It is a luscious country for thrilling evening stories about
assassinations of intractable Gentiles. I cannot easily conceive
of anything more cosy than the night in Salt Lake which we spent
in a Gentile den, smoking pipes and listening to tales of how
Burton galloped in among the pleading and defenceless “Morisites”
and shot them down, men and women, like so many dogs. And how
Bill Hickman, a Destroying Angel, shot Drown and Arnold dead for
bringing suit against him for a debt. And how Porter Rockwell did
this and that dreadful thing. And how heedless people often come
to Utah and make remarks about Brigham, or polygamy, or some
other sacred matter, and the very next morning at daylight such
parties are sure to be found lying up some back alley,
contentedly waiting for the hearse.
And the next most interesting thing is to sit and listen to
these Gentiles talk about polygamy; and how some portly old frog
of an elder, or a bishop, marries a girl—likes her, marries her
sister—likes her, marries another sister—likes her, takes
another—likes her, marries her mother—likes her, marries her
father, grandfather, great grandfather, and then comes back
hungry and asks for more. And how the pert young thing of eleven
will chance to be the favorite wife and her own venerable
grandmother have to rank away down toward D 4 in their mutual
husband’s esteem, and have to sleep in the kitchen, as like as
not. And how this dreadful sort of thing, this hiving together in
one foul nest of mother and daughters, and the making a young
daughter superior to her own mother in rank and authority, are
things which Mormon women submit to because their religion
teaches them that the more wives a man has on earth, and the more
children he rears, the higher the place they will all have in the
world to come—and the warmer, maybe, though they do not seem to
say anything about that.
According to these Gentile friends of ours, Brigham Young’s
harem contains twenty or thirty wives. They said that some of
them had grown old and gone out of active service, but were
comfortably housed and cared for in the henery—or the Lion
House, as it is strangely named. Along with each wife were her
children—fifty altogether. The house was perfectly quiet and
orderly, when the children were still. They all took their meals
in one room, and a happy and home-like sight it was pronounced to
be. None of our party got an opportunity to take dinner with Mr.
Young, but a Gentile by the name of Johnson professed to have
enjoyed a sociable breakfast in the Lion House. He gave a
preposterous account of the “calling of the roll,” and other
preliminaries, and the carnage that ensued when the buckwheat
cakes came in. But he embellished rather too much. He said that
Mr. Young told him several smart sayings of certain of his
“two-year-olds,” observing with some pride that for many years he
had been the heaviest contributor in that line to one of the
Eastern magazines; and then he wanted to show Mr. Johnson one of
the pets that had said the last good thing, but he could not find
the child.
He searched the faces of the children in detail, but could not
decide which one it was. Finally he gave it up with a sigh and
said:
“I thought I would know the little cub again but I don’t.” Mr.
Johnson said further, that Mr. Young observed that life was a
sad, sad thing—"because the joy of every new marriage a man
contracted was so apt to be blighted by the inopportune funeral
of a less recent bride.” And Mr. Johnson said that while he and
Mr. Young were pleasantly conversing in private, one of the Mrs.
Youngs came in and demanded a breast-pin, remarking that she had
found out that he had been giving a breast-pin to No. 6, and she,
for one, did not propose to let this partiality go on without
making a satisfactory amount of trouble about it. Mr. Young
reminded her that there was a stranger present. Mrs. Young said
that if the state of things inside the house was not agreeable to
the stranger, he could find room outside. Mr. Young promised the
breast-pin, and she went away. But in a minute or two another
Mrs. Young came in and demanded a breast-pin. Mr. Young began a
remonstrance, but Mrs. Young cut him short. She said No. 6 had
got one, and No. 11 was promised one, and it was “no use for him
to try to impose on her—she hoped she knew her rights.” He gave
his promise, and she went. And presently three Mrs. Youngs
entered in a body and opened on their husband a tempest of tears,
abuse, and entreaty. They had heard all about No. 6, No. 11, and
No. 14. Three more breast-pins were promised. They were hardly
gone when nine more Mrs. Youngs filed into the presence, and a
new tempest burst forth and raged round about the prophet and his
guest. Nine breast-pins were promised, and the weird sisters
filed out again. And in came eleven more, weeping and wailing and
gnashing their teeth. Eleven promised breast-pins purchased peace
once more.
“That is a specimen,” said Mr. Young. “You see how it is. You
see what a life I lead. A man can’t be wise all the time. In a
heedless moment I gave my darling No. 6—excuse my calling her
thus, as her other name has escaped me for the moment—a
breast-pin. It was only worth twenty-five dollars—that is,
apparently that was its whole cost—but its ultimate cost was
inevitably bound to be a good deal more. You yourself have seen
it climb up to six hundred and fifty dollars—and alas, even that
is not the end! For I have wives all over this Territory of Utah.
I have dozens of wives whose numbers, even, I do not know without
looking in the family Bible. They are scattered far and wide
among the mountains and valleys of my realm. And mark you, every
solitary one of them will hear of this wretched breast pin, and
every last one of them will have one or die. No. 6‘s breast pin
will cost me twenty-five hundred dollars before I see the end of
it. And these creatures will compare these pins together, and if
one is a shade finer than the rest, they will all be thrown on my
hands, and I will have to order a new lot to keep peace in the
family. Sir, you probably did not know it, but all the time you
were present with my children your every movement was watched by
vigilant servitors of mine. If you had offered to give a child a
dime, or a stick of candy, or any trifle of the kind, you would
have been snatched out of the house instantly, provided it could
be done before your gift left your hand. Otherwise it would be
absolutely necessary for you to make an exactly similar gift to
all my children—and knowing by experience the importance of the
thing, I would have stood by and seen to it myself that you did
it, and did it thoroughly. Once a gentleman gave one of my
children a tin whistle—a veritable invention of Satan, sir, and
one which I have an unspeakable horror of, and so would you if
you had eighty or ninety children in your house. But the deed was
done—the man escaped. I knew what the result was going to be,
and I thirsted for vengeance. I ordered out a flock of Destroying
Angels, and they hunted the man far into the fastnesses of the
Nevada mountains. But they never caught him. I am not cruel,
sir—I am not vindictive except when sorely outraged—but if I
had caught him, sir, so help me Joseph Smith, I would have locked
him into the nursery till the brats whistled him to death. By the
slaughtered body of St. Parley Pratt (whom God assail!) there was
never anything on this earth like it! I knew who gave the whistle
to the child, but I could, not make those jealous mothers believe
me. They believed I did it, and the result was just what any man
of reflection could have foreseen: I had to order a hundred and
ten whistles—I think we had a hundred and ten children in the
house then, but some of them are off at college now—I had to
order a hundred and ten of those shrieking things, and I wish I
may never speak another word if we didn’t have to talk on our
fingers entirely, from that time forth until the children got
tired of the whistles. And if ever another man gives a whistle to
a child of mine and I get my hands on him, I will hang him higher
than Haman! That is the word with the bark on it! Shade of Nephi!
You don’t know anything about married life. I am rich, and
everybody knows it. I am benevolent, and everybody takes
advantage of it. I have a strong fatherly instinct and all the
foundlings are foisted on me.
“Every time a woman wants to do well by her darling, she
puzzles her brain to cipher out some scheme for getting it into
my hands. Why, sir, a woman came here once with a child of a
curious lifeless sort of complexion (and so had the woman), and
swore that the child was mine and she my wife—that I had married
her at such-and-such a time in such-and-such a place, but she
had forgotten her number, and of course I could not remember her
name. Well, sir, she called my attention to the fact that the
child looked like me, and really it did seem to resemble me—a
common thing in the Territory—and, to cut the story short, I put
it in my nursery, and she left.
And by the ghost of Orson Hyde,
when they came to wash the paint off that child it was an Injun!
Bless my soul, you don’t know anything about married life. It is
a perfect dog’s life, sir—a perfect dog’s life. You can’t
economize. It isn’t possible. I have tried keeping one set of
bridal attire for all occasions. But it is of no use. First
you’ll marry a combination of calico and consumption that’s as
thin as a rail, and next you’ll get a creature that’s nothing
more than the dropsy in disguise, and then you’ve got to eke out
that bridal dress with an old balloon. That is the way it goes.
And think of the wash-bill—(excuse these tears)—nine hundred
and eighty-four pieces a week! No, sir, there is no such a thing
as economy in a family like mine. Why, just the one item of
cradles—think of it! And vermifuge! Soothing syrup! Teething
rings! And ‘papa’s watches’ for the babies to play with! And
things to scratch the furniture with! And lucifer matches for
them to eat, and pieces of glass to cut themselves with! The item
of glass alone would support your family, I venture to say, sir.
Let me scrimp and squeeze all I can, I still can’t get ahead as
fast as I feel I ought to, with my opportunities. Bless you, sir,
at a time when I had seventy-two wives in this house, I groaned
under the pressure of keeping thousands of dollars tied up in
seventy-two bedsteads when the money ought to have been out at
interest; and I just sold out the whole stock, sir, at a
sacrifice, and built a bedstead seven feet long and ninety-six
feet wide.
But it was a failure, sir. I could not sleep. It
appeared to me that the whole seventy-two women snored at once.
The roar was deafening. And then the danger of it! That was what
I was looking at. They would all draw in their breath at once,
and you could actually see the walls of the house suck in—and
then they would all exhale their breath at once, and you could
see the walls swell out, and strain, and hear the rafters crack,
and the shingles grind together. My friend, take an old man’s
advice, and don’t encumber yourself with a large family—mind, I
tell you, don’t do it. In a small family, and in a small family
only, you will find that comfort and that peace of mind which are
the best at last of the blessings this world is able to afford
us, and for the lack of which no accumulation of wealth, and no
acquisition of fame, power, and greatness can ever compensate us.
Take my word for it, ten or eleven wives is all you need—never
go over it.”
Some instinct or other made me set this Johnson down as being
unreliable. And yet he was a very entertaining person, and I
doubt if some of the information he gave us could have been
acquired from any other source. He was a pleasant contrast to
those reticent Mormons.
