fightin’ amongst themselves, and jabbin’ at him every chance

they got; and congressmen and everybody a stealin’ everything they

could, right under his nose, and cuttin’ up and actin’. It is a wonder

to me that the old man hain’t gin up long ago, and died off. I guess

lots of folks thought, a number of years ago, that he wouldn’t live a

year. And it wasn’t nothin’ but his goodness and solid principles that

kep’ him up, and everybody knows it. He’s had enough to bear to kill a

ox.”

“We ort to speak well of him,” says he agin. “He has done first-rate by

us. He has seemed to like us.”

“Shet up!” says I. “I won’t hear another word from you aginst that old

man. Your doin’s has worried Samuel almost to death—I know it has. I

wouldn’t be afraid to bet (if I believed in bettin’) that it has wore on

him more than all the work he has done for years.

“He wants to do right, that old Uncle does. He would be jest as glad to

get rid of all of you,—Mormons, Oneida Communities, Free Lovers, and the

hull caboodle of you,—as our old mare would be glad to get rid of flies

in fly-time. But the thing of it is, with Samuel and the mare, how to go

to work to do it. He can’t see to everything without help. I know what

he needs. He needs a good, strong friend to help him. He wants to have

somebody tell him the plain truth, to get his dander completely up; and

then he wants to have that same female stand right by him, with a

cast-iron determination, and hand him bullets and cartridges, while he

aims his old revolutionary musket, and shoots down iniquities on every

side of him.

“Why, where would Josiah Allen be, if it wuzn’t for me? He would come to

nothin’, morals and all, if it wuzn’t for me to hunch him up. And Samuel

has as much agin to worry him as Josiah has.

“Why, there is no tellin’ how many things that old man has to plague him

and torment the very life out of him. Little things, too, some of ’em,

but how uncommon little things will worry anybody, ’specially in the

night. Curious things, too, some of ’em, that has worried me most to

death way off here in Jonesville, and what feelin’s I should have felt

to have had it a goin’ on right under my nose, as Samuel did.

“Now, when they made that new silver dollar, right there in his house I

s’pose they done it, or in his wood-shed or barn—anyway, it was right

where he could see it a goin’ on, and worry over it—you know they put

onto it, ‘In God we trust.’ And it has fairly hanted me to find out what

the government really meant by it—whether they meant that God wouldn’t

let ’em get found out in their cheatin’ seven cents on every dollar, or

trusted He would let ’em cheat fourteen cents on the next ones they

made.

[Illustration: THE CALL TO DUTY.]

“Why, it has worried me awfully, and how Samuel must have felt about it.

And that is only one little thing.

“There is the trade dollars we made on purpose to cheat China with, and

sent over in the same ship we sent missionaries to convert ’em. I

persume to say that old man has laid awake nights a worryin’ over what

the heathens would think about it—about our sendin’ religion and robbery

over to ’em in the same ship—about our sendin’ religious tracts,

exhortin’ ’em to be honest, or they would certainly go to that bad place

which I do not, as a Methodist, wish to speak of, and send these dollars

to cheat ’em with in the same box—sendin’ eloquent and heartrendin’

tracts provin’ out to ’em that no drunkard can possibly go to Heaven,

packed side by side with barrels of whiskey to teach ’em how to get

drunk, so they will be sure not to go there. I know it has wore on him,

so afraid that the heathens would be perfectly disgusted with a religion

taught by professed followers of Him who come down to earth bearing

peace, good-will to men, and then, after 1800 years of professed loyalty

to Him, and His pure and exalted teachings, bore to their shores such

fruit as cheating, falsehood, and drunkenness.

[Illustration: HELPS FOR THE HEATHEN.]

“It has hanted Samuel, I know it has. Hantin’ me as it has, it must have

hanted him fur worse. He has had severe trials, that old gentleman has,

and he has needed somebody to hunch him up, and lock arms with him, and

draw him along on the path of Right. And I tell you when I talk with him

I shan’t spare no pains with him. I shall use my eloquent tone freely. I

shan’t be savin’ of gestures or wind. I shall use sharp reason, and, if

necessary, irony and sarcasm. And I shall ask him (usin’ a ironicle

tone, if necessary) how he thinks it looks in the eyes of the other

nations to see him, who ort to be a model for ’em all to foller, allow

such iniquity as Mormonism to flourish in his borders. To let a regular

organized band of banditty murder and plunder and commit all sorts of

abominations right under his honest old nose. And how it must look to

them foreign nations to see such a good, moral old gentleman as he is

lift his venerable old eyewinker and wink at such crime and sin. How

insignificant and humiliatin’ it must look to ’em to see him allow a man

in Congress to make laws that will imprison a man for havin’ two wives

when the same man has got four of ’em, and is lookin’ round hungry for

more.

“And I shall hunch him up sharp about sellin’ licenses to do wrong for

money—licenses to make drunkards, and unfit men for earth or

heaven—licenses to commit other crimes that are worse—sellin’

indulgences to sin as truly as ever Mr. Pope did.

“I don’t s’pose, in fact, I know, that Sam hain’t never thought it over,

and took a solemn, realizin’ sense of how bad he was a cuttin’ up

(entirely unbeknown to him). And, if necessary, to convince him and make

him see his situation, I shall poke fun at him (in a jokin’ way, so’s

not to get him mad). And I shall ask him if he thinks it is any nobler

for him to set up in his high chair at Washington and sell indulgences

to sin, than it was in Mr. Pope to set up in his high chair in Vatican

village and sell ’em.

“And I shall skare him mebby, that is, if I have to, and ask him in a

impressive, skareful tone that if he can’t be broke in any other way, if

he don’t think he ort to be brought down to a diet of Worms.

“It will go aginst my feelin’s to skare the excellent old gentleman. But

I shall feel it to be my duty to not spare no pains. But at the same

time I shall be very clever to him. I shall resk it. I don’t believe he

will get mad at me. He knows my feelin’s for him too well. He knows

there hain’t a old man on the face of the earth I love so devotedly, now

father Smith is dead, and father Allen, and all the other old male

relatives on my side, and on his’en. I’ll bet a cent I can convince him

where he is in the wrong on’t.”

Here I paused for a moment for wind, for truly I was almost completely

exhausted. But I was so full and runnin’ over with emotions that I

couldn’t stop, wind or no wind. And I went on:

“He hain’t realized, and he won’t, till I go right there and hunch him

up about it, how it looks for him to talk eloquent about the sanctity of

home. How the household, the Christian home, is the safeguard, the

anchor of church and state, and then make his words seem emptier and

hollower than a drum, or a hogsit, by allowin’ this sin of Mormonism to

undermind and beat down the walls of home.”

And then (this theme always did make me talk beautiful), as I thought of

home and Josiah, and the fearful dangers that had threatened ’em both,

why, as I thought of this, I begun to feel eloquenter far than I had

felt durin’ the hull interview, and I don’t know as the feelin’s I felt

then had been gone ahead of by me in five years. Why, I branched out

perfectly beautiful, and very deep, and says I:

“Home! The Christian home! The mightiest power on earth for good. Each

home seperate and perfect in itself, like the little crystal drops of

water, each one on ’em round and complete and all floatin’ on together,

unbeknown to them, makin’ a mighty ocian floatin’ right into that serene

bay into which all our hopes and life dreams empty. That soundless sea

that floats human souls right up to the eternal city.

“The love of parents, wives, and children, like golden rings, bindin’

the hearts to the happy hearth-stone, and then widenin’ out in other

golden rings, bindin’ them hearth-stones to loyalty and patriotism, love

of country, love of law and order, and love of Heaven, why, them gold

rings within rings, they all make a chain that can’t be broke down; they

twist all together into a rope that binds this crazy old world to the

throne of God.

“And,” says I, lookin’ at Elder Judas Wart, with a arrow in each eye (as

it were): “This most wholesome restraint, this strongest of ropes that

is stretched firm and solid between safety and old Error, you are tryin’

to break down. But you’ll find you can’t do it. No sir! You may all get

onto it,—the whole caboodle of you, Mormons, Oneida Communities, Free

Lovers, the hull set on you,—and you’ll find it is a rope you can’t

break! You’ll find that the most you can do is to teter and swing on it,

and stretch it out a little ways, mebby. You can’t break it! No sir!

Uncle Samuel (after I have hunched him up) will hold one end of it firm

and strong, and Principle and Public Sentiment the other end of it; and

if necessary, if danger is at hand, she that was Samantha Smith will lay

holt of it, too; and I’d love to see any shacks, or set of shacks, a

gettin’ it out of our hands then.”

Oh, how eloquent I had been. But he wuzn’t convinced. I don’t s’pose

anybody would hardly believe that a man could listen to such talk, and

not be proselyted and converted. But he wuzn’t. After all my outlay and

expenditure of eloquence and wind and everything, he wuzn’t convinced a

mite. And after he had got his hat all on to go, he jest stood there in

front of me, with his hands in his pockets, and says he, bold as brass,

and as impudent as brass ever was:

“I am a goin’, mum, and I don’t never expect to see you agin. I never

shall see you in the kingdom.”

“I am afraid you won’t,” says I, givin’ him a awful keen look, but

pityin’. “I am afraid if you don’t turn right square round, and stop

actin’, you won’t be there.”

“I shall be there,” says he, “but you won’t.”

Says I, “How do you know I won’t?”

Says he, “Because I do know it.”

Says I, with dignity, “You don’t know it.”

“Why,” says he, comin’ out plain with his biggest and heftiest argument,

the main pillow in the Mormon church, “a woman can’t be saved unless

some man saves ’em, some Mormon. That is one reason,” says he, “why I

would have bore my cross, and married you; obtained an entrance for you

in the heavenly kingdom. But now it is too late. I won’t save you.”

[Illustration: JOSIAH ENDS THE ARGUMENT.]

“You won’t save me?” says I, lookin’ keen at him, as he stood there

before me, with his red bloated face, a face that had that low,

disipated, animal expression lookin’ out so plain under the

sanctimonious, hypocritical look he had tried to cover it with. “You

won’t save me! Won’t take me into the heavenly kingdom! Wall, I rather

think you won’t.”

I was so engaged and bound up in my indignant emotions and principles

and everything that I didn’t see what was goin’ on behind me. But there

was a fearful scene ensuin’ and goin’ on there. A awful scene of

vengeance and just retribution. For my faithful pardner, maddened by the

terrible insult to his Samantha, jest lifted himself up on one elbo, his

righteous anger liftin’ him up for the moment above stitches and all

other earthly infirmities, and he threw that broom-handle at Elder Judas

Wart with terrific force, and aimed it so perfect that it hit him right

on the nap of the neck. It was a fearful blow. I s’pose it come jest as

near breakin’ his neck as anything ever did and miss.

And it skairt him fearfully, too; for Josiah had been so still for a

spell that he thought he was asleep. And it had come onto him as swift

and severe as a judgment right out of the heavens. (Not that I would

wish to be understood that broom-handles are judgments, and should be

handled as such; not as a general thing. I am speakin’ in a poetical

way, and would wish to be took poetically.)

But oh! how fearful Elder Judas Wart looked. It squshed him right down

for a minute where he ort to be squshed—right onto his knees. He

couldn’t get up for a number of minutes, bein’ stunted and wild with the

blow and the fearful horrow of his skare. And oh! how Josiah Allen did

converse with him, as he knelt there helpless before him; hollered! it

wasn’t conversation, it was hollerin’; loud, wild holler! almost a

beller!

He ordered him out of the house, and threatened him with instant and

immediate execution on the galluses. Though he knew we hadn’t no gallus

built, and no timber suitable to build one; and he disabled with a

stitch, and nobody but me to do anything. But he vowed, in that loud,

skareful axent, that he would hang him in five minutes’ time; and chop

his head off with a broad-axe; and gulotine him; and saw his neck off

with our old cross-cut saw; and shoot him down like a dog; and burn him

to the stake; and scalp him.

Why, Josiah ort to have known that one of these punishments was enough

for any man to bear, and more than any man could stand up under. And he

knew we hadn’t the conveniences by us for half of these punishments. But

he didn’t think of that. He didn’t think of nothin’, nor nobody, only

jest anger and vengeance. He was more delerious and wild in his

conversation and mean than I had ever known him to be during our entire

aquaintenship. It was a fearful scene. It was harrowin’ to me to see it

go on. And Elder Judas Wart, as quick as he could get up,—started off on

a quick run, almost a canter. I s’pose, I have heerd sense, and then I

could see from his looks and actions, that a skairter man never lived.

And well he might be. I don’t blame him for it a mite. I blame him for

lots of things, but not for that; for the words and mean of Josiah was

enough to apaul a iron man, or a mule.

[Illustration: DEPARTURE OF THE ELDER.]

But as I told Josiah afterwards, after the crazy delerium begun to

disperse off of his mean, says I, “Why is it any more of a insult to me

than it is to them other poor wimmen who have to endure it?” Says I,

“You feel awfully to have that doctrine jest throwed at your pardner, as

you may say. And look at the thousands of wimmen that have to submit to

the humiliation and degredation of this belief, live in it, and die in

it.”

“Wall,” says he, chucklin’, “I jest choked old Wart off of it pretty

sudden. I brought him down onto his knees pretty suple. He won’t talk

about savin’ wimmen’s souls agin right away. He won’t till his neck gets

well, anyway.” And he chuckled agin.

I don’t believe in fightin’, and am the last woman to encourage it; but

I could not help sayin’, in fervid axents:

“Oh! if Uncle Samuel, that dear, blunderin’, noble old man, would only

hit old Polygamy jest another such a blow, jest as sudden and

unexpected, and bring him down on his polluted old knees in front of the

nation. Oh! what a day that would be for America and Samantha. What

feelin’s we should feel, both on us.”

“Yes,” says Josiah, “I wish it could be did.” In the case of Josiah

Allen my powerful talk (aided by previous and more late occurrences) had

fell on good ground, I knew. The seed was springin’ up strong. I knew it

was by the way he threw that broom-handle, and I knew also by his looks

and axents.

He was perfectly and entirely convinced of the awfulness and vile

horrors of Mormonism. I knew he was. He looked so good and sort o’ noble

at me. And his tone was so sweet and kind of affectin’, somehow, as he

added, in gentle and plaintive axents:

“I believe, Samantha, I could relish a little briled steak and some

mashed-up potatoes.”

Says I, “So could I, and I will get dinner to once.” And I did.

[Illustration]