# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Letter from a Missionary of the Methodist Episcopal Church South, in Kansas, to a Distinguished Politician

LETTER
FROM A MISSIONARY OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH SOUTH, IN KANSAS, TO A DISTINGUISHED POLITICIAN
Douglas Mission, August, 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, “Cursëd be Canaan.” 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 back-sliders, 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.