Foreign Missions

The action of the South Georgia Conference of the Methodist Church in voting $65,000 to Foreign Missions, last week, moves theJeffersonianto say another word upon that subject.

Some time ago, the New YorkWorldpublished a statement to the effect that, out of every ninety dollars contributed in this country to the Foreign Mission fund, only one dollar reached the heathen. This is a sweeping arraignment of the honesty and efficiency of the management of the funds which we are not prepared to indorse.

Our criticism follows a different line. The question raised by theJeffersonianis this,—What moral right have American Christians to leave their own poor,—unfed, unclothed and unredeemed,—and to drain off into foreign lands millions upon millions of American dollars to feed and clothe and redeem the poor of those foreign lands?

It is a most serious question, Brother.

You tell us, as per formula, that we are commanded to carry the Gospel to all the world. Granted. But where are we commanded to leave our own poverty-stricken wretches to die like poisoned rats in their holes, while we relieve the physical distress of the Chinese?

What moral right have we to deny the beggar at our gate, and to heed the plaint of the Chinese beggar?

One of our private correspondents a little while ago, wrote us that a certain preacher, whose attention he called to our statements on this subject, declared that said statements “were misleading.”

Wherein? They could notmislead. If what we have said about our foreign missionaries furnishing food, clothing, medicine, fuel, etc., to foreign “converts” is the truth, our people are entitled to know it.

If our statements are false,wewant to know it.

A very prominent and able Baptist minister,—who has long been a laborer in the Foreign Missions field,—and a well-known Methodist minister, who has been similarly engaged,are responsible for the statements made by the Jeffersonian.

One of these noble men said that the most discouraging thing about the Foreign Missions work was, thatwhen the rations to the “converts” were cut off, the convert lost interest in the Christian faith.

What words could we employ that would arraign the system more severely?

The idea of theJeffersonianis that each nation of the world should take care of its own poor. We are not responsible for pauperism, vice and crime in China. There is no more reason why we should be taxed forcontributions to maintain a commissaryin Pekin or Hong Kong than in Paris, Berlin or London. We leave to the French the task of providing for the Parisian poor; we don’t think of supplying food, raiment and medicine to Berlin paupers; and we consider it the duty of the English to provide for London outcasts. Why, then should we virtually coerce our American Christians into sending money to heathen lands for the purpose of relieving the physical distress of the heathen?

While penning this editorial, it occurred to us to glance at a New York exchange, for the purpose of notingsome contemporaneous instance of starvation, or of suicide because of hunger and lack of employment. The newspapers of the North have been gruesomely full of many ghastly incidents of that kind.

Yes,there it was, page 3, of the N. Y. Evening Journal, of December 4th, 1908.

A white woman, sick and starving, and with a babe at her breast, fell exhausted on Fifth Avenue,—the home-street of the richest men the world has ever known. All of them are Christians. When prosecuted for their criminal methods of taking other people’s property away from them, they blandly perjure themselves, escape the feeble clutches of the law, turn up serenely at church, next Sunday, and contribute handsomely to Foreign Missions.

The woman who fell starving, on the street where these richest of men live, was named Mrs. Mary Schrumm. She was young, thinly dressed, andhad not tasted food for two days. The child was nearly famished, almost frozen and had acute bronchitis.Her husband was out of work; an old woman with whom she had found shelter had been given notice to vacate; and Mrs. Schrumm had gone into the streets to seek refuge in some one of the charitable institutions.She had been turned away from each of these that she could reach. She had begged that her babe, at least, might be taken in. No; the babe was sick, andthey could not take in a sick child!

God! And we talk aboutwhat the heathen need! The hardest-hearted heathen that Jehovah ever made are some of the seared hypocrites who call themselves Christians.

Denied everywhere, poor Mrs. Schrumm wandered about the streets, in the bitterly cold wind, until she fell, completely tired out.

Then, indeed, charity had to sit up and take notice. The starving woman was put into an ambulance, and carried to a hospital.Shewill probably recover; her child will probably die.

Then,what moral righthave you to let such unfortunates as thesefall starving inyourstreets, while you are sendinghundreds of millions of dollars abroad to feed, clothe, physic and make fires for the hungry, “thinly clad,” sick and shivering Chinese?

Doesn’t your own “mother wit” tell you thatForeign Missions could not consume such vast sums of money,if the missionaries limited themselves to preaching the gospel!

Put on your think cap, son.

In the New YorkWorldof December 5, 1908, is reported the case of George Schulze who shot himself to death, in spite of the pleadings of his wife and children, because he was out of work, had tried in vain to secure employment and was in despair.

If these were not typical cases, we would not dwell upon them. But theyaretypical cases,and you know it.

The writer of the ballad which the Jeffersonian presents to its readers this month was Clara V. Dargan. She was born near Winnsboro, S. C., the daughter of Dr. K. S. Dargan, descendant of an old Virginia family of the highest standing. Her mother was a native Charlestonian of Huguenot blood, and from her the poetess inherited vivacity, social charm and a love for romance. The Dargan family was wealthy, but lost everything by the war. Miss Dargan published many poems and short prose stories in the periodicals of the time. In 1863, she was the literary editor of the “Edgefield Advertiser.”

One of her stories, “Philip, My Son,” was considered by so good an authority as Henry Timrod to be equal to any story published in “Blackwood’s.”

“Jean to Jamie” seems to us almost the perfection of a poem of that class. The pathos of it is so genuine, so unobtrusive and so deep that one feels, instinctively, that the lines of the poem ran from the heart of one who had suffered. Henry Timrod said of it, “The verse flows with the softness of a woman’s tears.” The poem, published in 1866, has long since been lost to current literature. Believing it to be a treasure that ought to be recovered, we reproduce it.

Jean to Jamie

What do you think now, Jamie,What do you think now?’Tis many a long year since we parted;Do you still believe Jean honest-hearted—Do you think so now?You did think so once, Jamie,In the blithe spring-time;“There’s never a star in the blue skyThat’s half sae true as my Jamie,” quo’ I—Do you mind the time?We were happy then, Jamie,Too happy, I fear;Sae we kissed farewell at the cottage door—I never hae seen you since at that doorThis many a year.For they told you lies, Jamie;You believed them a’!You, who had promised to trust me trueBefore the whole world—what did you do?You believed them a’!When they called you fause, Jamie,And argued it sair,I flashed wi’ anger—I kindled wi’ scorn,Less at you than at them; I was sae lorn,I couldna do mair.After a bit while, Jamie,—After a while,I heard a’ the cruel words you had said—The cruel, hard words; sae I bowed my head—Na tear—na smile—And you took your letters, Jamie,Gathered them a’,And burnt them one by one in the fire,And watched the bright blaze leaping higher—Burnt ringlet and a’!Then back to the world, Jamie,Laughing went I;There ne’er was a merrier laugh than mine;What foot could outdance me—what eye outshine?“Puir fool!” laughed I.But I’m weary of mirth, Jamie,’Tis hollowness a’;And in these long years sin’ we were parted,I fear I’m growing aye colder-heartedThan you thought ava!I hae many lovers, Jamie,But I dinna care;I canna abide a’ the nonsense they speak—Yet I’d go on my knees o’er Arran’s gray peakTo see thee ance mair!I long for you back, Jamie,But that canna be;I sit all alone by the ingle at e’en,And think o’ those sad words: “It might have been”—Yet never can be!D’ye think o’ the past, Jamie?D’ye think o’ it now?’Twad be a bit comfort to know that ye did—Oh, sair, would I greet to know that ye did,My dear, dear Jamie!

What do you think now, Jamie,What do you think now?’Tis many a long year since we parted;Do you still believe Jean honest-hearted—Do you think so now?

You did think so once, Jamie,In the blithe spring-time;“There’s never a star in the blue skyThat’s half sae true as my Jamie,” quo’ I—Do you mind the time?

We were happy then, Jamie,Too happy, I fear;Sae we kissed farewell at the cottage door—I never hae seen you since at that doorThis many a year.

For they told you lies, Jamie;You believed them a’!You, who had promised to trust me trueBefore the whole world—what did you do?You believed them a’!

When they called you fause, Jamie,And argued it sair,I flashed wi’ anger—I kindled wi’ scorn,Less at you than at them; I was sae lorn,I couldna do mair.

After a bit while, Jamie,—After a while,I heard a’ the cruel words you had said—The cruel, hard words; sae I bowed my head—Na tear—na smile—

And you took your letters, Jamie,Gathered them a’,And burnt them one by one in the fire,And watched the bright blaze leaping higher—Burnt ringlet and a’!

Then back to the world, Jamie,Laughing went I;There ne’er was a merrier laugh than mine;What foot could outdance me—what eye outshine?“Puir fool!” laughed I.

But I’m weary of mirth, Jamie,’Tis hollowness a’;And in these long years sin’ we were parted,I fear I’m growing aye colder-heartedThan you thought ava!

I hae many lovers, Jamie,But I dinna care;I canna abide a’ the nonsense they speak—Yet I’d go on my knees o’er Arran’s gray peakTo see thee ance mair!

I long for you back, Jamie,But that canna be;I sit all alone by the ingle at e’en,And think o’ those sad words: “It might have been”—Yet never can be!

D’ye think o’ the past, Jamie?D’ye think o’ it now?’Twad be a bit comfort to know that ye did—Oh, sair, would I greet to know that ye did,My dear, dear Jamie!

Gentle reader, did you ever steep your mind in one of those Sunday School hooks which were in circulation previous to our Civil War? If not, ransack your grandmother’s garret until you find a specimen of that Arcadian literature.

The little boy in those blessed books never quarrelled, never had a fight, never had dirty hands, and would have been inexpressibly shocked had he made a conversational slip in grammar. He was an intolerable angel in breeches—was this little boy of the Sunday school book.Hecouldn’t “talk back,” nor handle slang, nor throw rocks, nor skin-the-cat, nor ride the billy-goat, nor tie things to a dog’s tail, nor put a pin in a chair for somebody to sit on. If the Bad Boy hit him in the stomach, he wept meekly, quoted a text, and went home to his mamma.

In common conversation, the language of this Good Boy was drawn from wells of English undefiled. Erasmus never used choicer words; and Chesterfield was not more perfect in manners, than was this detestable Good Boy.

Among youths of his own age, he was a miniature Socrates, washed and otherwise purified. Wisdom oozed from him in hateful streams. The sagacity of sages sat on him with uncanny ease.

When a grown man spoke to this Good Boy, the G. B. never replied until he had lifted his right hand and ejaculated “Oh, Sir!” After the salute and the “Oh, Sir,” came the response, which always did infinite credit to the manners, mind and heart of this outrageously Good Boy.

Life was an easy-going affair to the G. B. All things came his way. He was virtuous and he was happy. Nothing ever occurred to soil his clothes or tangle his hair. His nose never bled, he never bit his tongue, never struck his funny-bone, never mashed his thumb with the hammer, never had his drink to go the wrong way. He was never drowned while bathing in the pond, for the simple reason that he didn’t “go in” on the Sabbath. The Bad Boy “went in washing” on Sunday and was drowned, as a matter of course.

Daniel in the lion’s den was not safer amid the perils than was the Good Boy among the ills which are incident to boyhood. Past vicious bulls and snappish curs he walked serene and unharmed. Neither his gun, nor his pony ever kicked him; neither the wasp, nor the bee, nor the yellow-jacket ventured to sting him; nettles avoided his bare feet; no boil came to afflict his nose, nor stye to distort his eye. No limb of a tree ever broke underhim, and gave him a nasty fall. He never tumbled into the creek, nor snagged his “pants,” nor sprained his ankle, nor cut his finger, nor bumped his head, nor walked against the edge of the door at night.

Nothing could happen to this insufferable Good Boy—nothing bad, I mean.Hisshoes never blistered his heels, his hat never blew away, he never lost his hand-kerchief, never had a stone-bruise, never missed his lessons, never soiled his book, never played truant, and never ate anything which caused him to clap both hands to a certain place in front while he doubled up and howled.

Oh, a pink of perfection was this odious boy of the ante-bellum Sunday School books.

And next to him in comprehensive unbearableness was the little girl who was the counterpart of this little boy.

Her name was Lucy. Or, perhaps, Marielle. Or, for the sake of variety, Lucretia.

And what a portentous proposition in pantalettes she was, to be sure!

“Rollo, Lucy and Mariette went Together.”

She talked just as exquisitely as did the Good Boy. Her selection of words was artistic, and her grammar immaculate. If William Pitt’s natural style was that of the “State Paper,” the colloquial standard of Lucy, Lucretia and Marielle was that of Madame de Stael.

She walked with primness; if she ran at all, it was with dignity; she did not giggle, did not romp, never made a mud pie, never pinched the Good Boy, and was such a formidable little thing, generally, that even the Bad Boy never snatched her bonnet. Such a thought as that of stealing a kiss from her never entered the head ofanyboy, good, bad or indifferent.

This unearthly girl always seemed an impossibility to me, after I became a grown-up, until I chanced to read about the daughter of John Adams, second President of these United States. Mr. Adams married a stately woman whose name was Abigail. What else could you expect, if not that a girl born to John Adams and his wife, Abigail, would be a tremendous little girl from the very start? Her parents namedherAbigail,—as an additional guarantee against chewing gum, coca-cola, slang, and tomboyishness.

ABIGAIL ADAMS

At the age of eighteen, we find Miss Abigail Adams writing about her father as though he were some Sphinx or Pyramid that she had been viewing. Please go slow, as you read what this young lady says of her own papa:

“I discover a thousand traits of softness, delicacy and sensibility in this excellent man’s character. How amiable, how respectable, how worthy of every token of my attention has this conduct rendered a parent, a father, to whom we feel due even a resignation of our opinions.”

Did you ever? Just try to put yourself at the view-point of a girl who could calmly sit down and analyze her father, as a naturalist would disjoint a rare beetle. Think of a daughter referring to her father as “this excellent man,” and classing him “respectable”! Think of a daughter dutifully conceding, in writing, that her dad is “worthy of my attention” and “even a resignation of our opinions.”

And, after all, she jumped from the sublime to the ridiculous by marrying a man named Smith!

But she has restored my confidence in the girl of the Sunday school book. Lucydidappear on this planet in the flesh; and when she talked and wrote her style was that of little Abigail Adams. Marielle was not an impossibility, nor was Lucretia. Even that obnoxious Good Boy was true to life—if John Adams’ description of his son John Quincy is not too highly colored by paternal pride. After reading said paternal description I can understand how it was that, while Henry Clay made friends out of those whom he refused, John Quincy Adams made enemies by his manner in granting favors.

But no matter how many Lucys and Rollos existed prior to our War between the States, it would be mighty hard to find a Lucy or a Rollo now. Times have changed, manners have changed, types have changed. What is responsible for the bold-eyed girl—the girl of loose speech and loud manners? What is responsible for the irreverent boy—the boy of the cigarette and ofthe look which undresses every handsome woman that he meets? These are the boys that greet girls with a “Hello!” and a leer that should offend. These are the girls who shout “Hello!” to the boys, and who lie prone by the side of young men during a “straw-ride” at night. Are all such maidens the daughters of mothers who drink and gamble? Are all such youths the sons of men who have no morals? By no means. Our whole social and industrial situation has changed, and the people have changed with it.

Would that I could believe that our Public System is guiltless in this matter. Use your eyes as you pass a crowded academy and note the conditions which make against common decency—to say nothing of that deference and respect with which every properly trained boy should treat members of the other sex.

But there are causes deeper, more universal than the promiscuous mix-up in the Public Schools. The centripetal power of class legislation is drawing capital inward to the small centre of the Privileged. To themasses is left a constantly smaller proportion of the nation’s annual production of wealth. In turn, this law-made and abnormal condition of things over-crowds the cities. In fact, rural life has become so unattractive that the trend of population isfrom the farm to the town. Every village has its surplus—the men and boys, white and black, who have no visible means of support and who can not be persuaded to work. In every town is the girl who hardly knows why she’s there,—but she’s there.

“‘Oh! Look,’ cried Lucy.”

And the pace-that-kills in the Chicagos and New Yorks is faithfully represented, on a small scale, in each of our towns. Don’t all of us know it? We do. But what is the remedy?

The temperance people believe that whiskey is at the bottom of the trouble. The church people believe that irreligion is the source of the evil. The school teacher believes that education will save the day.

But can not the student of human affairs see that the demoralization incident to four years of civil strife shook our entire social system like an earthquake? Did not the Spanish war light up,—luridly, vividly, horribly,—the almost universal corruption which had seized upon the body politic?

“Eat, drink and be merry—tomorrow we die.” When a nation rings with that cry, it is close to the whirlpool. “Let us have a good time!” The man drinks and makes much of his food; the woman drinks and thinks a deal about her eating; the boy drinks and knows the good dishes; the girl drinks and daintily scans the menu. “Hello!” shouts the dashing boy; “Hello!” answers the dashing girl, and off they hurry to some place where talk, songs, pictures and conduct are “up-to-date,”—and in many and many a case the Hello couple are reeling hellward by midnight.

Don’t weknowthat our statute-book is the Iliad of our woes?

The few are wickedly rich while the many are helplessly poor, because the laws have been madefor the purpose of bringing about that very state of affairs. There is a fierce struggle for existence which waxes more desperate every year.Men fight each other for a job, with a ferocity like that of starving dogs fighting over a bone.Girls are forced into positions where delicacy of feeling is trampled out and where it requires heroic courage to resist the tempters who are ever on her trail to pull her down.

Who does not know that the ten million dollars which one of our religious denominations recently sent abroad for Foreign Missions would be better employed if it were devoted to the breaking up of our hideous marketing of white women to lewd houses? Who does not feel that the hundreds of millions which our Government has spent in the Philippines had better have been left in the pockets of the taxpayers here at home? Who does not know that we ought to tremble for our future when we see how our law-makers have been the willing tools of those who ruin the millions of men and women, girls and boys, in order that a few hundreds of ravenous rascals like Rockefeller and Carnegie and Havemeyer and Ryan and Vanderbilt and Gould and Harriman shall each be richer than any king ever was?

Most of usdoknow it. Some of us have long been trying to arouse the patient, victimized millions to a sense of their own wrongs. But it is an uphill work. Some despair, some scoff, some are callous, some won’t listen, some are timid, some are interested in keeping things as they are, some think it is God’s will that a favored few should reach the Paradise of unlimited riches while the unfavored multitudes sink into a hell of eternal wretchedness.

The lotus-eater’s plaint of “Let us alone” is to me as fearful as that reckless, creedless, madly selfish cry “Let us eat, drink and be merry: tomorrow we die.”

Jay Gould contemptuously dismissed the suggestion that, some day, the American people might rise in arms against its swinish plutocracy. Said Jason, the cynical,

“I could hire one-half of the people to shoot the other half.”

The man who said that was not more contemptuous of us than are the plutocrats who rule and rob us now. But perhaps what he said is the truth. They manage to keep us divided, about half and half, in the bloodless battle of ballots; perhaps, if it came to shooting they could divide us the same way.

“He Certainly Was Good To Me.”New YorkAmerican

“He Certainly Was Good To Me.”

New YorkAmerican

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