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Shufflebotham.
We don't go croaking east and west, afraid of
women's faces,
We bless and we air truly blest in our domestic
places;
We air religious, holy men, happy our folds to
gather,
Each is a loyal citizen, also a husband – rather.
But now with talk you're dry and hot, and
weary with your ride here.
Jest come and see my fam'ly lot, – they're waiting
tea inside here.
 

WITHIN THE CITY. – SAINT ABE AND THE SEVEN

 
Sister Tabitha, thirty odd,
Rising up with a stare and a nod;
Sister Amelia, sleepy and mild,
Freckled, Duduish, suckling a child;
Sister Fanny, pert and keen,
Sister Emily, solemn and lean,
Sister Mary, given to tears,
Sister Sarah, with wool in her ears; —
All appearing like tapers wan
In the mellow sunlight of Sister Anne.
 
 
With a tremulous wave of his hand, the Saint
Introduces the household quaint,
And sinks on a chair and looks around,
As the dresses rustle with snakish sound,
As curtsies are bobb'd, and eyes cast down
Some with a simper, some with a frown,
And Sister Anne, with a fluttering breast,
Stands trembling and peeping behind the rest
 
 
Every face but one has been
Pretty, perchance, at the age of eighteen,
Pert and pretty, and plump and bright;
But now their fairness is faded quite,
And every feature is fashion'd here
To a flabby smile, or a snappish sneer.
Before the stranger they each assume
A false fine flutter and feeble bloom,
And a little colour comes into the cheek
When the eyes meet mine, as I sit and speak;
But there they sit and look at me,
Almost withering visibly,
And languidly tremble and try to blow —
Six pale roses all in a row!
 
 
Six? ah, yes; but at hand sits one,
The seventh, still full of the light of the sun.
Though her colour terribly comes and goes,
Now white as a lily, now red as a rose,
So sweet she is, and so full of light,
That the rose seems soft, and the lily bright.
Her large blue eyes, with a tender care,
Steal to her husband unaware,
And whenever he feels them he flushes red,
And the trembling hand goes up to his head!
Around those dove-like eyes appears
A redness as of recent tears.
Alone she sits in her youth's fresh bloom
In a dark corner of the room,
And folds her hands, and does not stir,
and the others scarcely look at her,
But crowding together, as if by plan,
Draw further and further from Sister Anne.
 
 
I try to rattle along in chat,
Talking freely of this and that —
The crops, the weather, the mother-land,
Talk a baby could understand;
And the faded roses, faint and meek,
Open their languid lips to speak,
But in various sharps and flats, all low,
Give a lazy "yes" or a sleepy "no."
Yet now and then Tabitha speaks,
Snapping her answer with yellow cheeks,
And fixing the Saint who is sitting by
With the fish-like glare of her glittering eye,
Whenever the looks of the weary man
Stray to the corner of Sister Anne.
 
 
Like a fountain in a shady place
Is the gleam of the sadly shining face —
A fresh spring whither the soul might turn,
When the road is rough, and the hot sands
bum;
Like a fount, or a bird, or a blooming tree,
To a weary spirit is such as she!
And Brother Abe, from his easy chair,
Looks thither by stealth with an aching care,
And in spite of the dragons that guard the
brink
Would stoop to the edge of the fount, I think,
And drink! and drink!
 
 
"Drink? Stuff and fiddlesticks," you cry,
Matron reader with flashing eye:
"Isn't the thing completely his,
His wife, his mistress, whatever you please?
Look at her! Dragons and fountains! Absurd!"
Madam, I bow to every word;
But truth is truth, and cannot fail,
And this is quite a veracious tale.
More like a couple of lovers shy,
Who flush and flutter when folk are by,
Were man and wife, or (in another
And holier parlance) sister and brother.
As a man of the world I noticed it,
And it made me speculate a bit,
For the situation was to my mind
A phenomenon of a curious kind —
A person in love with his wife, 'twas clear,
But afraid, when another soul was near,
Of showing his feelings in any way
Because – there would be the Devil to pay!
 
 
The Saint has been a handsome fellow,
Clear-eyed, fresh-skinn'd, if a trifle yellow,
And his face though somewhat soft and plain
Ends in a towering mass of brain.
 
 
His locks, though still an abundant crop,
Are thinning a little at the top,
But you only notice here and there
The straggling gleam of a silver hair.
A man by nature rolled round and short,
Meant for the Merry Andrew's sport,
But sober'd down by the wear and tear
Of business troubles and household care:
Quiet, reticent, gentle, kind,
Of amorous heart and extensive mind,
A Saint devoid of saintly sham,
Is little Brother Abraham.
 
 
Brigham's right hand he used to be —
Mild though he seems, and simple, and free;
Sound in the ways of the world, and great
In planning potent affairs of state;
Not bright, nor bumptious, you must know,
Too retiring for popular show,
But known to conceive on a startling scale
Gigantic plans that never fail;
To hold with a certain secret sense
The Prophet under his influence,
To be, I am led to understand,
The Brain, while the Prophet is the Hand,
And to see his intellectual way
Thro' moral dilemmas of every day,
By which the wisest are led astray.
 
 
Here's the Philosopher! – here he sits,
Here, with his vaguely wandering wits,
Among the dragons, as I have said,
Smiling, and holding his hand to his head.
What mighty thoughts are gathering now
Behind that marble mass of brow?
What daring schemes of polity
To set the popular conscience free,
And bless humanity, planneth he?
His talk is idle, a surface-gleam,
The ripple on the rest of the stream,
But his thoughts – ah, his thoughts– where do
they fly,
While the wretched roses under his eye
Flutter and peep? and in what doth his plan
Turn to the counsel of Sister Anne?
For his eyes give ever a questioning look,
And the little one in her quiet nook
Flashes an answer, and back again
The question runs to the Brother's brain,
And the lights of speculation flit
Over his face and trouble it.
Follow his eyes once more, and scan
 
 
The fair young features of Sister Anne:
Frank and innocent, and in sooth
Full of the first fair flush of youth.
Quite a child – nineteen years old;
Not gushing, and self-possessed, and bold,
Like our Yankee women at nineteen,
But low of voice, and mild of mien —
More like the fresh young fruit you see
In the mother-land across the sea —
More like that rosiest flower on earth,
A blooming maiden of English birth.
Such as we find them yet awhile
Scatter'd about the homely Isle,
Not yet entirely eaten away
By the canker-novel of the day,
Or curling up and losing their scent
In a poisonous dew from the Continent.
 
 
There she sits, in her quiet nook,
Still bright tho' sadden'd; and while I look,
My heart is filled and my eyes are dim,
And I hate the Saint when I turn to him!
Ogre! Blue Beard! Oily and sly!
His meekness a cheat, his quiet a lie!
A roaring lion he'll walk the house
Tho' now he crouches like any mouse!
Had not he pluck'd enough and to spare
Of roses like these set fading there,
But he must seek to cajole and kiss
Another yet, and a child like this?
A maid on the stalk, just panting to prove
The honest joy of a virgin love;
A girl, a baby, an innocent child,
To be caught by the first man's face that smiled!
Scarce able the difference to fix
Of polygamy and politics!
Led to the altar like a lamb,
And sacrificed to the great god Sham!
Deluded, martyr'd, given to woe,
Last of seven who have perish'd so;
For who can say but the flowers I see
Were once as rosy and ripe as she?
Already the household worm has begun
To feed on the cheeks of the little one;
Already her spirit, fever-fraught,
Droops to the weight of its own thought;
Already she saddens and sinks and sighs,
Watched by the jealous dragonish eyes.
Even Amelia, sleepy and wan,
Sharpens her orbs as she looks at Anne;
While Sister Tabby, when she can spare
Her gaze from the Saint in his easy-chair,
Fixes her with a gorgon glare.
 
 
All is still and calm and polite,
The Sisters bolster themselves upright,
And try to smile, but the atmosphere
Is charged with thunder and lightning here.
Heavy it seems, and close and warm,
Like the air before a summer storm;
And at times, – as in that drowsy dream
Preluding thunder, all sounds will seem
Distinct and ominously clear,
And the far-off cocks seem crowing near
Ev'n so in the pauses of talk, each breast
Is strangely conscious of the rest,
And the tick of the watch of Abe the Saint
Breaks on the air, distinct though faint,
Like the ticking of his heart!
 
 
I rise
To depart, still glancing with piteous eyes
On Sister Anne; and I find her face
Turn'd questioning still to the same old place —
The face of the Saint. I stand and bow,
Curtsies again are bobbing now,
Dresses rustling… I know no more
Till the Saint has led me to the door,
And I find myself in a day-dream dim,
Just after shaking hands with him.
Standing and watching him sad and slow
Into the dainty dwelling go,
With a heavy sigh, and his hand to his head.
 
 
… Hark, distant thunder!– 'tis as I said:
The air was far too close; – at length
The Storm is breaking in all its strength.
 

III – PROMENADE – MAIN STREET, UTAH

THE STRANGER

 
Along the streets they're thronging, walking,
Clad gaily in their best and talking,
Women and children quite a crowd;
The bright sun overhead is blazing,
The people sweat, the dust they're raising
Arises like a golden cloud.
Still out of every door they scatter,
Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter.
That such a flock of folks I see?
 

A LOUNGER

 
They're off to hear the Prophet patter,
This yer's a day of jubilee.
 

VOICES

 
Come along, we're late I reckon…
There's our Matt, I see him beckon…
How d'ye do, marm? glad to meet you.
Silence, Hiram, or I'll beat you…
Emm, there's brother Jones a-looking…
Here's warm weather, how I'm cooking!
 

STRANGER

 
Afar the hills arise with cone and column
Into a sky of brass serene and solemn;
And underneath their shadow in one haze
Of limpid heat the great salt waters blaze,
While faint and filmy through the sultry veil
The purple islands on their bosom sail
Like floating clouds of dark fantastic air.
How strangely sounds (while 'mid the Indian
glare
Moves the gay crowd of people old and young)
The bird-like chirp of the old Saxon tongue!
The women seem half weary and half gay,
Their eyes droop in a melancholy way, —
I have not seen a merry face to-day.
 

A BISHOP

 
Ther's a smart hoss you're riding, brother!
How are things looking, down with you?
 

SECOND BISHOP

 
Not over bright with one nor 'tother,
Taters are bad, tomatoes blue.
You've heer'd of Brother Simpson's losses? —
Buried his wife and spiled his hay.
And the three best of Hornby's hosses
Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.
 

VOICES

 
Zoë, jest fix up my gown…
There's my hair a-coming down…
Drat the babby, he's so crusty —
It's the heat as makes him thusty…
Come along, I'm almost sinking…
There's a stranger, and he's winking.
Stranger.
That was a fine girl with the grey-hair'd lady,
How shining were her eyes, how true and
steady,
Not drooping down in guilty Mormon fashion,
But shooting at the soul their power and passion.
That's a big fellow, six foot two, not under,
But how he struts, and looks as black as thunder,
Half glancing round at his poor sheep to scare
'em —
Six, seven, eight, nine, – O Abraham, what a
harem!
All berry brown, but looking scared as may be,
And each one but the oldest with a baby.
 

A GIRL

 
Phoebe!
 

ANOTHER

 
Yes, Grace!
 

FIRST GIRL

 
Don't seem to notice, dear,
That Yankee from the camp again is here,
Making such eyes, and following on the sly,
And coughing now and then to show he's nigh.
 

SECOND GIRL

 
Who's that along with him – the little scamp
Shaking his hair and nodding with a smile?
 

FIRST GIRL

 
Guess he's some new one just come down to
 

SECOND GIRL

 
Isn't he handsome?
 

FIRST GIRL

 
No; the first's my style!
 

STRANGER

 
If my good friends, the Saints, could get then
will,
These Yankee officers would fare but ill;
Wherever they approach the folk retire,
As if from veritable coals of fire;
With distant bow, set lips, and half-hid frown,
The Bishops pass them in the blessed town;
The women come behind like trembling sheep,
Some freeze to ice, some blush and steal a peep.
And often, as a band of maidens gay
Comes up, each maid ceases to talk and play,
Droops down her eyes, and does not look their
way;
But after passing where the youngsters pine,
All giggle as at one concerted sign,
And tripping on with half-hush'd merry cries,
Look boldly back with laughter in their eyes!
 

VOICES

 
Here we are, how folk are pushing…
Mind the babby in the crushing…
Pheemy!.. Yes, John!.. Don't go staring
At that Yankee – it's past bearing.
 
 
Draw your veil down while he passes,
Reckon you're as bold as brass is.
 

ABE CLEWSON

 
[Passing with his hand to his head, attended by his
Wives.]
Head in a whirl, and heart in a flutter,
Guess I don't know the half that I utter.
Too much of this life is beginning to try me,
I'm like a dem'd miller the grind always nigh
me;
Praying don't sooth me nor comfort me any,
My house is too full and my blessings too
many —
The ways o' the wilderness puzzle me greatly.
 

SISTER TABITHA

 
Do walk like a Christian, and keep kind o'
stately!
And jest keep an eye on those persons behind
you,
You call 'em your Wives, but they tease you and
blind you;
Sister Anne's a disgrace, tho' you think her a
martyr,
And she's tuck'd up her petticoat nigh to her
garter.
 

STRANGER

 
What group is this, begrim'd with dust and
heat,
Staring like strangers in the open street?
The women, ragged, wretched, and half dead,
Sit on the kerbstone hot and hang the head,
And clustering at their side stand children
brown,
Weary, with wondering eyes on the fair town.
Close by in knots beside the unhorsed team
The sunburn'd men stand talking in a dream,
For the vast tracts of country left behind
Seem now a haunting mirage in the mind.
Gaunt miners folding hands upon their breasts,
Big-jointed labourers looking ox-like down,
And sickly artizans with narrow chests
Still pallid from the smoke of English town.
Hard by to these a group of Teutons stand,
Light-hair'd, blue-eyed, still full of Fatherland,
With water-loving Northmen, who grow gay
To see the mimic sea gleam far away.
Now to this group, with a sharp questioning
face,
Cometh a holy magnate of the place
In decent black; shakes hands with some;
and then
Begins an eager converse with the men:
All brighten; even the children hush their cries,
And the pale women smile with sparkling eyes.
 

BISHOP

 
The Prophet welcomes you, and sends
His message by my mouth, my friends;
He'll see you snug, for on this shore
There's heaps of room for millions more!..
Scotchman, I take it?.. Ah, I know
Glasgow – was there a year or so…
And if you don't from Yorkshire hail,
I'll – ah, I thought so; seldom fail.
 
 
Make yourselves snug and rest a spell,
There's liquor coming – meat as well.
All welcome! We keep open door —
Ah, we don't push away the poor;
Tho' he's a fool, you understand,
Who keeps poor long in this here land.
The land of honey you behold —
Honey and milk – silver and gold!
 

AN ARTIZAN

 
Ah, that's the style – Bess, just you hear it;
Come, come, old gal, keep up your spirit:
Silver and gold, and milk and honey,
This is the country for our money!
 

A GERMAN

 
Es lebe die Stadt! es lebe dran!
Das heilige Leben steht mir an!
 

A NORTHMAN

 
Taler du norske
 

BISHOP

 
[Shaking his head. and turning with a wink to the
English.]
No, not me!
Saxon's the language of the free:
The language of the great Evangels!
The language of the Saints and Angels!
The only speech that Joseph knew!
The speech of him and Brigham too!
Only the speech by which we've thriven
Is comprehended up in Heaven!..
Poor heathens! but we'll make'em spry,
They'll talk like Christians by and by.
 

STRANGER

 
[Strolling out of the streets.]
From east, from west, from every worn-out land,
Yearly they stream to swell this busy band.
Out of the fever'd famine of the slums,
From sickness, shame, and sorrow, Lazarus comes,
Drags his sore limbs o'er half the world and sea,
Seeking for freedom and felicity.
The sewer of ignorance and shame and loss,
Draining old Europe of its dirt and dross,
Grows the great City by the will of God;
While wondrously out of the desert sod,
Nourished with lives unclean and weary hearts
The new faith like a splendid weed upstarts.
A splendid weed! rather a fair wild-flower,
Strange to the eye in its first birth of power,
But bearing surely in its breast the seeds
Of higher issues and diviner deeds.
Changed from Sahara to a fruitful vale
Fairer than ever grew in fairy tale,
Transmuted into plenteous field and glade
By the slow magic of the white man's spade,
Grows Deseret, filling its mighty nest
Between the eastern mountains and the west,
While – who goes there? What shape antique
looks down
From this green mound upon the festive town,
With tall majestic figure darkly set
Against the sky in dusky silhouette?
Strange his attire: a blanket edged with red
Wrapt royally around him; on his head
A battered hat of the strange modem sort
Which men have christened "chimney pots" in
sport;
Mocassins on his feet, fur-fringed and grand,
And a large green umbrella in his hand.
Pensive he stands with deep-lined dreamy face,
Last living remnant of the mighty race
Who on these hunting-fields for many a year
Chased the wild buffalo, and elk, and deer.
Heaven help him! In his mien grief and despair
Seem to contend, as he stands musing there;
Until he notices that I am nigh,
And lo! with outstretched hands and glistening
eye
Swift he descends – Does he mean mischief?
No;
He smiles and beckons as I turn to go.
 

INDIAN

 
Me Medicine Crow. White man gib drink to me.
Great chief; much squaw; papoose, sah, one,
two, three!
 

STRANGER

 
With what a leer, half wheedling and half winking,
The lost one imitates the act of drinking;
His nose already, to his woe and shame,
Carbuncled with the white man's liquid flame!
Well, I pull out my flask, and fill a cup
Of burning rum – how quick he gulps it up;
And in a moment in his trembling grip
Thrusts out the cup for more with thirsty lip.
 
 
But no! – already drunken past a doubt,
Degenerate nomad of the plains, get out!
 
 
[A railway whistle sounds in the far distance.]
Fire-hearted Demon tamed to human hand,
Rushing with smoky breath from land to land,
Screaming aloud to scare with rage and wrath
Primaeval ignorance before his path,
Dragging behind him as he runs along
His lilliputian masters, pale and strong,
With melancholy sound for plain and hill
Man's last Familiar Spirit whistles shrill.
Poor devil of the plains, now spent and frail,
Hovering wildly on the fatal trail,
Pass on! – there lies thy way and thine abode,
Get out of Jonathan thy master's road.
Where? anywhere! – he's not particular where,
So that you clear the road, he does not care;
Off, quick! clear out! ay, drink your fill and die;
And, since the Earth rejects you, try the Sky!
And see if He, who sent your white-faced
brother
To hound and drive you from this world you
bother,
Can find a comer for you in another!