by John Demos
Yet it need not come to that. Let them be “placed in religious families … and required to perform the various acts of religious worship,” let them “have the prayers of the whole Christian community,” and they, too, can become “the children of God and the heirs of salvation.” Moreover, this was not simply a matter of “individual good,” for when they were subsequently “employed as instruments of salvation to their benighted countrymen,” they would “possess many advantages over Missionaries from this or any other part of the Christian world.” They would know the “manners and customs, the vices and prejudices” of those they must convert. They would have an especially powerful motive for the work, “being united…[to] their countrymen … by the ties of blood and affection.” They would be “free from suspicion” of the sort that most heathen people feel toward even “enlightened” foreigners. They would be well adapted to the local climate. They would know the languages needed. (This last often proved an “exceedingly difficult” obstacle to foreigners.) In elaborating their case, the agents did not wish to downgrade the importance of missionaries from among “our own countrymen”; quite the contrary. Just as “some … advantages … are peculiar to natives,” so, too, “our Missionaries … possess many advantages, which they do not.” The point was to find ways of “uniting both”; thus would the “success of our exertions” be assured.45
The agents concluded by reasserting the importance of broad-gauge education for the “natives” to be enlisted here. Conversion was their ultimate goal, but “Christianity and civilization go hand-in-hand, and ever have been, and ever will be mutual helps to each other.” Therefore: The youths taken into the Mission School must be fully “instructed in the arts of mechanism, agriculture, and commerce.” Some, moreover, should be “educated as physicians,” since heathen people will be especially grateful for “relieving their bodily sufferings.” Still others might be “usefully employed in teaching the arts and sciences.” In this way, and this alone, could all become “powerful auxiliaries, in the work of spreading the Gospel.”46
Throughout these critical months of planning and preparation, the five young Hawaiians—now clearly designated as future Mission School pupils—had been living in two separate locations: Obookiah and Hopoo in Canaan with Rev. Charles Prentice; Honoree, Tennooe, and Tamoree at Guilford with Rev. Herman Vaill. All, presumably, were continuing their individual studies and their striving for spiritual and moral improvement. Some of their thoughts and doings can be gleaned from letters they sent to one another and to various patrons. They, too, seem to have sensed the rising tide of interest and excitement.
As the fall began, the five were brought together in the town of Litchfield, there to await the actual opening of the school. Litchfield was the largest community in northwestern Connecticut—and a cultural and commercial hub. Its main street was lined with the spacious residences of local merchants; its interior parts were home to prosperous farmers. The town was also the site of the nation’s first law school and a well-known “female academy.” (Named “Miss Pierce’s School,” after its founder, this was a pioneering venture in women’s education, roughly parallel to the numerous all-male academies begun throughout the country during just those years.) Litchfield made, then, a fine stage for the arrival of the young Hawaiians.
The entire group was temporarily enrolled in James Morris’s “grammar school,” but with a kind of special status (and possibly in a separate building). One account states that “they were under the care of Rev. W. Weeks,” another that “their instructor was Rev. A. Pettingill [who] keeps them in his own family.” At some point Rev. Elias Cornelius of the American Board came down from Boston to provide more regular supervision. He established rules of conduct, set “the boys” (most of whom were in their mid- to late twenties) to a six-hour study day, and described them as “very happy and content … jabbering English very often & to some effect.” In March, Edwin Dwight (Obookiah’s original mentor) was asked to “take them in charge”; by now, he and others were already referring to these arrangements as a “Heathen School.”47
Meanwhile, the school’s agents had turned to the matter of building popular support and raising money. Part of this involved publicity: telling the story of the “heathen youths” already on hand, and describing the plans for obtaining more. Local newspapers, and especially religious periodicals, were peppered with writings about (and by) the several Hawaiians. Typical was a letter from Tamoree to a “Dear Madam” who had befriended him during a stay in New Haven. Rev. Vaill sent a copy to The Religious Intelligencer, where it was printed along with a “testimonial of its genuineness.” Vaill assured the editors that he had “corrected nothing except the spelling,” and pronounced himself “astonished at … the ingenuity of his [Tamoree’s] pen.” From such evidence readers might draw conclusions favorable to plans for the school, and to the cause of missions generally.48
Yet publicity—not to say celebrity—brought its own complications. In a private note to a fellow clergyman, Rev. Lyman Beecher (of Litchfield) argued that “we must leave off printing Owhyhean letters, or the boys will be ruined.” Indeed, “all of them but Obookiah are injured by the noise that is made about them, & feel very big.” Tamoree was becoming an especially difficult problem. Having announced in a newspaper interview his expectation “of being king of all the islands,” he began to “put on princely airs” and thus to antagonize his companions by “thinking to reign over them.” In particular, his original sponsor, Rev. Jedediah Morse, should be urged to “discontinue his correspondence with the prince who is already as great a man in his own estimation as the Dr. [that is, Morse] himself.” (From here on, the name “Prince” may have carried a double edge.) Thus, Beecher concluded, “we must cease puffing them.”49
But a degree of “puffing” could not be avoided when the “boys” were so useful as an advertising tactic. A different part of this campaign—but presumably open to the same objection—involved a “manuscript account” of their lives and prospects, written some months before by parties unknown and circulated by hand in the interim; the agents were eager to arrange its publication “for the information and excitement of the Christian public.” Entitled A Narrative of Five Youths from the Sandwich Islands, Now Receiving an Education in This Country, it was printed in New York in the last weeks of the year (1816). Its contents were as suggested by the title: narrative biographies, one after another, starting with Obookiah’s and concluding with Tamoree’s, to which was appended the school’s new constitution. The authors declared at the outset their fervent hope “that the contemplated school may take an eminent station among those great objects which at this day engage the attention of the people of God.” Unspoken but clearly felt was a related hope that God’s people would open their hearts—and purses—for the school’s benefit. In fact, the Narrative of Five Youths was perfectly timed to catch a rising wave of public interest in “heathens” abroad (as opposed to nearby American Indians, among whom the results of missionary work so far had proved disappointing). Moreover, education was increasingly seen as the best way of achieving success in these endeavors—meaning schools that could be expressly designed to join the goals of conversion and “civilization.” Not coincidentally, donations to the ABCFM would soar—from just over $12,000 to nearly $30,000—in the year of the Mission School’s founding.50
Still another part of this process was active soliciting by individuals. Even before their crucial October meeting, the agents had chosen four men to lead in this task, each to cover a separate area—New Jersey and New York City, the rest of New York State, “the Atlantic states south of New Jersey,” and Massachusetts, respectively. In addition, several Connecticut ministers were asked “to collect funds as they shall have opportunity”; in particular, they might find strong support among “wealthy farmers in Litchfield county.” The most striking of these fund-raising ventures was the one in Massachusetts. For the clergyman in charge there, Rev. Nathan Perkins of Amherst, was joined by none other t
han Henry Obookiah. Together, the two ranged across the central and western parts of the state, and Perkins himself credited Obookiah for the “highly liberal” results of their appeal. Their method was to hold special meetings devoted to issues of “missionary service.” In visiting the various towns, Perkins wrote afterward, “it was my practice to gratify the people by calling on Obookiah to address them on the subject of Christianity.” He was always “appropriate, solemn, and interesting,” and his comments elicited “many flattering remarks.” Indeed, it was “truly astonishing to see what effects…[were] produced on the feelings of the people by seeing Henry and hearing him converse.” Years later, Perkins would recall having “repeatedly witnessed great numbers in a meeting melted into weeping … and several sobbing, while he [Obookiah] stood before the throne of God, filling his mouth with arguments and pleading for Christian and heathen nations.”51
In a much broader sense, too, Obookiah’s work performed an “essential service to the cause of foreign missions.” For it refuted “the weak but common objection against attempting to enlighten the Heathen, that they are too ignorant to be taught.” On this point, Perkins offered a grim historical perspective. Having “enslaved…[and] degraded … people of color” from far-off lands, having “deprived them of the means of mental improvement,” Americans had quite generally “hastened to the irrational conclusion that all the heathen are a race of idiots.” But the example of Obookiah went powerfully against such prejudice. “The proof he gave of talent, as well as of piety, carried conviction to many that the Heathen had souls as well as we, and were as capable of being enlightened and christianized.”52
Wherever such conviction became well established, previously “slumbering energies” could be directly mobilized on behalf of missions; thus “many have become interested for the benighted Heathen.” A “spirit of prayer” was now widely diffused, and “benevolent efforts…[had become] more numerous and more liberal.” In particular, there was an “increase of fervency and holy wrestling in the addresses of Christians … for the unevangelized nations.” And, as some induced others to join the cause, they pointed to Obookiah as “an instance of the propriety and practicability of Missionary exertion.” Propriety and practicability: These would become watchwords in the story of the Mission School all the way to its end.53
Even as some were raising money for “this Great Cause,” others were deciding how to spend it. Morris, Prentice, and Harvey had been appointed as a committee to make “all necessary contracts … for property” to be used by the school. And the choice of Cornwall as its site was made, in part, because the townspeople gave it “a very liberal donation.” In fact, Cornwall had been obliged to outbid “sundry [other] towns in this county…[seeking] to have the School established in their town.” Initial plans envisioned the purchase of “two dwelling houses” and the use of “an academy school house.” (The schoolhouse was offered at no cost.) Moreover, land would be needed for a farm to “enable the students by their labour in a great measure to support themselves.” The planning group estimated that a sum of “about four thousand dollars” would cover all necessary expenses, and thus “place the establishment on a very comfortable footing.”54
As autumn turned to winter, local excitement built and built. “There are,” wrote one correspondent, “in several towns…female associations formed and others forming,” with aims that included “aid [to] the foreign mission School.” Gifts to the school from Cornwall residents included “clothing [made] by females,” valued at $100 overall, and $74 worth of “farmer’s produce.” Permission was granted by the Connecticut General Assembly for the school to “hold real estate … and furnish buildings for the accommodation of the preceptor and students” free of regular taxation, considering that its “benevolent designs … will be of incalculable benefit to mankind.” The agents addressed a number of legal and logistical problems, such as the fact that two of the prospective students were still officially enlisted in the U.S. Navy. Tapping Reeve, founder and principal of the Litchfield Law School, was asked to examine the details of certain school-related land “conveyances.” (He pronounced them valid.) Ministers and others continued to discuss questions of operating procedure. There was broad consensus that the students should be kept apart from the regular school system, since “mingling promiscuously” with local youth might “expose them to be corrupted in their moral principles.” (The “them” in this phrasing seems ambiguous.) At the same time, the school should include at least a few American-born pupils, so as to provide “intercourse with the right sort of Civilized Society.” Indeed, were the foreigners to be “shut up in a school by themselves,” they would undoubtedly “remain Savages still, as it respects their manners and all those things which our children learn insensibly by being brought up in a society which is highly improved.” As to pedagogy, the agents favored the currently fashionable “Lancastrian system,” which meant “employing the scholars to instruct one another,” with the older and more advanced among them tutoring the others. This would be “admirably suited to their natural turn, which is to learn by imitation rather than by reflection.”55
Even in places well removed from Litchfield County reports of the plan “for establishing a school for … pagan youth” circulated widely, and sparked vigorous discussion. For example, a group in Andover, Massachusetts, debated the question of instructing such students “in their own, or in the English, language,” and concluded that “proven experience” favored the former alternative. After all, “the Hottentots of Africa, whose language & manners are represented as sinking them into the lowest classes of the human race, are now successfully instructed by missionaries in their own tongue.” And Sandwich Islanders ranked well above Hottentots.56
The prospective students themselves were both looking ahead to weigh their chances and looking back to settle accounts. Obookiah, for instance, wrote a new round of letters to his various benefactors, offering fulsome thanks as well as loud spiritual exhortation. Tamoree, for his part, managed to reestablish contact with his father, the “King of Atooi, one of the Sandwich Islands”; a long letter, sent in late October, recounted his various adventures “since I left your habitation,” and expressed the hope of returning home “in a few years.” Tamoree also wrote to Samuel Cotting, one of his former “protectors”—he used the word here with obvious irony—in astonishingly angry terms. “You did not let me attend the schools as I had ought.… You used me like a dog more than a human being.… You are a base, dirty, mean, low, shameful, poor, avaricious rascal.… I have always said that if you ever come within my reach, I would level you to the face of the earth.” This explosion reflected a darker side in the experience of the visitors, something that may have been more prevalent than the surviving record suggests.57
There was, finally, the matter of staffing the school, most especially in the vital position of principal. Rev. Harvey remained the agents’ strong preference, and it seems he wanted the job. He was obliged, however, to withdraw when the members of his local congregation, in nearby Goshen, refused to “dismiss” him. The next man proposed was Rev. Herman Daggett, a preacher and schoolteacher from Long Island. Daggett accepted the agents’ offer but could not begin work until after completing a previously made engagement to serve for a year as minister at New Canaan. Thus the duty of actually opening the school fell to a third choice, Edwin Dwight, the same man who had first befriended Obookiah at Yale, and who was currently an assistant pastor at Litchfield. No doubt it helped that he was already nearby—and was closely attuned to the project of educating the “heathen.”58
Indeed, much in Dwight’s previous life seemed to point toward this moment. He was born in the Berkshires village of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, in 1789, the son of Henry and Abigail (née Welles) Dwight; his bloodlines were impeccably “Puritan,” reaching back across several generations to distinguished forebears in the first cohort of New England settlers. His childhood consisted in work on the family’s substantial farm, tutelage at a
local “dame school,” and an early inclination toward religion. At seventeen, he left home to begin his further education at Williams College; there he remained for three years. He transferred to Yale just before Obookiah’s arrival. He took two degrees (B.A., M.A.) and then began a nineteenth-century version of a career search. He served for a year as “rector” (principal) of the Hopkins Grammar School in New Haven, had several intervals of study with Protestant ministers, became a special protégé of Lyman Beecher, was certified as a “licentiate … recommended to the churches … for the gospel ministry,” toured New York State as an itinerant preacher to frontiersmen—but still a settled position eluded him. Finally, he returned to Connecticut for another several months under Beecher’s wing. At that point—after such wanderings and so many preparations—came the Mission School invitation.59
On April 1, he wrote at length about the matter to his mother in Stockbridge. He had not yet given his official response, and wished for some parental advice, but evidently was eager to accept. He explained the time-limited nature of the appointment, and described its terms ($500 in annual salary). And he offered a kind of snapshot of the school as envisioned just weeks before its start. The first group of students would include “six Owhyheans,” the five made known in the recently published Narrative and another whom he did not identify. There would also be “one of our own Indians, a young man who has been brought up amongst white people and appears promising.” In addition, “there are others from Owhyhee & other Heathen countries, already known…& expected to join the School when it is opened.” Thus: While “the number yet is small … the Institution is undoubtedly to be a very growing one & not long hence to have a very important connexion with all our plans & efforts to spread the Gospel.”60