Letter From A Missionary Of The Methodist Episcopal Church South, In Kansas, To A Distinguished Politician. Douglas Mission 1854.

Last week the Lord be praised for all His mercies     To His unworthy servant! I arrived     Safe at the Mission, via Westport; where     I tarried over night, to aid in forming     A Vigilance Committee, to send back,     In shirts of tar, and feather-doublets quilted     With forty stripes save one, all Yankee comers,     Uncircumcised and Gentile, aliens from     The Commonwealth of Israel, who despise     The prize of the high calling of the saints,     Who plant amidst this heathen wilderness     Pure gospel institutions, sanctified     By patriarchal use. The meeting opened     With prayer, as was most fitting. Half an hour,     Or thereaway, I groaned, and strove, and wrestled,     As Jacob did at Penuel, till the power     Fell on the people, and they cried 'Amen!'     "Glory to God!" and stamped and clapped their hands;     And the rough river boatmen wiped their eyes;     "Go it, old hoss!" they cried, and cursed the niggers     Fulfilling thus the word of prophecy,     "Cursed be Cannan." After prayer, the meeting     Chose a committee, good and pious men     A Presbyterian Elder, Baptist deacon,     A local preacher, three or four class-leaders,     Anxious inquirers, and renewed backsliders,     A score in all, to watch the river ferry,     (As they of old did watch the fords of Jordan,)     And cut off all whose Yankee tongues refuse     The Shibboleth of the Nebraska bill.     And then, in answer to repeated calls,     I gave a brief account of what I saw     In Washington; and truly many hearts     Rejoiced to know the President, and you     And all the Cabinet regularly hear     The gospel message of a Sunday morning,     Drinking with thirsty souls of the sincere     Milk of the Word. Glory! Amen, and Selah!     Here, at the Mission, all things have gone well:     The brother who, throughout my absence, acted     As overseer, assures me that the crops     Never were better. I have lost one negro,     A first-rate hand, but obstinate and sullen.     He ran away some time last spring, and hid     In the river timber. There my Indian converts     Found him, and treed and shot him. For the rest,     The heathens round about begin to feel     The influence of our pious ministrations     And works of love; and some of them already     Have purchased negroes, and are settling down     As sober Christians! Bless the Lord for this!     I know it will rejoice you. You, I hear,     Are on the eve of visiting Chicago,     To fight with the wild beasts of Ephesus,     Long John, and Dutch Free-Soilers. May your arm     Be clothed with strength, and on your tongue be found     The sweet oil of persuasion. So desires     Your brother and co-laborer. Amen!     P.S. All's lost. Even while I write these lines,     The Yankee abolitionists are coming     Upon us like a flood, grim, stalwart men,     Each face set like a flint of Plymouth Rock     Against our institutions, staking out     Their farm lots on the wooded Wakarusa,     Or squatting by the mellow-bottomed Kansas;     The pioneers of mightier multitudes,     The small rain-patter, ere the thunder shower     Drowns the dry prairies. Hope from man is not.     Oh, for a quiet berth at Washington,     Snug naval chaplaincy, or clerkship, where     These rumors of free labor and free soil     Might never meet me more. Better to be     Door-keeper in the White House, than to dwell     Amidst these Yankee tents, that, whitening, show     On the green prairie like a fleet becalmed.     Methinks I hear a voice come up the river     From those far bayous, where the alligators     Mount guard around the camping filibusters:     "Shake off the dust of Kansas. Turn to Cuba     (That golden orange just about to fall,     O'er-ripe, into the Democratic lap     Keep pace with Providence, or, as we say,     Manifest destiny. Go forth and follow     The message of our gospel, thither borne     Upon the point of Quitman's bowie-knife,     And the persuasive lips of Colt's revolvers.     There may'st thou, underneath thy vine and fig-tree,     Watch thy increase of sugar cane and negroes,     Calm as a patriarch in his eastern tent!"     Amen: So mote it be. So prays your friend