About six hours before I arrived an elder died. I think his name was Smith. You may have heard that name before; but it isn't the Smith you know—it is quite another Smith. Well, this defunct elder left a small assortment of wives behind him—I think there were seventeen—of all ages, from seventeen to seventy. This miscellaneous gathering included three grandmothers, a fact which lent a venerable sanctity to the affair. I received an invitation—I went—and was introduced to the whole seventeen widows at once. Sam Weller or Dr. Shelton Mackenzie—I forget which—says, "One widow is dangerous;" but, perhaps, there is safety in a multitude of them. All I know is, that they made the tenderest appeals to me, as a man and a brother; but I threw myself upon their mercy—I told them I was far away from my parents and my Sainted Maria, and that I was a good young man; and finally, I begged to know if their intentions were honourable?
One said:
"Young man, dash not the cup of happiness from your life!"
I said:
"I have no objection to a cup, but I cannot stand an entire hogshead!"
They grew more and more tender—two put their arms around me and pinioned me, while the other fifteen drew large shears from their pockets, and, under pretence of getting a lock of hair for each, they left me as bare as a goose-egg. Indians couldn't have scalped me closer. I made Samson-like my escape from these Delilahs by stratagem. I assured them that I was sickening for the measles, which, like love, is always the more fatal the later it comes in life. I also told them that my friend Hingston was a much better looking man than I was; also that he was an Englishman, and that, according to that nation's creed, every Englishman is equal to five Americans and five hundred Frenchmen: consequently there would be some to spare of him. This happy thought saved me. I was let off upon solemnly promising to deliver Hingston into their arms, bound, Laocoon-like, by the serpent spells of their charms, or, like Regulus, potted and preserved in a barrel of fingernails, for their especial scratching.
Hingston, little dreaming of the sale I had made of him, went on the pretended errand of conveying to these seventeen beauties a farewell bouquet. Poor fellow! that is the last I ever saw of him—he was never heard of again.
The gentleman who acts as my manager is somebody else. I must ask the indulgence of the audience for twenty minutes, while I drop a few tears to his memory. (Here Artemus holds his head over a barrel, and the distinct dripping of a copious shower is heard.)
As I feel a little better, I will recommence my lecture—I don't mean to defend Mormonism—indeed, I have no hesitation in affirming, and I affirm it boldly, and I would repeat the observation to my own wife's face, if I had one, but as I haven't one, I'll say it boldly to every other man's wife, that I don't think it wise to marry more than one wife at a time, without it is done to oblige the ladies, and then it should be done sparingly, and not oftener than three times a day, for the marriage ceremony isn't lightly to be repeated. But I want to tell you what Brigham Young observed to me.
"Artemus, my boy," said he, "you don't know how often a man marries against his will. Let me recite one case out of a hundred that has happened to myself. About three months ago a family arrived here— they were from Hoboken—everybody knows how beautiful the Jersey girls are—with the exception of applejack, they are the nicest things Jersey produces. Well, this family consisted of four daughters, a mother and two grandmothers, one with teeth, the other without. I took a fancy to the youngest of the girls, and proposed. After considerable reflection she said: 'I can't think of marrying you without you marry my three sisters as well.'