Saint Abe and His Seven Wives
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ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES
Art thou unto a helpmate bound?Then stick to her, my brother!But hast thou laid her in the ground?Don't go to seek another!Thou hast not sin'd, if thou hast wed,Like many of our number,But thou hast spread a thorny bed,And there alas! must slumber!St. Paul, Cor. I., 7, 27-28.O let thy fount of love be blestAnd let thy wife rejoice,Contented rest upon her breastAnd listen to her voice;Yea, be not ravish'd from her sideWhom thou at first has chosen,Nor having tried one earthly brideGo sighing for a Dozen!Sol. Prov. V., 18-20.APPROACHING UTAH. – THE BOSS'S TALE
I – PASSING THE HANCHE
"Grrr!" shrieked the boss, with teeth clench'dtight,Just as the lone ranche hove in sight,And with a face of ghastly hueHe flogg'd the horses till they flew,As if the devil were at their back,Along the wild and stony track.From side to side the waggon swung,While to the quaking seat I clung.Dogs bark'd; on each side of the passThe cattle grazing on the grassRaised heads and stared; and with a cryOut the men rush'd as we roll'd by."Grrr!" shriek'd the boss; and o'er and o'erHe flogg'd the foaming steeds and swore;Harder and harder grew his faceAs by the rançhe we swept apace,And faced the hill, and past the pond,And gallop'd up the height beyond,Nor tighten'd rein till field and farmWere hidden by the mountain's armA mile behind; when, hot and spent,The horses paused on the ascent,And mopping from his brow the sweat.The boy glanced round with teeth still set,And panting, with his eyes on me,Smil'd with a look of savage glee.Joe Wilson is the boss's name,A Western boy well known to fame.He goes about the dangerous landHis life for ever in his hand;Has lost three fingers in a fray,Has scalp'd his Indian too they say;Between the white man and the redFour times he hath been left for dead;Can drink, and swear, and laugh, and brawl,And keeps his big heart thro' it allTender for babes and women.HeTurned, smiled, and nodded savagely;Then, with a dark look in his eyesIn answer to my dumb surprise,Pointed with jerk of the whip's heftBack to the place that we had left,And cried aloud,"I guess you thinkI'm mad, or vicious, or in drink.But theer you're wrong. I never passThe ranche down theer and bit of grass,I never pass 'em, night nor day,But the fit takes me jest that way!The hosses know as well as meWhat's coming, miles afore we seeThe dem'd old corner of a place,And they git ready for the race!Lord! if I didn't lash and sweer,And ease my rage out passing theer,Guess I should go clean mad, that's all.And thet's the reason why I callThis turn of road where I am tookJest Old Nick's Gallop!"Then his lookGrew more subdued yet darker still;And as the horses up the hillWith loosen'd rein toil'd slowly, heWent on in half soliloquy,Indifferent almost if I heard,And grimly grinding out each word.II – JOE WILSON GOES A-COURTING
"There was a time, and no mistake,When thet same ranche down in the brakeWas pleasanter a heap to meThan any sight on land or sea.The hosses knew it like their master,Smelt it miles orf, and spank'd the faster!Ay, bent to reach thet very spot,Flew till they halted steaming hotSharp opposite the door, amongThe chicks and children old and young;And down I'd jump, and all the goWas 'Fortune, boss!' and 'Welcome, Joe!'And Cissy with her shining face,Tho' she was missus of the place,Stood larfing, hands upon her hips;And when upon her rosy lipsI put my mouth and gave her one,She'd cuff me, and enjy the fun!She was a widow young and tight,Her chap had died in a free fight,And here she lived, and round her hadTwo chicks, three brothers, and her dad,All making money fast as hay,And doing better every day.Waal! guess tho' I was peart and swift,Spooning was never much my gift;But Cissy was a gal so sweet,So fresh, so spicy, and so neat,It put your wits all out o' place,Only to star' into her face.Skin whiter than a new-laid egg,Lips full of juice, and sech a leg!A smell about her, morn and e'en,Like fresh-bleach'd linen on a green;And from her hand when she took mine,The warmth ran up like sherry wine;And if in liquor I made freeTo pull her larfing on my knee,Why, there she'd sit, and feel so nice,Her heer all scent, her breath all spice!See! women hate, both young and old,A chap that's over shy and cold,And fire of all sorts kitches quick,And Cissy seem'd to feel full slickThe same fond feelings, and at lastGrew kinder every time I passed;And all her face, from eyes to chin,Said *'Bravo, Joe! You're safe to win!'And tho' we didn't fix, d'ye see,In downright words that it should be,Ciss and her fam'ly understoodThat she and me would jine for good.Guess I was like a thirsty hossDead beat for days, who comes acrossA fresh clear beck, and on the brinkScoops out his shaky hand to drink;Or like a gal or boy of three,With eyes upon a pippin-tree;Or like some Injin cuss who seesA bottle of rum among the trees,And by the bit of smouldering log,Where squatters camp'd and took their grogThe night afore. Waal!" (here he groundHis teeth again with savage sound)"Waal, stranger, fancy, jest for fun,The feelings of the thirsty one,If, jest as he scoop'd out his hand,The water turn'd to dust and sand!Or fancy how the lad would screamTo see thet fruit-tree jest a dream!Or guess how thet poor Injin cuss,Would dance and swear, and screech and fuss,If when he'd drawn the cork and triedTo get a gulp of rum inside,'Twarn't anything in thet theer style,But physic stuff or stinking ile!Ah! you've a notion now, I guess,Of how all ended in a mess,And how when I was putting inMy biggest card and thought to win,The Old One taught her how to cheat,And yer I found myself, clean beat!"III – SAINT AND DISCIPLE
Joe Wilson paused, and gazed straight down,With gritting teeth and bitter frown,And not till I entreated himDid he continue, – fierce and grim,With knitted brow and teeth clench'd tight."Along this way one summer night,Jest as I meant to take the prize,Passed an Apostle– dern his eyes!On his old pony, gravel-eyed,His legs a-dangling down each side,With twinkling eyes and wheedling smile,Grinning beneath his broad-brimm'd tile,With heer all scent and shaven face.He came a-trotting to the place.My luck was bad, I wasn't near,But busy many a mile from yer;And what I tell was told to meBy them as were at hand to see.'Twam't every day, I reckon, theySaw an Apostle pass their way!And Cissy, being kind o' soft,And empty in the upper loft,Was full of downright joy and prideTo hev thet saint at her fireside —One of the seventy they callThe holiest holy – dern 'em all!O he was 'cute and no mistake,Deep as Salt Lake, and wide awake!Theer at the ranche three days he stayed,And well he knew his lying trade.'Twarn't long afore he heard full freeAbout her larks and thet with me,And how 'twas quite the fam'ly planTo hev me for her second man.At fust thet old Apostle saidLittle, but only shook his head;But you may bet he'd no intentTo let things go as things had went.Three nights he stayed, and every nightHe squeezed her hand a bit more tight;And every night he didn't missTo give a loving kiss to Ciss;And tho' his fust was on her brow,He ended with her mouth, somehow.O, but he was a knowing one,The Apostle Hiram Higginson!Grey as a badger's was his heer,His age was over sixty year(Her grandfather was little older),So short, his head just touch'd her shoulder;His face all grease, his voice all puff,His eyes two currants stuck in duff; —Call thet a man! – then look at me!Thretty year old and six foot three,Afear'd o' nothing morn nor night,The man don't walk I wouldn't fight!Women is women! Thet's their style —Talk reason to them and they'll bile;But baste'em soft as any pigeon,With lies and rubbish and religion;Don't talk of flesh and blood and feeling,But Holy Ghost and blessed healing;Don't name things in too plain a way.Look a heap warmer than you say,Make'em believe they're serving trueThe Holy Spirit and not you,Prove all the world but you's damnation,And call your kisses jest salvation;Do this, and press'em on the sly,You're safe to win'em. Jest you try!"Fust thing I heerd of all this game,One night when to the ranche I came,Jump'd down, ran in, saw Cissy theer,And thought her kind o' cool and queer;For when I caught her with a kiss,Twarn't that she took the thing amiss,But kept stone cool and gev a sigh,And wiped her mouth upon the slyOn her white milkin'-apron. 'Waal,'Says I, 'you're out o' sorts, my gel!'And with a squeamish smile for me,Like folks hev when they're sick at sea,Says she, 'O, Joseph, ere too late,I am awaken'd to my state —How pleasant and how sweet it isTo be in sech a state of bliss!'I stared and gaped, and turned to JimHer brother, and cried out to him,'Hullo, mate, what's the matter here?What's come to Cissy? Is she queer?'Jim gev a grin and answered 'Yes,A trifle out o' sorts, I guess.'But Cissy here spoke up and said,'It ain't my stomach, nor my head,It ain't my flesh, it ain't my skin,It's holy spirits here within!''Waal,' says I, meanin' to be kind,'I must be off, for I'm behind;But next time that I pass this wayWe'll fix ourselves without delay.I know what your complaint is, Ciss,I've seen the same in many a miss,Keep up your spirits, thet's your plan.You're lonely here without a man,And you shall hev as good a oneAs e'er druv hoss beneath the sun!'At that I buss'd her with a smack.Turn'd out, jump'd up, and took the track,And larfing druv along the pass."Theer! Guess I was as green as grass!"IV – THE BOOK OF MORMON
"'Twas jest a week after thet dayWhen down I druv again this way.My heart was light; and 'neath the boxI'd got a shawl and two fine frocksFor Cissy. On in spanking styleThe hosses went mile arter mile;The sun was blazing golden bright,The sunflowers burning in the light,The cattle in the golden gleerWading for coolness everywheerAmong the shinin' ponds, with fliesAs thick as pepper round their eyesAnd on their heads. See! as I wentWhistling like mad and waal content,Altho' 'twas broad bright day all round,A cock crow'd, and I thought the soundSeem'd pleasant. Twice or thrice hecrow'd,'And then up to the ranche I rode.Since then I've often heerd folk sayWhen a cock crows in open dayIt's a bad sign, announcin' clearBlack luck or death to those thet hear."When I drew up, all things were still.I saw the boys far up the hillTossin' the hay; but at the doorNo Cissy stood as oft afore.No, not a soul there, left nor right,Her very chicks were out o' sight.So down I jump'd, and 'Ciss!' I cried,But not a sign of her outside.With thet into the house I ran,But found no sight of gel or man —All empty. Thinks I, 'this is queer!' —Look'd in the dairy – no one theer;Then loiter'd round the kitchen' trackInto the orchard at the back:Under the fruit-trees' shade I pass'd…Thro' the green bushes… and at lastFound, as the furthest path I trode,The gel I wanted. Ye… s! by – !The gel I wanted – ay, I foundMore than I wanted, you'll be bound!Theer, seated on a wooden cheer,With bows and ribbons in her heer,Her hat a-swinging on a twigClose by, sat Ciss in her best rig,And at her feet that knowing one,The Apostle Hiram Higginson!They were too keen to notice me,So I held back behind a treeAnd watch'd'em. Never night nor dayDid I see Cissy look so gay,Her eyes all sparkling blue and bright,Her face all sanctified delight.She hed her gown tuck'd up to showEmbrider'd petticoat below,And jest a glimpse, below the white,Of dainty leg in stocking tightWith crimson clocks; and on her kneeShe held an open book, which he,Thet dem'd Apostle at her feet,With her low milking stool for seat,Was reading out all clear and pat,Keeping the place with finger fat;Creeping more close to book and letterTo feel the warmth of his text better,His crimson face like a cock's headWith his emotion as he read,And now and then his eyes he'd closeJest like a cock does when he crows!Above the heads of thet strange twoThe shade was deep, the sky was blue,The place was full of warmth and smell,All round the fruit and fruit-leaves fell,And that Saint's voice, when all wasstill,Was like the groanin' of a mill."At last he stops for lack of wind,And smiled with sarcy double-chinn'dFat face at Cissy, while she cried,Rocking herself from side to side,'O Bishop, them are words of bliss!'And then he gev a long fat kissOn her warm hand, and edged his stoolStill closer. Could a man keep coolAnd see it? Trembling thro' and thro'I walked right up to thet theer two,And caught the dem'd old lump of duffJest by the breeches and the scruff.And chuck'd him off, and with one kickSent his stool arter him right slick —While Cissy scream'd with frighten'd face,'Spare him! O spare that man of grace!'"'Spare him!' I cried, and gev a shout,'What's this yer shine you air about —What cuss is this that I jest seeWith that big book upon your knee,Cuddling up close and making shamTo read a heap of holy flam?'Then Cissy clasp'd her hands, and said,While that dem'd Saint sat fierce andred,Mopping his brow with a black frown,And squatting where I chuck'd him down,'Joe Wilson, stay your hand so bold,Come not a wolf into the fold;Forbear to touch that holy one —The Apostle Hiram Higginson.''Touch him,' said I, 'for half a pinI'd flay and quarter him and skin!Waal may he look so white and skeer'dFor of his doings I have heerd;Five wives he hev already done,And him – not half the man for one!'And then I stoop'd and took a peepAt what they'd studied at so deep,And read, for I can read a bit,'The Book of Mormon ' – what was writBy the first Saint of all the lot,Mad Joseph, him the Yankees shot.'What's the contents of this yer book?'Says I, and fixed her with a look.O Joe,' she answered, 'read aright,It is a book of blessed light —Thet holy man expounds it clear \Edification great is theer!'Then, for my blood was up, I tookOne kick at thet infernal book,And tho' the Apostle guv a cry,Into the well I made it fly,And turning to the Apostle cried,Tho' thet theer Scriptur' is your guide,You'd best depart without delay,Afore you sink in the same way!And sure as fate you'll wet your skinIf you come courting yer agin!'"At first he stared and puff'd and blew, —Git out!' I cried, and off he flew,And not till he was out o' reachShook his fat fist and found his speech.I turned to Cissy. 'Cicely Dunn,'Ses I, 'is this a bit of funOr eernest?' Reckon 'twas a sightTo see the way she stood upright,Rolled her blue eyes up, tried to speak,Made fust a giggle, then a squeak,And said half crying, 'I despiseYour wicked calumnies and lies,And what you would insinuateWon't move me from my blessed state.Now I perceive in time, thank hiven,You are a man to anger given,Jealous and vi'lent. Go away!And when you recollect this day,And those bad words you've said to me,Blush if you kin. Tehee! tehee!'And then she sobbed, and in her cheerFell crying: so I felt quite queer,And stood like a dern'd fool, and star'dWatchin' the pump a going hard;And then at last, I couldn't standThe sight no more, but slipt my handSharp into hers, and said quite kind,Say no more, Cissy – never mind;I know how queer you women's ways is —Let the Apostle go to blazes!'Now thet was plain and fair. With thisI would have put my arm round Ciss.But Lord! you should have seen her face,When I attempted to embrace;Sprang to her feet and gev a cry,Her back up like a cat's, her eyeAll blazing, and cried fierce and clear,You villain, touch me if you deer!'And jest then in the distance, furFrom danger, a voice echoed her, —The dem'd Apostle's, from some placeWhere he had hid his ugly face, —Crying out faint and thick and clear,Yes, villain, touch her if you deer!'So riled I was, to be so beat,I could have Struck her to my feetI didn't tho', tho' sore beset —I never struck a woman yet."But off I walked right up the pass,And found the men among the grass,And when I came in sight said flat,What's this yer game Cissy is at?She's thrown me off, and taken pityOn an Apostle from the City.Five wives already, too, has he —Poor cussed things as e'er I see —Does she mean mischief or a lark?'Waal, all the men at thet look'd dark,And scratch'd their heads and seem'd indoubt.At last her brother Jim spoke out —Joe, don't blame us– by George, it's true,We're chawed by this as much as you;We've done our best and tried and tried,But Ciss is off her head with pride,And all her thoughts, both night and day,Are with the Apostles fur away."O that I were in bliss with themTheer in the new Jerusalem!"She says; and when we laugh and sneer,Ses we're jest raging wolves down here.She's a bit dull at home d'ye see,Allays liked heaps of company,And now the foolish critter paintsA life of larks among the Saints.We've done our best, don't hev a doubt,To keep the old Apostle out:We've trained the dogs to seize and bite him,We've got up ghosts at night to fright him,Doctor'd his hoss and so upset him,Put tickle-grass in bed to fret him,Jalap'd his beer and snuffed his tea too,Gunpowder in his pipe put free too;A dozen times we've well-nigh kill'd him,We've skeer'd him, shaken him, and spiff'dhim;In fact, done all we deer,' said Jim,Against a powerful man like him;But all in vain we've hed our sport;Jest like a cat that can't be hurt,With nine good lives if he hev one.Is this same Hiram Higginson!'"V – JOE ENDS HIS STORY. – FIRST GLIMPSE OF UTAH
Joe paused, for down the mountain's browHis hastening horses trotted now.Into a canyon green and light,Thro' which a beck was sparkling light,Quickly we wound. Joe Wilson litHis cutty pipe, and suck'd at itIn silence grim; and when it drew,Puff after puff of smoke he blew,With blank eye fixed on vacancy.At last he turned again to me,And spoke with bitter indignationThe epilogue of his narration."Waal, stranger, guess my story's told,The Apostle beat and I was bowl'd.Reckon I might have won if IHad allays been at hand to try;But I was busy out of sight,And he was theer, morn, noon, and night,Playing his cards, and waal it weerFor him I never caught him theer.To cut the story short, I guessHe got the Prophet to say 'yes,'And Cissy without much adoGev her consent to hev him too;And one fine morning off they druvTo what he called the Abode of Love —A dem'd old place, it seems to me,Jest like a dove-box on a tree,Where every lonesome woman-soulSits shivering in her own hole,And on the outside, free to choose,The old cock-pigeon struts and coos.I've heard from many a one that CissHas found her blunder out by this,And she'd prefer for companyA brisk young chap, tho' poor, like me,Than the sixth part of him she's won —The holy Hiram Iligginson.I've got a peep at her since then,When she's crawl'd out of thet theer den,But she's so pale and thin and tameI shouldn't know her for the same,No flesh to pinch upon her cheek,Her legs gone thin, no voice to speak,Dabby and crush'd, and sad and flabby,Sucking a wretched squeaking baby;And all the fun and all the lightGone from her face, and left it white.Her cheek 'll take 'feeble flush,But hesn't blood enough to blush;Tries to seem modest, peart and sly,And brighten up if I go by,But from the corner of her eyesPeeps at me quietly, and sighs.Reckon her luck has been a stinger!She'd bolt if I held up my finger;But tho' I'm rough, and wild, and free,Take a Saint's leavings – no not me!You've heerd of Vampires – them that riseAt dead o' night with flaming eyes,And into women's beds'll creepTo suck their blood when they're asleep.I guess these Saints are jest the same,Sucking the life out is their game;And tho' it ain't in the broad sunOr in the open streets it's done,There ain't a woman they clap eyes onTheir teeth don't touch, their touch don't pison;Thet's their dem'd way in this yer spot —Grrr! git along, hoss! dem you, trot!"From pool to pool the wild beck spedBeside us, dwindled to a thread.With mellow verdure fringed aroundIt sang along with summer sound:Here gliding into a green glade;Here darting from a nest of shadeWith sudden sparkle and quick cry,As glad again to meet the sky;Here whirling off with eager willAnd quickening tread to turn a mill;Then stealing from the busy placeWith duskier depths and wearier paceIn the blue void above the beckSailed with us, dwindled to a speck,The hen-hawk; and from pools belowThe blue-wing'd heron oft rose slow,And upward pass'd with measured beatOf wing to seek some new retreat.Blue was the heaven and darkly bright,Suffused with throbbing golden light,And in the burning Indian rayA million insects hummed at play.Soon, by the margin of the stream,We passed a driver with his teamBound for the City; then a houndAfar off made a dreamy sound;And suddenly the sultry trackLeft the green canyon at our back,And sweeping round a curve, behold!We came into the yellow goldOf perfect sunlight on the plain;And Joe, abruptly drawing rein,Said quick and sharp, shading his eyesWith sunburnt hand, "See, theer itlies —Theer's Sodom!"And even as he cried,The mighty Valley we espied,Burning below us in one rayOf liquid light that summer day;And far away, 'mid peaceful gleamsOf flocks and herds and glistering streams,Rose, fair as aught that fancy paints,The wondrous City of the Saints!THE CITY OF THE SAINTS
O Saints that shine around the heavenly Seat!What heaven is this that opens at my feet?What flocks are these that thro' the golden gleamStray on by freckled fields and shining stream?What glittering roofs and white kiosks are these,Up-peeping from the shade of emerald trees?Whose City is this that rises on the sightFair and fantastic as a city of lightSeen in the sunset? What is yonder seaOpening beyond the City cool and free.Large, deep, and luminous, looming thro' the heat.And lying at the darkly shadowed feetOf the Sierrasy which with jagged lineBurning to amber in the light divine,Close in the Valley of the happy land,With heights as barren as a dead man's hand?O pilgrim, halt! O wandering heart, give praiseBehold the City of these Latter Days!Here may'st thou leave thy load and be forgiven,And in anticipation taste of Heaven!AMONG THE PASTURES. – SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE
BISHOP PETE, BISHOP JOSS, STRANGER
BISHOP PETEAh, things down here, as you observe, are gettingmore pernicious,And Brigham's losing all his nerve, altho' thefix is vicious.Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous place and fill'dour holy quivers,The Yankee comes with dern'd long face to giveus all the shivers!And on his jaws a wicked grin prognosticatesdisaster,And, jest as sure as sin is sin, he means to bethe master."Pack up your traps," I hear him cry, "for herethere's no remainin',"And winks with his malicious eye, and proguesus out of Canaan.BISHOP JOSSIt ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbournor the stranger —No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceivethe danger.The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helmwants hands to guide it,Tain't from without the tiler'll bust, but 'causeof steam inside it;Yet if we went falootin' less, and made lessnoise and flurry,It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in ahurry.But there's sedition east and west, and secretrevolution,There's canker in the social breast, rot in theconstitution;And over half of us, at least, are plunged in madvexation,Forgetting how our race increased, our verycreed's foundation.What's our religion's strength and force, itssubstance, and its story?STRANGERPolygamy, my friend, of course! the law of loveand glory!BISHOP PETEStranger, I'm with you there, indeed: – it's beenthe best of nusses;Polygamy is to our creed what meat and drinkto us is.Destroy that notion any day, and all the rest isbrittle,And Mormondom dies clean away like one inwant of vittle.It's meat and drink, it's life, it's power! toheaven its breath doth win us!It warms our vitals every hour! it's Holy Ghostwithin us!Jest lay that notion on the shelf, and all life'ssprings are frozen!I've half-a-dozen wives myself, and wish I had adozen!BISHOP JOSSIf all the Elders of the State like you were soundand holy,P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far lessmelancholy.You air a man of blessed toil, far-shining anddiscerning,A heavenly lamp well trimm'd with oil, upon thealtar burning.And yet for every one of us with equal resolu-tion,There's twenty samples of the Cuss, as mean asBrother Clewson.STRANGERSt. Abe?BISHOP JOSSYes, him– the snivelling sneak – his very nameprovokes me, —Altho' my temper's milky-meek, he sours meand he chokes me.To see him going up and down with those meeklips asunder,Jest like a man about to drown, with lead to sinkhim under,His grey hair on his shoulders shed, one leg thant'other shorter,No end of cuteness in his head, and him – asweak as water!BISHOP PETEAnd yet how well I can recall the time whenAbe was younger —Why not a chap among us all went for thenotion stronger.When to the mother-country he was sent to wakethe sinning,He shipp'd young lambs across the sea by flocks– he was so winning;O but he had a lively style, describing saintlyblisses!He made the spirit pant and smile, and seekseraphic kisses!How the bright raptures of the Saint fresh lustreseemed to borrow,While black and awful he did paint the one-wivedsinner's sorrow!Each woman longed to be his bride, and by hisside to slumber —"The more the blesseder!" he cried, still addingto the number.STRANGERHow did the gentleman contrive to change hisskin so quickly?BISHOP JOSSThe holy Spirit couldn't thrive because the Fleshwas sickly!Tho' day by day he did increase his flock, hissoul was shallow,His brains were only candle-grease, and wasteddown like tallow.He stoop'd a mighty heap too much, and let hishousehold rule him,The weakness of the man was such that any facecould fool him.Ay! made his presence cheap, no doubt, and socontempt grew quicker, —Not measuring his notice out in smallish drams,like liquor.His house became a troublous house, with mis-chief overbrimmin',And he went creeping like a mouse among thecats of women.Ah, womenfolk are hard to rule, their tricks ismost surprising,It's only a dern'd spoony fool goes sentimental-ising!But give'em now and then a bit of notice and apresent,And lor, they're just like doves, that sit on onegreen branch, all pleasant!But Abe's love was a queer complaint, a sort oftertian fever,Each case he cured of thought the Saint athorough-paced deceiver;And soon he found, he did indeed, with all theirwhims to nourish,That Mormonism ain't a creed where fleshlyfollies flourish.BISHOP PETEAh, right you air! A creed it is demandin' ironmettle!A will that quells, as soon as riz, the biling ofthe kettle!With wary eye, with manner deep, a spiritoverbrimmin',Like to a shepherd 'mong his sheep, the Saint is'mong his women;And unto him they do uplift their eyes in aweand wonder;His notice is a blessed gift, his anger is bluethunder.No n'ises vex the holy place where dwell thoseblessed parties;Each missus shineth in her place, and blithe andmeek her heart is!They sow, they spin, they darn, they hem, theirblessed babes they handle,The Devil never comes to them, lit by that holycandle!When in their midst serenely walks theirMaster and their Mentor,They're hush'd, as when the Prophet stalks downholy church's centre!They touch his robe, they do not move, thoseblessed wives and mothers,And, when on one he shineth love, no envy fillsthe others;They know his perfect saintliness, and honourhis affection —And, if they did object, I guess he'd settle thatobjection!BISHOP JOSSIt ain't a passionate flat like Abe can managethings in your way!They teased that most etarnal babe, till thingswere in a poor way.I used to watch his thorny bed, and bust mysides with laughter,Once give a female hoss her head you'll neverstop her after.It's one thing getting seal'd, and he was mightyfond of Sealing,He'd all the human heat, d'ye see, without thesaintly feeling.His were the wildest set of gals that ever droveman silly,Each full of freaks and fal-de-lals, as frisky as afilly.One pull'd this way, and t'other that, and madehis life a mockery,They'd all the feelings of a cat scampaging'mong the crockery.I saw Abe growing pale and thin, and well Iknew what ail'd him —The skunk went stealing out and in, and all hisspirit failed him;And tho' the tanning-yard paid well, and hewas money-making,His saintly home was hot as Hell, and, ah!how he was baking!Why, now and then at evening-time, when hisday's work was over,Up this here hill he used to climb and squatamong the clover,And with his fishy eye he'd glare across theRocky Mountains,And wish he was away up there, among theheavenly fountains!I had an aunt, Tabitha Brooks, a virgin underfifty,She warn't so much for pretty looks, but shewas wise and thrifty;She'd seen the vanities of life, was good at'counts and brewin' —Thinks I, "Here's just the sort of Wife to savepoor Abe from ruin."So, after fooling many a week, and showinghim she loved him,And seeing he was shy to speak, whateverfeelings moved him,At last I took her by the hand, and led her tohim straightway,One day when we could see him stand jest closeunto the gateway.My words were to the p'int and brief: says I,"My brother Clewson,There'll be an end to all your grief, if you've gotresolution.Where shall you find a house that thrives withouta head that's ruling?Here is the paragon of wives to teach thoseothers schooling!She'll be to you not only wife, but careful as amother —A little property for life is hers; you'll share it,brother.I've seen the question morn and eve within youreyes unspoken,You're slow and nervous I perceive, but now – theice is broken.Here is a guardian and a guide to bless a manand grace him;"And then I to Tabitha cried, "Go in, old gal-embrace him!"STRANGERWhy, that was acting fresh and fair; – but Abe,was he as hearty?BISHOP JOSSWe…ll! Abe was never anywhere against afemale party!At first he seemed about to run, and then wemight have missed him;But Tabby was a tender one, she collar'd himand kissed him.And round his neck she blushing hung, partholding, part caressing,And murmur'd, with a faltering tongue, "O, Abe,I'll be a blessing."And home they walk'd one morning, he justreaching to her shoulders,And sneaking at her skirt, while she staredstraight at all beholders.Swinging her bonnet by the strings, and settingher lips tighter,In at his door the old gal springs, her grim eyesgrowing brighter;And, Lord! there was the devil to pay, andlightning and blue thunder,For she was going to have her way, and holdthe vixens under;They would have torn old Abe to bits, theywere so anger-bitten,But Tabby saved him from their fits, as a catsaves her kitten.STRANGERIt seems your patriarchal life has got itsbotherations,And leads to much domestic strife and infinitevexations!But when the ladies couldn't lodge in peace onehouse-roof under,I thought that 'twas the saintly dodge to givethem homes asunder?BISHOP JOSSAnd you thought right; it is a plan by manyhere affected —Never by me– I ain't the man – I'll have my willrespected.BISHOP JOSS'S OWN DOMESTIC SYSTEMIf all the women of my house can't fondly pulltogether,And each as meek as any mouse, look out forstormy weather! —No, no, I don't approve at all of humouring mywomen,And building lots of boxes small for each oneto grow grim in.I teach them jealousy's a sin, and solitude's justbearish,They nuss each other lying-in, each other's babesthey cherish;It is a family jubilee, and not a selfish plea-sure,Whenever one presents to me another infanttreasure!All ekal, all respected, each with tokens ofaffection,They dwell together, soft of speech, beneath theirlord's protection;And if by any chance I mark a spark of shindyraising,I set my heel upon that spark, – before the housegets blazing!Now that's what Clewson should have done, butcouldn't, thro' his folly,For even when Tabby's help was won, he wasn'tmuch more jolly.Altho' she stopt the household fuss, and hushtthe awful riot,The old contrairy stupid Cuss could not enj'ythe quiet.His house was peaceful as a church, all solemn,still, and saintly;And yet he'd tremble at the porch, and lookabout him faintly;And tho' the place was all his own, with hat inhand he'd enter,Like one thro' public buildings shown, softtreading down the centre.Still, things were better than before, thoughsomewhat trouble-laden,.When one fine day unto his door there came aYankee maiden."Is Brother Clewson in?" she says; and whenshe saw and knew him,The stranger gal to his amaze scream'd out andclung unto him.Then in a voice all thick and wild, exclaim'd thatgal unlucky,"O Sir, I'm Jason Jones's child – he's dead—stabb'd in Kentucky!And father's gone, and O I've come to youacross the mountains."And then the little one was dumb, and Abe'seyes gushed like fountains…He took that gal into his place, and kept her ashis daughter —Ah, mischief to her wheedling face and the badwind that brought her!BISHOP PETEI knew that Jones; – used to faloot about Emanci-pation —It made your very toe-nails shoot to hear hisdeclamation.And when he'd made all bosoms swell withwonder at his vigour,He'd get so drunk he couldn't tell a white manfrom a nigger!Was six foot high, thin, grim, and pale, – histroubles can't be spoken —Tarred, feathered, ridden on a rail, left beaten,bruised, and broken;But nothing made his tongue keep still, or stopthis games improper,Till, after many an awkward spill, he came thefinal cropper.BISHOP JOSS… That gal was fourteen years of age, and slywith all her meekness;It put the fam'ly in a rage, for well they knewAbe's weakness.But Abe (a cuss, as I have said, that any foolmight sit on)Was stubborn as an ass's head, when once hetook the fit on!And, once he fixed the gal to take, in spite oftheir vexation,Not all the rows on earth would break his firmdetermination.He took the naggings as they came, he bowedhis head quite quiet,Still mild he was and sad and tame, and ate thepeppery diet;But tho' he seemed so crush'd to be, when thisor that one blew up,He stuck to Jones's Legacy and school'd her tillshe grew up.Well! there! the thing was said and done, andso far who could blame him?But O he was a crafty one, and sorrow couldn'tshame him!That gal grew up, and at eighteen was prettierfar and neater —There were not many to be seen about theseparts to beat her;Peart, brisk, bright-eyed, all trim and tight, likekittens fond of playing,A most uncommon pleasant sight at pic-nic orat praying.Then it became, as you'll infer, a simple publicduty,To cherish and look after her, considering herbeauty;And several Saints most great and blest nowoffer'd their protection,And I myself among the rest felt something ofaffection.But O the selfishness of Abe, all things it beatsand passes!As greedy as a two-year babe a-grasping atmolasses!When once those Shepherds of the flock beganto smile and beckon,He screamed like any lighting cock, and raisedhis comb, I reckon!First one was floor'd, then number two, shewouldn't look at any;Then my turn came, although I knew themaiden's faults were many."My brother Abe," says I, "I come untoe yourhouse at presentTo offer sister Anne a home which she will findmost pleasant.You know I am a saintly man, and all my waysare lawful" —And in a minute he began abusing me mostawful."Begone," he said, "you're like the rest, —wolves, Wolves with greedy clutches!Poor little lamb; but in my breast I'll shield herfrom your touches!""Come, come," says I, "a gal can't stay a childlike that for ever,You'll hev to seal the gal some day; " but Abecried fiercely, "Never!"Says I, "Perhaps it's in your view yourself thislamb to gather?"And "If it is, what's that to you?" he cried;"but I'm her father!You get along, I know your line, it's crushing,bullying, wearing,You'll never seal a child of mine, so go, anddon't stand staring!"This was the man once mild in phiz as anyfarthing candle —A hedgehog now, his quills all riz, whom noone dared to handle!But O I little guessed his deal, nor tried tocircumvent it,I never thought he'd dare to seal another; buthe meant it!Yes, managed Brigham on the sly, for fear hisplans miscarried,And long before we'd time to cry, the two weresealed and married.BISHOP PETEWell, you've your consolation now – he's pun-ished clean, I'm thinking,He's ten times deeper in the slough, up to hisneck and sinking.There's vinegar in Abe's pale face enough tosour a barrel,Goes crawling up and down the place, neglect-ing his apparel,Seems to have lost all heart and soul, has fits ofabsence shocking —His home is like a rabbit's hole when weaselscome a-knocking.And now and then, to put it plain, while fallingdaily sicker,I think he tries to float his pain by copious goesof liquor.BISHOP JOSSYes, that's the end of selfishness, it leads tolong vexation —No man can pity Abe, I guess, who knows hissituation;And, Stranger, if this man you meet, don't takehim for a sample,Although he speaks you fair and sweet, he's seta vile example.Because you see him ill at ease, at home, andnever hearty,Don't think these air the tokens, please, of areal saintly party!No, he's a failure, he's a sham, a scandal to ournation,Not fit to lead a single lamb, unworthy of hisstation;No! if you want a Saint to see, who rules lambswhen he's got 'em,Just cock your weather-eye at me, or BrotherShufflebotham.We don't go croaking east and west, afraid ofwomen's faces,We bless and we air truly blest in our domesticplaces;We air religious, holy men, happy our folds togather,Each is a loyal citizen, also a husband – rather.But now with talk you're dry and hot, andweary with your ride here.Jest come and see my fam'ly lot, – they're waitingtea inside here.