An Englishwoman in Utah. Mrs. T. B. H. Stenhouse
of the party. Suddenly she thought of her little boy, and, mother-like, thinking he might be in danger, ran off in search of him, promising to come back immediately.
I sat down upon the grass to await her return. I was somewhat excited by the conversation which had passed between us; but as I sat musing my agitation began to cool down, and I was soon lost in thought, and did not notice that I was not alone.
I did not hear the light footsteps near me, and did not see a little fairy friend, as I called her, pass between me and the sun. But a tiny hand was laid gently on my shoulder, and looking up I saw the loving eyes of Mary Burton looking straight down into mine.
“Where have you been, dear?” I asked. “Why, I have hardly seen you all the day.”
“But I knew you were here,” she said, “and I thought you were alone; and I wanted to see you, and talk with you.”
“Come and sit down beside me, Mary,” I said, “and let us have a little chat together.” Then I drew her gently towards me, and she sat down by my side. For a few moments we said nothing, but I was watching her, and waiting to hear what she would say. She seemed such a pretty, such a sweet and gentle girl—more like one of those little birds of glorious plumage and thrilling song that we see glittering among the dew-drops and the dancing leaves, than a child of earth. And I pitied her for her beauty, for such beauty is a snare; and I wondered whether her innocent soul was as fair and glorious before God as her face was sweet to me; and I asked whether, in years to come, when the glory of her childish radiance had passed away, the brightness of a soul pure and serene would lend a new beauty to her features—the beauty, not of childish innocence, but of a noble womanhood.
I took her hand in mine, and asked her some trifling question; but she did not answer. Suddenly she looked up full into my face, and said, “Sister Stenhouse; I’m very, very sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me, dear?” I said. “Why should you be sorry? I am not sad.”
“You shouldn’t say so,” she replied; “you know in your heart you are sad, although you don’t say so. It’s a fine thing, no doubt, for Elder Stenhouse to go away, though for my part I’d rather stop at home if I loved any one there; and at any rate, you must feel sorry that he is going away so far, if you love him.”
“But Mary,” I said, “you know it is his duty to go; and he has been called to it by the Apostle, and it is a great honour.”
“Oh yes, I know that,” she replied, “I know that.” Then we relapsed into silence for some few moments. Presently drawing nearer to me, she said again, quite suddenly, “Sister Stenhouse, do you know the meaning of the word Polygamy?”
“Why, what a funny question to ask me, child!” I exclaimed.
“Child, you call me, Sister Stenhouse; but I’m not a child—at least not quite a child; I shall be fifteen next birthday.”
“Well, dear,” I said, “I did not mean to offend you; and I call you ‘child’ because I love you; but you asked me such a strange question, and used such a strange word.”
This was quite true, for at that time the word Polygamy was as seldom used as the word “polyandry,” or any other word signifying a state of things with which we have nothing to do.
“I’m not offended,” she said; “only people have a way of treating me as if I were only such a very little girl: I suppose I look so.”
She certainly did look so, and I suppose she read my thoughts. Womanhood, by-and-by, brought to her more of reality, both in face and figure, as well as in the terrible facts of life; but at that time the term “little fairy,” which I have so often used respecting her, seemed the most appropriate. The meaning of that terrible word Polygamy she understood, in later years, fully as well as I did.
“Well, dear,” I said, “why did you ask me that strange question?”
“You must promise not to be angry with me if I tell you,” she answered; “and yet I think you ought to know.”
I readily promised—what could I have refused her?—and she said—
“The other day two of the sisters were at our house—I may not tell you their names for fear of making mischief—and they were talking together between themselves, and did not notice that I was present—or else they didn’t care. And I heard one of them tell the other, that she had heard, secretly, that in Zion men were allowed to have many wives; and she used that word Polygamy very often, and said that was what the people of the world called it.”
“Well, Mary dear,” I replied, “that is no great secret. We have all heard that said before. Wicked people who hate the Gospel say that, and a great deal more, in order to bring scandal upon the Church; but of course it isn’t true.”
“Ah, but I haven’t told you all,” she said. “The sisters had a long talk about it, and they explained whom they heard it from, and it was from no one outside the Church. And then one of them said that Elder Stenhouse had heard all about it, and knew it was true, only of course he did not talk about such things yet; but that the time would come when everyone would acknowledge it, and all the Saints would have many wives. I was frightened when I heard this, and very angry—for I thought of you—and I spoke to her, and said it was all untrue, and I’d ask Elder Stenhouse. And they scolded me very much for saying so, and said it was very wicked for a child to listen; and that was why I did not like you to call me ‘child.’ ”
“Well, darling,” I said, “I’ll not offend you any more in that way; and it was very good of you to tell me anything you thought I ought to know.” Then I kissed her, and continued, “But, after all, I don’t think it’s of any consequence. It’s the old scandal, just as in the early days they said wicked things of Christ and His apostles. Elder Stenhouse knows all that people say, but he has told me again and again that there is not a word of truth in it; and I believe him.”
“You think so, Sister Stenhouse,” she replied, “and I suppose I ought to think so too; but if it’s all false how did people first begin to think of it? People don’t say that the Mormons are murderers or thieves, because we have given them no reason to think so. Then why should they think of such an unheard-of thing as Polygamy—surely there must have been some reason. Don’t you think so?”
“No, dear,” I answered, “Elder Stenhouse says that some very wicked men have sometimes joined the Church, and have done all manner of shocking things, so that they had to be cut off; and then they went about trying to make other people believe that the Mormons were as wicked as they were. There was John C. Bennett, who lived a frightful life at Nauvoo, and then tried to make out that Joseph Smith was as bad as he was. And Marsh, the president of the twelve apostles, and Orson Hyde, when they apostatized not only said bad things of Joseph, but took affidavit, and swore solemnly before the magistrates, that the prophet had been guilty of the most fearful crimes.”
I kissed her again; and she said, “Well, perhaps you are right;” but I could see that in her heart she was not convinced.
Then we talked of ourselves and all that interested us, and she told me all her childish hopes and ambitions; and to me—young as I was myself—it was pleasant to listen to her innocent prattle. She promised to come and see me when Elder Stenhouse had gone, and I should be left alone; and when we got back to the rest of the party we were as firm friends as if we had known each other a lifetime.
At midnight, Saturday, June 15th, 1850, the steamer left Southampton for Havre-de-Grace, bearing on board the first two Mormon missionaries to Italy; one of them was my husband.
The Saints had called in the evening to bid Elder Stenhouse good-bye; and as he was, of course, to travel “without purse or scrip,” they vied with each other in showing their appreciation of his position and his devotion to the faith. The poorest among them would not be denied the privilege of contributing their mites to aid in the conversion of the Italians; and none of the brethren felt that they could