  One mornin’, not long after Miss Bobbet’s visit, I was a doin’ up my mornin’s work. I had been a little belated, for my companion Josiah, while fodderin’, had been took in his back sudden and violent with a stitch. He is subject to such stitches, but they are very painful and inconvenient. All the way he could walk round the house was by leanin’ upon a broom-stick. He found the broom-handle in the barn, and come in leanin’ heavy on it, and groanin’ powerful and frequent. It skairt me awfully. I never hinted to him that I thought more’n as likely as not that stitch was sent as a judgment; no, I held firm, and kep’ my tongue still with almost giant force. That day, when the sun had rose up clear and lofty in the heavens, was the time I had calculated to tackle him. But I was too honorable to tackle a pardner who was down with a stitch. No, I treated him well, bathed his back in linament, ELDER JUDAS WART. As I said, I was a washin’ up my dishes in the buttery, when all of a sudden in walked Elder Judas Wart. The door was open, it bein’ a pleasant mornin’, and he jest rapped at the side of the door, and walked in. I guess he didn’t see Josiah, the lounge bein’ kinder behind the door; but he seemed dretful tickled to see me—tickleder fur than I was. Though, havin’ my mission in view, I used him well, and sot him a chair. But little did I think what was before me; little did I think what the awfulness of his first words to me would be. He hadn’t been in that house five minutes, for I know I had only jest hung up my dish-cloth (for knowin’ what a tussle of principle was ahead of me, and feelin’ as if I should need all my strength in the conflict, I left the heaviest of my dishes to wash at noon, for the first time in over fourteen months). Wall, if you can believe it, jest as I got that dish-cloth RESCUING THE ELDER. “I have heard, and I see for myself, that you are a very smart woman, and you could do wonders in the true church if you was married to some leadin’ man,—to me, for instance,” says he, bold as brass, “or was sealed to me,” says he, spittin’ hard onto the floor. But that man hadn’t hardly got that seal and that tobacco-juice out of his mouth, when Josiah Allen sprung up and leveled that broom-stick at him with a deadly aim. I sprung forward and threw the end of the broom-stick up jest in time to save the Elder’s life. I wanted Josiah to stay his hand and the broom-stick for two reasons. One was, I didn’t want the Elder killed quite so quick—not till after I had had a chance to convert him. And another reason was, I thought of my deep agony and a Widder Bump, and thinkses I to myself, though the medicine is fearful to administer, as gaulin’ and bitter as wormwood and sicuta biled down in tar and vinegar, still I felt it was what my companion needed to show him the nefariousness and heniousness of Mormonism, in its true light. I wouldn’t in his present weakness of mind and back, throw the Widder Bump in his face, as I might have done. Some pardners would have jest turned round on him, as he lay there on that lounge, and throwed that woman full and square in his face. But I didn’t. I see he was a sufferin’ enough without that. He was takin’ the matter to himself like a blister, as anybody has got to, in order to feel the smart. A blister don’t draw half so powerful, nor feel half so bad, when it is on somebody else’es back, as it does when it is on our’n. He was a meditatin’ how it would seem to his heart to lose the companion of his youth and middle age. He was a eatin’ of that sass which ganders think is quite good for geese to eat. He was seein’ now how it would relish to a gander. I But Elder Judas Wart had no such feelin’s of pity and sympathy, and bein’ excited by Josiah’s ragin’ wrath, and maddened by the broom-stick, he spoke out, in a angry, sarcastical tone: “Your husband felt different on this subject last spring. He seemed almost inclined at one time to take to himself another helpmate. There was a certain widder, there”— “You lie, sir!” says Josiah, springin’ up to his feet. “There wuzn’t no widder there, and I never was there.” “Never was where?” says I, in a awful voice; for curiosity and various other emotions was a hunchin’ me, as hard as ever a woman was hunched by ’em. “I never was anywhere! I never was to their meetin’s, nor to nowhere else.” “Where wuz you, then?” says I, in that same strange voice. “I told you I wuzn’t nowhere, didn’t I?” he yelled out in fearful axents. But Elder Judas Wart went right on a talkin’ to me, stiddy as fate, and as hard to be turned round as she. “He seemed then to look at the Widder”— “I never looked at a widder! I never see none! I never see a widder in my life!” Says I: “Josiah Allen, be calm!” “I tell you I won’t be calm! And I tell you there hain’t no widders there—nor hain’t never been any—nor nowhere else—nor I never heard of any.” “He seemed then to look favorably upon the widder I have lately espoused. The Widder Bump; don’t you remember her?” “No! I don’t remember no such widder, and I don’t believe there was any by that name.” “Why,” says I, “Josiah Allen, she made that coat you have got on. Don’t you remember it?” “No! I don’t! She didn’t make it! It wuzn’t made! I never had none.” “Why, Josiah Allen,” says I, “what will become of you if you tell such stories?” “There won’t nothin’ become of me, nor never will; there never has nothin’ become of me.” But jest as he said this, the stitch ketched him agin powerful and strong, and he sunk down on the lounge, a groanin’ violent. I see he was delerious with pain of body, and fur deeper, more agonizin’ pain of mind, contrition, shame, remorse, and various other emotions. And then, oh, the strength and power of woman’s love! As that man lay there, with all his past weakness and wickedness brought out before me, stricken with agony, remorse, and stitches, I loved him, and I pitied him. I felt that devoted, yearnin’, tender feelin’ for him to that extent that I felt in my heart that if it were possible I could take that stitch upon me, and I reviled my pardner not, but covered him tenderly up with my old woolen shawl, sot the broomstick up against the lounge, and he lay there and never said another word, only at intervals—when a pain of uncommon size would ketch him in his back or conscience, he would groan loud and agonizin’. But I see it was no use to argue with him then about the Widder Bump. But if you’ll believe it, I can’t make him to this day say nothin’ different. I have had a great many talks with him on the subject, but, he says, “She is a woman he never see.” And the nearest I ever made him own up to it was once when I had talked real good to him, talked to him about his past wickedness and tottlin’ morals, and told him how I knew his morals was straightened and propped up now, good and sound, and his affections stabled and firm sot where they should be sot. I talked awful good to him, and he seemed to be sort o’ melted down. And he owned up “that it did seem to him as if he had heard, when he was a child, of a woman by that name, that lived somewhere near here. It was either that name, or Bumper—he couldn’t for his life tell which.” And I gin up then. Truly there are strange pages As I said, havin’ the aim in my mind that I did have, havin’ a desire to let Josiah Allen get a full taste of that sass that he, as well as other ganders, find is fur different to eat themselves, and to stand haughtily on one leg (to foller out the gander simely) and see their mates eat it. Havin’ a desire to let him get a full glimpse of the awful depth and blackness and horrer of the abyss he had suspended himself over, I did not rebuke Elder Judas Wart as I should, had it not been for that. I merely told him, when he said sunthin’ agin about my bein’ sealed to him—I merely said to him, with dignity and firmness: Says I, “If you say that word seal to me agin, I’ll seal you in a way you won’t never want to be sealed!” Says I, in still more awful tones, glancin’ at the bilin’ teakettle, “If you say that word to me agin in my house, I’ll scald you, if it is the last work I ever do in my life, and I am hung for it the next minute.” My face was red; I was fearfully excited with my almost giant efforts to control myself. To think that he should dare to approach me! me! Josiah Allen’s wife! with his infamous offer. He see that my looks was gettin’ terrible and scareful, and he hastened to say: “I meant it in a religious way.” And I was that excited and mad, that I spoke right up and says, “Wall! I’ll scald you in a religious way;” Says he, in a sort of a apologizin’, meachin’ way, “It is my religion to marry various wives.” HOT WATER. “Wall,” says I, still clingin’ to my simely, as great oriters always do, “It is my religion to scald you, if you don’t stop your insultin’ talk instantly and to once! You can’t talk no such stuff in the house of her who was once Smith,” says I, glancin’ agin at the teakettle, and steppin’ up a little nearer to it. “Be composed, mum,” says he, a hitchin’ up his Says I, “You can’t never make me think a crime can be committed religiously.” And agin I looked longin’ly at that teakettle. “Compose yourself down, mum, and let us argue for a brief spell,” says he. His tone was sort o’ implorin’ and beseechin’. And he took a plug of tobacco out of his coat-pocket, and bit a great chew off’en it, and put it into his mouth, I s’pose to try to show off and make himself attractive. But good land! how foolish it was in him. He didn’t look half so well to me as he did before, and that hain’t sayin’ but a very little, a very little indeed. He wadded the tobacco all up on one side of his mouth, till his cheek stood out some like a wen, and the tobacco-juice started and run down on each side of his chin. And so, havin’ fixed himself, I s’pose, so his looks suited him, he says agin: “Less argue the subject.” I see that here was the chance I had wanted to convince him of his iniquity. I see that Duty was leadin’ a war-horse up in front of me all saddled and bridled, ready for me to mount and career onward nobly on the path of Right. “LESS ARGUE.” I see that Duty was holdin’ in this charger by the martingills with one hand, and with the other she was holdin’ out a pair of spurs to me. And though never, never, did a war-horse look so prancin’ and dangerous And he went on to tell me that in the first place he wanted to lay before me the rise, progress, and glory of the Mormon Church. Says he, “In the first place, you know, mum, that God made a distinct revelation to us. Our bible was found written on plates of gold. Them plates”— I am naturally very well-bread. And thinkin’ mebby it would influence him towards the right, I didn’t lay out to interrupt him, or disturb his arguments, till he had got through presentin’ of ’em. But the idee of such imposture—imposture in the name of God—so worked on me, that I spoke right out, in a firm, dignified tone, but very solemn: “Elder Judas Wart, you jest pass them plates.” Says he: “Why should I pass ’em? The revelation of God is written on ’em.” “Revelation!” says I. “I should jest as soon go into my buttery, and read my meat plates and platters, as to read ’em. I should find jest as much of a revelation on ’em.” And agin I says, with dignity: “You pass them plates.” Says he: “I wont pass ’em.” And he begun agin, in a sort of a boastin’ way: “September 22, 1827, the Says I: “Hain’t I told you to pass them plates? Your bible is a romance writ by Solomon Spaulding jest for fun, jest to see how near he could write like the bible. And it is a powerful lesson to me, and should be to everybody, of the terrible harvest that may spring up from one careless, thoughtless deed. The awful consequences, the sin, and the woe that followed that one irreverent, thoughtless act might well make us all more thoughtful, more mindful of the terrible responsibility that follows all our acts, the smallest as well as the greatest. We can’t shake off that personal responsibility. It follers us tight as our shadders even into our hours of recreation, showin’ us that we should not only work nobly, but recreate nobly and innocently and reverently.” “But,” says he “them plates”— But I was so rousted up with my emotions, that I waved out my right hand with awful dignity, and says I: “You shall pass them plates.” And I held firm, and made him pass ’em. And he went to bringin’ up the miracles that had been done by the early church—curing the lame and deaf, healing the sick, and et cetery, and so forth. Says he: “I have heard that you are a woman that loves reason and fair play,” and says he, “you can’t get over those miracles, can you?” “You are unreasonable, mum,” says he. “I don’t mean to be,” says I. “I have allowed all you want me to, and more too. What more can you want?” “You deride our holy church. Our church foundered on the Commandments of God.” “Which one?” says I enquirin’ly. “Which one?” says he haughtily. “Every one of ’em; every one of ’em.” “Wall,” says I calmly and reasonably, but with quite a lot of dignity, “we’ll see.” And I was risin’ up to go and get the Bible offen the stand, for I was determined he should see ’em in black and white, when he spoke out haughtily and proudly: Says I: “There is different ways of carryin’ things in the heart. But that is a deep subject, and I will not begin to episode upon it, for if I should begin, no knowin’ how fur I should episode to, but will merely say that there is other ways of carryin’ things in your heart besides carryin’ ’em in your vest pocket. But howsumever, read off the first one.” And he read it: “Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.” He read it off jest like a text. And the minute he stopped I begun to talk on it a good deal like preachin’, only shorter; but with jest about the same dignity and mean that preachers have. Says I, in that firm, preachin’ tone: “You have made Brigham Young a God. Your preacher, whom you call a ‘model saint,’ openly avowed that he was God. You have pretended to believe, and have taught to the people his blasphemus doctrine that he had power to save souls in the heavenly kingdom, or to shut ’em out of it.” Says I: “I could spread out this awful idee, and cover hours with it, and then not make it very thin, either; there is so much that could be He was goin’ to branch out and say sunthin’, but I held to my first idee, and wouldn’t let him. I told him if I argued with him at all, he had got to read those Commandments off jest like texts, and let me preach on ’em. I told him after I had got through with ’em, then he could rise up and explain his mind, and talk; but jest at present it was the commands of God I wanted to hear—not the words of Elder Judas Wart. And I held firm, and made him. And when he would begin to argue I would call for another one, and kep’ him at it. “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image * * * * thou shalt not bow down to them, nor serve them”— Says I: “You have done that and worse. You have worshipped and revered an image of clay—rather weak clay, too, though held up by a mighty will and ambition. Why, most anybody would say that a graven image would be sounder than he was—more sort o’ solid and substantial. Anyway, it wouldn’t wobble round as he wobbled, preachin’ one thing to-day, and denyin’ it to-morrow, jest as his own interests dictated. And the graven image wouldn’t have been so selfish and graspin’ and unscrupulus. It would have been fur honester, and wouldn’t have wanted more’n a hundred wives. But that image of clay, such as it was, you sot up and worshipped, and you needn’t deny it.” “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.” Says I, in a firm, awful axent, “You have taken it in vain, the weakest kind of vanity, and you have taken it wickedly, the wickedest kind of wickedness, in darin’ to commit this sin in the name of God.” Says he, “Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.” Says I, “You have kept it holy, by teachin’ this unholy sin. By assemblin’ at the tabernacle to listen to words so low, and vulgar, and weak that they would be contemptible, if they were not so wicked and blasphemous.” Says he, “Honor thy father and thy mother.” He spoke up awful quick and some haughty. He felt what I had said, I knew it by his mean, and he seemed to read this with a air as if this was sunthin’ he could lean aginst hard, and nobody could bender its bein’ a support to him. He looked sort o’ independent and overbearin’ at me as he finished readin’ it, and he spit on the floor in a sort of a proud way. But I went right on, in a deep and impressive axent, and says I, “You have made that commandment impossible for your children to follow. You have wickedly deprived your children of one of the holiest and most sacred things in life. A child’s right to honor the parents they love, and feel it their duty to reverence. MOUNTAIN MEADOWS. MOUNTAIN MEADOWS. Says he, “Thou shalt not kill.” Says I, “The teachers of your religion say, Thou shalt kill, if it is for the safety and enrichment of the Mormon church. And, following their commands instead of God’s, you killed one hundred and 20 innocent He looked meachin’, very. He didn’t try to argue on this—he couldn’t, for he knew I could prove what I had said. And he looked meachiner yet, as he read the next one: “Thou shalt not commit adultery.” Says I, “The hull Mormon church is built up on the ruins of this broken commandment, and you know it. And you teach this doctrine, that the more pieces you break this commandment into, the higher it is goin’ to boost you up into heaven. The meaner and lower you be on earth, the higher place you will have in the heavenly kingdom—” Says he, interruptin’ of me with a look of fearful meach restin’ on his eyebrow, and speakin’ up dretful quick: “Thou shalt not steal.” Says I, “Your church teaches, ‘thou shalt steal.’ And you have to do it too, and you know it.” Says he, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighber.” Says I, “Ask the unhappy Gentiles who have incurred “Thou shalt not covet”—and he said over the hull on ’em—wife, property, and maidservant. Says I, “Your church teaches thou shalt covet ’em, every one of ’em, and get ’em, too, the hull on ’em—wife, property, and maidservant, ’specially the maidservant.” He quailed. And right there, while he was a quailin’, I spoke, and says coldly: “Now, Elder Judas Wart, you have read off the commandments of God, one by one, and I have preached on ’em; now tell me, and tell me plain, which one do you lean on the hardest?” Says he, “As it were—that is, you know—” “No!” says I, with dignity, “I don’t know, nor you don’t, nuther.” Says he, “I—that is—you—you are unreasonable, mum.” And he looked curious, and spit fiercely onto the stone hearth and the floor. “I don’t mean to be,” says I. “I sot out in this talk with principles as hefty as I ever hefted in my life, and if I hain’t a good judge of the common heft of principles, nobody ever was. Why,” says I, “the rights and wrongs of my sect has for years been held nearer to my heart than any earthly object, exceptin’ my Josiah. And I can tell you, and tell you plain, Says he: “As it were, you know.” “No, I don’t know it,” says I warmly. “Nor I never shall know it.” He acted embarassed and skairt, and well he might. Why, the abomination of their doctrine is so abominable, that when it is presented to ’em in a eloquent, high-toned way by a woman who talks but little, but that little earnest and deep; when she places it before ’em in the axent she always handles when talkin’ on principle, and with the soarin’, deep look of her spectacles she always uses on them occasions—why, it is enough to skair anybody to death. But in a moment or so he sort o’ rousted up, and says he: “If you think so much of female wimmen as you say you do, I should think you would think about what the position of these plural wives would be if polygimy were abolished. What would they be thought of? What would they be?” Says I, in awful tones: “What be they now?” “Wall,” says he, “if they should be divorced they wouldn’t be looked upon as they are now.” “No,” says I, “that is very true; they wouldn’t, not at all, not by me.” Says he: “They would be looked down upon more.” Says I, with dignity: “Stoppin’ sinnin’ hadn’t ort to make anybody thought less on,” says I. Says he: “If they was divorced their situation would be very painful and humiliatin’.” Says I, very dryly: “It is now, in my estimation.” Says I: “They wouldn’t be scorned, not by anybody whose scorn would be worth havin’. Nobody but a fool or a luny is in the habit of blamin’ folks for doin’ what they can’t help doin’, and bein’ what they can’t help bein’. Blame the childern! Why, good land!” says I, “I should jest as soon set out and scold a mornin’-glory or a white violet for the looks of the ground they sprung from. God’s own purity is writ in the clear eyes of babyhood, and in the blue heart of them mornin’-glories. Blossoms of light, mornin’-glories, springin’, God knows how or why, out of the black mould, out of darkness and decay. Who could look scoffin’ly or irreverently on ’em, or on them other blossoms of innocence, springin’ as mysteriously from as dark a soil, and touched by the hand of God with as pure and divine a beauty.” “Unpractical, unpractical female, led away as females ever are by sympathies and views of right and wrong. Oh! thank Heaven! thank Heaven! such dangerous qualities are not incorporated into politics. I should tremble for the nation if it were so.” And agin he looked fiercely at the stove-hearth. “Unpractical female, what would become of the childern left, as it were, fatherless?” Says I: “If the parents of the childern are rich “But what would the position of these wimmen be in society; what would they be?” “What be they now?” says I agin. And I snapped out that “now” considerable snappish, for I was gettin’ a good deal wore out with him. Says I: “You seem to think it would be the death-blow to their reputation to stop sinnin’, stop livin’ in wickedness; but there is where you and I differ. I should think as much agin of ’em.” And says I: “If a evil is a goin’ to stop, it has got to begin to stop sometime, or else it won’t never get stopped. More of these unholy unions have taken place durin’ the past year than ever before in the same length of time. Powerful efforts are bein’ made to strengthen and extend the power of the system. And it must either be stopped, or else go on widening and spreading, and destroying this beautiful new world as it destroyed so many other strong, proud nations that were glorious in the past.” Says I: “Can I set still and see it go on, and can Josiah set still, and other female Here Josiah groaned aloud. He had his thoughts there on that lounge, though he lay middlin’ still. His thoughts goared him worse than that stitch did, ten times over. And I felt sorry for him, my feelin’s for him are such; and I brought his name in in a friendly way, just because my love for him was so strong, and I forgive him so. Says I: “Elder Judas Wart, I won’t take you back to the old Jewish nations, round by Italy, Spain, and other roundabout ways, as I might do, and as some wimmen who are more talkative than I be probable would, and show you all the way the ruins of the nations ruined by this crime of polygimy. But I am a woman who says but little, but that little I mean, and I will merely hold up Turkey before you. And while I am holdin’ up that Turkey, I will merely mention the fact to you, that you and everybody else knows, and that Turkey knows it well, and if it should speak up and own the truth it would say that it was the effects of this system that made it so weak and impotent. Weaker as a nation than our old turkey-gobbler; fur weaker than a hen-turkey. (I make use of the gobbler as a poetical metafor, and would wish to be so understood.) “Will not America and Josiahs heed these warnin’s?” says I, lookin’ right up at the ceilin’, in a rapped way. “Will they not listen to the voice of I sithed, I almost wept—I was so fearfully agitated—and says I: “If this threat’nin’ doom that threatens our beloved land is to be averted, if this evil is to be stopped, when is there a better time than the present to stop it in, now,” says I, wipin’ my eyes on my apron, “now, while America has got me to help her?” And agin I sithed, and agin I almost shed tears, and wept. He see my agitation, and took advantage of it. Says he: “You seem to be tender-hearted, Josiah Allen’s wife, and to have a great affection for the female sect, and yet you don’t seem to think of the hearts that Says I, lookin’ out of the open window, fur away over the tree-tops, over the blue lake beyond—and beyond— My spectacles seemed to look very fur off. They had a very deep and sort o’ soarin’ look to ’em, somewhat happy, and somewhat sorrowful and solemn. And says I: “I don’t know as there has any law ever been made, in Heaven or on earth, that we had got to be happy. There is a law made that we should do right, should not do evil, but not that we must be happy. Why, some paths we have to foller lead right away from “That path always leads to something better, more beautiful, more divine.” “What can be better than happiness?” says he, in a enquirin’ way. “Blessedness!” says I. “The two hain’t to be compared no more than a flower growin’ out of earthly soil is to be compared to one springin’ up in the valleys of God. One is lit with earth’s sun, and the other is shinin’ with Heaven’s own light. One is mortal, the other immortal.” Says he, still follerin’ up his old theme, still tryin’ to head me off in some way: Says I firmly: “If they suffered from the wrenchin’ away of old ties, I should be sorry for ’em to that extent that there wouldn’t be a sithe left in my breast, nor a dry eye in my head. At the same time, if they made the sacrifice willin’ly, from a sense of duty, for the ransom of their people, for the deliverance of the land from peril, my very soul would kneel in reverence to them, and they should be honored by all as those who come out of great tribulations. “But,” says I, in a slower, more thoughtful way, “there is different kinds of tribulations. And you can look at subjects with the sentimental eye of your specks, and then agin you can turn the other eye onto ’em. And in lookin’ through that other eye at ’em, you might possibly see that the married life of these plural wives is wretched—full of jealousies, divisions, and sizms. “Woman’s love, when it has room to grow, is a tremendous thing to spread itself. But (still lookin’ through that common sense eye of our specks) we would say that the divine plant of love can’t grow so thrifty in one-twentieth part of a man’s heart as it could in a more expanded and roomy place. We would say (still lookin’ through that eye) that it was too cramped a spot—some like growin’ a oak in a bottle. You can make it sprout; but there can’t be so deep roots nor so strong a strength to it, and it “And so, to foller up the simely, as simelys ort to be follered, we would think that the first wife is the one who would suffer most; she who thought she was marryin’ a hull man, who dwelt for awhile in a hull heart, and whose affections, therefore, had naturally took deep root, and spread themselves. We would say (still lookin’ through that eye of the speck, and still follerin’ up simelys) that she is the one who would be most wrung with agony.” “Wall,” says Elder Judas Wart, seemin’ly ketchin’ holt of the first argument that presented itself in front of his mind, for truly he didn’t seem to care how crooked his argument was, nor how wobblin’. Says he: “Sufferin’ is a divine agent to draw souls heavenward.” “Yes, heaven-sent sufferin’,” says I, “will draw our hearts up nearer to the heavenly home it come from. But when sufferin’ comes up from below, from another place, scented with brimstone, and loaded with iniquity, it will do its best to draw us down to it where it come from.” “Pain sometimes teaches divine lessons,” says Elder Judas Wart. And I never see a mouth puckered and twisted down into a more hypocritical pucker than hisen was. Says I: “Don’t you s’pose I know that?” And “Don’t I know,” says I, “that no soul has reached its full might, no soul has ever really lived, till it has learned to bless God for the divine ministry of sorrow? Don’t I certainly know that of all God’s angels the one who brings us divinest gifts is the blessed angel of Pain?” And I went on again, in that fearfully eloquent way of mine, when I get entirely rousted up in eloquence, and know not where I am, or who is hearin’ of me, or why, or which: “If we bar this angel from our door, resist her gentle voice pleadin’ at our heart, woe be to us; for she can come as a avenger, a destroyer. But if we greet her as indeed a heavenly visitant, believe that God sent her, hold her in our weak arms close to our hearts, she gives us divinest strength. “Though we turn away, and fear her greeting, we find that the touch of her lips on our burning brow leaves calm. She lays on our throbbing, aching hearts soft hands of peace. Her eyes have a sorry look for us, that make our tears flow, and then we see that those sad, sweet eyes are looking up from earth to where our own, tear-blinded, are fain to follow—up beyond the vail, into that beautiful city where our treasures and our hopes are. AN ANGEL OF PEACE. AN ANGEL OF PEACE. To no other angel has God given the power to so reveal to us the glory and the mystery of life and of death. No other hand but hers has such power to unlock the very doors of heaven and send down into our hearts heaven’s peace and glory. Don’t I know this? don’t I know that in the hour of our bitterest sorrow, our deepest affliction, when the “Yes, the crosses this angel brings us from a lovin’ Father we will bear in God’s name. But,” says I, firmly, “other folks must do as they are a mind to; but I never will, not if I know it, bend my back, and let old Belzebub lay one of his crosses acrost my shoulder-blades. No, I will throw off that cross, and stamp onto it. And this cross of Mormonism is one of hisen, if he ever had one. It is made out of Belzebub’s own timber, nailed together by man’s selfishness and brutality and cruelty, the very worst part of his nature. It is one of the very heaviest crosses ever tackled by wimmen, and bore along by ’em, wet with their blood and sweat and tears. And Samantha will do her best to stamp onto ’em, every one of ’em, and break ’em up into kindlin’-wood, and build fires with ’em to burn up this putryfyin’ crime of polygimy, root and branch; make a cleansin’ blaze of it to try to purify God’s sweet air it has defiled.” “Oh!” says Elder Judas Wart, with a low deep groan, “oh! how unpractical females always are. Females are carried away by their sympathies and And I was so beat out by my eloquent emotions (such emotions are beautiful to have by you, but fatiguin’ to handle, as I handle ’em, and I can’t deny it); and bein’ also almost completely out of wind, I sot still, and let him go on. And he talked, I should judge, well on to a quarter of a hour about Communism, Socialism, its principles, its rise, and progress; and I let him go on, and didn’t hardly say a word, only I would merely throw in little observations occasionally, such as, when he argued that everybody should own the same amount of property, and there should be no rich and no poor. I merely threw in this question to him: Whether he thought shiftlessness and laziness should have the same reward as industry and frugality? And when he was a goin’ on about everybody bein’ educated the same so one could not be intellectually superior to the other, I simply asked him whether he thought Nature was a Socialist. Says he: “Why?” “Oh!” says I, “I was a thinkin’ if she was one, she didn’t live up to her belief. She didn’t equalize brains and thrift and economy.” “No,” says I, coldly, “I don’t know it, nor I never did. I know,” says I, lookin’ keen at him, “that some are born almost fools, and keep on so; and some,” says I, with a sort of modest, becomin’ look, “some are very smart.” He kep’ perfectly still for a minute, or mebby a minute and a ½. he seemed to collect his strength agin, and broke out, in a loud, haughty tone: “The fault of our old civilization is that property is controlled by the few. How can a man have the same love for his home, for his hearth-stone, if he works the land of some great landed proprietor? In case of war, now, foreign invasion, if each man owned property of his own, if each man was a Mormon, in fact, he would be fighting for his own interest; not for the interest of some great landed lord. He would be fightin’ for his own hearth-stone; the sacred and holy hearth-stone.” Says I, in reasonable axents: “I hain’t a word to aginst the sacredness of the hearth-stun. I hain’t a word to say aginst the stun. But wouldn’t it be apt to take off a little of the sacredness of the stun to have thirty or forty wimmen a settin’ on it; each claimin’ it as her own stun? Wouldn’t it have to be a pretty large stun, and a pretty firm one, to stand the gusts and whirlwinds of temper that would be raised round it? And to tell the plain truth, Elder Judas Wart, don’t you believe that every man that owned such a stun, and 30 He never said one word in answer to this deep argument, he see it was too deep and sound for him to grapple with; but he kep’ right on, and says, thinkin’ mebby it would skair me, says he: “Our order was founded by Thalos of Chalcedon.” “Wall,” says I, “Mr. Thalos is a man that I hain’t no acquaintance with,—I, nor Josiah; so I can’t form any opinion what sort of a character he has got, or what for a man he would be to neighbor with.” Says he, in a still prouder and haughtier way: “Plato believed in it.” “How do you know?” says I. “He never told me that he did. If he had, I should have argued sound with him.” And says I, lookin’ keen and searchin’ at him: “Did he tell you that he believed in it?” says I. “You can hear most anything.” “Why, no,” says he, “he didn’t tell me. He died twenty-two hundred years ago.” “Wall,” says I, coolly, “I thought you got it by hearsay. I didn’t believe you got it from the old gentleman himself, or from any of his relations. I remember Mr. Plato myself, now. I have heard “Why some of his dialogues are almost as keen and sensible and flowery as them that have taken place between a certain woman that I won’t mention the name of, and her pardner Josiah. Why, jest the fact that he got sold once for talkin’ so plain in the cause of Right, endeared him to me. And the fact that he didn’t fetch only twenty minnys (and we all know what small fish they be) didn’t make him seem any the less valuable to me. No, not at all so; it wouldn’t, if he hadn’t fetched more than one little chub. “Them views of his’en, them witherin’ idees aginst tyrany that he was preachin’ to a tyrent, whales couldn’t lug, nor sharks. They was too big and hefty to be bought or sold. But because Mr. Plato was all right in some things, we mustn’t think he was in all. We are apt to think so, and we are apt to think that that because a gulf of a thousand or two years lay between us and a certain person, that it seperates them from all our mortal errors and simplicities. “But it hain’t so. That old man had other human weaknesses besides writin’ poetry. I persume Miss Mr. and Mrs. Plato. I riz right up in a awful dignity and power, and I says, in a tone that was fearful to hear, it was so burnin’ indignant: “You say that agin in my house, if you dare.” He dassent, my tone was such. He never said a word, but sot kinder scroochin’ and meachin’ on his chair, and I went on, resumin’ my seat agin, knowin’ as I did that my principles was so hefty I had better save myself all the extra weariness that I could. Says I: “You dare to say that He, the Deliverer of His people from sin and evil—He, the Teacher of all purity, morality, honesty, and all Christian virtues, who came bringin’ peace on earth, good will to men—He, who taught that a man should have one wife, and be tender and constant to her, even as He loved the Church and gave Himself for it—He, whose life was so pure and self-denyin’ and holy that it brought the divine down to the comprehension of the human—the love and purity of God manifest in the flesh—how dare you tell me that He was a Mormon?” He dassent say it agin. He dast as well die as to say it. I s’pose, in fact I know, from my feelin’s which I was a feelin’, that my mean was awfuler and more majesticker than it had been for years and years. Says he, “As it were—” and then he stopped short off, seemin’ly to collect his thoughts together, and then But finally he says, “We read of this sect in the Bible, anyway. The Essenes was Mormons, or sort o’ Mormony,” says he, glancin’ at me and then at the teakettle, in a sort of a fearful way. But says I, coldly, “We read in the Bible of droves of swine that was full of evil spirits; and we read in it of lunaticks, and barren fig-trees, and Judas, and the—the David—callin’ him David, as a Methodist and member of the meetin’-house, who does not want to say Satan if she can possibly help it. “Now,” says I, “you have brought up every commandment of God, and I have preached on ’em, and you find every one of ’em is aginst you—the old law, and the divine new law made manifest in Christ. Now,” says I, coolly, leanin’ back in my chair, full of martyrdom and eloquence and victory and everything, “bring on your next argument, bring it right here, and let me lay holt of it, and vanquish it, and overthrow it” “Wall,” says he, “I hold that the perfect faith that thousands have in our religion and its founder, is one of the very strongest proofs of its divine origin.” “I don’t think so,” says I. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, but things don’t always turn out to be what you hoped they was. Now, there is hash, “And I might foller up this strikin’ simely of hash into other eloquent metafors, such as pills, preachin’, wimmen’s complexion, and etcetery. Some is good and true, and some hain’t good and true, but they all find somebody to believe in ’em. “This is a very deep subject, and solemn, if handled solemnly. I have handled it only in a light parable way, showin’ that them that do honestly believe in this Mormon doctrine, if there are any, are partakin’ (unbeknown to them) of a hash that is full of abomination and uncleanness, full of humiliation, sorrow, and degradation. Oh!” says I, fallin’ back on the side of the subject nearest to my heart, “when I think of the woes of my sect there in Utah, I feel feelin’s that never can be told or sung. No, there never could be a tune made mournful and solemn enough to sing ’em in.” Says he, bold as brass, and not thinkin’ how he was a wobblin’ round in his argument, “They enjoy it.” Says I, firm as Bunker Hill, and as lofty, “They don’t enjoy it.” Says I, “Elder Judas Wart, you tell me that agin, and I’ll know the reason why.” “Why,” says he, “they have petitioned Congress to not meddle with the laws.” Says I, “Can you tell me, Elder Judas Wart, can you tell me honestly that there wasn’t man’s influence lookin’ right out of that petition?” “No, mum, there wuzn’t. They done it of their own wills and acords.” Says I, firmly, “I don’t believe it. And if I did, it would only show to me the blightin’, corruptin’, influence of your belief.” “Why,” says he, “some of our wimmen are the most active in our church—full of religious zeal.” Says I, coolly, “All kinds of zeal hain’t religious zeal.” Says I, “The kind that makes a mother throw her child into the Ganges, and burn herself with the dead body of her husband—you can call it religious zeal, if you want to, but I call it fanatical frenzy.” Says he, “They are perfectly happy in their belief.” THE HINDOO MOTHER. THE HINDOO MOTHER. Says I, “You needn’t never say that agin to me, thinkin’ I will believe it, for before Mormonism was ever made, human nature was made, wimmen’s hearts was made. And when you show me a man who would enjoy havin’ his right hand cut off, or his eyes plucked out of his head, then I will show you a woman, a womanly woman, who enjoys sharin’ the love of the man she worships—enjoys seein’ it passin’ away from “Why,” says he, “I s’posed you thought all wimmen was perfect.” “No, I don’t, sir, no sir. A woman can lose all that is sweet and lovely in her nature—all the traits that make her so attractive, her tenderness, her affection, her constancy, her modesty, her purity. She can get very low down in the scale of being, lower, I think, than a man can get. You know the further up any one is, the worse it hurts ’em to fall. “Now the angels that fell down from heaven, I s’pose it changed ’em, and disfigured ’em, and spilte ’em as bad agin as it would to fall down suller. Josiah fell a week ago last Wednesday night, with a hammer in one hand, and a box of nails in the other. He was fixin’ up a cupboard for me in the sullerway. He fell flat down and lay his hull length on the suller bottom. Skairt me awfully. Skairt him, too, and sort o’ madded him, as it always will a man when they fall. I was gettin’ the supper onto the table, and I started on the run for the suller door, and says I, in agitated axents, and weak as a cat with my emotions: “Did it hurt you, Josiah?” Says he, sort o’ surly, “It didn’t do me any good.” But he got up, and was all right the next day. I have used this poetical simely, of its hurtin’ anybody worse to fall down from such a lofty height than to fall down the sullerway, to show my meanin’ that a A FALLEN ANGEL A FALLEN ANGEL. “Lose it she can—all that makes her sweet and lovely and lovable; but while she keeps her woman’s heart and nature, her life, in your religion, must be a constant martyrdom, and must be in its nature demoralizin’ and debasin’, dealin’ the morals fearful and totterin’ blows. “Why, don’t you s’pose I can take it to myself? Now, Home is the most heavenly word we know. We “But let Josiah Allen bring home one more wife, let alone a dozen or fifteen of ’em—let him bring home one small wife besides Samantha, and I should find that home meant sunthin’ very different from peace and rest and happiness. And Josiah Allen would find out that it did, too. He would, if I know my own heart, and am not deceived in myself. And when I think of it, think of what my own sect are a sufferin’ right here in our own land, it makes my blood bile up in my vains, and the tears jest start to every eye in my head, and if I had two dozen eyes I could cry and weep with every one of ’em, a thinkin’ how I should feel under them circumstances—a thinkin’ of the desecration of all that is holiest, and purest, and most blessed. Thinkin’ of the agony of remembrance, and regret, and despair that would sweep over me—remembrance of the old, happy days when I was blest with the love that “And besides this sufferin’, think of the ravages it would make in my morals, as well as his’en. I know jest how much my morals can stand, I know to a inch jest how much strain I can put onto ’em. And I know, jest as well as I know my name was once Smith, that another wife would make ’em totter. And, to be perfectly plain and truthful, I know that wife would make ’em fall perfectly flat down, and break ’em all into pieces, and ruin ’em. I shouldn’t have a single moral left sound and hull, and I know it. I should be ugly.” Says I, with a added eloquence and bitterness of tone, as my mind roved back onto a certain widder: “To have another woman come a snoopin’ into my house and my pardner’s heart—why, language hain’t made mean enough to tell what my meanness would be under the circumstances. And her morals, too—why, don’t you s’pose her morals would be flat as a pancake? Yea, verily. And where would my Josiah’s morals be? He wouldn’t have none, not a moral, nor a vestige of any. And there would be three likely persons spilte, entirely, and eternally spilte. And do you s’pose we three persons are so different from any other three persons? No, human nature (man human nature, and woman human nature) is considerable the same all over the world.” Says I, “One man’s heart hain’t of much account, viewed in a permiscus way, but to the woman that loves him it’s a good deal, it is all. Wimmen are foolish about some things, and this is one of ’em. Her love is to her the very breath she breathes—it is the best part of her. Men don’t feel this way as a general thing (my Josiah duz, but he is a shinin’ exception). But as a general thing love is to them a sort of a side-show, a tolerable good entertainment, but it hain’t the hull circus. “No, a man’s heart hain’t none too large for one woman to dwell in, especially if she is hefty, not at all too large, quite the reverse. And I can tell you, Elder Judas Wart, and tell it firm and solemn, that when it comes to dividin’ up that heart that was a tight fit in the first place, and lettin’ one woman after another come a troopin’ in, a pushin’ the lawful owner out of the way, jammin’ her round, bruisin’ of her, and in the end crowdin’ her completely out in the cold, I say, may God pity such a woman, for human pity can’t be made pitiful enough to reach her.” Says Elder Judas Wart, “Men that hain’t Mormons sometimes has more than one woman inside of their hearts.” He quailed a very little, or, that is, it looked like quail, though it might have been meachin’ness strong and severe. Powerful meach looks some like quail, at a first look. But he recovered himself in half a moment, and went on, in the haughtiest, impudentest tone he had used as yet: “Wall, whether salt has helped us, or whatever did, we have flourished—nobody can deny that. We have made the desert blossom like a rose. We are industrious, stiddy, prudent, equinomical, hard-working. Says I, coldly, almost frigidly, “No amount of white-wash can cover up a whited sepulker so that my specks can’t see through it, and see the sepulker. Good store clothes can’t cover up a bad soul worth a cent. A blue satin vest, or even a pink velvet one, buttoned up over a bad heart, can’t make that heart none the purer. The vest might look well, and probable would. But when you know the bad heart beats under it, vile and wicked beats, why, that vest don’t seem no better to you, nor seem to set the man off no more, than if it was calico, with leather buttons. Material good can never make up for moral degradation. “And your good qualities only make your sinful practices more dangerous, more successful in luring souls to destruction. It is like wreathin’ a sword with flowers, for folks to grip holt of and get their hands cut off (morally). It is like coverin’ a bottomless gulf with blossoming boughs, for folks to walk off on, and break their necks (as it were).” “Wall,” says he proudly, “we have flourished, and are flourishin’ and are goin’ to still more. We are goin’ to extend our doctrine of polygamy further and further. We are goin’ to carry it into Arizona and all the other new territories—” I riz right up, I was so agitated, and says I: “You shan’t carry it, not one step.” Says he, firmly: “We will!” Says he: “We will!” Says I, firmly and sternly: “You won’t; and when I say you won’t, I mean it.” “Wall,” says he, with a proud mean, “how are you goin’ to help yourself?” Says I, in loud, excited axents: “If I can’t stop you myself, I know who can, and I will go to Uncle Sam myself. I’ll have a plain talk with that good old man. I’ll jest put it into his head what you are a tryin’ to do, and I’ll hunch him up, and make him stop you.” Says he: “Don’t you s’pose sin and sorrow will ever be carried into the territories only as they are carried in by Mormons?” THE OLD MAN. “Yes, I do,” says I. “I s’pose that whenever humanity is sot down under the light of the Eternal, it will forevermore, as it has forever in the past, be followed by two shadows, the joyful and the sorrowful. “Why, sin is what all good men and wimmen must fight aginst; educate public sentiment aginst it; make it obnoxious; or what will become of everybody and the world if they don’t? Why, they will be ondone, they and the hull world, if they don’t. I will,” says I firmly, “I will see Uncle Sam about it at once.” “Oh,” says he, in a impudent, pert tone, “Uncle Sam won’t do nothin’ to hinder us. He has always protected us. He has done well by us. He has let us do about as we was a mind to.” “I know it,” says I, “but I’ll tell you,” says I, ontyin’ my apron-strings in a absent-minded sort of a mechanicle way, and then tyin’ ’em up agin in the same way (or about the same), “I’ll tell you what,” says I, for I was fairly determined to find some excuse for Samuel, if I possibly could, “the fact is, that old man hain’t been well for quite a number of years. He has seemed to be sort o’ runnin’ down; his constitution hain’t seemed right to me. And he has had miserable doctors; or that is, he has got help in some directions, good help, and in others he has had the “Yes,” says he, “he has done well by us. We hain’t no fault to find with him.” Oh! how that madded me. But I was determined to find all the excuses for Samuel that I could (though I was at my wit’s end, or pretty nigh there, to find ’em, and I can’t deny it). Says I, THE CALL TO DUTY. “That old man has been more than half crazy for a number of years back. What with fightin’ and bloodshed right in his own family, amongst his own childern—and the injins screechin’ and warhoopin’ round his frontiers, and the Chinamen a cuttin’ up behind his back, and his neighbors a fightin’ amongst themselves, and jabbin’ at him every chance they got; and congressmen and everybody a stealin’ everything they could, right under his nose, and cuttin’ up and actin’. It is a wonder to me that the old man hain’t gin up long ago, and died off. I guess lots of folks thought, a number of years ago, that he wouldn’t live a year. And it wasn’t nothin’ but his goodness and solid principles that kep’ him up, and everybody knows it. He’s had enough to bear to kill a ox.” “We ort to speak well of him,” says he agin. “He has done first-rate by us. He has seemed to like us.” “Shet up!” says I. “I won’t hear another word from you aginst that old man. Your doin’s has worried “He wants to do right, that old Uncle does. He would be jest as glad to get rid of all of you,—Mormons, “Why, where would Josiah Allen be, if it wuzn’t for me? He would come to nothin’, morals and all, if it wuzn’t for me to hunch him up. And Samuel has as much agin to worry him as Josiah has. “Why, there is no tellin’ how many things that old man has to plague him and torment the very life out of him. Little things, too, some of ’em, but how uncommon little things will worry anybody, ’specially in the night. Curious things, too, some of ’em, that has worried me most to death way off here in Jonesville, and what feelin’s I should have felt to have had it a goin’ on right under my nose, as Samuel did. “Now, when they made that new silver dollar, right there in his house I s’pose they done it, or in his wood-shed or barn—anyway, it was right where he could see it a goin’ on, and worry over it—you know they put onto it, ‘In God we trust.’ And it has fairly hanted me THE CALL TO DUTY. “Why, it has worried me awfully, and how Samuel must have felt about it. And that is only one little thing. “There is the trade dollars we made on purpose to cheat China with, and sent over in the same ship we sent missionaries to convert ’em. I persume to say that old man has laid awake nights a worryin’ over what the heathens would think about it—about our sendin’ religion and robbery over to ’em in the same ship—about our sendin’ religious tracts, exhortin’ ’em to be honest, or they would certainly go to that bad place which I do not, as a Methodist, wish to speak of, and send these dollars to cheat ’em with in the same box—sendin’ HELPS FOR THE HEATHEN. “It has hanted Samuel, I know it has. Hantin’ me as it has, it must have hanted him fur worse. He has had severe trials, that old gentleman has, and he has needed somebody to hunch him up, and lock arms with him, and draw him along on the path of Right. And I tell you when I talk with him I shan’t spare no pains with him. I shall use my eloquent tone freely. I shan’t be savin’ of gestures or wind. I shall use sharp reason, and, if necessary, irony and sarcasm. And I shall ask him (usin’ a ironicle tone, if necessary) how he thinks it looks in the eyes of the other nations to see him, who ort to be a model for ’em all to foller, allow such iniquity as Mormonism to flourish in his borders. To let a regular organized band of banditty murder and plunder and commit all sorts of abominations right under his honest old nose. And how it must look to them foreign nations to see such a good, moral old gentleman as he is lift his venerable old eyewinker “And I shall hunch him up sharp about sellin’ licenses to do wrong for money—licenses to make drunkards, and unfit men for earth or heaven—licenses to commit other crimes that are worse—sellin’ indulgences to sin as truly as ever Mr. Pope did. “I don’t s’pose, in fact, I know, that Sam hain’t never thought it over, and took a solemn, realizin’ sense of how bad he was a cuttin’ up (entirely unbeknown to him). And, if necessary, to convince him and make him see his situation, I shall poke fun at him (in a jokin’ way, so’s not to get him mad). And I shall ask him if he thinks it is any nobler for him to set up in his high chair at Washington and sell indulgences to sin, than it was in Mr. Pope to set up in his high chair in Vatican village and sell ’em. “And I shall skare him mebby, that is, if I have to, and ask him in a impressive, skareful tone that if he can’t be broke in any other way, if he don’t think he ort to be brought down to a diet of Worms. “It will go aginst my feelin’s to skare the excellent old gentleman. But I shall feel it to be my duty to not spare no pains. But at the same time I shall be very clever to him. I shall resk it. I don’t believe Here I paused for a moment for wind, for truly I was almost completely exhausted. But I was so full and runnin’ over with emotions that I couldn’t stop, wind or no wind. And I went on: “He hain’t realized, and he won’t, till I go right there and hunch him up about it, how it looks for him to talk eloquent about the sanctity of home. How the household, the Christian home, is the safeguard, the anchor of church and state, and then make his words seem emptier and hollower than a drum, or a hogsit, by allowin’ this sin of Mormonism to undermind and beat down the walls of home.” And then (this theme always did make me talk beautiful), as I thought of home and Josiah, and the fearful dangers that had threatened ’em both, why, as I thought of this, I begun to feel cloquenter far than I had felt durin’ the hull interview, and I don’t know as the feelin’s I felt then had been gone ahead of by me in five years. Why, I branched out perfectly beautiful, and very deep, and says I: “Home! The Christian home! The mightiest power on earth for good. Each home seperate and perfect in itself, like the little crystal drops of water, “The love of parents, wives, and children, like golden rings, bindin’ the hearts to the happy hearth-stone, and then widenin’ out in other golden rings, bindin’ them hearth-stones to loyalty and patriotism, love of country, love of law and order, and love of Heaven, why, them gold rings within rings, they all make a chain that can’t be broke down; they twist all together into a rope that binds this crazy old world to the throne of God. “And,” says I, lookin’ at Elder Judas Wart, with a arrow in each eye (as it were): “This most wholesome restraint, this strongest of ropes that is stretched firm and solid between safety and old Error, you are tryin’ to break down. But you’ll find you can’t do it. No sir! You may all get onto it,—the whole caboodle of you, Mormons, Oneida Communities, Free Lovers, the hull set on you,—and you’ll find it is a rope you can’t break! You’ll find that the most you can do is to teter and swing on it, and stretch it out a little ways, mebby. You can’t break it! No sir! Uncle Samuel (after I have hunched him up) will hold one end of it firm and strong, and Principle and Public Sentiment the other end of it; and if necessary, if danger is at hand, she that was Samantha Smith will lay holt of it, Oh, how eloquent I had been. But he wuzn’t convinced. I don’t s’pose anybody would hardly believe that a man could listen to such talk, and not be proselyted and converted. But he wuzn’t. After all my outlay and expenditure of eloquence and wind and everything, he wuzn’t convinced a mite. And after he had got his hat all on to go, he jest stood there in front of me, with his hands in his pockets, and says he, bold as brass, and as impudent as brass ever was: “I am a goin’, mum, and I don’t never expect to see you agin. I never shall see you in the kingdom.” “I am afraid you won’t,” says I, givin’ him a awful keen look, but pityin’. “I am afraid if you don’t turn right square round, and stop actin’, you won’t be there.” “I shall be there,” says he, “but you won’t.” Says I, “How do you know I won’t?” Says he, “Because I do know it.” Says I, with dignity, “You don’t know it.” “Why,” says he, comin’ out plain with his biggest and heftiest argument, the main pillow in the Mormon church, “a woman can’t be saved unless some man saves ’em, some Mormon. That is one reason,” says he, “why I would have bore my cross, and married you; obtained an entrance for you in the heavenly kingdom. But now it is too late. I won’t save you.” JOSIAH ENDS THE ARGUMENT. “You won’t save me?” says I, lookin’ keen at him, I was so engaged and bound up in my indignant emotions and principles and everything that I didn’t see what was goin’ on behind me. But there was a fearful scene ensuin’ and goin’ on there. A awful scene of vengeance and just retribution. For my faithful pardner, maddened by the terrible insult to his Samantha, jest lifted himself up on one elbo, his righteous anger liftin’ him up for the moment above stitches and all other earthly infirmities, and he threw that broom-handle at Elder Judas Wart with terrific force, and aimed it so perfect that it hit him right on the nap of the neck. It was a fearful blow. I s’pose it come jest as near breakin’ his neck as anything ever did and miss. And it skairt him fearfully, too; for Josiah had been so still for a spell that he thought he was asleep. And it had come onto him as swift and severe as a judgment right out of the heavens. (Not that I would wish to be understood that broom-handles are judgments, and should be handled as such; not as a general thing. I am speakin’ in a poetical way, and would wish to be took poetically.) But oh! how fearful Elder Judas Wart looked. It He ordered him out of the house, and threatened him with instant and immediate execution on the galluses. Though he knew we hadn’t no gallus built, and no timber suitable to build one; and he disabled with a stitch, and nobody but me to do anything. But he vowed, in that loud, skareful axent, that he would hang him in five minutes’ time; and chop his head off with a broad-axe; and gulotine him; and saw his neck off with our old cross-cut saw; and shoot him down like a dog; and burn him to the stake; and scalp him. Why, Josiah ort to have known that one of these punishments was enough for any man to bear, and more than any man could stand up under. And he knew we hadn’t the conveniences by us for half of these punishments. But he didn’t think of that. He didn’t think of nothin’, nor nobody, only jest anger and vengeance. He was more delerious and wild in his conversation and mean than I had ever known him to be during our entire aquaintenship. It was a fearful scene. It was harrowin’ to me to see it go on. And Elder Judas Wart, as quick as he could get up,—started DEPARTURE OF THE ELDER. But as I told Josiah afterwards, after the crazy delerium begun to disperse off of his mean, says I, “Wall,” says he, chucklin’, “I jest choked old Wart off of it pretty sudden. I brought him down onto his knees pretty suple. He won’t talk about savin’ wimmen’s souls agin right away. He won’t till his neck gets well, anyway.” And he chuckled agin. I don’t believe in fightin’, and am the last woman to encourage it; but I could not help sayin’, in fervid axents: “Oh! if Uncle Samuel, that dear, blunderin’, noble old man, would only hit old Polygamy jest another such a blow, jest as sudden and unexpected, and bring him down on his polluted old knees in front of the nation. Oh! what a day that would be for America and Samantha. What feelin’s we should feel, both on us.” “Yes,” says Josiah, “I wish it could be did.” In the case of Josiah Allen my powerful talk (aided by previous and more late occurrences) had fell on good ground, I knew. The seed was springin’ up strong. I knew it was by the way he threw that broom-handle, and I knew also by his looks and axents. He was perfectly and entirely convinced of the “I believe, Samantha, I could relish a little briled steak and some mashed-up potatoes.” Says I, “So could I, and I will get dinner to once.” And I did. |
|
