His triumph had come about in this wise: as master of a rural common school, he had been obliged to submit a formal report, to the Supervisor of Public Education for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania: this estimable personage being, at the time, no one other than the Reverend Horace Potter Bayard, Prudence’s godfather, a forthright opponent of all that was old, and crabbed, and conservative, in educational theory. (That Mr. Bayard’s position with the Pennsylvania Association for the Reform of Public Schools had led to considerable controversy, and much ignorant insult in the press, I hardly need to state, for these years of valiant struggle are a matter of historical record.) Imagine Mr. Bayard’s incredulous joy, in being greeted with a most astounding manuscript, from an unknown source: a report entitled Out of the Mouths of Babes: A Teacher’s Day-Book, more than fifty pages long, and penned by a remarkable intelligence. “Here is the person we have long awaited,” Mr. Bayard tremblingly announced, “and I cannot think it accidental, that he comes not from the Academy, and not from New England, but out of the bucolic rolling hills of our own state!—destined, I hope, to be a prophet in his own country.”
Thus it transpired, with near-miraculous swiftness, that the much- loved schoolmaster of a mere common school was invited—nay, summoned—to Philadelphia, to accept a position with the Reform Association (whereby John Quincy Zinn became its youngest member), and an instructorship at one of the better private schools, and to give a series of subscription lectures at the Cobbett Square Church, on “any subject whatsoever, pertaining to Progress.” (These six evenings were completely subscribed, and attended by everyone of importance in the city. Mrs. Retta Bayard, Prudence’s godmother, one of the most munificent dowager ladies of her day, allowed that young Mr. Zinn might be Philadelphia’s match for Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson: “A scant hour in the presence of that intellect greatly compels me to—ah, I know not!—to rush out and alter the world.”)
Naturally, there were those individuals who came to Mr. Zinn’s lectures with the studied intention of criticizing, and even ridiculing: rivalrous educators, and opponents of Mr. Bayard’s Reform Association, and the more conservative clergy, and journalists of doubtful integrity, amongst divers others. But in many cases, even these persons went away impressed by John Quincy Zinn; and some who came to mock, lingered to praise. For it was a brave, tumultuous decade, in our history: and even those of but limited imagination could grasp the fact, that change, of every kind, was swift impending!
The Philadelphia Inquirer devoted some four columns to the prodigy, who was hailed as a “native Pennsylvania genius,” and “the walking Spirit of Transcendentalism.” His espousal of the newest radical causes—not only education reform, but Abolitionism (of the pacifist variety), universal suffrage, Oriental wisdom, German idealism, vegetarianism, temperance, and the New Science—was graced, the Inquirer said, with a manly fortitude, and a conspicuous courage, not always to be found in lectures of his kind; and rarely, in philosophers. The Headmaster of the Brownrrigg Academy (now Free Thinking, but formerly an Episcopal school) spoke of John Quincy Zinn as more provocative, and, it may be, even more valuable, for American educators, than Pestalozzi and Rousseau (whose ideas of education reform were much in the air, in intellectual circles, at this time). So impressed was Dr. Brownrrigg with the twenty-six-year-old schoolmaster, he very publicly offered him a position with the prestigious Academy, at a respectable salary (estimated to be thrice what the young man had been paid, in Mouth-of-Lebanon), and assigned to him an experimental class of exceptionally gifted boys and girls—the sons and daughters, in nearly every instance, of distinguished Philadelphians, in whom wealth had been enlightened by imagination.
It was buzz’d about town that the Arcadia Club, which enjoyed a reputation for being very selective, could induce young Mr. Zinn to join only if dues were suspended: a startling privilege granted him by a unanimous vote of the membership. (Tho’ Prudence herself abstained, wishing not, as she thought it, to join in the common stampede.) The president of the Club, Dr. William Everett Tremblay, educator, editor, and philanthropist, boldly declared Mr. Zinn’s articulated mission (“a militancy, both inspired and practical, to transform American civilization”) to be as revolutionary, in its way, as the glorious uprising against tyranny of the 1770’s.
“I hesitate to make claims, and, by temperament, I shrink from the o’ersimplicities of our journalist brethren,” Dr. Tremblay said, “and yet, it does not seem an exaggeration to me, to declare that John Quincy Zinn may be as important for the movement, as General George Washington was to the Revolution.”
And, as I have hinted, how wondrously appealing the young man was, of countenance, and manly physique both!—a factor that may or may not have been discerned by the gentlemen, but certainly was so, by the ladies.
IT WAS A crisp autumn afternoon in 1853, when Miss Prudence Kiddemaster, who enjoyed, I should say, something of a formidable reputation, even amongst the Arcadians, was introduced to John Quincy Zinn: and suffered such a blow to the heart, her life was forever alter’d.
Alas, how to illumine the contours of Romance!—the secret recesses, the labyrinthine ways, so scorned by the uncomprehending, and yet so priz’d, by the initiate! Were she some mere poppet, a creature of frivolous and lightsome sentiment, or yet a schoolgirl, or a member of the coarser classes, one might feel rather more pity, than sympathy, for Prudence’s succumbing: but this was Miss Prudence Kiddemaster, a schoolmistress of some reputation and a very outspoken young lady, who, in her secret journal, scribbled thusly, in what shame and anguish, we can scarcely guess: I am struck to the heart. I am transform’d—I know not how, or why, or whither. Prudence, is it?—or is Prudence no more? Alas, I cannot even resent the Secret Object of my emotion: I plumb my rack’d heart but find no bitterness, no chagrin, no obstinacy, only Awe—and Awe—and yet again AWE.
Prudence Kiddemaster had several times heard Mr. Emerson lecture, at the Cobbett Square Church; she had dined in his presence, and had, doubtless, surprised that worthy gentleman with the wide scope of her reading, and the passion of her enthusiasm. (For she was acquainted with the theories of Rousseau, Godwin, Owen, Fourier, and many another, and did not scruple to argue with the renowned Transcendentalist, who struck her, as she had occasion to say, as earnest enough, and articulate, but perhaps somewhat too abstract, for her womanly intuition.) There was nothing of maidenly coyness in Prudence, as she matched wits, at the dining room table, or in the drawing room, with certain learned gentlemen; nor was her head turned by compliments or gallantry, or even the whisper’d rumor that Emerson had expressed admiration for her. Thus it did not intimidate her in the slightest, that she should be meeting Mr. John Quincy Zinn, who was, moreover, several years her junior.
Yet, the unanticipated impact of that meeting!—the violence done to our young woman’s pride, and stability of being!
For they were introduced, and shook hands, and, within an instant, poor Prudence succumbed to—she knew not what, it came so suddenly!—and so without precedence, in her virginal life. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Kiddemaster,” the young man said, in a murmur almost abash’d; and Prudence had all she could do, to master the flurry of her foolish blood, and speak in her normal firm voice, in saying: “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Zinn.”
This historic meeting transpired in Mr. Bayard’s sombre, dignified, book-lined study, with the glazed mahogany bookcases that reached so grandly to the ceiling, and a round-arched fireplace, in which a servant was stirring a fine birch fire, against the encroaching chill of dusk. Miss Kiddemaster in a handsome wool-and-flannel cape, a large, and very striking, feathered hat upon her noble head, firm of voice, and smiling, and resolutely composed, as, alas, she met the young gentleman who would be her fate; and was stricken at once with maidenly anxiety, that he should guess the violence of her feelings, and suppose her a fatuous “society girl” like so many others.
So she addressed some hard questions to him, pertaining to
his Utopian leanings, and a certain Emersonian inclination in him, which struck her as vulnerable: and took pleasure in seeing the young man blush, and stammer, and fail to acquit himself very firmly in his reply!
(Prudence had also discountenanced John Quincy Zinn by shaking hands with him, for, at that time, the sexes did not needlessly touch: when introduced, a gentleman merely bowed low, with deep respect, to a lady; and a lady kept her gloved hands clasped together, or purposefully occupied with a fan. A custom I think we have been unwise to abandon.)
Seeing the abash’d response of Mr. Zinn, one of the members of the Arcadian circle said chidingly to Prudence, that she had been somewhat inhospitable to the young man, who was, after all, a new arrival in Philadelphia: whereupon Prudence gaily replied, that “the Transcendentalists teach that we are all new arrivals on this earth, and must each fend for himself.”
“You are right, Miss Kiddemaster,” John Quincy murmured, blushing the more fiercely, so that a birthmark at his left temple became prominent, “and a very necessary corrective to the frivolous sociability, with which I have been greeted of late.”
ELEVEN
That autumn and winter, the prodigious John Quincy Zinn was a frequent guest in the homes of the Arcadians, and was in some danger (so Prudence feared) of having his head turned, by numerous invitations to the houses of persons less concerned with wisdom than with social fashion. And, alas! it soon became evident, to Prudence’s sharp eye at least, that the unsuspecting young genius was being stalked, by many a society matron with a marriageable daughter.
Prudence trusted no living person, but confided nightly in her journal, where her turbulent heart gave itself some small relief, against the anguish of her untoward passion. Mr. Zinn is like no other man, she wrote, erect as a tall candle—burning—brandishing itself—humble yet proud, forthright yet retiring: shy that so much attention is granted him, yet not o’ercome by a disagreeable false modesty. And, ah! he has taken note of me: he has been unable to disguise his forcible admiration, of my courage in questioning him!
It quite piqued this distraught young woman, that John Quincy Zinn should appear to take as seriously as he took her, the eldest (and unmarried) daughter of Dr. Brownrrigg, one Parthenope: proclaimed in literary circles as the Margaret Fuller of Philadelphia—an appellation Prudence thought grotesquely unearned, and out of proportion to Miss Brownrrigg’s poetical abilities. (And how it vexed her, that, in her very presence, the simpering Parthenope should press upon poor Mr. Zinn a copy of her vellum-bound book of verse, Hypatia’s Summons, a very sickly sort of poetry, in Prudence’s judgment.) That Prudence and Parthenope had been schoolgirls together, some years ago, and had never quite warmed to each other, made the situation, for Prudence, all the more disagreeable.
And the dowager widow Mrs. Ferris, as well—was she not advancing her Evangeline, a somewhat more alarming rival than Parthenope, in that she was younger, and considerably prettier?
Yet Prudence knew herself stymied, and frustrated, in that she must hold her tongue: for to speak of such matters to Mr. Zinn, to attempt a warning, would be, alas, to reveal the direction of her own heart.
John Quincy Zinn, she inwardly murmured, scarce caring how she o’erstepped the bounds of native modesty, I will have his sons; or those of no man.
THO’ PHILADELPHIA THREW its doors open to John Quincy Zinn, and both the Bayards and the Kiddemasters offered him the use of private suites in their respective houses, the independent-minded young man would not comply; but insisted upon maintaining a spartan room in a boardinghouse in the city, frequented by workingmen, students, retired gentlemen, and persons of indeterminate background. He was stubborn in his claim that he did not mind—nay, he very much enjoyed—his daily walk of some fifteen miles, to and from the Brownrrigg Academy, through neighborhoods of a decided roughness, and in all weathers.
Fifteen miles—twenty miles—twenty-five miles: such distances were nothing to the robust-bodied young man, who gaily declared that he loved nothing better than a fast-paced walking meditation, in lieu of church services on Sunday; and in anticipation of a fulsome ceremonial repast, at one or another Philadelphia home, at midday. (It will come as no surprise to learn that Mr. Zinn was so eagerly sought after, by society, that he was oft forced to decline invitations, pleading the need to work, and “an exhaustion of nerves”—for, after all, his simple rural background had given him very little practice, in social intercourse. Indeed, the poor man laughingly voiced the fear that his spirit would be drained from him, by the Philadelphians’ exuberant charity!)
“Surely there is no one like you, elsewhere in the world,” John Quincy Zinn averred blushingly, to Prudence. “I mean you, and your family, and the esteemed circle, of which you are a part. Such generosity, such support, such boundless hospitality! I see now that the first two decades, and more, of my life, were spent in a sort of exile, in the remote hills above the Brandywine. But you must have pity on me, Miss Kiddemaster, for I am very slow to conform, to this newer-paced life.”
How arresting his presence! Thus Prudence confided to her diary, in the nocturnal secrecy of her bedchamber: —his high proud head bespeaking a native aristocracy, born of Nature, and not Custom; his hair so fair, and so thick, and so wavy; his beard blond, and rich. (And do not a very few silver hairs therein glint? With a most patrician aspect!) His teeth perhaps lack perfect whiteness, yet they appear large, and strong, and engaging in their irregularity, proclaiming, as it were, a sort of rude animal health. His speaking voice is most unusual, and has been remarked upon, by admirers and detractors alike, as partaking of the grave ceremoniousness of a man of the cloth, of the preaching variety: yet herein, I believe, lies his power: and it is not to be scorned. The trifling birthmark at his temple, shaped like a very small dagger (if one gives way to fancy!—for of course the blemish is naught but an inch in length, or less, and does not truly represent any object)—this intensification, as it were, of the natural ruddiness of his skin, whilst it struck my eye at first as disfiguring, now “strikes” it not at all—or with an agreeable cast. She paused, to allow her tumultuous heart to calm itself, and dipped her quill in ink, wondering if she should register some complaint, to her diary, of Mr. Zinn’s sartorial inclinations, for his dark-hued frock coat, of indeterminate age and fashion, and his peculiar headgear (possessing the shape, somewhat dashed, of a bell), and his clean, but crudely ironed linen, and his rundown “farmer’s” boots—and, most offensive of all, his black sateen cravat, so ludicrously “formal,” and so dismayingly greasy!—did somewhat detract from the charm of the young man’s healthful countenance, and his tall muscular frame. She paused, and breathed heavily, and wrote: That John Quincy Zinn pridefully scorns the exigencies of fashion, I believe to be entirely to his credit.
BUT WHEN WOULD he propose?
When would he (with what blushing diffidence, Prudence could well envision) make his stammered request, for a private audience with Judge Kiddemaster? For the months passed; and the seasons; and tho’ Miss Prudence Kiddemaster and Mr. John Quincy Zinn were very frequently in each other’s company; and in many eyes it was assumed that a courtship of some kind was indeed in progress; and sentiment daily increased on both sides, having passed well beyond mutual regard, and moving toward outright passion—yet Mr. Zinn did not speak.
Unhappy Prudence slept but fitfully, and suffered a diminution of appetite so visible, all the family took note: and Aunt Edwina, in particular, made comment. If I doubt John Quincy, Prudence bethought herself, I must doubt myself: nay, the very integrity of the reveal’d Universe!
They were together upward of a half-dozen times a week, by Prudence’s estimation. Ofttimes they strolled together, with no chaperon, on Burlingame Street, and Frothingham Square, and even in Cobbett Park; and attended the theater, and even the opera, upon several occasions. (These events being altogether new to Mr. Zinn—and quite dazzling, indeed, to his rustic eye; tho’ he could not help, as he said, estimating the cost of such luxu
riant entertainment, and the needless expenditure of time, on the part of the audiences.) At the Arcadia Club evenings, they warmly debated, and laughed companionably, and it was surely noted by the others, how handsome a couple they were, both of an uncommon height for their respective sexes, and large-framed, and possessed of commandeering gestures; and, of course, of exceptional intelligence. Yet he does not speak, Prudence unhappily wrote, tho’ it is clear that he esteems me highly, and perhaps loves me. He says a great deal (so very eloquently!) and yet—he does not speak.
AH, THOSE DAYS! Those turbulent days! Abolitionists of every hue—some genteel, and civil, and of good family; some near-rabid, in their murderous rages, against the slaveholding South. Reformers of society; and woman Suffragettes (possessed of so unnatural a vehemence, and so little modesty, they did their cause scant good, and surely deserved the jeers and abuse visited upon them); and orators of the “Go Ahead” persuasion, who preached that the nation should not give a whit about slavery, “whether it is voted up, or voted down,” but continue to expand throughout the Western Hemisphere. The cause of Popular Sovereignty, and the cause of Militant Temperance, and charismatic John Quincy Zinn lecturing at the lyceum, or at Cobbett Square Church (his initial series being so successful, he was recalled for a second season), on the need for radical reform in Spirit, in America—this reform, or revolution, then giving way to innumerable small transformations, which would raise our civilization to the height, for which it was destined.
“What we perceive as Evil is naught but Disorder,” John Quincy Zinn instructed his attentive audiences, “and what our eyes perceive as Disorder, is naught but Order, unclearly apprehended.” The lyceum audiences, being well educated, and of a literary and philosophical turn of mind, were greatly moved by the young schoolmaster’s assertion that their children, possessing pristine souls, already knew all fundamental truths—so that their teachers, in all humility, and employing the new Socratic method, were but skilled instruments in drawing them out. He oft reiterated his bold declaration, from Out of the Mouths of Babes, to the effect that, The child knows, what the Teacher must recover. For the old way of rote-teaching must be banish’d; and all old textbooks, crammed with dead, spiritless facts; and, as well, all teachers who clung to the old ways and did not truly love both their charges, and Wisdom itself.