REALITIES OF POLYGAMIC LIFE—ORSON PRATT: THE STORY OF HIS YOUNG ENGLISH
WIFE.
The position of the plural wives—second, third, fourth, or twentieth, it
matters not—is but a mockery, after all; and in many respects they are
more to be pitied than the first wives. The first wives have known, if
only for a little while, a husband’s love and care; but that has never
been felt by the second wives. They are, in fact, in many respects little
better than slaves; and if they are sensitive girls, their position
must be extremely painful, for they must realize at all times that they
are receiving the attentions of another woman’s husband; and in many
instances they are even afraid to be seen speaking to their husband for
fear of bringing down the wrath of the first wife upon their heads.
Others, who are not so sensitive, assert their own rights and are defiant.
I am well acquainted with a pretty young Welsh girl who was a second
wife. Her husband had converted her to Mormonism while he was on a
mission to Europe, and when they reached Salt Lake he married her. I saw
her first two years after her marriage, when one day she came to me in
the greatest distress. She asked me if I would give her some employment,
and, greatly surprised at the request, I asked her how she came to need
anything to do, as I knew her husband could well afford to support her.
“I have left my husband,” she answered, “for I could stand no longer the
ill-treatment that I received. I endured it until, as you see, my health
is failing and I am broken-hearted. The creature I married has no manhood
in him. He has allowed me to be treated like a slave, and has himself
half-starved me, and has acted towards me with the greatest inhumanity.
When I married him,” she said, “I was willing to make myself useful in
the family, and I did so. But one thing after another was given me to do,
until I became a regular drudge; they would not have dared to treat a
hired girl in the way they treated me. I was put into a miserable little
back room, and was never allowed to see any of my friends; I had to work
early and late. When at last my position would not admit of my working
quite so much, they punished me with all sorts of petty unkindnesses, and
nearly starved me, giving me only a little flour or a few potatoes every
day.
“At last,” she continued, “I went to Brother Brigham to know what I
should do. He sent for my husband and talked to him a long time, and
he promised to do better if I would go back with him. Brother Brigham
counselled me to do so, and try him again; and I went. Soon after that,
my babe was born, and then they treated me with worse unkindness.”
“Who do you mean by _they_?” I asked.
“I mean my husband and his wife,” she replied. “They did not seem to
look upon me as a wife at all, and even in the coldest mornings, and
immediately after my child was born, they used to make me get up first
and light fires and prepare breakfast and begin work generally, and I
was only too glad if I escaped with a little fault-finding. I stood it
as long as I could, because Brother Brigham had counselled me to do so;
but now I have left them again, and do not mean to return.” This was the
story of one poor girl’s troubles.
Now the man, Elder Jos. Bull, who did this is a good Mormon, in good
standing in the Church to-day. He is employed by the authorities, and his
poor young wife is now working for the Gentiles—a much happier woman, if
her face speaks truly, since her separation, although she has to support
herself and child. She, like hundreds of other young girls, came to Utah
without friend or relative, and this is how a good brother “took care” of
her.
But I must be permitted to relate a still more painful story—the story of
a poor innocent girl allured from her happy home in England by one of the
most distinguished of the Mormon Apostles; brought over by him to Utah as
his wife, and there suffered to die in misery and neglect.
The Apostle Orson Pratt, who is called among the Saints “The Champion of
Polygamy”—a man who has devoted his life to Mormonism, and whose writings
have done more than the labours of all the other Apostles to win converts
to Polygamy; a man who on more than one occasion has boldly stood up
against many of the absurdities and blasphemies of Brigham Young; a man
upon whom, on account of his independence, Brigham has frowned, and who
has consequently never attained to the wealth of his more obsequious
brethren; a man who in all the ordinary affairs of life would command the
respect of every one around him. This was the man who perpetrated the
atrocious villainy which I am about to relate; and much against my own
personal inclinations I feel compelled to tell the story, as it shows how
shockingly this debasing system can pervert an otherwise upright mind.
Orson Pratt married the young girl of whom I speak in Liverpool, by
special dispensation from Brigham Young; and her parents—themselves
devout Mormons—thought that their daughter was highly honoured in
becoming the wife of an Apostle. She was very pretty and attractive,
and for a time he paid great attention to her, and brought her over to
Utah as his bride. Arrived there, he utterly neglected her, and she
experienced all the horrors of polygamic life.
The Apostle was living in Salt Lake City. He had left his young wife
and her children in Tooele—a place about forty miles distant. There
they lived in a wretched little log-cabin, the young mother supporting
her little ones as best she could. When her last child was born, she
was suffering all the miseries of poverty, dependent entirely upon the
charity of her neighbours. At the time when most she needed the gentle
sympathy of her husband’s love, that husband never came to see her.
One morning there was literally nothing in the house for herself and her
children, who, knowing nothing of their mother’s sufferings, cried to her
for bread.
The poor mother quieted them with a promise that they should soon have
something to eat, and then she went and begged a few potatoes from a
neighbour; and upon these they subsisted for three days. She then took
her children with her, for they were too young to be left alone—her babe
was only three weeks old—and she went round to see if she could get work
of any kind to do. In this she was not successful; and at length, worn
out by continual anxiety and privation, and heart-broken by the neglect
which she had experienced, she sank beneath a fever which promised very
soon to prove fatal.
For some time the neighbours nursed her; but they, of course, had their
own families to attend to, and could not give her quite all their time,
and thus occasionally she was left alone. One evening, when such was the
case, she got up in a state of delirium, and barefooted, and almost
destitute of clothing, took her children, and wandered forth with them
into the snow. The good people of Tooele went out over the prairie,
anxious to find and bring back the poor maniac, but for a long time their
search was in vain. At last, not knowing whither she went, she wandered
to the house of Brother Eli B. Kelsey—a “vile apostate” as Brigham Young
would call him; but known to every one else, Saint, Apostate, or Gentile,
as one of the best and kindest-hearted men that ever lived. In Brother
Kelsey’s house she and her little ones were kindly received by him and
his good wife, and their wants attended to. They were clothed and fed,
and were then carried back to the log-cabin which they called their home.
Next day the Mormon Bishop of Tooele assembled the people, and money was
collected and sent to Salt Lake City, to Orson Pratt, begging him to come
immediately, if he wished to see his wife alive. But the Apostle did not
come. At that time he was actually engaged in taking another bride, and
he wanted to hear nothing of his dying wife.
Then the good Bishop sent a young man, who rode all night, to compel him
immediately to take the coach for Tooele—the young man paying his fare,
so that he might have no excuse. Then, at last, he came.
Arrived at the little town where his poor wife lay dying, Orson conducted
himself like the philosopher he professes to be. Before him stood
the hovel, within which were his deserted little ones—wailing, as if
sensible of the great loss of a mother’s care which they would soon have
to sustain—and there, on her dying bed, was that poor wife and mother,
tossing in wild delirium. But he, the cause of all that woe, passed by
that wretched hovel and its death-scene to the comfortable home of a
well-to-do brother, at whose house he first obtained his supper, and
then, calmly returning, entered the place where his wife was lying, and
for a moment surveyed the scene. Then he quietly remarked to one of the
sisters present: “She has a good deal of fever.”
Another sister, who stood by, impulsively exclaimed, “Good God! Brother
Pratt, this is more than fever; she is dying.”
“Oh dear no, sister,” he calmly replied; “she will recover.”
It was evident, however, to all but Orson that his wife _was_ dying, and
that no earthly power could save her.
[Illustration: DESPAIR.
_To face p. 326._]
The next day she was still raving, and it was told me that in her wild
frenzy she even attempted to strangle her babe. Orson essayed to hold
her, but she caught his gold chain and snapped it in two. His touch and
the sight of the chain recalled her for a moment to her senses, and she
said reproachfully, “You are puffed up with pride, Orson, with your gold
chain and rings, while you leave me and my babes to starve. Poor little
lambs! where are they?”
For a moment the yearning of a mother’s heart for her children conquered
the fever that tortured her mind, and she listened to her husband’s
attempted words of comfort, as he said, “I am with you now, Eliza, and I
will take care of you.”
Steadily, for a moment, she looked up into his face, and, with tears in
her eyes, said mournfully: “It is _too late_, Orson—it is _too late_!”
These were the last sane words which she uttered in this life, although
she still lingered on insensible.
The next morning the Apostle Pratt resolved to leave for Salt Lake City
and his young bride. The Bishop, however, called a council and summoned
him to remain until his wife was dead. Nevertheless he did not wish to
stay, and, being an Apostle, he overruled the council. At the last moment
before his intended departure, one of the sisters said: “Brother Pratt,
should she die, what shall we do with her?”
“Oh, she won’t die,” he replied.
“But should she?” the sister urged.
“Then bury her with her children,” he answered.
After much solicitation, he was prevailed upon to remain for a few hours,
and the next morning his wife died. The language of her last moments, as
she raved and tossed in mad delirium, showed how terrible had been her
mental agony, and how much she had suffered from this frightful system.
But one might easily fill a large volume with stories quite as cruel as
this. It is simply absurd to expect that it should be otherwise. Men
and women can train and discipline their minds, they can crush out the
affections of their hearts if they will; but no effort of man can change
man’s nature entirely, or root out altogether humanity from the soul.
Women may endure, as that poor woman did whose story I have just related,
but they never can get perfectly adapted to the system of “Celestial
Marriage.” The nearer they approach to its requirements, the further they
recede from all that is held good and noble in womanhood; and as for the
men, they are brutalized by every effort which they make to conform to it.
During the summer, about three years ago, a young-looking woman, very
shabbily dressed, came frequently to my house with heavy baskets of
fruit, which she entreated me to buy. One day she said: “You do not
remember me, Sister Stenhouse, I think, and I do not wonder, for I am so
changed. I have to work very hard now, for all I have to live upon is
what I can make by selling fruit, or any little work that I can get my
neighbours to give me to do; and if my husband could prevent even that,
I believe he would. I am obliged to gather my fruit at night and hide it
from him, and that is why I urged you so to buy, for I never know when I
may meet him.”
I was very much surprised at this, as her husband, I knew, was getting a
good salary, and appeared to be a most gentlemanly man. His first wife, I
was aware, had left him, it was said, on account of cruelty and neglect,
and he had married this one just after her arrival from England. I had
every reason to believe that she had been a good wife to him, and a
mother to his motherless children; but he had taken another wife since he
married her, and had cruelly neglected this poor woman, leaving her his
first wife’s children to take care of. She said that he was again paying
his addresses to another still, and she expected that he would soon marry
her. And yet this woman [his second wife] told me that all he had left
for her and the children to live on was a sack of bran and about fifty
pounds of corn meal. Everything else had been taken to the third wife,
even to the best articles of furniture.
She said: “One evening I had been sitting in the porch in my
rocking-chair, when he came in and remained about an hour. As soon as
he left, I went out to bring in the chair, and was just in time to see
him carrying it off. I knew where he was going with it.” I saw this poor
woman frequently, and bought her fruit often when I did not need it, for
it grieved me to see her carrying such heavy loads in her then delicate
situation. After a time I lost sight of her, and then I heard that she
was dead. One day her own daughter—for she was a widow when she married
this man—came to me before leaving the city. “I am going away to some
friends,” she said, “for I will never live near that man; he killed my
mother; he kicked her so severely that she never recovered, and when her
child was born, they both died from the effects of the blows which she
had received—and I hate him.”
The first wife of “Brig.” Hampton, one of the Mormon authorities, told
me how her husband whipped her because she would not consent to his
stripping their home of everything that was either useful or handsome
in order to furnish a house for his second wife. Finally, he shut her up
while he took her entire parlour furniture away. She was a fragile little
woman, and perfectly helpless when in the power of a strong man, and
therefore was forced to submit, as there was no appeal to law in Utah.
It is a very difficult thing for a woman, after listening, day after
day, to such tales of woe and misery, and knowing them to be true, to
retain any respect for a polygamist, whoever he may be. For my own part
I regard them all with such feelings of loathing that I can hardly speak
civilly of them, and would prefer never to speak to them. I know scores
of ladies—married ladies—Mormon ladies, who in secret feel and speak just
as I do upon this subject.
For many years past the American Elders have derived a rich harvest from
Britain and Scandinavia. After the introduction of Polygamy, an Elder
was seldom known to return from Mission without bringing with him one,
two, and sometimes three young girls, or else arranging in some way for
their emigration. The Missionaries, however, preferred, whenever it was
possible, to bring the girls with them; for if they trusted them to the
care of a brother returning before or after, he very frequently turned
traitor, and carried off the prize himself.
The Elders were not permitted to marry these extra wives while on or
returning from a mission, unless they had special permission from Brigham
Young. But quite a number of the poor weak brethren were so impulsive and
so anxious to be married, that they could not wait for the ceremonies of
the Endowment House. One conscientious Swiss brother, named Loba, who
could find no one willing to take the responsibility of marrying him
while crossing the Plains, said that as he was an Elder he could just as
well marry himself, and be under no obligation to anybody; and he did so.
He had fallen in love with a little miss—a mere child, about one quarter
of his own age.
Many men have married wives, and have brought them home, before their
first wives knew even that they were in love. They had not had courage to
introduce the subject, but believed that when the wife found that it was
done, and could not be undone, she would see the uselessness of feeling
badly, and would soon get over it. But no wife who has been thus treated
ever did “get over it.” What can a man know of woman’s nature who would
dare to act thus towards her, and think that she would become reconciled
to such treatment?
What strange ideas the Mormon men must have of woman’s nature if they
believe that women can submit to such treatment as this and still love
them! What folly to think even of love!
It would be very wrong for me to say that there are _no_ men who try to
be just in the practice of Polygamy, for I know many who try their very
best to act impartially to all their wives; but this is not really the
result of their religion, about which some of these men appear to care
very little. I feel sure that if they are good men, notwithstanding the
evil effects of Mormonism upon them, they would have been much better men
without it.
On the other hand, I have known men who, before they became Mormons, were
reputed good husbands and fathers, but who afterwards became cold and
harsh in their natures, cruel to their wives, and neglectful to their
children. It seemed as if they thought of nothing else but courting the
girls and taking more wives, altogether regardless as to whether they
could support them or not.
Some of the Elders, finding that they might not marry plural wives before
they reached Utah, have bound the girls by solemn vows and covenants to
marry them when they arrived in Salt Lake Valley; and the poor girls,
believing that, because these men were Missionaries, all they said and
did _must_ be right, have often—in fact, in almost every instance—to
their own great injury, kept their “covenants” and married the men to
whom they were vowed. I have known personally and intimately several
women who have in this way ruined their prospects and blighted the hopes
of their whole lives, and sadder stories than theirs could not be told.
My husband had again left Salt Lake City, and had gone to “the States,”
as we then called “going East;” for it was such a long journey that
we felt ourselves altogether out of the pale of civilization. I felt,
therefore, comparatively free; for I could now, whenever I desired to do
so, walk out, or visit a friend, without the constant dread of meeting
him and his wife. It always humiliated me to see them together, although
I believed that it was perfectly right that my husband should show
attentions to his other wife. It was not _now_ jealousy that I felt—the
day of jealous feeling was long past. I felt disgusted, and I was humbled
at the sight of them. At one time, for nearly six months, I remained at
home, never going further than my own garden, simply for the reason that
I feared to meet _her_ in the presence of any of my friends—particularly
any of my Gentile friends; or worse still, with _him_.