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Josiah Quincy and His School for 'Gentlemen'

Riot, Mass Dismissal Mark Reign Of Harvard's Fifteenth President

As an independently-minded member of a virtually extinct party, Quincy became a unique figure on Capitol Hill. The Federalist demise began in 1800 with John Adams' defeat; in 1804, only seven Senators and 25 out of 140 Representatives belonged to the party. Quincy soon became the leader of this ineffectual minority, which sought reconciliation with Great Britain against the menace of Napoleon.

In most of his political speeches, Quincy showed himself to be an arch-conservative. He protested vigorously against the formation of new states in the Louisiana Purchase territory, deeming it unconstitutional. "By this act Jefferson unsettled and spread the whole foundations of the Union, as established by the original Constitution of the United States, introduced a population alien to it in every element of character, previous education, and political tendency." His independence of thought showed through again in a later speech on foreign relations: "But, acting in a public capacity, with the high responsibilities resulting from the great interests dependent upon my decision, I cannot yield to the wishes of love-sick patriots, or the visions of teeming enthusiasts." Poor Josiah! He had no power in the House, but never weighed decisions for political expediency. His personal standards determined his vote.

The most characteristic and striking manifestation of his political independence came in a motion suggesting impeachment of President Jefferson. His unexpected attack upon the President evidently created a great sensation in Washington. Representatives bobbed up, violently censuring Quincy for his resolution, and when the vote came, only the name of Josiah Quincy favored the affirmative. Nearly 50 years later, Quincy looked back on this episode: "No public exertion of mine has been more fully justified by the reflections of a long life," he wrote. His defiance of the President, of Congress, and of public opinion fitted in well with his independent moral code.

Finally, Quincy discovered his conception of right and that of his constituents did not coincide, and so he declined to run again in 1812. "I found that a Representative in Congress from Boston, to be supported, must follow the opinion of his constituents concerning their real or imagined interests, and that in an independent course he was sure to be suspected or denounced. It was a state of subserviency which suited neither my pride nor my principles." He did get in a few final licks at the Republican Administration, speaking against a proposed draft law for 18-year-olds ("Our children are to be seduced from their parents"), and almost coming to arms with Henry Clay over a speech against the invasion of Canada. ("As it respects the Southern and Western men, they shall learn from me, if from no one else, that they are not to set up standards of duty and decorum for my part of the country. While I have tongue or pen, the ignorant part of the nation shall not assume to itself with impunity to lord over the intelligent, nor the vicious over the virtuous.")

For the next ten years, Quincy became a gentleman-farmer, managing his own farm to the delight of local entrepreneurs. "He was an enthusiast in whatever he undertook," his son wrote, "and he entered into farming with all the zeal of his ardent temperament. His agricultural experience, like that of most gentleman-farmers, was rather profitable to others than to himself."

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By 1822, the town of Boston had reached 40,000 in population, and the town fathers felt the need to establish a city form of government. Again Quincy's personal tenets conflicted with those of the majority; he felt the "pure democracy of the town meeting more suited to the character of the people of New England." However, he presided at the final Boston town meeting and would have been elected first mayor save for factional politics. Mayor Phillips retired at the end of a single year, and Quincy assumed the position.

His crusading spirit manifested itself in many ways. The first House of Correction, reform school, and fire cisterns appeared during his five years in office. The red light district retreated before his reforms, and Quincy even took the revolutionary step of establishing a high school for girls. Quincy's pride kept him from remaining in office longer than five years. In the election of 1828 he failed to obtain an absolute majority on either of the first two ballots, and withdrew in a huff from the race.

At this point another important leader in the Boston area likewise retired from office. The Reverend John Thornton Kirkland closed out 18 years as President of Harvard, amidst great financial embarrassment, and the Corporation looked for a new President with a mind for business. In the recently-retired Mayor they found a likely candidate. Although some Overseers opposed the nomination--Quincy was only the second non-clerical President in the College's 200-year history--he was elected January 29, 1829.

Quincy immediately set to work to "improve" the students. One of his first "reforms" was the establishment of a new marking system, the Scale of Merit. This system sought to place students in their proper academic positions with mathematical certainty: 8 points for attending class, a loss of 16 points for missing Sunday chapel, etc. Quincy himself took Puritanic glee in toting up the figures weekly. The Scale of Merit, however, proved a dismal failure, for it placed a premium upon attendance and not upon learning. Perhaps the system fitted well with Quincy's preconceptions of the ideal college course, which he described as "thorough drilling." Again, the president's personal notions triumphed over common sense.

The president finally collided head-on with the student body in the justly-famed riot of 1834, a protest that has no equal in Harvard history. It started mildly enough--a few bonfires in the Yard livened by gun-powder-stuffed logs--then a dispute between the Latin professor and the freshmen and sophomores, and the inevitable Faculty crackdown. The College bell started to ring mysteriously during the night, and more broken windows appeared every day.

Old Josiah took what he thought was the sensible course. On May 29th, he dismissed the entire sophomore class, and made the stunning announcement that criminal prosecution would be instituted against the window-breakers. Then, hell broke loose. More windows were smashed, Quincy was hanged in effigy, handwriting appeared on the wall in the chapel saying "A Bone for Old Quin to Pick," and the flag of rebellion flew over Holworthy. Quincy himself testified for three days before the Concord grand jury, the only three times he missed morning prayers while at Harvard.

By starting legal proceedings, Quincy again revealed his ignorance of the most elementary psychology. His Puritanical pigheadedness prevented him from taking more sensible action; any personal popularity he held among the students promptly vanished. The College suffered too, as Harvard's enrollment dropped nearly 50 per cent.

Quincy's reign, though, was not completely detrimental. Gore Hall, the College library until the construction of Widener, the first Observatory, and the Dane Law College were built during these sixteen years; a start was made toward the elective system; the financial affairs of the College received a much-needed straightening-out. The Bicentennial Celebration in 1836 was long and merry; forty toasts livened the ten-hour dinner and celebration. This merriment stood alone during the business-like regime of Quincy. President Walker once deemed him "The Great Organizer of the University." Although he failed eminently in his quest of the school for gentlemen, Quincy did maintain and expand the tradition of academic freedom.

President Quincy retired in 1845, and before his death at age 92, wrote voluminously. A History of Harvard, a biography of his father, and a History of Boston are among his major works. But the old, dour Puritan must have spent much time in contemplation, looking over a life filled with public activity.

He must have taken satisfaction, if he ever could, reflecting on the moral education he provided for sixteen years of Harvard students. The brash students themselves may have disagreed with him, but Josiah Quincy was staunchly proud of his righteousness in upholding the old verities against the moral latitude of new and looser generations

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