In the Spring of the same year the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, including then both Congregationalists and Presbyterians, became interested in the new field for explorers and in this strange call that had come ringing across the vast prairies and rugged mountains of the unknown West, as, in a previous study, we have noticed that the Moravian Brethren became interested in the call that came half a century before across the Alleghanies from the Delawares on the Muskingum. Nor was the David Zeisberger, fearless, patient, and devoted, found to be wanting in the present instance, for the call came through a channel now difficult to trace to a young man who was able to endure and dare.
Two years after the beginning of the nineteenth century Marcus Whitman was born at Rushville, New York, of New England parentage, strong both morally and intellectually. His early life was spent in a typical pioneer home, where he knew the toil, the weariness, and the hearty humble joys of that era,—a home in which independence and general strength of character were formed and confirmed. The loss of his father when he was at the age of eight laid upon the shoulders of the growing lad responsibilities which made him old beyond his years. All this certainly had its part in preparing him for the sublimely humble work, as it seemed, that he was to be called upon to do; and little could he have known that there were to come those days of agony and exhaustion which demanded all his latent accumulation of iron strength and courage of steel,—days that would demand all his stores of resourceful foresight. Whitman's education was probably indifferent,—at least it was not above the average of the day. Converted at the age of seventeen, he did not join a church until he was twenty-two, which may be taken as showing the reticent or, rather, unobtrusive character of the man. An early purpose to prepare for the ministry was thwarted by physical weakness, and the young man proceeded to study medicine in the Berkshire Medical College at Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The first years of practice were spent in Canada; returning then to New York, his attention was unexpectedly absorbed in a business venture with his brother in a sawmill. How difficult it must have been for any one to read this leading aright, so seemingly adverse was it to the prescribed course that was customary among practitioners. Yet the same knowledge of business, perhaps, would not have come to Whitman in any other way, and it was providentially to stand him in good stead.
"Dr. Whitman was a strong man, earnest, decided, aggressive. He was sincere and kind, generous to a fault.... He was fearless of danger, strong in purpose, resolute and unflinching in the face of difficulties. At times he became animated and earnest in argument or conversation, but in general he would be called a man of reticence. He was above medium height, rather spare than otherwise, had deep blue eyes, a large mouth, and, in middle life, hair that would be called iron-gray."
Of Miss Prentiss of Prattsburg, New York, who soon became Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Martha J. Lamb has said:
"She was a graceful blonde, stately and dignified in her bearing, without a particle of affectation. When he was preparing to leave for Oregon, the church held a farewell service and the minister gave out the well-known hymn:
Yes, my native land, I love thee,
• • • • • •
Can I bid you all farewell?
The whole congregation joined heartily in the singing, but before the hymn was half through, one by one they ceased singing, and audible sobs were heard in every part of the great audience. The last stanza was sung by the sweet voice of Mrs. Whitman alone, clear, musical, and unwavering."