The Heathen School Page 20
As word of the Ridge/Northrup marriage traveled outward from Cornwall and entered the wider arena of national life, it sometimes assumed a very different aspect. Like Obookiah’s “martyrdom” a few years before, it might easily transmute into romantic legend. For example: In 1825, the Maryland poet Edward Coote Pinkney wrote and published a long verse accolade to John and Sarah, entitled “The Indian’s Bride.” His tone was softly lyrical, his point the happy union of opposites. One stanza may stand for the rest:
Behold them roaming hand-in-hand,
Like night and sleep along the land.
Observe their movements: he for her
Restrains his active stride,
While she assumes a bolder gait
To ramble at his side…
The one forsakes ferocity
And momently grows mild
The other tempers more and more
The artful with the wild.
She humanizes him, and he
Educates her to liberty.34
Another poem, by a different hand, struck a similar note:
Then, come with me, my white girl fair,
And thou a hunter’s bride shall be;
For thee I’ll chase the roebuck there,
And thou shalt dress the feast for me…
The olive is thy favorite hue,
But sweet to me thy lily face;
O, sweet to both, when both shall view,
These colors mingled in our race.35
These lines—and these sentiments—showed that the ancient trope of the Indian as an uncorrupted, even “noble,” primitive had not yet disappeared. Alongside the widely held, horrific fears of native “savagery” stood a different image, with which the American people at large might beneficially engage. Pinkney’s pairing of “humanizing” (her contribution) with “liberty” (his) seems especially striking; likewise the balance between “artful” and “wild.” Caught in the backwash of Romanticism, some Americans in the 1820s and 1830s would see their culture as too planned, too rational, too “civilized” for its own good. An element of wildness could thus be approved, and a “mingled … race”—the olive with the lily—might actually recommend itself.
It is difficult, from a vantage point of two centuries later on, to reconcile the disparate attitudes reflected in this range of public response—the racism with the romanticism, the outrage with the sober moral calculation. But a pair of factors seems to have been broadly operative in creating difference: spatial proximity and social class. The closer to Cornwall, the more likely (and more energized) the outrage; conversely, distance opened a door to romanticizing. Class division played a different, but convergent, part. The people categorized as “swamp Yankees”—those who were poorest in terms of wealth, education, and worldly experience—generally, even vehemently, opposed intermarriage, while their social “superiors” were (at the least) of more moderate, and divided, opinion. The former, for example, were eager consumers of the tirades published by American Eagle editor Isaac Bunce; the latter included preachers, professional men, and others in the leadership of the missionary cause.
In any case: The figures of the bridal pair, as depicted in sentimental poetry, were no more than florid stereotypes greatly at variance with reality. Sarah “a hunter’s bride”? John preparing to “chase the roebuck”? Not a chance. In truth, Sarah was headed toward the life of a plantation mistress, presiding over a household full of enslaved “Negroes”—while John had already begun a career as an enormously “artful” diplomat and political leader.
What, finally, of the young couple themselves as these different currents of feeling swirled around them? How did they come, sooner or later, to regard the tumult aroused by their “connexion”? Yet another missionary, visiting the Cherokees almost a year afterward, described having “spent the night at Mr. J. Ridge’s.” Apparently, he was warmly received; still, he could see that “this young man is not altogether pleased with the treatment he received at the North, with regard to his wife.” For one thing, “he says he was not dismissed from the school when sick at her father’s, as the directors stated.” For another, “he thinks his marriage was not a crime, for which they need make apologies.” This reaction seems straightforward enough, if notably restrained. (John Ridge would always be remarked for his graciousness in personal relations.) Perhaps it helped that—as the same source also reported—“his wife appears quite contented and pleased with her situation.”36
As the school struggled to right itself after this unexpected, and un-wanted, imbroglio, it faced a mounting set of obstacles. Deep currents of resentment in Cornwall and the surrounding towns had now been laid bare. When the clergy on the school’s board tried to defend its treatment of the scholars, the American Eagle responded thus: “You…[do] not deny that you have given them the highest seats in your churches—the highest honours of your table—the uppermost rooms in your houses.… You treat them better, and with more attention and affection than your own ordinary parishioners.” No wonder, then, that “those people of colour feel above those whom they see you slight for them [italics in original].” Tales like the following, “related by … a gentleman of Goshen,” sharpened the charge of favoritism. “When these Cherokees, &c. were first brought here, one of the principal characters in that town, happening to come late to meeting discovered two or three Indians in the parson’s pew. Surprised at this, he beckoned and winked to them to go into the pew for the coloured people, in another part of the house, but all to no purpose, they still stuck to the pew. And after meeting the good man was informed that they were seated there by the parson himself.” Another story making the local rounds charged Lyman Beecher with having placed several members of the Mission School “as principal mourners in the procession” at a local (Litchfield) funeral—surely an inappropriate choice. Meanwhile, too, the theme of romantic competition remained current, in spite of the strenuous denials published by Cornwall’s resident “bachelors.” Opponents of the school insisted that “females who would look down on the white hired maid [man?] or the plough boy and mechanic have been seen to walk out, or ride out with them [foreign scholars] in their airings.”37
Moreover, far from Cornwall itself anti-mission sentiment was on the rise. Among the Cherokees, in particular—as one American Board member wrote in the summer of 1824—“there is now a very powerful opposition to missions.” A second informant, writing from eastern Tennessee at around the same time, put it even more strongly: “The hatred … many express to the Gospel, & the boldness of many in this, gives reason to expect that missionaries will not long be safe in this land.” Indeed, Cherokee leaders were discussing ways to forestall the arrival of new missionaries, and to control the activity of those already present.38
The situation was no more favorable among the white population; as a result, over the next several years, a heightened tone of defensiveness entered the pronouncements of mission leaders. One characteristic example—part of “an appeal to the enemies of missions”—began thus: “You said the natives would rise and destroy all who dared to meddle with their system of idolatry.… You said that missionary operations are draining and impoverishing the land.… You said that this work would come to nothing.”39 (Whereas, in each case, according to the writer, events had proved otherwise.) As before, the chief point of debate was the “practicability of … reform.” Would it ever be possible to convert, and “civilize,” heathen peoples? Could the results justify the enormous effort required? Might not the heathen prefer to remain as they were? To the latter question, John Ridge himself, in one of his public “addresses” in South Carolina, gave an especially pointed response. “Will anyone believe that an Indian, with his bow and quiver, who walks solitary in the mountains, exposed to cold and hunger or the attacks of wild beasts, trembling at every unusual object, his fancy filled with agitating fears lest the next step should introduce his foot to the fangs of the direful snake … actually possesses undisturbed contentment superior to a learned gentleman of this c
ommercial city who has every possible comfort at home?”40
The effects of anti-mission attitudes were felt, first of all, in a monetary way. At the Mission School, the total of donations dropped from roughly $500 per quarter in 1823 to $60 the following year. Moreover, there was a similar (though less extreme) trend at both the regional and national levels. Donations to the Foreign Mission Society of Litchfield County (which included Cornwall and a dozen other communities) fell from $2,450 to $1,670 per annum over the same period. In 1826, the Litchfield Society was forced to acknowledge that its “receipts … have, for the last three years been constantly diminishing.” Even the American Board, with its worldwide purview, was not immune. There, too, the sums received went sharply down—from approximately $68,000 in 1823 to just over $47,000 a year later. How much of this could be blamed on the Ridge-Northrup affair is impossible to say; but the date of their wedding—January 27, 1824—conformed precisely to the timing of the change.41
At any rate, the American Board decided now to reexamine the terms of its sponsorship of the Mission School. The official report of its annual meeting, held at Hartford in September 1824, included the following: “There appears to be some danger that this school would cease to be a mere instrument of good in the hands of the Board, and obtain a separate existence of its own, having its own interests, purposes, and resources; and yet sustaining such an inseparable connexion with the Board that each would be perpetually embarrassed by the other’s movements.” (A “separate existence” together with an “inseparable connexion”: Here, indeed, was a formula for being “perpetually embarrassed”—if not for disaster.) Should, therefore, the board entirely disengage from the Mission School? In fact, it chose to take an opposite course, by creating new—and firmer—lines of control. From now on, the school would be required to submit “reports, at stated times, of the progress and character of each pupil.” The language here had the same dry, fastidious quality of all such communications; clearly, however, the board was trying to fashion a blunt instrument. “[R]eports … of the progress and character of each pupil” meant the kind of close oversight needed to prevent any repetition of previous misadventure. Somehow or other, this runaway institution must be roped in, lest it imperil the progress of the entire missionary cause.42
The school itself would add one more statement to all that had already been said in the aftermath of these events. In June 1824, as part of their regular quarterly report, the agents defended their approach to “these strangers of different and distant climes and regions…[who] have a skin not colored like…[our] own. They have immortal souls; they have intellectual faculties, also, which … may be made eminently instrumental to the salvation of their pagan countrymen.” They had every right to expect “kindness” from their “friends and teachers.” Moreover, “it is not true that they are treated in such an improper manner as many have apprehended.” The report made no reference to the recent “intermarriage.” Instead, it affirmed the broad principle of racial equality, and addressed the charge of special preference accorded to the scholars—a harmful distortion created by “the tongue of slander.” This was as far as the school’s leadership would ever manage to go.43
In other respects, the school seemed to revert to familiar routines, familiar triumphs, familiar struggles and difficulties. Some scholars were making “pretty good progress,” while others showed “mediocre talent,” and still others proved “quite averse to study.” Several became “professors of religion,” but an equal (or greater) number gave “no sign of true piety.” Some struggled with illness (“very much out of health”) and injury (“had a fall from a horse, 4 weeks ago, & has complained much of his head since”). Many resented the labor required of them on the school farm: “After working one day, they are very commonly laid up the next with complaints of stiffness & fatigue.” They complained, too, about newly imposed restrictions on travel. At vacation times, they “have an ardent desire to go abroad & visit,” which frequently led to “trial & temptation”; hence the principal was unwilling to “grant … indulgence of this kind.” Even so, from time to time two or three would simply disappear; for example, “these boys … took it into their heads to play truant, by going to Litchfield, & spending a week.” Some engaged in mischief and foolishness. One, “nearly well” after a long illness, “went into cold water to bathe, improvidently & contrary to advice, & is now quite unwell again.” But they also provided school leaders, like Daggett, with moments of reward: “the Lord’s Day, Aug. 24 … eight of my pupils were publickly [sic] baptised.” And the annual examination days still brought a lift, though perhaps less so than in the school’s earliest years. After one of these, the principal somewhat tepidly described his “satisfaction … considering the character of the youths now in the school.”44
The principal’s health, always precarious, now took a turn for the worse. At one point, he was bedridden for six weeks and completely unable to carry out his teaching duties. In January 1824, just as the “marriage crisis” was unfolding, he informed the American Board of his intention to resign “on account of the state of my health.” He rebounded briefly that summer, but in October his departure was confirmed, and a new principal—Rev. Amos Bassett, another Connecticut pastor with long-standing connections to missionary work—arrived to take charge. There were additional staffing changes at around the same time, including the hiring of two new assistant teachers. (Both were New Englanders who had previously been enrolled as students at the school.)45
There were comings and goings, too, among the scholars. This was especially true of the year 1823, when perhaps a dozen departed (most to fulfill the promise of return to their homelands, a few expelled for misconduct), while twenty-three were newly admitted. The latter showed a remarkable worldwide spread: Many were trailed by stories of great depth and complexity. Thomas Patoo, a native of the Marquesas Islands, far out in the western Pacific, had left home at an early age, had lived for a time in Hawaii as “one of the king’s guards,” and had served as a deckhand on several China Trade ships—all this prior to arriving in Boston in 1820. Sent to a “religious family” in the village of Coventry, Connecticut, he had “accepted Christ” after much inner struggle, and was then placed at the Mission School, only to be stricken with a fatal illness. His short but event-filled life would be remembered in a vivid Obookiah-like memoir published within a year of his death. Henry Martyn A’lan and William Alum, both from Whampoa, China, had traveled via northern Europe and a long ocean voyage to Philadelphia; there they endured several months of life on the street before coming to the attention of a “Society of females” bent on promoting “heathen education.” Their arrival in Cornwall was preceded by a tour of New York and New England towns, in the course of which they appeared in “native costume” before “large assemblies” of curious onlookers, and raised “a handsome collection” for the school. Jonas Isaac Abrahams, born to Jewish parents in London, had attended three different British “academies” while undergoing a step-by-step conversion to Christianity, had clerked for a merchant uncle in Sicily, and had managed on his own to arrange ship passage to Massachusetts, from where he gained entrance to the Mission School. Along the way, he became a passionate advocate for the “ingathering” of fellow Jews. Photius Kavasales and Athanasios Karavelles were Greek boys from the island of Malta, brought up in the Eastern Orthodox Church. Channeled to New England by Protestant missionaries, they would be greeted with special fanfare by local philhellenes who viewed them as avatars of the then-ongoing Greek War of Independence from Ottoman Turkey. David Carter, a Cherokee youth of mixed-race background, could claim actual ancestral roots in Cornwall. His white grandfather had lived in the town for some years before moving to a frontier location in Pennsylvania, where, along with others of his large family, he was cut down in an Indian raid at the conclusion of the Seven Years’ War. David’s father, at that point just a child, survived and was carried off by Cherokee captors, and raised as a member of the Nation; thus David’s comi
ng to Cornwall completed what was, in effect, a three-generation cycle. Others in this newest group of arrivals included several more Pacific Islanders, Indians of various tribal affiliations (Choctaw, Seneca, Mohegan, Kahnawake Mohawk), a Mexican, and two Anglo-Americans (from Vermont and New York).46
The departures were no less noteworthy. A third missionary contingent, including two Cornwall scholars, set out for Hawaii at the end of 1822; more would follow a year later. By now, too, there were Indian returnees, chiefly among those from the Southeast. For them, travel home might yield significant public reward. Typically, they found lodging and other forms of assistance among mission-minded supporters along the way. (This, an American Board official noted, “saves us both embarrassment and expense.”) Sometimes they were personally feted: given a formal welcome, treated to elaborate dinners, paraded from one church or religious gathering to another.47
All this was especially true in the case of the Cherokee youth David Brown. Considered “most promising” virtually from the moment of his arrival in Cornwall (1820), Brown sailed through the school’s program and then went on for several months of additional training at the Andover Theological Seminary. His journey back to the Cherokee Nation, during the winter of 1823–24, became a carefully orchestrated, and extraordinarily successful, speaking tour—its progress closely tracked in both the missionary and the secular press. Its main purpose was to display another signal achievement in the matter of “civilizing,” and Christianizing, “heathen” people. Obookiah himself had pioneered this role a decade earlier; with Brown, it would achieve new levels of public impact.48