And poor Mary one fine day
Packed her traps and tript away
Down to Fresco with Fred Bates,
A young player from the States:
While Sarah,'twas the wisest plan,
Pick'd herself a single man--
A young joiner fresh come down
Out of Texas to the town--
And he took her with her baby,
And they're doing well as maybe.'"
Here the Saint with quiet smile,
Sipping at his grog the while,
Paused as if his tale was o'er,
Held his tongue and said no more.
"Good," I said, "but have you done?
You have spoke of all save one--
All your Widows, so bereft,
Are most comfortably left,
But of one alone you said
Nothing. Is the lady _dead?"
Then the good man's features broke
Into brightness as I spoke,
And with loud guffaw cried he,
"What, Tabitha? Dead! Not she.
All alone and doing splendid--
Jest you guess, now, how she's ended!
Give it up? This very week
I heard she's at Oneida Creek,
All alone and doing hearty,
Down with Brother Noyes's party.
Tried the Shakers first, they say,
Tired of them and went away,
Testing with a deal of bother
This community and t'other,
Till she to Oneida flitted,
And with trouble got admitted.
Bless you, she's a shining lamp,
Tho' I used her like a scamp,
And she's great in exposition
Of the Free Love folk's condition,
Vowing, tho' she found it late,
Tis the only happy state....
"As for me," added the speaker,
"I'm lower in the scale, and weaker;
Polygamy's beyond my merits,
Shakerism wears the spirits,
And as for Free Love, why you see
(Here the Saint wink'd wickedly)
With my whim it might have hung
Once, when I was spry and young;
But poor Annie's love alone
Keeps my mind in proper tone,
And tho' my spirit mayn't be strong,
I'm lively--as the day is long."
As he spoke with half a yawn,
Half a smile, I saw the dawn
Creeping faint into the gloom
Of the quickly-chilling room.
On the hearth the wood-log lay,
With one last expiring ray;
Draining off his glass of grog,
Clewson rose and kick'd the log;
As it crumbled into ashes,
Watched the last expiring flashes,
Gave another yawn and said,
"Well! I guess it's time for bed!"
THE END.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.
St. Abe and his Seven Wives was written in 1870, at a time when all the
Cockney bastions of criticism were swarming with sharp-shooters on
the look-out for "the d------d Scotchman" who had dared to denounce
Logrolling. It was published anonymously, and simultaneously _The Drama
of Kings_ appeared with the author's name. The _Drama_ was torn to
shreds in every newspaper; the Satire, because no one suspected who had
written it, was at once hailed as a masterpiece. Even the _Athenaum_
cried "all hail" to the illustrious Unknown. The _Pall Mall Gazette_
avowed in one breath that Robert Buchanan was utterly devoid of dramatic
power, while the author of _St. Abe_ was a man of dramatic genius. The
secret was well kept, and the bewildered Cocknies did not cease braying
their hosannahs even when another anonymous work, _White Rose and
Red_, was issued by the same publisher. _St. Abe_ went through numerous
editions in a very short space of time.
To one familiar with the process of book-reviewing, and aware of the
curious futility of even honest literary judgments, there is nothing
extraordinary in the facts which I have just stated. Printed cackle
about books will always be about as valuable as spoken cackle about
them, and the history of literature is one long record of the march of
genius through regions of mountainous stupidity. But there were some
points about the treatment of _St. Abe_ which are worth noting,
as illustrating the way in which reviewing "is done" for leading
newspapers. Example. The publisher sent out "early sheets" to the
great dailies, several of which printed eulogistic reviews. The _Daily
Telegraph_, however, was cautious. After receiving the sheets, the
acting or sub-editor sent a message round to the publisher saying that
a cordial review had been written and was in type, but that "the
Chief" wanted to be assured, before committing himself to such an
advertisement, about the authorship of the work. "_Is_ it by _Lowell?_"
queried the jack-in-office; "only inform us in confidence, and the
review shall appear." Mr. Strahan either did not reply, or refused to
answer the question. Result--the cordial review never appeared at all!
The general impression, however, was that the poem was written by James
Russell Lowell. One or two kind critics suggested Bret Harte, but these
were in a minority. No one suspected for one moment that the work was
written by a Scotchman who, up to that date, had never even visited
America. The _Spectator_ (A Daniel come to judgment!) devoted a long
leading article to proving that humour of this particular kind could
have been produced only in the Far West, while a leading magazine
bewailed the fact that we had no such humourists in England, since "with
Thackeray our last writer of humour left us."
In America itself, the success of the book was less remarkable, and the
explanation was given to me in a letter from a publisher in the States,
who asserted that public feeling against the Mormons was so fierce and
bitter that even a joke at their expense could not be appreciated. "The
very subject of Mormondom," wrote my friend, "is regarded as indecent,
unsavoury, and offensive." In spite of all, the satire was appreciated,
even in America.
Already, however, its subject has ceased to be contemporary and become
historical. Mormonism, as I depicted it, is as dead as Slavery, for the
Yankee--as I foreshadowed he would do, in this very book--has put down
Polygamy. Future generations, therefore, may turn to this book as they
will turn to _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, for a record of a system which once
flourished, and which, when all is said and done, did quite as much good
as harm. I confess, indeed, that I am sorry for the Mormons; for I think
that they are more sinned against than sinning. Polygamy is abolished in
America, but a far fouler evil, Prostitution, flourishes, in both public
and private life. The Mormons crushed this evil and obliterated it
altogether, and if they substituted Polygamy, they only did openly and
politically what is done, and must be done, clandestinely, in every
country, under the present conditions of our civilisation.
The present is the first cheap edition of the book, and the first which
bears the author's name on the title page. It will be followed by a
cheap edition of _White Rose and Red_. I shall be quite prepared to hear
now, on the authority of the newspapers, that the eulogy given to _St.
Abe_ on its first appearance was all a mistake, and that the writer
possesses no humour whatsoever. I was informed, indeed, the other day,
by a critic in the _Daily News_, that most of my aberrations proceeded
from "a fatal want of humour." The critic was reviewing the _Devil's
Case_, and his suggestion was, I presume, that I ought to have perceived
the joke of the Nonconformist Conscience and latterday Christianity. I
thought that I had done so, but it appears that I had not been funny at
all, or not funny enough. But my real misfortune was, that my name was
printed on the title page of the work then under review.
I cannot conclude this bibliographical note without a word concerning
the remarkable artist who furnished _St. Abe and his Seven Wives_ with
its original frontispiece. The genius of the late A. B. Houghton is
at last receiving some kind of tardy recognition, chiefly through the
efforts of Mr. Pennell, whose criticisms on art have done so much to
free the air of lingering folly and superstition. When I sought out Mr.
Houghton, and persuaded him to put pencil to paper on my behalf, he was
in the midst of his life-long struggle against the powers of darkness.
He died not long afterwards, prematurely worn out with the hopeless
fight. One of the last of the true Bohemians, a man of undoubted
genius, he never learned the trick of wearing fine linen and touting
for popularity; but those who value good work hold him in grateful
remembrance, and I am proud to think that so great a master in black and
white honoured me by associating himself with a book of mine.
Robert Buchanan.
ORIGINALLY PREFACED TO SAINT ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.
TESTIMONIES OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.
I. From P----------t G------t, U.S.
Smart. Polygamy is Greek for Secesh. Guess Brigham will have to make
tracks.
II. From R. W. E------n, Boston, U.S.
Adequate expression is rare. I had fancied the oracles were dumb, and
had returned with a sigh to the enervating society of my friends in
Boston, when your book reached me. To think of it! In this very epoch,
at this very day, poetry has been secreting itself silently and surely,
and suddenly the whole ocean of human thought is illumined by the
accumulated phosphoresence of a subtle and startling poetic life.. . .
Your work is the story of Polygamy written in colossal cipher the study
of all forthcoming ages. Triflers will call you a caricaturist, empty
solemnities will deem you a jester. Fools! who miss the pathetic
symbolism of Falstaff, and deem the Rabelaisan epos fit food for
mirth.... I read it from first page to last with solemn thoughts too
deep for tears. I class you already with the creators, with Shakespere,
Dante, Whitman, Ellery Channing, and myself.
III. From W------t W----------n, Washington, U.S.
I
Our own feuillage;
A leaf from the sweating branches of these States;
A fallen symbol, I guess, vegetable, living, human;
A heart-beat from the hairy breast of a man.
2
The Salon contents me not;
The fine feathers of New England damsels content me not;
The ways of snobs, the falsettos of the primo tenore, the legs
of Lydia Thomson's troupe of blondes, content me not;
Nor tea-drinking, nor the twaddle of Mr. Secretary Harlan,
nor the loafers of the hotel bar, nor Sham, nor Long-
fellow's Village Blacksmith.
3
But the Prairies content me;
And the Red Indian dragging along his squaw by the scruff of
the neck;
And the bones of mules and adventurous persons in Bitter
Creek;
And the oaths of pioneers, and the ways of the unwashed,
large, undulating, majestic, virile, strong of scent, all
these content me.
4
Utah contents me;
The City by the margin of the great Salt Lake contents me;
And to have many wives contents me;
Blessed is he who has a hundred wives, and peoples the
solitudes of these States.
5
Great is Brigham;
Great is polygamy, great is monogamy, great is polyandry,
great is license, great is right, and great is wrong;
And I say again that wrong is every whit as good as right, and
not one jot better;
And I say further there is no such thing as wrong, nor any
such thing as right, and that neither are accountable, and
both exist only by allowance.
6
O I am wonderful;
And the world, and the sea, and joy and sorrow, and sense
and nonsense, all content me;
And this book contents me, with its feuillage from the City of
many wives.
IV. From Elder F------k E----------s, of Mt. L------n, U.S.
An amusing attempt to show that polygamy is a social failure. None can
peruse it without perceiving at once that the author secretly inclines
to the ascetic tenets of Shakerism.
V. From Brother T. H. N------s, O----------a C--------k.
After perusing this subtle study, who can doubt that Free Love is the
natural human condition? The utter selfishness of the wretched
monogamist-hero repels and sickens us; nor can we look with anything but
disgust on the obtusity of the heroine, in whom the author vainly tries
to awaken interest. It is quite clear that the reconstruction of Utah on
O--------a C------k principles would yet save the State from the crash
which is impending.
VI. From E---------a F-------n H-------m, of S----------n Island.
If _Polygamy_ is to continue, then, I say, let _Polyandry_ flourish!
Woman is the sublimer Being, the subtler Type, the more delicate
Mechanism, and, strictly speaking, _needs_ many pendants of the
inferior or masculine Type to fulfil her mission in perfect comfort. Shall
Brigham Young, a mere Man, have sixteen wives; and shall one wretched
piece of humanity content _me_, that supreme Fact, _a perfect Woman_,
highest and truest of beings under God? No; if these things be
tolerated, I claim for each Woman, in the name of Light and Law, twenty
ministering attendants of the lower race; and the day is near when, if
this boon, or any other boon we like to ask, be denied us, it will be
_taken with a strong hand!_
VII. From T------s C--------e, Esq., Chelsea, England.
The titanic humour of the Conception does not blind me to the radical
falseness of the Teaching, wherein, as I shall show you presently, you
somewhat resemble the miserable Homunculi of our I own literary Wagners;
for, if I rightly conceive, you would tacitly and by inference urge that
it is expressly part of the Divine Thought that the _Ewigweibliche_, or
Woman-Soul, should be _happy_. Now Woman's _mundane_ unhappiness, as I
construe, comes of her inadequacy; it is the stirring within her of
the Infinite against the Finite, a struggle of the spark upward, of the
lower to the higher Symbol. Will Woman's Rights Agitators, and Monogamy,
and Political Tomfoolery, do what Millinery has failed to do, and waken
one Female to the sense of divine Function? It is not _happiness_ I
solicit for the Woman-Soul, but _Identity_; and the prerogative of
Identity is great work, Adequacy, pre-eminent fulfilment of the
Function; woman, in this country of rags and shams, being buried quick
under masses of Sophistication and Upholstery, oblivious of her divine
duty to increase the population and train the young masculine Idea
starward. I do not care if the wives of Deseret are pale, or faint, or
uncultured, or unhappy; it is enough for me to know that they have a
numerous progeny, and believe in Deity or the Divine Essence; and I will
not conclude this letter without recording my conviction that yonder
man, Brigham Young by name, is perhaps the clearest Intellect now
brooding on this planet; that Friedrich was royaller but not greater,
and that Bismarck is no more than his equal; and that he, this American,
few in words, mark you, but great in deeds, has decided a more
stupendous Question than ever puzzled the strength of either of those
others,--the Question of the Sphere and Function in modern life of the
ever-agitating _Feminine Principle_. If, furthermore, as I have ever
held, the test of clearness of intellect and greatness of soul be
_Success_, at any price and under any circumstances, none but a
transcendental Windbag or a pedantic Baccalaureus will doubt my
assertion that Young is a stupendous intellectual, ethical, and
political Force--a Master-Spirit--a Colossal Being, a moral Architect of
sublime cunning--as such to be reverenced by every right-thinking _Man_
under the Sun.
VIII. From J------n R------n, Esq., London.
I am not generally appreciated in my own country, because I frequently
change my views about religion, art, architecture, poetry, and things in
general. Most of my early writings are twaddle, but my present opinions
are all valuable. I think this poem, with its nervous Saxon Diction, its
subtle humour, its tender pathos and piteousness, the noblest specimen
of narrative verse of modern times; and, indeed, I know not where to
look, out of the pages of Chaucer, for an equally successful blending
of human laughter and ethereal mystery. At the same time, the writer
scarcely does justice to the subject on the aesthetic side. A City where
the streets are broad and clean and well-watered, the houses surrounded
by gardens full of fruit and flowers; where the children, with shining,
clean-washed faces, curtsey to the Philosophers in the public places;
where there are no brothels and no hells; where life runs fresh,
free, and unpolluted,--such a City, I say, can hardly be the symbol of
feminine degradation. More than once, tired of publishing my prophetic
warnings in the _Daily Telegraph_, I have thought of bending my
weary footsteps to the new Jerusalem; and I might have carried out
my intention long ago, if I had had a less profound sense of my own
unfitness for the duties of a Saint.
IX. From M--------w A--------d, Esq., England.
Your poem possesses a certain rough primitive humour, though it appears
to me deficient in the higher graces of _sweetness_ and _light._ St.
Paul would have entirely objected to the monogamical inference drawn in
your epilogue; and the fact that you draw any such inference at all is
to me a distressing proof that your tendency is to the Philistinism of
those authors who write for the British Matron. I fear you have not read
"Merope."
SOME NOTICES OF THE FIRST EDITION.
From the "GRAPHIC."
"Such vigorous, racy, determined satire has not been met with for many
a long day. It is at once fresh and salt as the sea.... The humour is
exquisite, and as regards literary execution, the work is masterly."
From the "PALL MALL GAZETTE."
"Although in a striking address to Chaucer the author intimates an
expectation that Prudery may turn from his pages, and though his theme
is certainly a delicate one, there is nothing in the book that a modest
man may not read without blinking, and therefore, we suppose, no modest
woman. On the other hand, the whole poem is marked with so much natural
strength, so much of the inborn faculties of literature--(though they
are wielded in a light, easy, trifling way)--that they take possession
of our admiration as of right. The chief characteristics of the book
are mastery of verse, strong and simple diction, delicate, accurate
description of scenery, and that quick and forcible discrimination of
character which belongs to men of dramatic genius. This has the look
of exaggerated praise. We propose, therefore, to give one or two large
samples of the author's quality, leaving our readers to judge from them
whether we are not probably right. If they turn to the book and read it
through, we do not doubt that they will agree with us."
From the "ILLUSTRATED REVIEW."
"The tale, however, is not to be read from reviews.... The variety of
interest, the versatility of fancy, the richness of description with
which the different lays and cantos are replete, will preclude the
possibility of tediousness. To open the book is to read it to the end.
It is like some Greek comedy in its shifting scenes, its vivid pictures,
its rapidly passing 'dramatis personae' and supernumeraries.. .. The
author of 'St. Abe,' who can write like this, may do more if he will,
and even found a new school of realistic and satirical poetry."
From the "DAILY NEWS."
"If the author of a 'Tale of Salt Lake City' be not a new poet, he is
certainly a writer of exceedingly clever and effective verses. They
have the ring of originality, and they indicate ability to produce
something still more remarkable than this very remarkable little
piece. It merits a place among works which every one reads with genuine
satisfaction. It is a piece which subserves one of the chief ends of
poetry, that of telling a tale in an unusually forcible and pleasant
way.... If it be the author's purpose to furnish a new argument against
polygamous Mormons, by showing the ridiculous side of their system,
he has perfectly succeeded. The extracts we have given show the varied,
fluent, and forcible character of his verse. None who read about Saint
Abe and his Seven Wives can fail to be amused and to be gratified alike
by the manner of the verse and the matter of the tale."
From the "SCOTSMAN."
"This book does not need much commendation, but it deserves a great
deal. The author of 'The Biglow Papers' might have written it, but there
are passages which are not unlike Bret Harte; and him we suspect. The
authorship, however, may be left out of notice. Men inquire who has
written a good book, that they may honour him; but if his name never be
heard, the book is none the less prized. In design and construction
this work has high merit. It is a good story and it is good poetry. The
author is a humourist and a satirist, and he has here displayed all his
qualities lavishly."
From the "NONCONFORMIST."
"Amazingly clever.... Besides its pure tone deserves warm recognition.
The humour is never coarse. There is a high delicacy, which is
sufficient to colour and sweeten the whole, as the open spring breeze
holds everything in good savour."
From the "SPECTATOR."
We believe that the new book which has just appeared, 'St. Abe and His
Seven Wives,' will paralyze Mormon resistance far more than any amount
of speeches in Congress or messages from President Grant, by bringing
home to the minds of the millions the ridiculous-diabolic side of the
peculiar institution. The canto called 'The Last Epistle of St. Abe to
the Polygamists,' with its humorous narrative of the way in which the
Saint, sealed to seven wives, fell in love with one, and thenceforward
could not abide the jealousy felt by the other six, will do more to
weaken the last defence of Mormonism--that after all, the women like
it--than a whole ream of narratives about the discontent in Utah.
Thousands on whom narrative and argument would make little or no impression,
will feel how it must be when many wives with burning hearts watch the
husband's growing love for one, when the favourite is sick unto
death, and how 'they set their lips and sneered at me and watched the
situation,' and will understand that the first price paid for polygamy
is the suppression of love, and the second, the slavery of women. The
letter in which the first point is proved is too long for quotation,
and would be spoiled by extracts; but the second could hardly be better
proved than in these humorous lines.
The descriptions of Saint Abe and his Seven Wives will be relished
by roughs in California as much as by the self-indulgent philosophers
of Boston.... Pope would have been proud, we fancy, of these terrible
lines, uttered by a driver whose _fiancée_ has just been beguiled away
by a Mormon saint.
From the "ATHENÆUM."
"'Saint Abe and his Seven Wives' has a freshness and an originality,
altogether wanting in Mr. Longfellow's new work, 'The Divine Tragedy.'
In quaint and forcible language--language admirably suited to the theme;
the author takes us to the wondrous city of the saints, and describes
its inhabitants in a series of graphic sketches. The hero of the story
is Saint Abe, or Abraham Clewson, and in giving us his history the
author has really given us the inner life of the Mormon settlement. In
his pages we see the origin of the movement, the reasons why it has
increased, the internal weakness of the system, and the effect it
produces on its adherents. We are introduced to the saints, whom we see
among their pastures, in their homes, in their promenades, and in their
synagogue."
From the "FREEMAN."
"A remarkable poem.... The production is anonymous, but whoever the
author may be there can be no question that he is a poet, and one of
vast and varied powers. The inner life of Mormondom is portrayed with a
caustic humour equal to anything in 'The Biglow Papers'; and were it not
for the exquisite elegance of the verse we should think that some parts
of the poem were written by Robert Browning. The hero of the poem is a
Mormon, who fares so badly as a polygamist that he elopes with one of
his seven wives--the one whom he really loves; and the story is a most
effective exposure of the evils which necessarily attach to polygamy."
From the "WEEKLY REVIEW."
"There can be no doubt that it is worthy of the author of 'The Biglow
Papers.' Since that work was published, we have received many humorous
volumes from across the Atlantic, but nothing equal to 'St. Abe.' As
to its form, it shows that Mr. Lowell has been making advances in the
poetic art; and the substance of it is as strong as anything in the
entire range of English satirical literature."
From the "BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW."