‘Tell it All’

A ‘first wife’ tells the story of her life

The author of ‘Wife No. 19,’ Ann Young was in measure inspired in her own literary efforts and in her campaign for women’s rights within the early Mormon church of the nineteenth century by the writings of this book’s remarkable author. Fanny Stenhouse’s views in opposition to pluralist marriage were, in fact, set before the public in print before the work of her—now possibly better known—contemporary. Indeed, the two women knew each other, and though they were joined in common cause, the experiences which caused them to stand up for the rights of women were quite different. There was a time when there were more Mormons in England and Scandinavia that there were in the State of Utah. The early followers of the ministry of Joseph Smith were drawn to the pure simplicity of the faith he espoused and Fanny Stenhouse, an Englishwoman, was one of their number in the days before there was any suggestion polygamous marriage in her church. So it was that Fanny made the long journey to America and began a life of privation, cruelty and oppression which eventually included her reluctant acquiescence to the introduction of the ‘Celestial Order of Marriage’ by the Mormon church under Brigham Young’s leadership. Her account of her ordeals and those of her ‘sisters’ during those turbulent times makes gripping reading, and the courage and fortitude of the stand she took seems all the more incredible to modern readers given the time and place in which she lived. Eventually, Fanny and her husband left the life they both came to abhor and Fanny was encouraged to put her experiences into words—to quite literally, ‘Tell it all.’ Readers of Ann Young’s famous book, ‘Wife No 19,’ will find much to interest them in the pages of this remarkable account and readers new to the subject will find this an engrossing account of one remarkable woman’s courage in adversity. Available in softcover and hardback with dust jacket for collectors.

Brigham’s assumption of the right to disfellowship men from the Church because of irregular attendance at the School was a stretch of authority which startled my husband: “What will he not do next?” he said, “To submit would be to acknowledge him absolute, and me a slave. There is but one alternative now—slavery or freedom. Cost me what it may, I will be free!”<br>
Those who have never been enslaved by a superstitious faith which mentally and bodily enthrals its devotees, as Mormonism does, can form, no idea of the joy, the happiness, which is experienced when, after years of spiritual servitude, the shackles are burst asunder and the slave is “free!” There is pleasure even in the thought itself that one is free—free to think and free to act, free to worship according to the dictates of one’s own conscience, and free to speak one’s own opinions and sentiments, without the constant fear that some spy is listening to every word and that the consequences may be far from pleasant!<br>
In August of the same year, my husband sent a respectful and kindly letter to the Bishop of our Ward, stating that he had no faith in Brigham’s claim to an “Infallible Priesthood,” and that he considered that he ought to be cut off from the Church. I added a postscript, stating that I wished to share my husband’s fate—little thinking that within three days my request would be answered in a too literal manner.<br>
A little after ten o’clock, on the Saturday night succeeding our withdrawal from the Church, we were returning home together. The night was very dark, and as our residence is in the suburbs of the City, north of the Temple block, and the road very quiet, the walk was a very lonely one and perhaps not altogether too safe. We had gone about a third of the way, when we suddenly saw four men come out from under some trees at a little distance from us. In the gloom of the night we could only see them very indistinctly, and could not distinguish who they were. They separated; and two of them came forward and stumbled up against us, and two passed on beside us. For a moment I thought that they were intoxicated, but it was soon clear that they were acting from design.<br>
As soon as they approached, they seized hold of my husband’s arms, one on each side, and held him firmly, thus rendering him almost powerless. They were all masked, for it was supposed that thus we should not be able to discover their identity, and that if by any chance an investigation should subsequently be made into the doings of that night it would, not be possible for anyone to witness against them.<br>
I am inclined to think that these wretches, when they planned the attack, had not calculated upon my being present with my husband, and I imagine that when they saw me with him they supposed I should scream and run away, after the manner of many women. In this, however, they were mistaken. I still clung to my husband’s: arm, but with my left hand caught hold of one of the ruffians by the collar of his coat; for I apprehended the worst; well knowing of what atrocities these men were capable. It is no secret that the police of Salt Lake City—for it is the police who there commit murders and other inhuman outrages—treat with the greatest brutality all the unhappy Gentiles and Apostates whose misfortune it is to fall into their power. This also is the wretched effects of the fanatical teaching of the Church. (At time of first publication). These men believe that Utah is Zion—the “Kingdom of God,” and that citizens of the United States are but intruders upon this holy ground; that they ought to be driven out and despoiled of everything, and even murdered if opportunity offers. They make no secret of these feelings towards the Gentiles, and towards Apostate Mormons it is shown, if possible, in a somewhat stronger manner.<br>
The movements of the two men who held my husband were somewhat impeded by my clinging to his arm, and they seemed to hesitate for a moment. The other two, who stood a few feet distant from us, also hesitated. One of the men who held my husband said to them, “Brethren, do your duty.” We recognised his voice at once as that of a certain policeman—a young man whom we had known in England when a child, and with whose family we had been upon the most friendly terms.<br>
In an instant I saw them raise their arms, as if taking aim, and for one brief second I thought that our end had now surely come, and that we, like so many obnoxious persons before us, were about to be murdered for the great sin of apostasy. This, I firmly believe, would have been my husband’s fate, if I had not chanced to be with him or had I run away;—they would probably have beaten him to death;—they, who I have every reason to believe were two of the regular and two of the special policemen;—and then, the next morning, they would have “discovered” the body, and it would have been said that he had been murdered by Gentiles or Apostates in a personal quarrel or a street brawl. My presence somewhat disarranged their plans, and it was that probably which caused the two men to hesitate, not knowing what would be considered their “duty” under present circumstances.<br>
A much less noble fate than assassination was reserved for us. The wretches, although otherwise well armed, were not holding revolvers in their hands as I at first supposed. They were furnished with huge garden-syringes charged with the most disgusting filth, in the preparation of which they took especial pains. So kindred to their own base natures was such an act that I doubt not they found it quite a labour of love. The moment the syringes were pointed at us, my husband, thinking a shot was coming, moved his head, and thus to a certain extent escaped the full force of the discharge. I, however, was not so fortunate. My hair, bonnet, face, clothes, person—every inch of my body, every shred that I wore—were in an instant saturated, and my husband and myself stood there reeking from head to foot.