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<h2> CHAPTER XV. </h2>
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<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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<p>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.</p>
<p>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:</p>
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<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
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