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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Thirty Two.</h3> <h4>A Word about Mormon Monsters.</h4> Not long did I remain under the mental paralysis. There was no time for idle repining. The intelligence, derived from the torn leaf, had given me a cue for action; and my spirit struggled to free itself from the lethargy of grief. Hope whispered the watchword, “Up and be doing!” and I arose to obey its mandate. My heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. The contents of that epistle, while it imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest of dangers—imparting to it an anguish beyond expression. It told me far more than the writer herself knew—both of her love and what she had need to fear: for, in her guileless innocence, was she alike unconscious of the passion and the peril. Not so I. She had opened her heart before me. As on a printed page, I could trace its tender inclinings. Had this been all, I should have been happy—supremely happy. But, alas! that writing told me more: that she who had pencilled it was in deadly peril. No—not deadly: it was not of life; but of something fur dearer—to me a thousand times more dear—her virgin honour. Now comprehended I, in all their diabolical significance, those wild weird words: “The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer—the yellow fawn will be his victim!” Now knew I the wolf—a wolf disguised in the clothing of the lamb? It needed no remarkable acumen to tell to whom the figure referred. The writing itself revealed him—all but the name; and that was manifest by implication. The man with whom “Marian went away”—he whom I had seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf of the metaphor; and that man was Stebbins, the Mormon! With him, too, Lilian had gone away! Not with words can I express the suggestive hideousness of this thought. To understand it in all its cruel significance, the reader should be acquainted with that peculiar sect—known as the “Church of Latter-Day Saints”—should have read its history and its chronicles. Without this knowledge, he will be ill able to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that in that hour, wrapped and wrung my soul. Accident had made me acquainted with the Mormon religion; not with its tenets—for it has none—but with the moral idiosyncrasy of its most eminent “apostles,” as well as that of its humbler devotees—two very different classes of “Saints.” In the animal world, we seek in vain for the type of either class. The analogies of wolf and lamb, hawk and pigeon, cat and mouse, cannot be employed with any degree of appropriateness—not one of them. In all these creatures there are traits either of nobility or beauty. Neither is to be found in the life and character of a Mormon—whether he be a sincere neophyte or a hypocritical apostle. Perhaps the nearest antagonistic forms of the animal world, by which we might typify the antithetic conditions of Mormon life, both social and religious, are those of fox and goose; though no doubt the subtle Reynard would scorn the comparison. Nor, indeed, is the fox a true type: for even about him there are redeeming qualities—something to relieve the soul from that loathing which it feels in contemplating the character of a “ruling elder” among the “Saints.” It would be difficult to imagine anything further removed, from what we may term the “divinity of human nature,” than one of these. Vulgar and brutal, cunning and cruel, are ordinary epithets; and altogether too weak to characterise such a creature. Some of the “twelves” and of the “seventies” may lack one or other of these characteristics. In most cases, however, you may safely bestow them all; and if it be the chief of the sect—the President himself—you may add such other ugly appellatives as your fancy may suggest; and be sure that your portraiture will still fall short of the hideousness of the original. Perhaps the most striking characteristic of these fanatics is the absolute openness of their cheat. A more commonplace imposture has never been offered for acceptance, even to the most ignorant of mankind. It appeals neither to reason nor romance. The one is insulted by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while its rank plebbishness disgusts the other. Even the nomenclature, both of its offices and office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ignoble origin. The names “twelves,” “seventies,” “deacons,” “wifedoms,” “Smiths” (Hiram and Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, and the like—coupled as they are with an affectation and imitation of Scripture phraseology—form a vocabulary burlesquing even the Sacred Book itself, and suggesting by their sounds the true character of the Mormon Church—a very essence of plebeian hypocrisy. I have used the word “fanatics,” but that must be understood in a limited sense. It can only be applied to the “geese”—the ignorant and besotted canaille—which the “apostolic” emissaries have collected from all parts of Europe, but chiefly from England, Scotland, and Wales. The Welsh, as might be expected, furnish a large proportion of these emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one Irish goose in the whole Mormon flock! There are but few of these “birds” of native American breed. The general intelligence, supplied by a proper school system, prevents much proselytism in that quarter; but it does not hinder the acute Yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in reality this is his rôle in the social system of Mormondom. The President or “High Priest and Prophet” himself, the Twelves and Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true Yankee growth; and to call these “fanatics” would be a misapplication of the word. Term them conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and impostors, if you will, but not fanatics. The Mormon fox is no fanatic: he is a professor in the most emphatic sense of the word, but not a believer. His profession is absolute chicanery—he has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine. There are writers who have defended these forbans of religion; and some who have even spoken well of their system. Captain Stansbury, the explorer, has a good opinion of them. The captain is at best but a superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, received most courteous treatment at their hands. It is not human nature “to speak ill of the bridge that has carried one over”; and Captain Stansbury has obeyed the common impulse. In the earlier times of the Mormon Church, there were champions of the Stansbury school to defend its members against the charge of polygamy. In those days, the Saints themselves attempted a sort of denial of it. The subject was then too rank to come forth as a revelation. But a truth of this awkward kind could not long remain untold; and it became necessary to mask it under the more moderate title of a spiritual-wifedom. It required an acute metaphysician to comprehend this spiritual relationship; and the moralist was puzzled to understand its sanctity. During that period, while the Saints dwelt within the pale of the Gentiles’ country this cloak was kept on; but after their “exodus” to the Salt Lake settlements, the flimsy garment was thrown off—being found too inconvenient to be worn any longer. There the motive for concealment was removed, and the apology of a spiritual-wifedom ceased to exist. It came out in its carnal and sensual shape. Polygamy was boldly preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most hideous shape; and the defenders of Mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet protégés, dropped their broken lances to the ground. The “institution” is even more odious under Mormon than Mohammed. There is no redeeming point—not even the “romance of the harem”—for the zenana of a Latter-day Saint is a type of the most vulgar materialism, where even the favourite sultana is not exempted from the hard work-a-day duties of a slave. Polygamy? No! the word has too limited a signification. To characterise the condition of a Mormon wife, we must resort to the phraseology of the bagnio. In company of a Mormon had Lilian gone away! No wonder that my heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. I rose from my seat, and rushed forth for my horse. The storm still raged apace. Clouds and rolling thunder, lightning and rain—rain such as that which ushered in the Deluge! The storm! What cared I for its fury? Rain antediluvian would not have stayed me in doors—not if it had threatened the drowning of the world! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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