[For a brief sketch of Mormon history, and the noted Mountain Meadow
      massacre, see Appendices A and B. ]

CHAPTER XV.

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.