THE FIRST WHISPERINGS OF POLYGAMY.
About three months after our marriage it was rumoured that four of the
Twelve Apostles had been appointed to foreign missions, and were then on
their way to England.
The Saints in Britain had been for several years without any missionaries
direct from the body of the church, and the announcement of this foreign
mission was hailed with joy.
I confess to experiencing much pleasure at the thought of becoming
acquainted with a living Apostle. How often in my girlhood I had wished
that I had lived when men inspired of God walked the earth. What a joy,
I thought, it would have been to have listened to the wisdom of such
teachers. Now the time was near when I should realize all the happiness
of my day-dreams—when I should really have the privilege of conversing
with those chosen men of God. The invitation, therefore, to meet the
Conference in London on the 1st of June, was very welcome intelligence.
We went to the London Conference—my husband and I; and there for the
first time I met with Apostles, who were also Prophets, and Priests, and
High-priests, and Teachers, and Elders, and Deacons—all assembled in
solemn convocation.
The four Apostles whom I met at that time were John Taylor, Lorenzo Snow,
Erastus Snow, and Franklin D. Richards—pleasant and agreeable men, and
withal very fair specimens of Mormon missionaries, who had found favour
in the eyes of Brigham Young and of the leaders in Zion, and who had been
promoted accordingly. They lived comfortably, wore the finest broadcloth,
fashionably cut, and were not averse to gold chains, and charms, and
signet-rings, and other personal adornments. They put on no particular
airs, were as polite and attentive to ladies as gentlemen always are, and
could go to a theatre or any other place of amusement without hesitation.
I afterwards discovered that in one particular, at least, if not in all,
they resembled the early Apostles, for they too could, like St. Paul,
“lead about a sister” without any compunctions of conscience.
The Southampton Saints had hitherto formed only a branch of the London
Conference, but did not form a conference of their own. It was now
resolved that since so large a number had recently been baptized in
Hampshire, the several branches of the church there should be organized
into a special conference at Southampton, with Elder Stenhouse as its
president; and the Sunday following was appointed for that purpose, when
the Apostle Snow, _en route_ to Italy—to which country he had just been
appointed missionary—would honour the occasion with his presence.
As we returned, some gentlemen in the same railway carriage, to while
away the time, I suppose, entered into a religious discussion. What the
subject was I do not now remember; but I can recollect that a good deal
was said as to which of all the numerous Christian sects really possessed
Divine authority. Elder Stenhouse took an active part in the argument,
and being, like all the Mormon Missionaries at that time, very well
posted in Scriptural discussions, he attracted considerable attention,
and was much complimented by several persons present.
The Apostle Lorenzo Snow was silent all the time, but he took note of
all that passed. Elder Stenhouse was a man of great zeal and untiring
energy—qualities in which perhaps Brother Snow felt himself a little
deficient; and he was going on a mission which required unflagging
devotion and perseverance. We had not been an hour at home, before
he told my husband that the Lord had _thrice_ revealed to him that
he should accompany him to Italy! How often—even while I still clung
to Mormonism—did it appear strange to me that the “revelations” of
distinguished Saints should so frequently coincide with their own
personal wishes, and come at such convenient times.
I had laid aside my travelling-dress, and was hastening to provide some
refreshment for the Apostle, when my husband came and told me of the
revelation which had been so opportunely received. I was at that time
as much an enthusiast as Elder Stenhouse himself, and I felt honoured
that my husband should be the first English elder appointed to a foreign
mission. Here was the fulfilment of my ambition, that we should be in
the forefront of the battle, and should obtain distinction as zealous
servants of God. But at what a cost was this ambition purchased! My
poor, weak heart sickened at the thought—I had been but four months
married.
When the Apostle asked me if I were willing that Elder Stenhouse should
go to Italy, I answered “Yes,” though I felt as if my heart would break.
I remembered that in my first transport of joy and gratitude after being
baptized, I had made a covenant with the Lord that I would do anything
which He might require of me; and I dared not rebel, or break that vow.
Oh, the agony that fell upon my young heart! It seemed that the weight
of a mountain rested upon it when I was told that my husband might be
five years absent. He had already been five years a travelling elder
without a home, trusting for daily bread to the voluntary kindness of
the Saints. He had laboured faithfully, and looked forward to the day
when his “Conference” should be established, and he could count upon an
improvement in his temporal position, and an early call to emigrate to
Zion. In the few months that I had been his wife, it was only natural
that I should share his hopes; but just at the moment when they were
about to be realized, hopes and expectations were scattered to the winds.
On the following day the Saints assembled, the Southampton Conference was
organized, and Elder Stenhouse elected its president. Ten minutes later
he was publicly appointed by the Apostle on a mission to Italy.
During the few days which intervened between the time when Elder
Stenhouse received his appointment, to the hour of his departure,
I enjoyed but little of his society. Arranging the affairs of the
Conference which he was leaving, and preparation for his mission, fully
occupied his attention. I do not think we either of us uttered a word,
when alone together, respecting the future that was before us. It was
probably better that we did not. There are moments of our life when
silence is better than speech; and it is safer to trust in the mercy of
God than to try to shape our own destiny.
The Saints are noted for the fraternal spirit which exists among them.
There are, of course, exceptions; but, as a rule, every Mormon is willing
to help his brother in the faith, acting upon the principle “One is
your Master, even Christ: and all ye are brethren.” The Southampton
Saints were no exception to this rule, but showed their kindness both
to my husband and myself in a thousand little ways. I have spoken of my
unhappiness during that week of preparation, but I must not forget that
there were gleams of hope in the darkness. One occasion I shall never
forget—a picnic which our friends held as a kind of valedictory feast in
honour of the missionaries—of Elder Stenhouse in particular.
Right up the Southampton river, not far from Netley Abbey, is a pleasant
and picturesque spot, named Bittern, which I need not too particularly
describe, although the memory of its beauty recalls recollections of
mingled sadness and pleasure to my mind. There my parents now lived, and
thither it was proposed our friends should go. They could obtain all they
needed for the picnic at my father’s house, and we could take our good
things into the woods, and enjoy ourselves as we pleased. We had a very
happy time; for the moment, even _I_ forgot the cloud that was hanging
over me; and our dear friends not only enjoyed themselves to the utmost,
but seemed bent upon making the time pass pleasantly to every one else.
I had been talking to Sister White about the recent doings of the Saints,
the establishment of the Conference and the sending away of Elder
Stenhouse. I wanted Sister White, as in fact I wanted every one else, to
think that I was perfectly happy in the separation, and that I counted my
feelings as a wife as nothing when placed in the balance against my duty
as a missionary; and I tried to impress upon her how proud I was that
my husband should be the first English Elder entrusted with a foreign
mission. We talked together a great deal. She was still quite a young
woman, though married, and the mother of four darling little children;
but probably she had a better experience than I had, and could see
through my attempts to stifle my natural feelings, while at the same time
she sympathized with me. She spoke very kindly to me; and as we talked,
we wandered inadvertently away from the rest of the party. Suddenly she
thought of her little boy, and, mother-like, thinking he might be in
danger, ran off in search of him, promising to come back immediately.
I sat down upon the grass to await her return. I was somewhat excited
by the conversation which had passed between us; but as I sat musing my
agitation began to cool down, and I was soon lost in thought, and did not
notice that I was not alone.
I did not hear the light footsteps near me, and did not see a little
fairy friend, as I called her, pass between me and the sun. But a tiny
hand was laid gently on my shoulder, and looking up I saw the loving eyes
of Mary Burton looking straight down into mine.
“Where have you been, dear?” I asked. “Why, I have hardly seen you all
the day.”
“But I knew you were here,” she said, “and I thought you were alone; and
I wanted to see you, and talk with you.”
“Come and sit down beside me, Mary,” I said, “and let us have a little
chat together.” Then I drew her gently towards me, and she sat down by
my side. For a few moments we said nothing, but I was watching her, and
waiting to hear what she would say. She seemed such a pretty, such a
sweet and gentle girl—more like one of those little birds of glorious
plumage and thrilling song that we see glittering among the dew-drops
and the dancing leaves, than a child of earth. And I pitied her for her
beauty, for such beauty is a snare; and I wondered whether her innocent
soul was as fair and glorious before God as her face was sweet to me;
and I asked whether, in years to come, when the glory of her childish
radiance had passed away, the brightness of a soul pure and serene would
lend a new beauty to her features—the beauty, not of childish innocence,
but of a noble womanhood.
I took her hand in mine, and asked her some trifling question; but she
did not answer. Suddenly she looked up full into my face, and said,
“Sister Stenhouse; I’m very, very sorry for you.”
“Sorry for _me_, dear?” I said. “_Why_ should you be sorry? I am not sad.”
“You shouldn’t say so,” she replied; “you know in your heart you _are_
sad, although you don’t say so. It’s a fine thing, no doubt, for Elder
Stenhouse to go away, though for my part I’d rather stop at home if I
loved any one there; and at any rate, you must feel sorry that he is
going away so far, if you love him.”
“But Mary,” I said, “you know it is his duty to go; and he has been
called to it by the Apostle, and it is a great honour.”
“Oh yes, I know that,” she replied, “I know that.” Then we relapsed into
silence for some few moments. Presently drawing nearer to me, she said
again, quite suddenly, “Sister Stenhouse, do you know the meaning of the
word _Polygamy_?”
“Why, what a funny question to ask me, child!” I exclaimed.
“Child, you call me, Sister Stenhouse; but I’m not a child—at least not
quite a child; I shall be fifteen next birthday.”
“Well, dear,” I said, “I did not mean to offend you; and I call you
‘child’ because I love you; but you asked me such a strange question, and
used such a strange word.”
This was quite true, for at that time the word Polygamy was as seldom
used as the word “polyandry,” or any other word signifying a state of
things with which we have nothing to do.
“I’m not offended,” she said; “only people have a way of treating me as
if I were only such a _very_ little girl: I suppose I look so.”
She certainly did look so, and I suppose she read my thoughts. Womanhood,
by-and-by, brought to her more of reality, both in face and figure, as
well as in the terrible facts of life; but at that time the term “little
fairy,” which I have so often used respecting her, seemed the most
appropriate. The meaning of that terrible word Polygamy she understood,
in later years, fully as well as I did.
“Well, dear,” I said, “why did you ask me that strange question?”
“You must promise not to be angry with me if I tell you,” she answered;
“and yet I think you ought to know.”
I readily promised—what could I have refused her?—and she said,—
“The other day two of the sisters were at our house—I may not tell you
their names for fear of making mischief—and they were talking together
between themselves, and did not notice that I was present—or else they
didn’t care. And I heard one of them tell the other, that she had heard,
secretly, that in Zion men were allowed to have many wives; and she used
that word Polygamy very often, and said that was what the people of the
world called it.”
“Well, Mary dear,” I replied, “that is no great secret. We have all heard
that said before. Wicked people who hate the Gospel say that, and a great
deal more, in order to bring scandal upon the Church; but of course it
isn’t true.”
“Ah, but I haven’t told you all,” she said. “The sisters had a long talk
about it, and they explained whom they heard it from, and it was from no
one outside the Church. And then one of them said that Elder Stenhouse
had heard all about it, and knew it was true, only of course he did not
talk about such things yet; but that the time would come when everyone
would acknowledge it, and all the Saints would have many wives. I was
frightened when I heard this, and very angry—for I thought of you—and I
spoke to her, and said it was all untrue, and I’d ask Elder Stenhouse.
And they scolded me very much for saying so, and said it was very wicked
for a child to listen; and that was why I did not like you to call me
‘child.’”
“Well, darling,” I said, “I’ll not offend you any more in that way; and
it was very good of you to tell me anything you thought I ought to know.”
Then I kissed her, and continued, “But, after all, I don’t think it’s of
any consequence. It’s the old scandal, just as in the early days they
said wicked things of Christ and His apostles. Elder Stenhouse knows all
that people say, but he has told me again and again that there is not a
word of truth in it; and I believe him.”
“You think so, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, “and I suppose I ought
to think so too; but if it’s all false how did people first begin to
think of it? People don’t say that the Mormons are murderers or thieves,
because we have given them no reason to think so. Then why should they
think of such an unheard-of thing as Polygamy—surely there must have been
_some_ reason. Don’t you think so?”
“No, dear,” I answered, “Elder Stenhouse says that some very wicked men
have sometimes joined the Church, and have done all manner of shocking
things, so that they had to be cut off; and then they went about trying
to make other people believe that the Mormons were as wicked as they
were. There was John C. Bennett, who lived a frightful life at Nauvoo,
and then tried to make out that Joseph Smith was as bad as he was. And
Marsh, the president of the twelve apostles, and Orson Hyde, when they
apostatized not only said bad things of Joseph, but took affidavit, and
swore solemnly before the magistrates, that the prophet had been guilty
of the most fearful crimes.”
I kissed her again; and she said, “Well, perhaps you are right;” but I
could see that in her heart she was not convinced.
Then we talked of ourselves and all that interested us, and she told me
all her childish hopes and ambitions; and to me—young as I was myself—it
was pleasant to listen to her innocent prattle. She promised to come and
see me when Elder Stenhouse had gone, and I should be left alone; and
when we got back to the rest of the party we were as firm friends as if
we had known each other a lifetime.
At midnight, Saturday, June 15th, 1850, the steamer left Southampton for
Havre-de-Grace, bearing on board the first two Mormon missionaries to
Italy; one of them was my husband.
The Saints had called in the evening to bid Elder Stenhouse good-bye; and
as he was, of course, to travel “without purse or scrip,” they vied with
each other in showing their appreciation of his position and his devotion
to the faith. The poorest among them would not be denied the privilege
of contributing their mites to aid in the conversion of the Italians;
and none of the brethren felt that they could show too much kindness to
the departing missionary. Just in this way have all the foreign missions
of the Mormon Church been projected and sustained; the elements of
success were always present—devotion and self-abnegation on the part of
the missionaries, and an earnest, self-sacrificing disposition on the
part of the people, commanding respect, however erroneous or foolish the
foundation of their faith.
In the bustle of departure, Mr. Stenhouse seemed never to have thought
about himself, and certainly he made no preparation for me. I had full
confidence in him, however, and loved him devotedly, and knew that my
love was returned. But men who look for miracles, and count upon special
providences for daily bread, are not generally very prudent or far-seeing
in their domestic arrangements. Elder Stenhouse had been told that “the
Lord would provide,” and it therefore seemed to him superfluous that he
should interfere; it would have been a lack of faith to have shown too
much interest in what might become of me. He left me with only 1_l._
I now realized the loneliness of my position; there was no earthly friend
to whom I could turn for sympathy at a time like this. Before my Heavenly
Father alone I could pour out the bitterness of my soul and all my
griefs, and in His presence weep and pray.