by John Demos
With the initial examination concluded, things moved into a quieter, more routine phase. A short vacation may have allowed the scholars to scatter—some on visits to their former “patrons” and benefactors in other towns nearby—but by early fall their studies had resumed in Cornwall. Despite the agents’ assurance that new applicants were standing by, ready and eager for admission, enrollment seems to have remained at around a dozen through the end of the calendar year 1817. Times were hard throughout rural New England, with “scarcity of provisions both for man and beasts,” high prices for “food and forage,” and a general feeling of “want.” Still public interest—and tangible support—was holding up nicely as winter began.24
Then, right after the New Year, came an event that would powerfully shake “this infant institution.” Though its long-range effects were positive, even enhancing, it played initially as tragedy. At some point in early January, Henry Obookiah fell ill, with what was quickly diagnosed as a case of typhus. He was moved from the schoolhouse into the home of Rev. Timothy Stone, where he could expect “the kindest and most judicious attentions.” Stone, of course, was a close participant in school affairs (in more ways than simply his official role as donations “superintendent”), and the members of his large family were also quick to respond.25
Herman Daggett—who, as principal in waiting, was fully cognizant of Obookiah’s special importance—received the alarming news from Stone. On January 12, he wrote from his pastorate in nearby New Canaan to “my dear young friend,” expressing deep concern about “the feeble state of your health.” He prayed that “the Lord will spare your life … that you may be instrumental, in due time … in planting the banner of the CROSS in your native isle, now covered with spiritual darkness.” Still, he acknowledged that it might not be so, and urged submission to “the high will of Jehovah, who … accomplishes His purposes, ofttimes, by events which to us appear dark and appalling.”26 This was a standard form of religious counsel for people with potentially mortal illness; doubtless, too, Daggett was preparing himself for the possibility of crushing disappointment. If the school were a kind of “stream” destined one day to encircle the earth, Obookiah was its source point—and then its strongly flowing central current. Obookiah, first among the various “heathen” carried to America for Christian conversion! Obookiah, protégé of “pope” Dwight, of Mills, of Harvey, of Beecher, and of other towering figures in the Protestant establishment! Obookiah, already an important proselytizer in his own right—and inspiration to people of faith all across New England (America? the world?)! Obookiah, careful translator of the sacred Scriptures into his own native tongue! Obookiah, prepared in so many ways to assume a leading role in the “great cause” of foreign missions! What, then, if he should not survive?
As soon as his illness began, Obookiah was placed in the care of a local physician and started on a course of medication. For a time, his condition appeared to improve, and “confident expectations were entertained for his recovery.” But then the “wasting…[of] his constitution” resumed, a process that would stretch over several weeks to its ultimate “heart-breaking,” yet also triumphant, conclusion. Remembrance of this would later join with the story of his arrival at Yale (a decade previous) to bookend the larger Obookiah legend. Even the smallest details would be recounted—embellished—savored—by tellers and listeners, by writers and readers, for generations to come.27
One version, in particular, set a kind of standard.
His sickbed becomes a virtual shrine. Visitors come and go; conversation, both personal and prayerful, is almost nonstop. The atmosphere is thick with emotion; at some points “loud sobbing…[is] heard throughout the room, and from persons little accustomed even to weep.”
Mrs. Stone remains at his side, day and night, a “ministering angel” in his time of need. (Later she will declare herself “more than rewarded for her cares and watchings … by his excellent example.… She said it was her highest wish to die like him.”) He clings for a while longer to hopes of recovery, and sends “a note to the meetinghouse, on the Sabbath, requesting prayers that his life might be preserved and he permitted to return and preach the gospel to his countrymen.” He is visited by several from the clergy, including Rev. Mills—“whom he always called ‘father,’ ” and who now offers “counsel” of special importance.
But chief among his attendants are his Hawaiian compatriots and fellow scholars; indeed, he largely choreographs their comings and goings, “insisting that some one of them be with him continually,” and “calling very earnestly if they were out of sight.” Of course, too, he prays with them, usually at great length and “in their native language.” (The content is then translated for the benefit of those “who are not able to understand the Owhyhee.”) His feeling for Hopoo is particularly strong; hence the two of them “often … prayed together, alone, as they had done for years.”
All his words carry a special aura of authority. To some in attendance he offers earnest exhortation: “Above all things, make your peace with God.” To others, a kind of ultimate reassurance: “If we put our trust in God, we need not fear.” To still others, gratitude: “You have been very kind to me. I feel my obligation to you.” Now and then he may voice a special request: “William [evidently, his friend Kummooolah], if you go home, remember me to my uncle.” Or he reiterates his own belief: “I have strong faith in God. I am willing to die, if God design to take me.” Or he expresses a measure of yearning and regret: “Oh, how I want to see Hawaii!” Occasionally, his words seem ambiguous and hard to understand: “I’ve lost my time! I’ve lost my time!” (Does he mean the time spent in preparing for his return home to realize the goal of “planting the banner of the CROSS” there?) Whatever he says, or does, draws intense interest from everyone present; he is completely in charge.
He maintains without fail an attitude of “cheerfulness, resignation to the will of God … and benevolence”—all of which become, in turn, “particular subjects of notice and conversation” for others. His physician remarks that he is “the first patient whom he … ever attended through a long course of fever that had not in some instances manifested a … degree of peevishness and impatience.” The “tones of his voice” are consistently marked by “sweetness,” his “countenance” by a look of “perfect peace.”
By the middle of February, he has become greatly weakened; clearly the end is near. The friends around him strain ever harder to grasp the power of his “example” and lodge it firmly within themselves. On the morning of the seventeenth, “after a distressing night…[in] a bewildered state,” his mind clears and he summons his “countrymen” once more. When they have seated themselves beside his bed, he begins a last “address”—entirely of a religious nature—which “under the circumstances…[is] affecting beyond description.” (As before, he speaks in Hawaiian, with English translation to follow.) Tears flow; sounds of anguish again fill the air. His homeland remains much on his mind; reportedly, “one of the last things he … said is ‘I shall never go to Owhyhee.’ ”
Then, “as death [seems] to approach,” he shakes hands with each of his companions and gives them “a parting salutation—Alloah-o-e” [“My love be with you”]. The actual moment of his passing comes “with ease and without a struggle.” It is left to Hopoo to make the final pronouncement: “Obookiah’s gone!” At that, the entire group solemnly converges around his “lifeless form.… The spirit had departed—but a smile such as none present had ever beheld … remained upon his countenance.”
Finally, there is this, attributed to him by his close friend and mentor Edwin Dwight: “He said that he came to this country to teach Christians how to die.” No one who is present that day would ever think otherwise.
Doubtless the feelings of loss expressed here were genuine, lasting, and deep. And doubtless, too, the school had gained something—a martyr, whose life (and death) might be useful in promoting its interests. Its leaders moved quickly to take advantage.28
Following
local custom in an age before embalming, both funeral and burial would take place the next day, with major figures in the religious establishment eager to take part. Lyman Beecher rode up from Litchfield to deliver the eulogy. Student and protégé years before of Timothy Dwight, exponent now of the vibrant “New Divinity” movement, himself a founder (and agent) of the Mission School, Beecher was the obvious choice. One imagines him rising to his task, alongside a flower-draped casket, in a meetinghouse filled with stricken mourners. (The latter, surely, included a phalanx of scholars.)29
Beecher’s theme was pertinent and pressing—nothing less than “the mysterious providences of the Lord.” Clearly, the loss of “this dear youth” seemed mysterious, surprising, appalling. Yet, when properly framed, such mysteries might be resolved; evil might sooner or later yield good. For example, “the death of great and good men may awaken the fears, and excite the prayers, and increase the responsibilities … of so many … that the amount of useful exertion shall be ever increased” in the world at large. Just there lay the essential lesson of Obookiah’s passing. To be sure, “we did not expect it, and we should not have ordered things thus, to glorify God and extend His cause.” Consider, however, the entire sequence of his life: his escape from “the deep darkness of Owhyhee,” his arrival in “this land of light,” the subsequent “renovation of his heart,” and the final ascent of “his immaculate spirit” to Heaven. All parts, separately and together, bespoke the “wonderworking hand” of providence.
In fact, there was more to it—far more—than Obookiah’s individual salvation. Consider also the effects on so many others. “By means of his conversion … numbers of his brethren, wandering like lost sheep … have been brought also to the knowledge of [God’s] truth.” The same “instrumentality” had led to the founding of the Mission School itself, “the hope of Owhyhee and other heathen lands.” Nor would “this usefulness … terminate with his life,” for “his death will give notoriety to this institution … and give it an interest in the prayers and charities of thousands who otherwise had not heard of [it] or been interested in its prosperity.”
In his conclusion, Beecher reached for the loftiest rhetorical heights. “Let there be no despondency!” he thundered. The “clouds” and “darkness” of the moment “announce the presence of our God.” Thus: “Instead of being appalled … we are cheered; instead of falling under the stroke, we are animated by it to double confidence … and double diligence in this work, forasmuch as we know that our labor is not in vain in the Lord.” These words, and this viewpoint, would be fully vindicated in the months and years to come.30
The funeral was followed by a stately procession to the town burial ground. There, according to a letter written by a participant, “the corpse was set down,” a choir sang “in a solemn manner,” and Edwin Dwight, in his role as the school’s acting principal, offered remarks “on the glorious death of the dear young man whom they committed to the dust.” Dwight emphasized “the rich reward [of] all who had interested and exerted themselves for his instruction.” The effect on those who watched and listened, said the same letter writer, “you can conceive better than I can tell you.”31
Finally, there was the matter of a grave marker and memorial, presumably to come somewhat later. The townspeople raised $23, a considerable sum for that time, to cover its cost. They aimed for something special, something that might express the extraordinary significance of the dead man’s career. And they achieved no less; the monument raised over Obookiah’s grave would be among the largest and most impressive yet seen in Cornwall’s cemetery. An elaborately carved slate plaque, set on a bed of local fieldstones, told of his “journey” in phrases that would soon become incantatory: “a native of Owhyhee … once an idolator … by the grace of God … became a Christian … eminent for piety … prepared to return to his native isle to preach the gospel … God took to Himself … died without fear, with a heavenly smile on his lips and glory in his soul.” Visitors began going there, in a spirit of pilgrimage, almost immediately—and have continued going ever since.32
Grave-site visits were not the only sign of Obookiah’s “martyrdom.” There were fulsome obituaries in the missionary press. There were special prayers, accolades, whole sermons even, in the churches where he had once worshiped and proselytized. There were occasional bits of writing—poems especially—printed in local newspapers. (Sample verse: “He came in his youth from the isles of the sea / ‘My country,’ he cried, ‘will it never be free?’ / For the isles that were reeking / In the blood of the slain / Obookiah was seeking / Release from the chain.”) There were donations by the hundreds, made specifically in his name. A New Haven museum exhibited a wax figure of Obookiah on his deathbed, “peacefully resigning his breath into the hands of that Saviour he had so confidently trusted for salvation.” And most powerful by far in the breadth of its influence was a book-length biography, begun within days or weeks of his passing, by Edwin Dwight. Quite possibly something of the sort was envisioned well before he took sick; he had himself composed a partial account of his life, which Dwight could then adapt to a different purpose.33
The Memoirs of Henry Obookiah was released by a missionary press in New Haven the following September. (Dwight’s authorship was suppressed and would not be directly revealed for another twenty years.) Priced at fifty cents, the book sparked immediate, and intense, public interest; orders came in from all around the country. Its subsequent publishing history was remarkable; new editions appeared, totaling about a dozen, at intervals over the next five decades. According to a contemporary source, “pensioners and stationers mentioned it above the year’s almanac. Ministers preached on it. Sunday School teachers read aloud from it, and young ladies sobbed over it.” Estimates of copies printed have run as high as 100,000; if accurate, these would place the Memoirs among the top sellers of its time. Translations appeared in Hawaiian, in Greek, and in Choctaw. The impact on fund-raising for missionary work was huge (although incalculable with any precision). Anecdotal evidence mentions wills altered to include large bequests, gifts from “eminent persons” overseas (a Swiss baron, a French countess), admiring tributes by “potentates” such as the Russian prince Aleksandr Golitsyn. The Mission School itself was, from the first, a major beneficiary. And for many years to follow, the book and the life it inscribed would serve to inspire missionary-minded folk in every corner of the globe.34
Beecher’s command to reject “despondency” and feel “cheered” following Obookiah’s death seems to have set a course quite generally. A letter written by a school supporter in mid-March argued strenuously against the notion that “all the charity afforded him is now lost”; to the contrary, his “legacy” gave much ground for “rejoicing.” Several months later, another correspondent put it this way: “God’s infinite wisdom … devised that Henry, by now being raised to glory, should do more good, more promote the cause in which he was engaged, than he could have done by a long life of active exertion.” And Rev. Joseph Harvey would add a special twist: “Having finished this work, and at a moment when he was becoming dangerous to our wavering hearts, ever ready to idolize the instrument, God took him away to be with Christ, which is far better.” (This idea of “our” responsibility, and the concern with overvaluing God’s “instrument,” brought things nicely into line with traditional Protestant belief.)35
The same reversal of attitude—from sorrow to hope, from despair to confidence—seems also to have prevailed within the ranks of the school community. All were soon back at work, preparing for a “signal occasion” that lay just ahead. In the first week of May, Daggett would be officially inaugurated as principal, thus completing the yearlong founding process. Much was expected of him; though physically somewhat frail, he was thought to possess the requisite mix of moral and scholarly gravitas. Years later, Lyman Beecher would write of Daggett: “He was a mild, intellectual man … cheerful, but never known to smile, so it was said.”36
As part of the inauguration, the school would
stage another public examination and “exhibition.” Its result was summarized in the boilerplate language of a leading missionary journal: “The evidence of success in the attainments of the youth from various heathen lands was most gratifying and interesting.” Another writer added a few details. The program featured a “colloquy” staged by several of the Hawaiians in their native language. John Honoree, among others, spoke “with surprising force, and [in] a manner painful to the audience from the agitation of his countenance & whole frame and the unparalleled rapidity & vehemence of his utterance.” Presumably they could not understand a word, yet the listeners were deeply—even “painfully”—affected.37
It was, in any case, the inauguration ceremony on the following day that served as the crowning moment (both literally and figuratively). This was also the anniversary of the school’s opening, and thus a further cause for celebration. By midmorning, “a great concourse of people” had filled the pews of the First Church, creating an atmosphere of the keenest anticipation. The proceedings began with a lengthy sermon by Rev. Harvey, entitled “The Banner of Christ Set Up.” Its tone was hortatory in the extreme; martial metaphors (for example, “evangelizing” as “another warfare”; “the pagan world” as “the fortified camp of Satan”) were mixed with ringing scriptural quotation. The Mission School plan was reviewed in detail, but with goals that included a new (or at least previously unstated) dimension. Its initial focus on the Pacific Islands would “by no means [be] confined there.” Rather, “these islands are but a threshold … a stepping stone to numerous heathen tribes scattered on the borders of the western ocean.” From Cornwall, to Hawaii, to the Indians of the American West: thus the grand vision, the broad and bracing battle strategy.38