The Heathen School Page 15
To be sure, these occurrences were spread out over several years, and some scholars—indeed a good many—behaved well enough to earn official words of approval. Still, the cumulative impact of so much disruption, taken together with the “academical” disappointments, brought Daggett to moments of near despair. At one point when Evarts admitted to his own “anxious thoughts respecting the F.M.S.,” Daggett “most heartily sympathized,” and added this: “I have long been convinced that something must be done to raise its character, or it must come to naught.” A bit later he spoke of “a crisis with regard to the F.M.S., which demands, I think, some special exertions to be made by its friends.”96
Health and illness presented an additional range of problems—different but no less worrying. School reports made frequent mention of these, most often with respect to particular individuals (“down sick,” “very much out of health,” “badly indisposed”), but sometimes in a more generalized way (“the School has been considerably interrupted this winter by sickness”). Specific illnesses included consumption, cold, dysentery, and, in one instance, a “dangerous … disorder prevalent among people destitute of moral restraint” (gonorrhea perhaps?). Seven youths died at the school, six of them Pacific Islanders—starting with Obookiah, and including each of three who came from the Marquesas. Presumably, those from tropical regions were especially vulnerable owing to New England’s unfamiliar (harsh) climate.97
The authorities acknowledged some responsibility here, “endeavoring to do all we can, both by diet & exercise, for the health of the students.” Whenever one of them fell seriously ill, he was moved into the steward’s house for hands-on care. In an apparently typical case, a Delaware Indian boy contracted severe diarrhea; almost immediately he “was taken into the family by Mrs. Northrup [the steward’s wife] who was directed to nurse him & give him a proper diet.” He died anyway, prompting Daggett to write that “the health of the scholars ought to be taken up, this spring, as a very serious matter.”98
Yet another potential source of trouble was the feeling created by ethnic and cultural difference. The most important divider within the ranks of the scholars involved Pacific Islanders versus American Indians. This was expressed in certain quite tangible ways. Money was one such; Indian students often arrived at the school with a roll of dollars in their pockets (or trunks). Daggett saw this as likely to have unfortunate consequences and urged that all private holdings be deposited with him. “A considerable part of the Scholars [i.e., the islanders] cannot have money,” he wrote, “and for some to have it produces invidious & unpleasant feelings among them, & lays temptation before them.” Clothing might also become a sore point, so, once again, the principal sought to level the field by creating a single school-wide standard—simplicity for all.99
More broadly, it was clear that like would mainly associate with like. And, in certain respects, the school actually encouraged cliquing. It was essential, for example, that every scholar should retain good command of his native language (whatever it might be); otherwise, his “usefulness” at the point of returning home would be compromised. Conversation among “fellow-countrymen” was an obvious means to that end; likewise the separate prayer meetings for the members of each natal group. At the same time, there was concern lest the boundaries between groups become too hard and fast—creating invidious, and tension-arousing, distinctions.
Meanwhile, alongside these now-familiar stresses and difficulties, a new chain of events had begun to unwind at the very heart of the school’s life.
On April 12, 1823, Daggett sent a private letter to Jeremiah Evarts, secretary of the American Board, in order to “call your attention to a subject which appears to be deeply connected to the welfare of the F.M.S.” The school steward, he noted, “has generally had a girl, or young woman, as cook in his family, who is, of course, much in the company of the scholars, when they go to their meals, work about the house, or occasionally visit the kitchen.” Two years previous, there had been a problem (apparently unmentioned at the time) “of improper intimacy between the hired girl & one or two of the colored boys [i.e., the scholars] which gave us a great deal of trouble.” The authorities had responded quickly and decisively by “sending the girl away”; that seemed to take care of it. But now, unfortunately, they faced “another case of this kind, which I fear may be of very serious consequences to one of our most promising Indian scholars and indeed to the reputation of the School.” In the same letter, Daggett mentioned that “Northrup wants money … to settle all his accounts, before he resigns his Stewardship, which will be the first of May.” (John Northrup had replaced Henry Hart as resident steward the previous year.) In fact, these two things—the troubling “case” and the steward’s abrupt resignation—were directly joined. “One of our most promising Indian scholars” was a Cherokee youth named John Ridge; he and Sarah Northrup, the steward’s fifteen-year-old daughter, had fallen deeply in love. By the standards of the time theirs was, for certain, an “improper intimacy”—and something that might well prove, in the principal’s alarmed words, “of very serious consequences … to the reputation of the School.”
As a later account would put it: “[A]mong all who came to the school from strange lands, the little heathen Cupid, entering uninvited, was the mischief-maker.”100
• INTERLUDE •
Cornwall
Visitors to Cornwall today see a place both similar to and different from the Cornwall of the early nineteenth century. Its physical size and shape are the same: same boundaries, same hills and valleys, same rivers and streams, same central “plain” where the first of the “scholars” fetched up nearly two hundred years ago. Its population, in bare numbers, is also quite similar: 1,600 then, about 1,750 now. As before, the town is a collection of small settlements (villages) and more widely scattered homesteads. A few neighborhoods have shrunk, or vanished entirely; others have been enlarged. But, taken as a whole, what’s there is roughly the old configuration.
At least outwardly. But look around for the inward dimension, and one finds much else that has changed. Many local residences are now second homes for city dwellers (mostly from New York City, a two-hour drive to the south), though the year-round folk are still a majority. There is a sense, too, of a divided community: “upstairs downstairs,” to use the title of the celebrated television series. The second-home owners are well-off professionals and businesspeople. The year-rounders are largely middle and working class; indeed, some work for the other group—mowing their lawns and tending their gardens in summer, clearing their driveways of snow in winter. As one longtime resident explains, “Many of these folks just piece together a living, a little of this, a little of that.”
I start my own visit with the village of West Cornwall, where the Housatonic River rushes through from the north. My entry point is a covered bridge, a hundred yards long, of boarded construction, and resting on a single stone pier—very picturesque, classic New England. First put up in about 1864, and subject thereafter to rot, storms, and recurrent floods, the bridge has been rebuilt several times. In the middle part of the nineteenth century, West Cornwall emerged as a commercial focus for the entire township—with a post office, a hotel, a school, a scissors factory, a smithy, a cluster of local stores, and assorted mills lining the river. No longer that sort of hub, it now sports a restaurant, art galleries, trinket shops, a bed-and-breakfast, and other tourist-themed establishments, while still retaining the look of an old mill village.
I drive farther in, turn north, and climb to the top of Cream Hill, where open views stretch as far as the Catskills in New York State. No less is true of other elevated points throughout the town, but most of the land is wooded today, and a good deal is actually state forest. Like all of the rural Northeast, Cornwall has gone through an ecological “succession”—from the dense wilderness encountered by the first settlers (1740s), to a predominance of cleared farmland (by 1800), to a gradual process of reforestation (beginning in the late nineteenth century and conti
nuing throughout the twentieth). Old cellar foundations and crumbling stone walls, resting now in deep woods, are stark reminders of that different past.
Near the town’s northern border sits a three-hundred-acre preserve, known as the Yelping Hill Association. Founded in the 1920s, it is owned as a corporation, with twenty-four leaseholds and a vaguely communitarian ethos. Its resident members are a special slice of Cornwallites; most are artists, academics, and other professional folk. Farther east lies Cornwall Hollow, a small cluster of working farms. In fact, farming has been coming back to these parts, after many decades of decline. Some of this has a niche aspect: dairying that produces unpasteurized milk, the raising of specialty beef cattle, food crops grown under strictly organic protocols. The Hollow also holds Cornwall’s biggest single monument, honoring its most illustrious early resident, Maj. Gen. John Sedgwick. This doughty old soldier commanded an army corps in the Civil War; the monument includes a tall obelisk, a cannon, and several neatly stacked pyramids of large cannonballs.
From here, the road drops down through the lower part of North Cornwall, a wooded area partly held as a nature conservancy. The trees—evergreens such as hemlock, fir, spruce, and pine, plus deciduous oaks and maples—are typical of those found throughout the town. They are also subject to modest forays of logging. (No clear-cutting; “trimming” only.) Landowners contract the work out to interested residents; the product is sold both locally and elsewhere.
A short distance farther on comes Cornwall Center, the town’s original point of settlement. But this is no center anymore; its housing is sparse and scattered, its roadways in need of repair. To be sure, its historical importance has not been forgotten. A tall wooden post, set just above a crossroads, carries the following inscription: HERE WAS SITE OF FIRST MEETING HOUSE, STOCKS AND PILLORY, PARADE GROUND. Religion, law, the military: the undoubted foundations of early New England town life.
Now I cut back to the south, on a good-size state highway. Along one side stands Mohawk Mountain Ski Resort—a cluster of brown buildings set beneath a swath of snowy trails (winter is on its way) that angle toward the top of a tall ridge. It’s nothing fancy; no skier would trade Stowe, Vail, or Sun Valley for this place. However, Mohawk Mountain has been important, and integral, to the life of Cornwall for decades. Dozens of local people are employed there, local people enjoy skiing there, local people hold community events there—an annual rummage sale, a firemen’s ball, family parties and receptions.
Still farther south, a rough dirt road climbs to a ghostly place called Dudleytown. This is Cornwall’s internal frontier; the land is high, the forest especially dense. It still supports some local enterprise—logging, for example—but hardly any habitation. Several generations ago, it was a substantial, and quite distinctive, community. Its residents were considered outliers; most were poor, some were derelict, none were connected to the town’s core families. On driving into it today, one sees few signs of life—at least of human life. It’s a good place, however, to find the town’s resident wildlife: deer, bear, raccoons, bobcats, fishers, coyotes, fox. And it’s a reminder of the way Cornwall may have looked to the original settlers.
My tour has been tracing a circle: from northwest, to northeast, southeast, and southwest. This leads finally to the settlement known as Cornwall Bridge. (Outsiders sometimes refer to the entire town as “the Cornwalls”; I am learning why.) Like West Cornwall, the Bridge (as it’s called locally) was once a commercial center—and, to some extent, remains so. There are logging offices, retail stores, gas stations, all within the narrow compass of barely a quarter mile. The actual bridge that identifies this place is an impressively arched construction, made from concrete and rising high above water level. The river, too, is impressive; at least once in the past, its flooding and ice jams entirely destroyed the bridge. Along its edges lie remnants of the iron foundries that once flourished here. Local schoolchildren still come to search for bits of slag tossed out a century or two ago from ancient blast furnaces.
This completes the rim of the circle, leaving only the midpoint—what today is called Cornwall Village. In previous eras, it was known, variously, as South Cornwall, the Valley, Cornwall Plain (or Cornwall Plains, or simply the Plain). The shifting nomenclature reflects both its geography—as the lone flat area of any size in the entire township—and its particular history. Once enshrouded in thick forest, it has passed through several stages: pasture and farming, satellite community, and for the past several decades civic center for all “the Cornwalls.”
The logical place to begin this part of my tour is at the west end of Pine Street, in front of an attractive framed building painted white. Originally a carriage house, it serves at present as the home of the town’s Historical Society. The society holds a trove of records and mementos from the Mission School; the curators serve as de facto custodians of its history.
A quarter mile to the east stands a stately old residence where, following his retirement as school principal, Herman Daggett moved with his wife. (They had no children.) The house presents a rambling arrangement of wings and dormers, some of which have been added in recent years; in the principal’s time, it must have been a good deal smaller. (I’m told about one unusual feature of the interior: a door leading to the attic, with HERMAN DAGGETT boldly inscribed on one of the panels.) Behind the house, to the east, the land slopes up through broad fields to a craggy ridgeline. Indeed, all sides of this gentle valley (or “plain”) are lined by twisted and convoluted landforms.
Continuing along, I reach a little crossroads; on the other side lies the village center. To the left stands the Town Hall, an impressive structure erected in the late nineteenth century of local stone, with broad Palladian windows spanning its upper story. Directly in front is a large sign presenting the headlines of the town’s history: founded in 1740, part of what was then known as the “western lands,” and so on. About now, I begin to notice a curious feature of the built environment; nearly everywhere there are cut granite stones, each approximately three feet tall, standing like stelae in carefully plotted rows. Some hold embedded iron rings, for tethering the horses that once traveled these roads. Most of the others are relics of fences whose inner sections (wooden pickets) have long since disappeared. Separately and together, they impart a certain solemnity to the entire scene.
Next comes the lower end of the town common. Tall shade trees mark its rim; the center is a true green. No buildings remain there now, but in several spots official markers recall the past. The southeast corner was the original location of the First Church, where so much Mission School activity once converged. Some of this I can easily imagine: the gravity of regular Sabbath-day devotions, with the scholars in their Sunday best arrayed on a special bench along one side; the excitement of the annual “exhibition day” programs, with a crowd of eager spectators looking on; the sorrow of Obookiah’s elaborate funeral.
West of the meetinghouse, at the upper edge of the green, a bronze plaque rests on the site of the old Academy building, the school’s literal center. I’ve brought along a sketch from that time, for help in conjuring its image: gambrel roof, with small dormers and a squared-off bell tower at the front; rows of shuttered windows lining each side; main entrance tucked neatly into one corner. In my mind’s eye I can glimpse the scholars passing in and out, a medley of size, age, color, clothing, demeanor. I note also the “grave yet kindly” figure of the principal, and the earnest young men who serve as his assistants. I watch the steward and members of his “domestic” staff scurrying about to keep things in good order. I note the comings and goings of individual townspeople brought thither on some errand (or perhaps from simple curiosity).
Fifty yards to the south, another plaque, at another corner of the common, shows the location of Kellogg’s General Store. There the school procured a range of “necessaries”: foods not grown in its own fields, hard goods, stationery supplies. A short distance to the north stood another Kellogg building, what was once the storekeeper’s ho
me. Indeed, it’s still there, converted now to the town clerk’s office. Directly opposite, an imposing Federal-style building invokes still more of the school’s history; this was the official residence of the principal. Set atop a small knoll, it commands a view of the entire green. Today it is larger, and grander, than was the case two centuries ago. A magnificent stonework facade rises above the lawn in front; a pair of lion statues guard the entrance. (Clearly, however, these are recent additions.)
Soon I’m back on the road, proceeding north. An impressive Congregational church, built in 1842 to replace the original one on the green, stands off to the right. Its entrance, framed by four large columns, its gleaming white facade, its rows of tall, evenly spaced windows, its pointed steeple, all shout Greek Revival. Just beyond lies another large building of similar form and vintage. This one is vacant today and in somewhat dilapidated condition; over the years, it has housed a succession of schools, the last of which supplied its present name, Rumsey Hall.
And then I reach another early house—a substantial framed dwelling, its architecture conforming to the boxy mode so characteristic of nineteenth-century New England. This was the home originally of the Mission School steward—John Northrup and family—during several critical years. The current owner, alerted to my interest, is ready and welcoming. A long driveway loops around in front, amid a spacious lawn, magnolia trees, and carefully laid out flower beds. I enter by the front door, crossing a large stone step, and find myself in a modestly appointed center hall. To the right, a doorway opens on the keeping room, which stretches the full north-south length of the house. (“Keeping room” is what the Northrups would have called it; today we would say living room.) On the east wall stands a chimney with fireplace; but both were added later on. There is simple wood paneling all around, and the numerous windows create an airy, expansive feeling. The room is large, roughly twenty-eight by fifteen feet; but even so, I wonder, Could it really have served as a dining space for some three dozen scholars? My eyes dart around; I try to reconstruct. A long table here? Some short ones there? Maybe benches or stools, instead of proper chairs? Whatever the arrangement, a very tight squeeze. Across the hall is a small space used now as a study. Of more importance is a somewhat larger room, on the northwest corner—now a parlor, once the kitchen. An ancient chimney, with stone-built base and hearth, dominates the south wall. The wide fireplace includes a beehive oven at the rear. Here, I imagine, the steward’s wife and her “assistants” cooked for the entire school. And here, too, the space seems awfully cramped.