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.