The Heathen School

by John Demos

  There was, moreover, another reason for this choice. In Daggett’s words: “The youths who are to accompany the mission” will find, in schools, “immediate & suitable employment…& gain the confidence & esteem of their countrymen.” He was referring, of course, to his own Hawaiian pupils, around whom lurked a certain anxiety. Might they not—when returned to their original surroundings—lose their faith, forget all they had learned of “civilization,” and revert to “primitive paganism”? Better, then, to “employ” them right away in a solid and “suitable” occupation, such as work in mission-sponsored classrooms.53

  Schools would require books, so Daggett and others redoubled their efforts in that direction. With assistance from some of the native scholars they created a special “Owhyhean, book” composed of Bible extracts, sentence translations (“including some account of Obookiah”), elementary instruction in spelling and arithmetic, plus “a short & familiar account of Creation.” They decided to save its actual publication for Hawaii—a printing press would accompany the mission—since “it will be pleasing to the heathen to see the production of the book designed for their use.” Additional books (in English) would arrive among larger “donations.” One such included “2 setts of Morse’s Universal Geography,” several of “Scott’s Bibles,” plus “50 or 60” additional volumes; a second “36 copies of the Memoir of Obookiah … to send … to Owhyhee.”54

  In fact, these donations spanned a very broad range: from bolts of cloth, finished garments, and shoes to bedding, tools, dried apples, cheeses, and writing paper. A typical shipment required three wagons for transport from Connecticut to Boston. There were cash gifts, too (some from as far away as Virginia and South Carolina). And one more, of special significance, was “the watch of Henry Obookiah, which has been reserved with the expectation that Thomas [Hopoo] would have it when he left this country.” There were also several things “intended as presents to the heathen” but considered “improper…[such as] ear drops, rings, feathers, &c.”; these “would give them wrong expectations,” and must be returned. Finally, there were gifts collected by Hopoo during “a little tour … into the western parts of Mass. & Ver.” and meant specifically for island royalty—for example, Bibles for the “son & daughter of King Tam-a-am-a-ah [Kamehameha],” and “a common Testament” for the king himself. It made, all in all, a considerable stash.55

  Of course, the single most important task for the organizers was lining up the people to be involved. Two young clergymen, Hiram Bingham and Asa Thurston, volunteered to lead the mission. Bingham had been raised on a farm in Vermont and attended Middlebury College and Andover Theological Seminary; he was drawn to missionary work by Obookiah’s story and a site visit to Cornwall. Of the latter, he wrote in typically grandiloquent, and patronizing, terms: “I saw those dear youths whom God in his providence had brought from pagan lands … having caught … the spirit of the gospel, panting for an opportunity to publish its doctrines & diffuse its hopes and consolation among their dying countrymen, & looking anxiously around them for some one to take them by the hand & lead them forward in this great and good work.” Thurston, for his part, was a Massachusetts native and Yale graduate. The group would also include five more New England men: a printer, a farm superintendent, a “schoolmaster and mechanic,” another schoolmaster, and a “respectable physician.” Only one of them was married when chosen; the other six, including the ministers, rushed to take wives just before departure, after the briefest of courtships. This flurry of weddings reflected a general belief that bachelor missionaries might be subject to unwanted “temptation.”56

  The choice of the “Anglo-Americans” (as they were identified in Mission School documents) seems to have gone easily enough; their Hawaiian colleagues presented more difficulty. Throughout the summer and fall, Daggett agonized over the possibilities: Which of the current scholars were best prepared for the “arduous duties” that awaited them? Hopoo had shown the greatest overall promise. Boon companion for so long to Obookiah, he did not possess the same “force of mind,” but his piety and “seriousness” were beyond doubt. Honoree, too, was “honest and faithful.” As for Tennooe, “there have been suspicious things” about him in the past, but more recently “he has gained upon our good opinion.” Sandwich was of “good character” but had “almost forgotten his native language” (after living for a dozen years in America); this in itself seemed disqualifying. Kummooolah’s “talents are not … above mediocrity”; at the least he would need more time in order to become “useful.” That left Tamoree. Though possessed of much intelligence—he had gained some local fame by learning how to predict lunar eclipses—his behavior was often “disgraceful.” His connections at home, as the son of an island king, gave him great potential value. Yet what to make of his “irritable & self-important” manner, his lack of “restraint,” his freely expressed “rages,” his talking “very improperly,” his misuse of money, his occasional drunkenness? The problems went on and on—leaving Daggett at wit’s end. Tamoree was, in any case, determined to return without further delay; Daggett was resigned to this, but feared “his doing some fatal mischief, or coming to a dreadful end.” He would join the mission entourage—not with the blessing of his teachers, but, rather, with their anxious prayers for his “reformation and final good.”57

  In the end, the roster would consist of nineteen Anglo-Americans—the seven men officially attached to the mission, their wives, and five children belonging to one of the couples—plus the four young Hawaiians. The latter were identified as “native teachers” or simply “assistants,” terms that implied a subordinate role; their exact duties would not be determined until after arrival in the islands. (Tamoree, in fact, was excluded even from this modest designation.) Still, their symbolic importance was clear to all; thus, before leaving, they were invited to sit for a group portrait by Samuel F. B. Morse, a much-admired artist of the time (and the future inventor of the Morse code). Morse’s painting would subsequently become the basis for a set of engraved prints, to be sold far and wide as a fund-raising tactic for the school.58

  In late September, the entire Hawaii-bound contingent would gather in the town of Goshen for the official ordination of the two ministers, Bingham and Thurston; they were joined by “a large concourse,” including some from “distant parts of the country.” According to an eyewitness, “the effect of the whole was increased by the presence of … nearly all the members of the Foreign Mission School, who had come over from Cornwall with the Reverend H. Daggett, their instructor.” Among the latter group, most of all, this event must have occasioned great excitement and pride. The hopes they had nourished through so many months were about to be realized.59

  The final send-off came three weeks later in Boston, from where their ship would set out. There was another round of ceremonies, including two at the Park Street Church before a “very numerous and attentive audience.” At the first, the departing group joined together, “with very impressive solemnities,” to form a church congregation that could then be transferred to Hawaii; and Bingham preached on the theme of “benevolent action.” At the second, announced as a “farewell service,” Thurston preached and Hopoo followed with a powerful, “extempore address” of his own. “It was,” wrote an eyewitness, “a most affecting spectacle to see a native of Owhyhee preaching the Gospel to the citizens of Boston.” Collections taken at both services yielded “upwards of two hundred dollars.” (The equivalent amount today would be several thousand.) On the morning they sailed, another “great crowd” gathered at Long Wharf, for yet more hymns, prayer, and “salutation.” At last, “they took leave of their weeping friends”—and were off.60

  Perhaps now the school could take a new view of itself; no longer an “infant institution,” it had become instead a maturing one, with progeny of its own abroad in the world. Something of an expanded spirit was evident in its workings during the weeks and months after the launching of the Sandwich Islands mission. Thus Daggett would, on one occasion, pronou
nce the school to be “uniformly prosperous,” on a second “altogether flourishing.”

  Then came another memorable observance of the annual school examination (May 1820). The sermon, delivered by Rev. David Perry (from the nearby town of Sharon), was perhaps the most exalted and uplifting of the many such delivered at the school. Perry began by conjuring a picture of the departed missionaries, just then—“perhaps while I am yet speaking”—on their approach to “the wished for shore.” (In fact, the entire group had arrived two months before, but the news had not as yet gotten back to New England.) “Is it an illusion?” he asked. “Or do we see the wandering natives throng to welcome the heralds of salvation, and clasp, in fond embrace, their long lost children?” (Illusion or not, such was the heart-hope of all present that morning.) “For many ages,” he continued, “though something was attempted, nothing was done.” But he then added, “[H]ow is the scene now changed! These wild men come to our shores, and our firesides.” (And none of those in attendance could fail to notice the cluster of actual living and breathing specimens of “wild men,” seated just there—below the preacher—as he pushed on.) “They enquire for the Babe of Bethlehem; they listen to his story; they admire his life; they weep by his cross; they tremble for sin.” (Who among the listeners would doubt this? They were themselves witness to it.) “These, and many other equally animating scenes, have so rapidly crowded on the view, that the mind has almost lost the power of astonishment.” (They might well, by this point, be cast into a kind of trance. Such magnificent prospects could scarcely be imagined.)61

  The sermon closed with a candid acknowledgment of “challenges” to face and “obstacles” to overcome. The “wild men” were, after all, “buried in superstition and guilt; the madness of paganism has become enwrought into the very structure of their minds.” (Creating a new structure would be a long and arduous process; no one should underestimate its difficulties.) Still, the Mission School offered a uniquely auspicious approach: “It stands alone, in the Christian world, an original essay for doing good. It has not its like in Europe or America.… Few institutions have brought such an accession of zeal and interest to the Christian cause; and few … promise more extensive benefit to the Church of God in heathen lands.” (They were riding now on a sea of high emotion—their eyes fixed on a distant but glorious horizon.)62

  After reaching such a crest, almost anything else would be a comedown. But when the gathering moved over to the schoolhouse, the examination itself went very well. The scholars performed in their usual “creditable … gratifying” manner—offering fourteen “declamations,” in six different languages, and concluding with a “dialogue,” entitled “The Cherokee Council,” on the subject of “the removal of the tribe to the Arkansaw [sic] according to the proposition of the American government.” (Thus did the outside world begin to press in on the scholars, some of whom would later be engulfed by this very same “proposition.”) According to subsequent press accounts, the entire sequence proved “highly encouraging to the friends of the heathen,” especially those personally in attendance.63

  By now the school had regained full strength, as the places vacated by the island-bound missionaries were filled with an equivalent number of new arrivals. In each of the succeeding years, there would be additional comings and goings, but the total number of scholars at any one time remained within a narrow range of thirty to thirty-five. Recruitment in a variety of far-flung venues—the Pacific, the Far East, southern Europe, and, most of all, the North American “Indian country”—continued to funnel likely prospects toward Cornwall; recommendations came from ministers, overseas merchants, sea captains, and others in the ranks of “the benevolent.” By now, too, there was a regular admissions process, requiring advance communication and written “testimonials of [an applicant’s] moral and Christian character.”64

  And what would successful applicants find when finally they reached the school? What were their impressions? Their feelings? How were they regarded by others, both staff and fellow scholars? Detailed evidence for answering such questions is scanty to nil, but some things can safely be imagined. Most of the newcomers had no prior experience of the New England landscape, New England climate, New England culture; hence they arrived as strangers through and through. (One commented pointedly on “the great extremes of heat and cold,” and imagined his family “enjoying the warm clime of our native country … while, as I am writing I hear the cold Northern wind whistling above me.”) A good many could barely converse in English, and some were entirely lacking that way. A certain number (especially among the Indians) had previously encountered the Christian faith, which loomed so large in the school’s everyday life and practice; at least a few could be described as already “hopefully pious.” But for many, this element, too, was unfamiliar. Though their teachers and “patrons” were not overtly rejecting, they encountered little interest or sympathy for whatever they might carry with them from their “primitive” and “pagan” past; indeed, the goal was to “reform” and remake them as quickly as possible. All this they must have sensed from the moment of arrival. As a result, some were actively upset—anxious, disoriented, homesick—during their first weeks in Cornwall. Daggett acknowledged as much when stressing to the American Board the value of the school’s isolated location: “It is … a fact that foreign youths, on their first arrival, are frequently uneasy, and desirous of leaving.… Were facilities presented for them to depart, the Agents believe that many of them, in some fit of pique or discontent, would abscond.”65

  To be sure, this was not always the case; some came full of hopeful anticipation. David Brown, a young Cherokee previously schooled for several years at Brainerd and steeped in Christian devotional practice, wrote home in a cheerful vein in July 1820. “I arrived here the 13th instant from Boston.… I generally find everything as I expected when I left home.… I like Cornwall.… There are at present students from all different parts of the globe.… I was happy to find our Cherokee friends [his fellow scholars] all doing well; most of them, I hope, are truly pious.” Even Brown, however, would go on to suffer periods of “gloom & discouragement”; in particular, he was troubled by a recurrent “hesitation in speech” (stuttering), which “appears to be more since I have been in Cornwall than before.” (Curiously, he had “no difficulty in speaking in the Cherokee language,” whereas “the intricate English idiom was not designed for me.”)66

  As part of their introduction to the school, some of the newcomers would be renamed—either for a personal benefactor or for one or another “luminary” in the Protestant pantheon. Thus John Paru, from Hawaii, became Samuel Mills, after Obookiah’s clergyman friend of years before; and A-to-kah, a Seneca boy from upstate New York, became George Fox, after a prominent seventeenth-century Quaker; and Taw-a-hee-chy, a Cherokee, became William Kirkpatrick, “after his patron…[in] Lancaster, Pa.… who had engaged to sustain the expense of his education.” (In most, though not all, cases, there was this same sort of quid pro quo.) One especially well-documented instance shows details of the procedure involved. It began when a minister asked school authorities, on behalf of his wife, that a “suitable subject” be found to take the name of her first (now deceased) husband, Rev. John Cleaveland; in return, she would pledge a gift of “$25 per year for four years.” Daggett was wary of this request, and indeed of the entire practice. What, he wondered, if the person chosen should “prove … perverse” and have to be expelled? Would that not mean a “gift … lost,” an “endeared name disgraced”? Even so, he proposed “a likely youth,” John Irepoah (a Hawaiian), but this time with the proviso that the patron “consent to his retaining his present names, with the interposition of Cleaveland between them”—hence John Cleaveland Irepoah. Eventually, as many as a quarter of the scholars would carry such “Anglo-American” names. Changed in this outward way, might they also be changed within? What better means of symbolizing the larger project of which the school formed such a crucial part? (And then, too, there was the money t
o be gained.)67

  Happy or homesick, renamed or not, the new arrivals would soon be swept up in the school’s ongoing routine. David Brown’s letters to his family and friends (at home in the Cherokee Nation) offer examples of its leading parts.

  Lodging for the scholars is on the second floor of the Academy building, a space subdivided into small cubicle-like “apartments.” In Brown’s case: “I room with Mr. J. Ely, one of the members of this school, who expects to spend his days in the cause of Christ.” Their board comes from the school steward; hence at mealtimes they repair to his house, which stands just a few yards north of the Academy. About the food, Brown says nothing; probably it seems an unimportant matter alongside “the cause of Christ.” The beginnings and ends of their days are not strictly prescribed; Brown writes, “I generally go to bed about 10 o’clock, and rise at 5, & sometimes 6.” The Academy tower holds a working bell, which “rings for breakfast about 7.” Classes start at nine and run till noon; there is also an afternoon session from two till four. All the instruction takes place on the Academy’s lower floor, a single barnlike room with desks arrayed in several long rows. Brown, though a strong student, finds the schedule challenging. He mentions “a library of good books for the Institution,” many of which “I wish to read, had I time; but my attention to study, and being with a class, deprives me, at present, of reading any kind of book much, except the Holy Bible.” The teaching is supervised by the principal himself, whom Brown and the other scholars “all esteem highly, & we cannot adore the Giver of every good & perfect gift enough, in favoring us with his good instruction.” An assistant teacher is also closely involved, and from time to time outsiders are enlisted to help. But much of the regular classroom activity follows a “Lancastrian” model, with the most advanced students tutoring the others. The curriculum remains what it has been from the start: a broad range of a dozen or more subjects. Specific course content is designed to meet the particular background, needs, and talents of each individual scholar. In the immediate aftermath of his arrival, Brown reports: “I am, at present, studying arithmetic, reading, writing, catechism, etc.” Six months later, his program comprises “Geography, Latin & English Grammar, Arithmetic, & other things.” Later still, he will move on to the “higher branches”; these include Hebrew, Greek, rhetoric, natural philosophy, and astronomy. Religion is a ubiquitous presence. There are morning and evening prayers, at which the scholars read from the Bible—in rotation, a verse or two at a time—with questions from Daggett when they are done. Of course, the chief “devotions” come on Sundays. Thus (again in Brown’s words): “[W]e have two sermons … preached to us every Sabbath, besides a lecture on Sabbath morning in the school-room, by the Principal.” In addition: “[W]e formed what we call a Cherokee prayer-meeting…[at which] we pray, sing, & converse in the Cherokee language.” Meanwhile, “others of the School meet, at the same time, for that purpose, in their respective languages.” Every scholar is obliged to labor at stated intervals on the “agricultural fields”; at one point, Brown mentions that he has been “planting potatoes today,” at another, “digging stones.” This requirement, never popular, seems “often to unfit them for study for a day or two after they are called out.” The twice-yearly vacations (May and September) do, of course, bring changes. In most (not all) cases, scholars are permitted to “go abroad.” Brown describes his plans “next May…[to] visit some good people in Boston, for a short time, during the vacation.” Others travel to nearby villages in Connecticut and Massachusetts (perhaps to homes where they had stayed before enrolling at the Mission School), to New York and Philadelphia, and even beyond.68