Mark Hopkins

President of Williams College

1802-1887

1836, became President of Williams College

If Mark Hopkins's family had known that he was to become a famous college president, they would surely have taken notes of his sayings and doings. As it is, only two stories have come down to us of his early days. In one tale he entered school at the age of four, book in hand. "And where can you read?" the teacher asked; and the little fellow gravely replied, "Just where you please, sir," which proved to be correct. The other event occurred when he himself was teaching, not so many years later. One of his pupils treated some young birds cruelly, whereupon the president-to-be boxed his ears soundly.

Teaching and studying by turns, he entered Williams College as a sophomore. The following year he wrote a prize oration on the rather tremendous subject, "Modern Chemistry—Revelation Confirmed by its Discoveries." His valedictory, a year later, was on the even more overpowering theme for an inexperienced youth of twenty-two, "The Formation of a Practical rather than a Speculative Character by Literary Men."

Only one college prank is recorded of him, and that was somewhat scholarly. He presented an essay, half of which was original and the other half copied from a distinguished Scotch author. He mischievously put his own half in quotations,' but gave none to the other author. Either the student's work was remarkably good, or else the young professor was not very well up in the subject, for he praised the original part and was savagely critical of the writings of the learned Scotchman. Mark Hopkins was very gentle with the professor, for he told the secret to only one friend, and for half a century the friend kept his promise not to reveal it. Three years later Hopkins himself became a tutor in the college; but there is no record that he was ever caught in the same—or any other—way.

After taking his master's degree, he studied medicine, and was on the point of going to New York to practice, when, unexpectedly to himself, he was asked to become Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy and Rhetoric at Williams. In these days no one would be invited to teach a subject unless he had made special preparation in that line; but at that time, if an educated man had shown that he could teach one subject, he was expected to be able to teach another as a matter of course. Then, too, this young physician had shown sincere interest in the branches which he was asked to teach. One point of preparation, however, could not be passed over; there was a general feeling that one who was to instruct young men ought to have a theological education; therefore the professor-to-be packed up his medical books and for three years he studied theology and kindred subjects. He was now licensed to preach, he married, and he took his place as a member of the college faculty.

Three years later, in 1836, the president resigned. The trustees spoke of Professor Hopkins as his successor, but decided that he was too young. Just at the critical moment—and probably after careful planning—a letter was presented to the Board from the class graduating that year. It thanked the trustees most suggestively for the great privilege of having had Professor Hopkins as their instructor. This turned the scale. "If the boys want him," declared one of the trustees, "let them have him"; and they had him.

In 1836 the president of a college was expected to have a much closer connection with the students than would be required "to bow in one company and bow out another." He must act as parent and guardian to every boy, and be to each one a personal friend and adviser. He must represent the dignity of the college, be equal to all emergencies and all difficulties. Besides this, he was expected to do an amount of teaching that would whiten the hair of a twentieth-century professor.

One of the prevailing notions of the time was that a man of intellect should be quite superior to the whims of the body, and that it was indeed hardly in good taste for a scholar to pay much attention to his food or his health. But President Hopkins was also Doctor  Hopkins, and his first teaching to the seniors consisted of lessons in anatomy, and physiology, and from these he developed the study of the mind.

To teach physiology he needed a manikin, but one would cost six hundred dollars, and he did not feel that the college could afford to spend that amount. So he mortgaged his own salary for six months and gave his note for the "little man." To pay for his pasteboard treasure he gave lectures on physiology in Stockbridge and elsewhere.

The lectures were a great success. "There never was anything that took so well," one friend wrote him. Another said: "Dr. Hopkins has given a fine blow to our vanity. Whenever I see a fine countenance and a graceful person, I shall only think the possessor has a particularly well-disposed set of muscles under his command." Some months later the trustees took over the manikin and canceled the note.

To the entering freshmen of each year President Hopkins taught the laws of health. He advised them to saw their own wood, to learn to enjoy fine prospects, and to tramp over the hills in quest of minerals and flowers. He also taught metaphysics and ethics and rhetoric. He corrected compositions and criticized declamations. He was pastor of the college church and preached almost every Sunday. Saturday forenoons he taught the senior class the Assembly's "Shorter Catechism" for half an hour; and he made it so unbelievably interesting that more than one class asked to have the time lengthened to an hour and a half.

Besides all this teaching he was writing, delivering important addresses and baccalaureate sermons. He not only taught the students how to grow mentally, but he himself was growing, and they saw it. They respected and reverenced him. In his classes there was absolute freedom of discussion. As long as a boy was in earnest and was trying to express a real thought, the President would listen attentively; but if he was only talking to hear his own voice, the President would turn the laugh on him effectively, but so good-naturedly that his feelings did not suffer any serious damage. In the catechism class he was once talking of the Fifth Commandment, and he said that a school, being in the place of a parent, was entitled to the same obedience. One bright but rather restive boy objected to this at some length. When just the right moment came, President Hopkins raised a storm of applause by saying in a matter-of-fact tone, ".Hence we see that a father who has an unruly son whom he knows not what else to do with is sure to send him to Williams College."

Dr. Hopkins was equally wise in what is still spoken of as the "rebellion of 1868." It seemed that some few students were frequently absent from their classes, and this interfered with the work. Now Dr. Hopkins did not believe in strict rules and penalties or in treating all students alike. "Some one must be at the foot of the class," he often said; and he thought that patience and kindness and the college influence would do more to make boys manly than any rigid laws and penalties. Most of the faculty took the opposite position. They believed that the only way to lessen these absences was to treat offenders with severity.

At the faculty meeting it was decreed that every absence should be marked zero, but if attendance had been impossible, a professor might, if he chose, allow the work to be made up. The wording of this rule was made unnecessarily annoying, and the students were indignant. Then, too, they felt that "impossible" was a rather strong word, and that the new rule put it into the hands of any professor with a grudge to lower a student's standing seriously. They requested—almost demanded—that this new rule be annulled. When this was refused, they left the college. The faculty, perhaps a little too promptly, sent out circulars to the parents and the newspapers explaining the condition of things. Dr. Hopkins was in Ohio. It would have been much wiser not to make any new rules during his absence; but the rule had been made. and the burden of making peace rested upon him. What would he do?

He reached home Saturday night, and preached in the chapel as usual. On Monday, President, faculty, and students met. He made it clear that all students were still under college rule, and that if any wished to withdraw from college, they must return to their work and then ask for letters of dismissal, which would be granted. The faculty wish the best government possible, he declared, and if the rule in hand is not the best rule possible, it can be changed. When the four o'clock classes met that afternoon, the students returned, though many answered the roll-call as "Present, under protest." "No student is in this college 'under protest,' " declared the President emphatically, and at the next roll-call there was no more 'under protest'; the tact of the President had brought the rebellion to an end. After the storm had blown over, the wording of the rule was changed.

President Hopkins was the author of several books. The most famous of these is The Law of Love and Love as a Law. Another eminent scholar wrote a review of it, and with a touch of what the students at Williams wrathfully looked upon as something like self-conceit, declared that Dr. Hopkins's reading seemed to have been limited to rather commonplace works. Dr. Hopkins quietly and courteously turned the tables by saying: "While acknowledge fully the want of reading referred to—and regret it—I may be permitted to say that on this subject he has presented no point that I had not seen, and has raised no objection that I had not considered."

President Hopkins had many invitations to become pastor of prominent churches and professor in different theological seminaries; but he always declined, saying, "I dwell among mine own people." And the young men whom he taught were literally his "own people." In his classes there was always the frankest discussion, and he never attempted to force his own views upon the students; but nevertheless the stamp of his mind was upon them. "All Williams men have a family resemblance," was declared many a time; and one graduate after another has ended his praises of the great teacher with, "Best of all, he taught me to think."