IDEAS, IDEALS, AND INTERPRETATIONS
The desire to know the causes of the thing they see is naturally present in all men … Therefore man naturally desires as his last end to know the first cause.
thomas aquinas
James Boswell, in his fawning attempts to preserve the wisdom of Samuel Johnson for posterity, recorded comments that Johnson made sometime in 1775 on the limits of historical explanation. “We must consider how very little history there is; I mean real authentick history,” opined Johnson. “That certain Kings reigned, and certain battles were fought, we can depend upon as true,” he continued, “but all the colouring, all the philosophy of history is conjecture.” Did the imperious Dr. Johnson intend these remarks for anyone in particular? If he had given his worshipful biographer a subtle caution, a warning that Boswell might record his witticisms and profundities and yet still not capture his essence, Boswell apparently did not comprehend. Or did Johnson go after Edward Gibbon, a much bigger fish? Although Gibbon was there he did not take the bait that Johnson dangled before him. Boswell interpreted Gibbon’s silence as meaning “he probably did not like to trust himself with Johnson.”
Many years later Thomas Jefferson expressed an opinion similar to Samuel Johnson’s. Not surprisingly, his old comrade and onetime rival John Adams elicited it from him. “Who shall write the history of the American revolution? Who can write it? Who will ever be able to write it?” So asked a perturbed Adams in one of his letters to the Virginian. These questions were prompted by Adams’s reading of Carlo Botta’s history of the Revolution. Botta had included what was purportedly John Dickinson’s speech in the Continental Congress against declaring independence. Botta, an Italian, had not been present when Dickinson spoke whereas Adams had and the speech Botta inserted was not as Adams remembered it. Unfortunately, Adams sighed, he could produce no document to prove Botta wrong. Congressional debates “were all in secret, and are now lost forever.”
By the time of this 1815 exchange Adams and Jefferson had put aside political differences that once strained their friendship. Still, they did not agree on everything. They differed, notably, in their recollections of how Jefferson had been chosen to draft the Declaration of Independence. And even when they could agree they were not necessarily right. At the same moment that Adams had been piqued by Botta’s reconstruction of Dickinson’s speech he and Jefferson misremembered the events of July 4, 1776. Both thought that the delegates to Congress signed the Declaration during a ceremony that very day.
Confusion surrounding the drafting and signing of the Declaration of Independence illustrates the distinction between real events and those events as they are remembered and reported. Carl Becker warned us not to talk of cold hard facts, to understand that the historical past is a filtered remnant of the actual past.
The “accidents of survival” left a vast store of information about Adams and Jefferson. New, more exhaustive editions of their papers and correspondence have been underway for decades and are still years from completion. Josiah Quincy left a mere fragment by comparison. For the historian of ideas, however, that fragment may reveal more about Quincy’s intellectual world than the larger collections for Adams and Jefferson do about them. Although Adams compiled a legal commonplace book that probably helped him when he wrote his “Dissertation on the Canon and Feudal Law” and “Novanglus” essays, the tie is not as strong as it is between Quincy’s commonplace book and the Observations. So too with Jefferson. He actually did both a literary and a legal commonplace book, but neither one tells us much about the exact sources that Jefferson turned to for his Revolutionary era writings.
Moreover, we can trace most of the books that Quincy owned because of a catalog listing them that was done just after he died. Reconstructing Adams’s personal library for the same years is more problematic. We know that Adams had a substantial collection of books, including some purchased at the estate auction for Jeremiah Gridley in 1768, but the Adams books that eventually went to the Boston Public Library do not always disclose when they were purchased or whether Adams read them closely. The task is equally daunting for Jefferson, who began his library with books that he inherited from his father. Not only did Jefferson share Quincy’s attachment to Shakespeare as well as to Gordon’s Tacitus, he, like Quincy, greatly admired Francis Bacon and preferred Catharine Macaulay as a historian to David Hume. By 1770, when a fire at Shadwell destroyed his first collection, he had probably gathered close to as many books as Quincy did before his death. Starting over immediately and assembling an even more impressive collection at Monticello, in 1775 Jefferson possessed well over a thousand books—twice or perhaps even three times the number owned by Quincy.
It seems somehow fitting that the first and last surviving letters that Quincy wrote or received dealt with books. The first, in 1764, was to his brother-in-law in London, asking him to send a biography of Sir John Holt. A chief justice of King’s Bench under William and Mary, Holt, Quincy explained, wrote opinions “touching the rights and liberties of the people.”
With those twenty titles Quincy neared five hundred volumes in his library. Aside from his beloved Shakespeare and anthologies by John Milton, Alexander Pope, James Thomson, and a few others, he put very little fiction or poetry on his shelves. Even so, given his use of Shakespearean epigraphs for some of his essays and the Shakespearean allusions sprinkled through his writings and discourse—from Portia’s lines on the “quality of mercy” in “The Merchant of Venice” during the 1770 soldiers’ trial to a reference to “The Tempest” in his 1773 southern voyage journal—he obviously looked to Shakespeare as moral philosopher as well as dramatist.
Quincy owned a smattering of religious tracts, notably two copies of Jonathan Mayhew’s published sermons and a couple of Jonathan Edwards’s lectures from the pulpit. Naturally he had several dozen legal texts that he needed as a practicing attorney. Beyond those law office essentials he also owned works by Hugo Grotius, Emmerich de Vattel, Jean Jacques Burlamaqui, and Baron von Pufendorf, works that ranged through ethics, history, and international law. He also had Coke’s Institutes and Blackstone’s Commentaries, and others who expounded on the English constitution and the relationship of crown to parliament. Not limiting his reading of English history to Hume and Macaulay, he owned Frenchman Paul de Rapin-Thoyras’s earlier study and bought William Harris’s biographies of James I, Oliver Cromwell and Charles II. He had the collection of parliamentary debates from the 1640s edited by John Rushworth, various political essays by John Milton and a printed account of John Lilburne’s trial. For the eighteenth century he had Joseph Addison’s Free-Holder, Trenchard and Gordon’s Independent Whig and Cato’s Letters, parliamentary debates from the 1740s, and biographies of Viscount Bolingbroke to complement Bolingbroke’s essays. He even owned a full thirteen-volume set of the works of Jonathan Swift. For more recent developments he had John Wilkes’s North Briton, the letters of “Junius” and, for imperial affairs, essays by Edmund Burke and Arthur Young, and various editions of Thomas Pownall’s Administration of the American Colonies.
There is nothing random about this book buying and reading; it was all of a piece. Whether immersed in the history of republican Rome or England under the Stuarts, or reviewing the careers of Caesar and Cromwell, Quincy read purposefully: to comprehend the present by connecting it to the past. If “Jefferson’s political philosophy was a rich constellation of theoretical qualities from several traditions,” so was Quincy’s.
The classics of the ancient world are everywhere in the literature of the Revolution, but they are everywhere illustrative, not determinative, of thought. They contributed a vivid vocabulary but not the logic and grammar of thought, a universally respected personification but not the sources of political and social beliefs. They heightened the colonists’ sensitivity to ideas and attitudes otherwise derived.
Taking the last sentence first, perhaps the order should be changed: writers in the commonwealth tradition heightened a sensitivity born of an understanding of human nature and political science gleaned from the classics. The commonwealthmen stressed the dangers posed by corruption and faction, and they dreaded conspiracy, tendencies they inherited from the generation of Tacitus and Plutarch. This does not mean that the more recent past was unimportant to them or to future American Revolutionaries. Quincy copied a passage from the Free-Holder into the commonplace book that came after these lines:
the Times, which are full of Disorders and Tumults, are likewise the fullest of Instructions. History indeed furnishes us with very distinct Accounts of Factions, Conspiracies, Civil Wars and Rebellions, with the fatal Consequences that attend them: But they do not make such deep and lasting Impressions on our Minds as Events of the same Nature, to which we have our selves been Witnesses, and in which we or our Friends and Acquaintances have been Sufferers.
Notice that Addison talked of “Events of the same Nature.” Past and present ran together. Addison and the other commonwealthmen made sense of contemporary Britain by testing the experiences of their own generation against those of antiquity. Would Thomas Gordon have taken the time to translate Tacitus and Sallust if he had not wanted to legitimate his views of the British present by tying them to the Roman past? Similar motives drove Josiah Quincy in his editorializing against Thomas Hutchinson as an American Caesar. Sharing Quincy’s proclivity for classical analogy, London associate Hugh Baillie complained to Quincy in early 1775 about the sad state of affairs and compared “that of Rome, and the Free States of Greece before they lost their liberty.” Philip of Macedon corrupted the Greeks as a prelude to conquering them and “Julius Caesar by the same methods, laid the foundation for the destruction of the liberties of Rome.”
Quincy is proof of Becker’s contention. Quincy seemed to have a special affinity for the anti-Walpoleans: he quoted Bolingbroke and Swift in the commonplace book; he enlisted lines from Alexander Pope as an epigraph for one of his essays. Some of the longest passages in the commonplace book are extracts from House of Commons debates in late 1743 and early 1744.
Bailyn also charged that the Revolutionaries’ understanding of the classical past was “at times superficial”—which is no test of their sincerity or reality as they knew it. Besides, how much better was their understanding of British history? As Bailyn himself noted, American Revolutionaries read through a Whig lens provided by the commonwealthmen and historians like Catharine Macaulay. Their understanding was probably no better than that of the sources they consulted, and their reading could have been as limited as it was in the classics.
Take, for example, Josiah Quincy’s choice of two pen names: Marchmont Nedham and Edward Sexby. To be sure, Quincy thought he chose well and yet had he known much about either man, would he have made such potentially embarrassing choices? Nedham and Sexby were political opportunists, men whose loyalty could apparently be bought. At one point in his career Nedham was a defender of parliament and a critic of Charles I. In the commonplace book Quincy quoted from a 1651 essay Nedham did as Mercurius Politicus in defense of the commonwealth. But by then Nedham had already switched sides twice, going over to the royalists and then back to their opponents. Arrested in 1645 for writing as parliament’s advocate, after his release he began writing for the King’s men. Again a republican in the 1650s, he criticized the restoration of Charles II in 1660 and fled to Holland. He was back in England not long after, forgiven by the new monarch and recruited to do essays for the crown and against parliament. Likewise, Nedham’s contemporary Edward Sexby seemed to blow with the political wind. Where Quincy first encountered Sexby is hard to say; he certainly did not stand out in either Hume or Macaulay’s works, or in John Rushworth’s Collections of parliamentary debates. In the late 1640s Sexby had been a prominent Leveller who also wrote in defense of tyrannicide. Once an army officer close to Cromwell, Sexby went over to the opposition in the 1650s and plotted with a quirky combination of disillusioned Levellers and royalists to bring Cromwell down. Failing in that enterprise he left for the continent, contacted exiled monarchists, and volunteered to return to England and assassinate Cromwell. Caught sneaking into the country, he died while imprisoned in the Tower of London. His was a less than heroic life.
More troubling than Bailyn’s distinction between the classical and commonwealth traditions is his contention that the classics were “not determinative”—as if any ideational system, including the commonwealth tradition Bailyn favored, can be “determinative.” John Phillip Reid crawled out onto the same explanatory limb as Bailyn when he wrote that “ideas determined action” and that the fears expressed by the Revolutionary generation were “genuinely felt.”
On those epistemological and ontological levels there is not much room for debate. On another, however, there is more possibility for discussion. We may not be able to explore ultimates—what drove others to do what they did or to think what they thought—but we can get some idea of what they professed to believe. With Quincy as our example we can see both the possibilities and impossibilities of reconstructing the Revolutionary generation’s intellectual world. The 1770–1774 commonplace book can tell us much about Quincy’s political thought but it cannot tell us everything. Quincy only copied into it excerpts from texts that were important to him at that moment, and for specific purposes. In his will he left Cato’s Letters to his son, the future mayor, with the hope that the “Spirit of Liberty” might “rest upon him.” He also specified that his son inherit Gordon’s discourses on Tacitus and Sallust, Macaulay’s history, and the works of Francis Bacon, Algernon Sidney, and John Locke for the same reason.
Gilbert Stuart’s portrait shows Quincy beside five books, with names visible on the spines of three: Bacon, Locke, and Sidney. Quincy respected those authors; he could even be said to have revered Sidney. It was not his decision, however, to include them in Stuart’s painting, because he had already been dead a half century. Stuart relied on family memory, impressions drawn from the John Singleton Copley portraits of Josiah’s father and brother Samuel, and the features of the living Quincys he saw around him. His portrait, then, was somewhat of a composite—not unlike the composite portraits drawn by intellectual historians when they attempt to reconstruct the life of a mind.
Clearly Quincy was influenced by more than what he read for the commonplace book of 1770–1774. Moreover, since Harrington’s Oceana does not appear on the posthumous library list, neither should that list be taken as inclusive. Had Quincy borrowed a copy or loaned it to someone who never returned it? How many other books, borrowed or lost, could there be that fall into the same categories? We simply do not know.
Nor can we know what Quincy retained from the sources that he consulted but chose not to include in the commonplace book. He devoted nearly thirty pages of the commonplace book—close to one-tenth of the total—to extracts from Arthur Young’s anonymously authored Political Essays on the state of the British empire. These 1772 “essays” were actually six different sections of a single work, where Young discussed agriculture, manufactures, commerce, and problems in the constitutional arrangement of empire. Quincy copied long portions and brief passages, as he had with other authors. “The essence of freedom is, every individual being governed by laws which he consented to frame” caught Quincy’s eye, as did “a Frenchman has as much to do with the edicts of a king of France, as the vast part of the British people with acts of the British parliament,” along with Young’s warning “that our happy Constitution may not long remain” on the “secure foundations, which have hitherto formed such a peculiar blessing to this country.” But Quincy did not include in his excerpts Young’s prediction that the American colonies would—and should—become independent if Britain did not change its ways.
What Quincy omitted in his extracts from Matthew Robinson-Morris’s 1774 tract on imperial affairs is equally interesting. Quincy pulled out only two passages and they were hardly the most provocative. Onetime M.P. for Canterbury, Robinson-Morris had withdrawn from political life in the 1760s for health reasons. Seeing himself as a Whig in the tradition of Hampden and Sidney, an independent who favored parliamentary reform, he attacked the Coercive Acts as “harsh” and “unnatural.” Colonial rights, he contended, were derived from nature, the British constitution, and charters, with God presiding over all. Imperial problems “all undoubtedly proceed from our having taxed the colonies without their consent.” He predicted that the Americans were destined to be independent: “All the whole of our colonies must no doubt one day without force or violence fall off from the parent state like ripe fruit in the maturity of time.”
Let it be the study of all the colonies, to establish that union between them, which is the sure foundation for freedom; and prepare to act as joint members of the Grand American Commonwealth. That those colonies will in some future time be an independent state, is morally certain; the only question is, how long will it be before that event takes place; but by all the signs of the times and appearance of things, it is very near—’tis not probable that it is at the distance of fifteen years.
Quincy almost certainly read Robinson-Morris’s predictions and Young’s recommendations. Given his own editorializing for the Boston Gazette it is just as likely that he had seen the brief piece by “Foresight.” Did any or all influence him? We do not know. One source in the commonplace book, David Hume’s Essays, was unsympathetic to republicanism but another, Jan De Witt’s Political Maxims, committed to Dutch republicanism, railed against monarchy: “God did not at first mercifully institute any other but a commonwealth government, and afterwards in his wrath appointed one sovereign over them.”
What, then, is there to be learned from Josiah Quincy and his commonplace book? One answer, the most obvious answer, is that Quincy saw men as driven by the same motives that would have been recognizable to Englishmen of an earlier generation or even citizens of imperial Rome. For Quincy as for Tacitus and Gordon—or Plutarch and Hume—men were a confusing blend of passion and reason because they could behave rationally but they were also easily deluded. Like those authors he read, Quincy contended that all government was susceptible to corruption; similarly, he seemed to fear that liberty and authority were almost impossible to balance, and that an excess of either endangered everyone.
But there is more. Quincy’s commonplace book reminds us that no single cause explanation can suffice for the Revolutionary generation: crown prerogative and parliamentary taxation, civil lists and standing armies, all were sources of imperial dispute and causes of agitation. To patriots like Josiah Quincy, one was not necessarily more important than another, since all were symptoms of a deeper malaise. With so many causes of complaint Quincy had no shortage from which to choose. The episodic quality to imperial agitation as it is depicted in some studies—from Stamp Act to Boston massacre to Tea Party and so on—can be misleading. Quincy’s editorializing did not ebb and flow in response to major events. If not the Townshend duties, then he had ministerial instructions; if not troops in Boston, then the relocation of the General Court from Boston to Cambridge. In that constant state of anxiety his tenuous hold on a dual identity could only be weakened.
Furthermore, with Quincy we can see that there was a revolutionary subconscious before there was a revolutionary consciousness, a way of understanding imperial affairs that was inherently at odds with the prevailing view at Whitehall and Westminster—and decidedly so when disputes over policy gave life to what had once lain dormant. Quincy thought of himself as a British-American and even when he died he may not have wanted to—or realized he had to—make a choice: British or American. He was willing to incite rebellion but he could not have known that that rebellion would mushroom into revolution, which makes him typical of the Patriots before April 1775.
Finally, I have avoided applying the labels used by other historians who have tried to explain Quincy’s politics. George Nash sought to chart Quincy’s transition from a “radical” to a “revolutionary.” Peter Shaw built on Nash and then moved beyond him to include Quincy in a group he called “Conscience Whigs.” Labels are problematic, radical and revolutionary especially so, and Nash’s difficulty in pinning down the supposed shift shows why. “Conscience Whig” is attractive insofar as it connects Quincy’s illness to his ideology but Shaw, I think, tries too hard to argue that Quincy suffered from “psychic stress.” Similarly, it stretches the point to say that “Quincy’s politics began and ended with Thomas Hutchinson.”
My reluctance to jump into the morass of attempting first cause explanations notwithstanding, it still seems plausible to me that Quincy’s congenitally poor health and lifelong reading habits give us important clues about what drove him. His passionate impetuosity could well have been an extension of his obsession with death and a desire to live as much as he could in a short time. His reading might have molded him as he endeavored to embody ideals that were articulated by others. Therefore his frequent literary allusions should not be dismissed as mere affectations or pretensions. Quite possibly he saw people and understood politics in categories provided by Plutarch and Tacitus, by Shakespeare and Bacon. He himself might not have realized just how much he lived his life according to standards set by others. Quincy’s words—and the words of those that he found important enough to record—preserve for us something of the man. Just in doing this Quincy’s commonplace book offers us a glimpse of a world now gone and yet not quite lost.