Amelia is tyrannical, and rules the women of the Harem with a strong hand. Poor Emeline is quite broken-hearted. Naturally very sensitive, this blow prostrated her upon a bed of sickness, from which it was feared she would never recover. But she lives to drag out a miserable life,--neither wife nor mistress, but a castaway. In fact all the women are miserable and unhappy. A common remark, in reply to the usual salutation, is, "Oh, I've got the blues to-day." _The Prophet in Love the Thirtieth Time._ Miss Selima Ursenback is a native of Geneva, Switzerland, and with her parents and brother came to Utah in the fall of 1862. She is an accomplished musician, and at once became a favorite with the Mormons. Several concerts were given, at which she figured as _prima donna_, and although she sang in French, the melody of her voice and the artistic character of her music gained for her an established reputation. Brigham heard, and was delighted. Her voice was music to his ravished ear, and, for the thirtieth time, the little god let slip his arrow, and launched it into the Prophet's heart. Says a celebrated writer:-- "Now there are various ways of getting in love. A man falls in love just as he falls down-stairs. It is an accident. But when he runs in love, it is as when he runs in debt: it is done knowingly, intentionally, and very often rashly and foolishly, even if not ridiculously, miserably, and ruinously. "The rarest and happiest marriages are between those who have grown in love. Take the description of such a love in its rise and progress, ye thousands and tens of thousands who have what is called a taste for poetry. Take it in the sweet words of one of the sweetest and tenderest of English poets, and then say whether this is not the way that leads to happiness and bliss. "'Ah! I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well) when first Our flame began; when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt. When as we sat and sighed, And looked upon each other, and conceived Not what we ailed,--yet something we did ail; And yet were well, and yet we were not well; And what was our disease, we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus, In that first garden of our simpleness, We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then Would she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow, Check my presumption, and my forwardness; Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show What she would have me, yet not have me know.'