THE FIRST WHISPERINGS OF POLYGAMY.  
About three months after our marriage it was rumoured that four of the Twelve Apostles had been appointed to foreign missions, and were then on their way to England.
The Saints in Britain had been for several years without any missionaries direct from the body of the church, and the announcement of this foreign mission was hailed with joy.
I confess to experiencing much pleasure at the thought of becoming acquainted with a living Apostle. How often in my girlhood I had wished that I had lived when men inspired of God walked the earth. What a joy, I thought, it would have been to have listened to the wisdom of such teachers. Now the time was near when I should realize all the happiness of my day-dreams—when I should really have the privilege of conversing with those chosen men of God. The invitation, therefore, to meet the Conference in London on the 1st of June, was very welcome intelligence.
We went to the London Conference—my husband and I; and there for the first time I met with Apostles, who were also Prophets, and Priests, and High-priests, and Teachers, and Elders, and Deacons—all assembled in solemn convocation.
The four Apostles whom I met at that time were John Taylor, Lorenzo Snow, Erastus Snow, and Franklin D. Richards—pleasant and agreeable men, and withal very fair specimens of Mormon missionaries, who had found favour in the eyes of Brigham Young and of the leaders in Zion, and who had been promoted accordingly. They lived comfortably, wore the finest broadcloth, fashionably cut, and were not averse to gold chains, and charms, and signet-rings, and other personal adornments. They put on no particular airs, were as polite and attentive to ladies as gentlemen always are, and could go to a theatre or any other place of amusement without hesitation. I afterwards discovered that in one particular, at least,[34] if not in all, they resembled the early Apostles, for they too could, like St. Paul, “lead about a sister” without any compunctions of conscience.
The Southampton Saints had hitherto formed only a branch of the London Conference, but did not form a conference of their own. It was now resolved that since so large a number had recently been baptized in Hampshire, the several branches of the church there should be organized into a special conference at Southampton, with Elder Stenhouse as its president; and the Sunday following was appointed for that purpose, when the Apostle Snow, en route to Italy—to which country he had just been appointed missionary—would honour the occasion with his presence.
As we returned, some gentlemen in the same railway carriage, to while away the time, I suppose, entered into a religious discussion. What the subject was I do not now remember; but I can recollect that a good deal was said as to which of all the numerous Christian sects really possessed Divine authority. Elder Stenhouse took an active part in the argument, and being, like all the Mormon Missionaries at that time, very well posted in Scriptural discussions, he attracted considerable attention, and was much complimented by several persons present.
The Apostle Lorenzo Snow was silent all the time, but he took note of all that passed. Elder Stenhouse was a man of great zeal and untiring energy—qualities in which perhaps Brother Snow felt himself a little deficient; and he was going on a mission which required unflagging devotion and perseverance. We had not been an hour at home, before he told my husband that the Lord had thrice revealed to him that he should accompany him to Italy! How often—even while I still clung to Mormonism—did it appear strange to me that the “revelations” of distinguished Saints should so frequently coincide with their own personal wishes, and come at such convenient times.
I had laid aside my travelling-dress, and was hastening to provide some refreshment for the Apostle, when my husband came and told me of the revelation which had been so opportunely received. I was at that time as much an enthusiast as Elder Stenhouse himself, and I felt honoured that my husband should be the first English elder appointed to a foreign mission. Here was the fulfilment of my ambition, that we should be in the forefront of the battle, and should obtain distinction as zealous servants of God. But at what a cost[35] was this ambition purchased! My poor, weak heart sickened at the thought—I had been but four months married.
When the Apostle asked me if I were willing that Elder Stenhouse should go to Italy, I answered “Yes,” though I felt as if my heart would break. I remembered that in my first transport of joy and gratitude after being baptized, I had made a covenant with the Lord that I would do anything which He might require of me; and I dared not rebel, or break that vow. Oh, the agony that fell upon my young heart! It seemed that the weight of a mountain rested upon it when I was told that my husband might be five years absent. He had already been five years a travelling elder without a home, trusting for daily bread to the voluntary kindness of the Saints. He had laboured faithfully, and looked forward to the day when his “Conference” should be established, and he could count upon an improvement in his temporal position, and an early call to emigrate to Zion. In the few months that I had been his wife, it was only natural that I should share his hopes; but just at the moment when they were about to be realized, hopes and expectations were scattered to the winds.
On the following day the Saints assembled, the Southampton Conference was organized, and Elder Stenhouse elected its president. Ten minutes later he was publicly appointed by the Apostle on a mission to Italy.
During the few days which intervened between the time when Elder Stenhouse received his appointment, to the hour of his departure, I enjoyed but little of his society. Arranging the affairs of the Conference which he was leaving, and preparation for his mission, fully occupied his attention. I do not think we either of us uttered a word, when alone together, respecting the future that was before us. It was probably better that we did not. There are moments of our life when silence is better than speech; and it is safer to trust in the mercy of God than to try to shape our own destiny.
The Saints are noted for the fraternal spirit which exists among them. There are, of course, exceptions; but, as a rule, every Mormon is willing to help his brother in the faith, acting upon the principle “One is your Master, even Christ: and all ye are brethren.” The Southampton Saints were no exception to this rule, but showed their kindness both to my husband and myself in a thousand little ways. I have spoken of my unhappiness during that week of preparation, but I must not forget that there were gleams of hope in the darkness.[36] One occasion I shall never forget—a picnic which our friends held as a kind of valedictory feast in honour of the missionaries—of Elder Stenhouse in particular.
Right up the Southampton river, not far from Netley Abbey, is a pleasant and picturesque spot, named Bittern, which I need not too particularly describe, although the memory of its beauty recalls recollections of mingled sadness and pleasure to my mind. There my parents now lived, and thither it was proposed our friends should go. They could obtain all they needed for the picnic at my father’s house, and we could take our good things into the woods, and enjoy ourselves as we pleased. We had a very happy time; for the moment, even I forgot the cloud that was hanging over me; and our dear friends not only enjoyed themselves to the utmost, but seemed bent upon making the time pass pleasantly to every one else.
I had been talking to Sister White about the recent doings of the Saints, the establishment of the Conference and the sending away of Elder Stenhouse. I wanted Sister White, as in fact I wanted every one else, to think that I was perfectly happy in the separation, and that I counted my feelings as a wife as nothing when placed in the balance against my duty as a missionary; and I tried to impress upon her how proud I was that my husband should be the first English Elder entrusted with a foreign mission. We talked together a great deal. She was still quite a young woman, though married, and the mother of four darling little children; but probably she had a better experience than I had, and could see through my attempts to stifle my natural feelings, while at the same time she sympathized with me. She spoke very kindly to me; and as we talked, we wandered inadvertently away from the rest 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.
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“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[38] 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[39] 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.
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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 show too much kindness to the departing missionary. Just in this way have all the foreign missions of the Mormon Church been projected and sustained; the elements of success were always present—devotion and self-abnegation on the part of the missionaries, and an earnest, self-sacrificing disposition on the part of the people, commanding respect, however erroneous or foolish the foundation of their faith.
In the bustle of departure, Mr. Stenhouse seemed never to have thought about himself, and certainly he made no preparation for me. I had full confidence in him, however, and loved him devotedly, and knew that my love was returned. But men who look for miracles, and count upon special providences for daily bread, are not generally very prudent or far-seeing in their domestic arrangements. Elder Stenhouse had been told that “the Lord would provide,” and it therefore seemed to him superfluous that he should interfere; it would have been a lack of faith to have shown too much interest in what might become of me. He left me with only 1l.
I now realized the loneliness of my position; there was no earthly friend to whom I could turn for sympathy at a time like this. Before my Heavenly Father alone I could pour out the bitterness of my soul and all my griefs, and in His presence weep and pray.