The Heathen School Read online

  His physical appearance, his character, and his personal style would also invite comment. He was “considerably above the ordinary size”: nearly six feet tall, and “in his limbs and body proportionably large.” His posture and bearing, which upon his arrival in New Haven appeared “awkward and unshapen,” had become “erect, graceful, and dignified.” His facial expression had lost its previous aspect of “dullness” and now seemed “sprightly and intelligent.” He had “a piercing eye, a prominent Roman nose, and a projecting chin.” His complexion was olive, his hair black (“dressed after the manner of the Americans”), his features “strongly marked.” Considered overall, he cut a distinctly imposing figure. Years later, a Cornwall resident described, from personal memory, the power of his charm and charisma: “the lineaments of his countenance … when lit up, as in addressing an audience…[made him seem] almost divine. ‘Lovely man!’ they would whisper, as they gathered around him to see how a poor heathen could preach to them Jesus.”31

  His “disposition … was amiable,” his “temper … mild.” Moreover, his mind “was such that, with proper culture, might … become … of the first order.” He consistently exhibited “sound common sense” and “keen discernment.” He had a “clear sense of propriety” and fine judgment of people. His manners were “grave and reserved,” yet his conversation was lively and occasionally spiced by “a fondness for humour.” For all these reasons he was a born leader, someone whose “counsel was sought … and regarded as decisive … by his companions.” Indeed, “few young men it is presumed command so much respect from persons of every age and character.”32

  As time passed, his spiritual mentors sought his active participation in a variety of “social religious meetings.” He spent the period from 1814 to 1816 living first in Goshen, then in Canaan, Connecticut—in each case at the home of the local minister. He began to keep a diary, and (evidently at the urging of his hosts) composed an account of his previous life. The circle of his correspondence widened; his hortatory tone grew louder, more insistent. He “made it his habitual practice, to converse as he had opportunity, with persons whom he supposed to be destitute of grace.” In “several instances” he succeeded in promoting “an apparent conversion of the soul to God.” In short and in sum: His public profile was rising impressively. It would continue to rise—even more so—in the months ahead.33

  Obookiah ranked as the most famous Hawaiian emigrant of his time, but there were others. His friend and shipmate Thomas Hopoo had, after living “for a season” in New Haven, chosen to resume “the life of a sailor.” Hopoo served on “several privateers during the late war [the War of 1812],” and, when that was over, he worked as a coachman for a family in “the interior of the country.” A year later, unemployed and increasingly despondent, he wandered back to New Haven in hopes of finding passage home to the Pacific. But here he was intercepted by “Christian friends” and persuaded to “stay and obtain an education.” Soon thereafter, he joined Obookiah at the minister’s house in Goshen. William Tennooe reached Boston in 1809 in a group of six “knackies” aboard another China Trade vessel. (Four of his companions would soon leave. The fifth, his brother, died some years later in Rhode Island.) Like Hopoo, Tennooe went to sea to fight on the American side in the War of 1812. Upon returning, he found work in New Haven as a barber’s apprentice (and “became very expert at his new occupation”). He attracted the attention of Yale students eager to instruct him—and also of some “pious females” who prayed for his soul and raised money for his upkeep. In due course he, too, joined the little band at Goshen. John Honoree, yet another Hawaiian seaman, reached Boston in 1815. Almost at once he gained local patrons, who passed him along to New Haven and “very generously gave one hundred dollars toward the expense of his education.” A few months later, he was taken into a minister’s home at Guilford, “where he began to learn the first rudiments of the English language.”34

  Perhaps the most colorful of these stories featured a youth named George “Prince” Tamoree.

  Born the son of an island chief (Kaumuali’i of Kaua’i, northernmost of the island chain), he is indeed a prince of sorts—and is also, by some accounts, in line to succeed to the kingship of Hawaii as a whole. His original name is Humehume, but at some point early on he is given the additional name George, after the king of England. (Later, when he enters the Mission School, he will become known also as Tamoree, an Anglicized rendering of his father’s name.) The father, “being a man of considerable information…[and] a manifest partiality for the Americans,” arranges with a visiting sea captain, James Rowan, to take the boy to Massachusetts “to receive a finished education.” His evident goal is to prepare his son for a role as adviser on foreign trade and related matters, for these are the years when Kaua’i, like all of its sister islands, is being suddenly swept up in worldwide commerce.

  Since the boy is barely four years old, the plans with Captain Rowan include a generous “bequest” (said to amount to several thousand dollars) to defray the expenses of his care and schooling. However, the captain gives up seafaring, resettles his family in the countryside near Worcester, squanders the money entrusted to him, and ultimately hands George off to one Samuel Cotting, a local “preceptor” (teacher). The latter, in turn, “soon [leaves] the business of school keeping,” takes up carpentry, and makes his young charge into an assistant. Several years pass, and George grows “discontented.” Being now of an age to look after himself, he runs off to work for a farmer in the town of Fitchburg. But there he receives “much harsh treatment,” and so removes again—this time to Boston, to enlist “on board an American armed vessel.” For the next two years, he endures “all the hardships attendant upon the life of a common sailor,” including naval battles in various corners of the Atlantic basin. He takes part in a famous victory of the American brig Enterprise over the British Boxer (1813); he also serves on the frigate Guerriére and fights (as he later puts it) “the barbarous Turks of Algiers.” At one point, he is badly wounded by a boarding pike; but he recovers, and sees further duty along the coasts of North Africa, Italy, and Spain. At war’s end, he returns to Boston, “ragged, dirty, and in want.” Eventually, he hires on as manservant to an officer at the Charlestown Navy Yard, where Rev. Jedediah Morse, the minister of a nearby Congregational church, discovers him. At this point (1815), he seems a “good-looking” youth of “about 18 years,” who speaks fluent English but has “almost entirely forgotten his native tongue.” When asked if he would like an education—which was, after all, the original purpose of his coming to America—he says “he would be glad with his heart.” Morse arranges his release from service and his further transfer to New Haven. Like Obookiah before him, he lives for a time in the home of Yale’s President Dwight, and enjoys “everything that could render him contented and comfortable.” He is said to be “much noticed here—is put into good clothing & looks like a new man—his countenance is brightened—& his dejection gone.” Indeed, by this point George Prince (as he is generally called) has become a known figure; his link to Hawaiian royalty is much discussed. He is briefly considered for admission to the national military academy (West Point); President Madison is one of his sponsors. But instead, he is “sent to join his countrymen” at the minister’s home in Goshen.35

  It is clear that the trade ships brought still more young Hawaiians to New England—for example, a certain Benjamin Carhooa, resident at Boston “several years” and “highly esteemed by his acquaintances”; another youth “recently arrived with Captain Edes…[and] said to be very promising”; a boy at school in Catskill, New York. Indeed, one account places the total of these arrivals at “fifty or sixty.” But it was Obookiah, Hopoo, Tennooe, Honoree, and Tamoree who gained, and held, the public eye. Their stories, though different in detail, showed a number of common elements. All had spent time as sailors on American trade ships. (Three had served, at sea, in the War of 1812.) Most had experienced periods of extreme hardship after reaching New England. (According t
o later accounts, they were “destitute,” or “in want,” or “under great depression of spirits.”) All had sooner or later found sponsors, teachers, and spiritual guides. All had been moved through a kind of missionary pipeline, centered in New Haven but reaching out well across the Connecticut countryside. Gathered together in the summer of 1816—closely watched over by a cadre of Protestant leaders, already launched into various kinds of secular instruction, and pointed as well toward religious conversion—this little group was about to become the founding nucleus of an institution unlike any previously seen on American soil.36

  The idea of a special school for “heathen youth” emerged sometime during these same months, though its specific authorship is unclear. Certainly, it built on the hopes of Obookiah (and others) for a mission to the Sandwich Islands. Likely, too, it seemed a natural extension of the piecemeal instruction that several of the Hawaiian émigrés were already receiving from ministers, Yale students, and local schoolteachers. And, obviously, it incorporated an impulse of giving that was gathering strength all across New England.

  A letter dated May 13, 1816, from a New York philanthropist named Ward Safford to Jeremiah Evarts, the corresponding secretary of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, includes the earliest surviving formulation. Safford urged decisive action for the sake of “our Owhyhean & other Heathen youths.” As soon as possible, “they should have a permanent residence & a permanent instructor.” This, in turn, might “grow into a great institution at which should be assembled heathen from any part of the world.”37

  During the weeks that followed, a new “board of trust” was established in Litchfield County to assume “the more particular charge of these youths.” Meanwhile, money was beginning to accumulate for their support. An evangelical journal, The Religious Intelligencer, noted the increasing “liberality of the benevolent [toward]…these young men,” and then described one especially affecting case. A “pious lady” from Savannah, Georgia, while on a visit to New Haven, had “heard the story of three of the Owhyhee lads” and formed “a lively interest in their welfare.” Upon returning home, she told friends about them and began to “solicit contributions … in their behalf”; the upshot was a gift of $335 from “the citizens of Savannah … for the very purpose of educating [them]…as missionaries to Owhyhee.” In fact, the Savannah gift would set a pattern for many others in years to come. (The Intelligencer did offer an important caution: Monetary gifts should be sent only to the “trustees,” not to the “lads” directly, since they “are not considered competent to manage … pecuniary or other concerns” by themselves.)38

  In late August, the three trustees submitted to the officers of the American Board a long memorandum, laying out in abundant detail the case for founding a mission school. Their reasoning was carefully measured, their tone restrained, their diction quite formal, not to say officious. Yet their excitement, their sense of importance in what they were about, comes through every line even today.

  They began by noting “the hand of Providence” in directing particular young men to America—and thus identifying “the Sandwich Isles … as an important missionary field.” As a result, a process was already under way—and was already proving itself—since the various efforts to teach and convert “these heathen youth … have been singularly blessed.” Some, indeed, showed strong signs of being “endued [sic] with the special grace of God,” and all were “ardently wishing to be qualified to present the Gospel to their perishing countrymen.” If this outcome should actually be achieved in Hawaii, it might then inspire “youths from other heathen countries, in relation to a mission to their respective nations.” Appropriate candidates might “with little difficulty be obtained from China, from the different Nations in India, from Africa, from the Islands of the Sea, from Nootka Sound and the various tribes on the western coast of North America, from South America, and from among the Jews in various parts of the world.” The basic goal would be the same in every case: to create a class of native “laborers” ready to serve as “instruments of civilizing and Christianizing their countrymen.” (The term laborers seems nonspecific, but their primary focus would be one or another form of mission-centered work.)39

  Here, then, was the end in view—leading the trustees to the further, and crucial, question of the most suitable “means.” One possibility was the creation of schools in each of the separate mission “fields.” But this would involve much duplicate effort and cost, since “the expense must be repeated whenever a new field is occupied.” Missionaries would have to be trained as teachers prior to leaving, with buildings bought on-site, and equipment transported. Better by far to concentrate the preparation here—in America—at a school that “can successively receive youths and educate them from all parts of the world.” Not only would the expense be less; the process itself would go more efficiently. The “heathen youths brought to this country” would be placed “at once under a regular government and have their business systematized.” This, in turn, would quickly make them “inured to habits of industry and regularity,” and teach them “the art of government and subordination.”40

  Moreover, the salutary effects of an American-based education would extend well beyond the school setting (in and of itself). For the students involved would be “brought into the midst of light.” They would learn “not only … from the instructions of their teachers…[but also] from what they see and hear every day” in the surrounding environment, and would emerge well attuned to the “habits and customs of civilized life, which they could never be taught in any other way.” Indeed, the benefits of the proposed scheme went further still—for example, to clergymen who might be preparing for work in overseas “fields.” From mission-school students, such trainees could gain both “useful information” and firsthand experience with “heathens”; perhaps they might even “learn something of the language of the country to which they are going.” Moreover, the work of “such an institution would [aid]…the cause of missions generally in our country.” Official accounts of its progress would “rouse attention and call forth the resources of our country,” and, quite likely, “effect more for the support of missions than many sermons.” This last expectation, the trustees noted, came directly “from our own observation.” For, in the case of Obookiah and his companions, “we have found the public greatly interested in their state and concerns”; indeed, “many generous donations have, unsolicited, poured in upon us.” It seemed very likely, therefore, that “such a school [would]…be a powerful auxiliary” to the fund-raising arm of the American Board itself. The proposal concluded on a glowing—not to say grandiloquent—note: “We feel confident that this thing is from God…[and] will, among others, be a means of evangelizing the world.”41

  Case closed; point made. And all signs suggest that it was immediately persuasive with the officers of the American Board. In fact, the way had been well prepared during the preceding weeks and months—quite specifically, in the Safford letter of mid-May, and, more generally, in a burst of both public and private exchanges among many of the mission-minded clergy. All parties agreed that the building ferment conformed to divine wish and plan—and, with specific reference to the recent arrivals from Hawaii, that “Providence unquestionably cast them on our shores.” Furthermore, all agreed that the goal should be nothing less than “evangelizing the world.” An official statement from the leaders of the board described this as “a long neglected work of immense extent and importance,” since 600 million of the world’s people “are yet without the gospel”; nonetheless, “the energies of Christendom, if wisely directed,” would surely be sufficient to meet the challenge. In fact, it could all happen quite rapidly. With skill and effort Christ’s message might reach “every dark corner of the earth … within the short period of a quarter century.”42

  By late September, a slightly reshuffled “agency” had taken charge of the school-founding project; one important change was the addition of John Treadwell, a former governor of the
state of Connecticut, as its chairman. Soon thereafter, the agents convened in an official way at the home of President Dwight in New Haven, and produced a full-blown “constitution” in fifteen “articles,” comprising the main elements of their plan. These included governance (by the agents themselves); staffing (“a Principal … with such Assistants as the Agents … shall judge necessary,” including a steward who would “superintend the agricultural interests of the School,” and provide the students with their board); physical plant (“such buildings as the Agents shall deem necessary”); curriculum (“spelling, reading, and writing the English language … English Grammar, Arithmetic, Geography, and such other branches of knowledge as shall be deemed useful”); calendar (two vacations each year, three weeks in May and six in September and October); and daily schedule (including “morning and evening prayers … accompanied by the reading of Scriptures and the singing of psalms or hymns,” with special allowance for Sundays, when the principal would “instruct the pupils in the great truths of Christianity”). Its formal name would be the Foreign Mission School. (However, in the everyday parlance of both sponsors and local residents, it would soon become known simply as “the heathen school.”) In addition to promulgating their overall plan, the agents decided to locate the school in the town of Cornwall, Litchfield County, Connecticut, “near the south meeting-house.” And they recommended Rev. Joseph Harvey, then the pastor at nearby Goshen and himself an agent, for the position of principal.43

  Finally, in publishing all this, they “proposed to subjoin a few remarks on the importance of the proposed institution,” and thus to add their own piece to the steadily widening rationale. “Natives of almost every heathen country,” they noted, were being drawn away from their homes by “our commerce” and then “conveyed to this land of gospel light.” When they arrived, they felt themselves to be “strangers”; invariably, too, they were utterly baffled by “the arts and employments of civilized life.” Left to their “evil propensities,” they would turn to vagrancy, gravitate to “the vilest class of society,” fall into “abominable practices,” and “thus too often come to an untimely end.” Worst of all: Those who somehow survived and later got back to their homelands would further “corrupt their fellow countrymen,” sow “prejudice against Christianity,” and “thus become obstacles in the way of spreading the Gospel.”44