“Is he as tall as Jerusha?” Abigail asked.
“Not quite, and he’s a year younger.”
Mrs. Bromley began to cry, but her gruff husband joshed her. “You know how it is, Phet! This sailor that Jerusha fell in love with … Some ridiculous dance here in Walpole … He’s a cousin of the Lowells, I think … I’ve always thought it was her mother who fell most completely in love that night. These tall men with commanding eyes!” He patted his own rotund belly and coaxed his wife away from her tears.
“It amounts to this,” Eliphalet said bluntly. “You have a daughter and I have a niece. We both love her very much. She’s twenty-two, and she grows more confused each day. We must find her a husband. We must help her choose a way of life. I offer both.”
“And I appreciate the offer,” Charles said warmly. “God knows I’ve been helpless.”
“Do you still wish to speak with her, Eliphalet?” Abigail asked, swayed by her husband’s reactions.
“No, Abigail,” her husband interrupted. “This is your problem, not Phet’s.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bromley sniffed. “But what can I tell her about the young man?”
Eliphalet, having anticipated this, handed her a neatly written dossier on Abner Hale, including a minute description of the young minister, a transcript of his marks in college, an essay he had written on Church Discipline in Geneva, and a sketchy genealogy of the Gideon Hales of Marlboro, descendants of Elisha Hale of Bucks, England. There was also a separate sheet which indicated that confidential letters could be addressed to John Whipple and President Day at Yale, to several Christian citizens at Marlboro, Massachusetts, and to Abner’s sister Esther on the family farm. Abigail Bromley peeked first at the physical description: “Fine clear complexion but sallow; fine teeth.”
Bad news she could have taken, but these hopeful comments collapsed her and she sobbed, “We don’t even know where Owhyhee is.” Then she accused her husband of lacking parental love: “Are you willing to send your daughter …”
“My dear,” Charles said firmly, “the only thing I’m not willing to do is to abandon my child to fits of depression and religious mania in a small upstairs room. If she can find love and a rich life in Owhyhee, it’s a damned sight better than she’s doing in Walpole, New Hampshire. Now you go up and talk with her. I believe she’s in a religious swing of the pendulum this month and she’ll probably jump at the chance of marrying a minister and going to Owhyhee.”
Therefore, as a result of Reverend Eliphalet Thorn’s importunate trip to Marlboro and to Walpole, young Abner Hale, sweating the June days nervously at Yale, finally received his letter from Boston: “Dear Mr. Hale: As a result of careful inquiries conducted on our behalf by Reverend Eliphalet Thorn, the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions is happy in the will of God to advise you that you have been chosen for mission duty in Hawaii. You and your wife will depart Boston on September first in the brig Thetis. Captain Janders.” There was enclosed a printed list of some two hundred articles that venturing missionaries were urged to carry with them:
3 razors 1 parasol 1 nest Hingham boxes
1 compass 3 scissors 1 pair bellows
21 towels 4 mugs 3 stone jugs
1 washbasin 3 chambers 1 pair andirons
1 calash 1 lantern 1 crane and hooks …
There was also a much shorter letter which said simply: “You would be well advised to present yourself in late July at the home of Charles and Abigail Bromley in Walpole, New Hampshire, there to meet their daughter Jerusha, a Christian girl of twenty-two. It occurs to me that you may require some few necessities to make yourself additionally presentable for this important meeting, so I enclose herewith three dollars, which you need not repay me.” This letter was signed: “Eliphalet Thorn, of the African Mission.”
IN THESE YEARS of the early 1820’s there were many young ministers destined for Hawaii who, absorbed in study, found no time to make the acquaintance of marriageable young women and who were unexpectedly faced with the positive necessity of getting married within the space of a few weeks, for the A.B.C.F.M. resolutely refused to send any unmarried man to the islands and advised all such who wished to labor there for the Lord to inquire of their friends to see if a suitable female might be found, and there is no record of failure. Of course, some young ministers were rejected by the first nominees of their friends, but sooner or later all found wives, “not because the young fellers was handsome, but because New England turns out so danged many old maids. Our best boys is all out to sea.” There was much argument as to whether the decision of the A.B.C.F.M. to reject unmarried men stemmed from understanding of what errors men living alone might fall into; or from specific knowledge of what life in Hawaii was like, and it seems probable that the latter was the case, for many whalers had often returned to New Bedford and Nantucket, if they bothered to come home at all, with faraway tales of generous maidens, endless supplies of coconuts and thatched houses in magnificent valleys. In all seaports one could hear the sad refrain:
“I want to go back to Owhyhee,
Where the sea sings a soulful song,
Where the gals is kind and gentle,
And they don’t know right from wrong!”
From listening to such songs the Board concluded that, conditions being what they were, it would be prudent to require even young men who lived in a state of grace to take their own converted women with them. More potent however was the conviction that women were the civilizing agents, the visual harbingers of Christian life. The A.B.C.F.M. therefore required females, not only to keep the young missionaries in line, but also because a devoted young wife was herself a missionary of the most persuasive kind. And so the young men scattered over New England, meeting shy, dedicated girls for the first time on Friday, proposing on Saturday, getting married after three Sundays had elapsed for banns, and departing for Hawaii immediately thereafter.
But none of these amorous odysseys was stranger than the one conducted by Abner Hale. When he left Yale in early July, duly ordained a minister in the Congregational Church, he was five feet four inches tall, weighed one hundred and thirty-six pounds, had a most sallow complexion, a somewhat stooped bearing, and stringy blond hair which he parted in the middle and pasted down with water, bear grease and tallow. He wore the black claw-hammer coat favored by ministers, had a skimpy cotton stock about his neck, and a new ten-inch-high beaver stovepipe hat which tapered inward about five inches above his head and then flared out to a considerable expanse of flatness on top. In his meager luggage, tied together in a box, he carried a small brush which he had been told to use in grooming his hat, and this was the one vanity of dress he allowed himself, for he reasoned that this hat, more than anything else, heralded him as a clergyman. His cowhide shoes, black with elastic webs, he ignored.
When the coach landed him at Marlboro, he stepped primly down, adjusted his tall hat, grabbed his box, and set out on foot for home. To his disappointment, no one in Marlboro bothered to congratulate him on having attained the ministry, for in his tall hat no one recognized him, and he reached the tree-lined lane leading to his home without having spoken to anyone, and there he stood in the hot dust, greeting, as he felt, for the last time, this bleak, unkindly home in which generations of Hales had been born, and it seemed to him so marked with love that he bowed his head and wept. He was standing in this manner when the younger children spotted him and led the whole family out to welcome him home.
They had barely assembled in the austere front room when Gideon Hale, brimming with pride at having a son who was ordained, suggested, “Abner, will you lead your first prayer in this house?” And Abner took as his text Leviticus 25:10, “And ye shall return every man unto his possession, and ye shall return every man unto his family,” and poured forth a minor sermon. The family glowed, but when services were over, shy, gangling Esther took her brother aside and whispered, “The most wonderful thing has happened, Abner.”
“Father told me, E
sther. I am deeply pleased that you have entered into a state of grace.”
“It would be vain of me to speak of that,” the eager girl said, in blushes. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“What then?”
“I have received a letter!”
“From whom?”
“From Walpole, New Hampshire.”
It was now Abner’s turn to blush, and although he did not wish to display unseemly interest he nevertheless had to ask, haltingly, “From …” But he could not bring himself to utter the name he had not yet spoken to anyone. It seemed to him so improbable that he should even know of Jerusha Bromley, let alone be on his way to propose to her, that he would not profane her name by mentioning it.
Esther Hale took her brother’s two hands and assured him, “It is from one of the sweetest, most considerate, gentle and Christian young women in all New England. She called me sister and asked for my prayers and guidance.”
“May I see the letter?” Abner asked.
“Oh! No! No!” Esther protested vigorously. “It was sent to me in confidence. Jerusha said … Isn’t that a sweet name, Abner? It was Jotham’s mother’s name in Kings. She said that everything was happening so rapidly that she had to confide in a trustworthy friend. You would be amazed at the things she asked me.”
“About what?” Abner asked.
“About you.”
“What did you say?”
“I wrote a letter of eighteen pages, and although it was a secret letter between my sister and me …”
“Your sister?”
“Yes, Abner. I’m convinced from the manner of her letter that she intends marrying you.” Esther smiled at her confused brother and added, “So although it was a secret letter, I made a copy of one of the eighteen pages.”
“Why?”
“Because on that page I listed every single one of your faults, as a young woman would assess them, and in sisterly love, Abner, I would like to give you that important page.”
“I would like to have it,” Abner said weakly, and he took the finely composed page, with its flowing penmanship, to his room and read: “Dearest Jerusha, whom I hope one happy day to have the right of calling sister, thus far I have told you only of my brother’s virtues. They are many and I have not exaggerated them, for as you can guess, living in close harmony in the bosom of a large and closely bonded family provides even the dullest intellect with ample opportunity to penetrate even the most secret recesses of another’s mind and temperament. Against the day, therefore, when we may meet as true sisters, and desirous of having you judge me as having been completely honest with you in true Christian principle as enjoined by our Lord in Ephesians 4:25, ‘Wherefore putting away lying, speak every man truth with his neighbor: for we are members one of another,’ I must now advise you of the weaknesses of my devout and gentle brother. First, Jerusha, he is not skilled in pretty manners and will surely disappoint you if you seek them foremost in a husband. That he could learn to be more gracious I feel sure, and perhaps under your patient counsel he might one day become almost civilized, but I doubt it. He is rude and honest. He is thoughtless and forthright, and from having watched my mother deal with such a husband I know how trying it can be at times, but in all of my life I have not seen my father make much change, so I must conclude that this is something which women prize but which they rarely find. Second, he is thoughtless where women are concerned, for I have lived with him in closest intimacy for nineteen years, and I have shared his secrets and he mine, and never in that time has he thought to give me a present other than some useful object like a straight-edge or a journal. I am sure he does not know that flowers exist, even though our Lord saw to it that His temple in Jerusalem was constructed of finest materials and sweet woods. In this also he is much like his father. Third, he is not a handsome young man and his habit of stooping makes him less so. He is not careful of his clothes, nor of his person, although he does wash his mouth frequently to avoid giving offense in that quarter. On any day in Marlboro I see young men who are more handsome than my brother, and I suppose that one day I shall marry one of them, but I have not the slightest hope that this handsomer man will have the list of favorable attributes which I have just enumerated. But I know you will often wish that Abner stood a little straighter, wore linen a little whiter, and had a more commanding presence. He will never have these graces and if you seek them primarily, you will be grievously disappointed. Finally, sister Jerusha, for I make bold to call you this in the most fervent hope that you will accept my brother, for the spirit of joy I find in your letter is one that Abner sorely needs, I must warn you that he is both grave and vain, and if he were not destined for the ministry these would be insufferable traits, but his gravity and vanity spring from the same cause. He feels that God has spoken to him personally, as indeed He has, and that this separates him from all other men. This is a most unpleasant trait in my brother, and I can now say so because God has spoken to me, too, and I judge from your letter that He has come to you, and I find neither in you nor in myself the vanity that mars my brother. I have found in God’s presence a sweetness that I never knew before. It makes me gentler with my sisters, more understanding of my little brothers. I take more joy in feeding the chickens and churning the butter. If only Abner could surrender his vanity in the presence of the Lord, he would be a near-perfect husband for you, Jerusha. As it is, he is a good man, and if you should elect him, I pray that you will keep this letter with you and that you will find as the years pass that your unseen sister told you the truth.”
There was another letter waiting at Marlboro. It came from Reverend Eliphalet Thorn and said simply: “While you’re at your father’s, work each day in the sun with your hat off. If Jerusha accepts you, I’ll perform the ceremony.”
So for two weeks Abner worked in the fields as he had as a boy, and in time he grew bronzed and the sallow skin under his deep-set eyes tightened, so that when it came time for him to say farewell to his large and loving family he was as close to being handsome as he would ever be, but the relaxation from grimness that his sister Esther had sought to encourage had not taken place. This was partly because the young minister had a presentiment that this was the very last time on earth that he would see these eleven people, this barn, that meadow where he had known conversion, this warm fellowship of a Christian family. He shook hands with his mother, for he was never much of an embracer, and then with his father, who suggested cautiously, “Since you’re leaving, maybe I ought to hitch up the wagon.”
He was obviously relieved when his son replied, “No, Father. It’s a good day. I’ll walk.”
“I’d like to give you a little money to go away with, Abner,” his father began, hesitantly.
“That’s not necessary,” Abner replied. “Reverend Thorn kindly sent me three dollars.”
“That’s what Esther told me,” Gideon Hale replied. Thrusting out a well-worn hand, he said stiffly, “May the Lord go with you, son.”
“May you continue to live in grace,” Abner replied.
He then said good-bye to Esther and for the first time realized that she was growing into quite a fine young woman. He had a pang of regret and thought: “I ought to have known Esther better.” But now it was too late, and he stood in a welter of confusion when she kissed him, thus paving the way for each of his other sisters to do the same.
“Good-bye,” he said chokingly. “If we do not meet again here on earth, we shall surely reassemble at His feet in heaven. For we are heirs of God and joint heirs of Jesus Christ to an inheritance uncorrupted, undefiled and limitless and which fadeth not away.” With this he sternly moved away from his bleak parents and their bleak home with its unpainted boards and unlovely windows. For the last time he walked down the lane, out into the dusty road, and on to Marlboro, where the coach picked him up for New Hampshire and an adventure which he dreaded.
Arrived at the Old Colony Inn at Walpole, Abner washed and took from his papers one that had been written by his s
ister. Numerous items were set forth, and numbered, the first being: “Upon arrival wash, brush yourself thoroughly, and have the messenger deliver this note to Mrs. Bromley: ‘My dear Mrs. Bromley, May I have the pleasure of calling upon you this afternoon at three?’ Then sign your name and the name of the inn, in case one of the family should deem fit to come to escort you in person.”
The letter had scarcely been dispatched when Abner heard a hearty male voice crying, “You got a young fellow from Massachusetts staying here?” And before Abner had time to read his sister’s careful instructions for the first visit, his door was burst open and he was greeted by a generously filled-out New Hampshire gentleman who laughed, “I’m Charles Bromley. You must be nervous as a colt.”
“I am,” Abner said.
“You look a lot browner and tougher than everybody said.”
“Reverend Thorn told me to do some work in the fields.”
“Do me a lot of good to do the same. What I came for, though, was to tell you that we won’t hear of you waiting around this inn till three o’clock. Walk right across the common with me, and meet the family.”
“It won’t be an imposition?” Abner asked.
“Son!” Lawyer Bromley laughed. “We’re as nervous as you are!” And he started to lead young Hale home, but on the spur of the moment stopped and called to the innkeeper, “What are the charges here?”
“Sixty cents a day.”
“Hold the bill for me. These young ministers don’t earn much money.” He then took Abner out into the midsummer perfection of Walpole. There was the village church, glistening white in its pre-Revolutionary splendor, the massive houses, the giant elms, the marvelous green common with a fretwork bandstand in the middle where Charles Bromley often delivered patriotic addresses, and straight ahead the lawyer’s residence from which Mrs. Bromley and her two younger daughters peered like spies.
Hawaii Page 21
