SCHOOL TRIALS.
WHISTLER’S first day at school was not a day of unalloyed pleasure. It
was not without a severe struggle with his feelings that he met his
comrades and teachers, and took the familiar seat he had so long
occupied. The exciting scenes of the exhibition day, a few weeks
previous, came up vividly in his mind. The general credit with which he
passed through the examination, the applause with which his declamation
was received, and the praise bestowed upon several drawings and maps
executed by his hand, certainly were not of themselves unpleasant
recollections. But these happy memories were all embittered by another
thought, which he could not drive from his mind. He had left the school,
at the close of the last term, expecting to return to it no more. He had
presented himself as a candidate for admission to a school of higher
grade, and, to his great surprise and mortification, had been found
lacking in some of the necessary qualifications.
This was the severest blow Whistler ever received. He went home and gave
himself up to his grief. His vacation was blasted, his visit to
Brookdale was spoilt, and, indeed, it almost seemed to him as if his
prospects for life were ruined. His mother tried to comfort him, but
without much success. When his father came home, at night, he was
informed of the result of Whistler’s application by Mrs. Davenport. The
tea-bell rang, but Whistler did not appear. The servant was then sent to
his room to call him, and brought back the reply that he did not want
any supper. After tea, Mr. Davenport went up to his chamber, and found
him lying upon the bed, with his face buried in a pillow.
“Hallo! what does this mean, Whistler? What’s the matter with you?” he
inquired.
There was no reply, but a sob.
“Come, speak up!—what ails you?”
“I—couldn’t get into the—High School,” sobbed the poor boy.
“Couldn’t get into the High School? How happened that? Some partiality
or trickery, I suppose; they gave you all the hard questions, and the
others the easy ones,—didn’t they?”
“No, sir,” replied Whistler, somewhat reluctantly; “the questions were
printed, and all the candidates had to answer the whole of them in
writing.”
“Ah, that’s the way they manage, is it? Not much chance for foul play
there, I should say. Then it seems you couldn’t answer the questions.”
“No, sir,—not all of them.”
“Well, whose fault was that?”
“Mine, I suppose;” and the tears started fresh from Whistler’s eyes.
“I don’t know about that; perhaps no one was to blame for this failure.
I have had some doubts, all along, about your success; but I thought it
best not to trouble you with them, as I supposed you studied as hard as
you ought to. Was I right in my supposition?”
“I believe I’ve done the best I could,” replied Whistler.
“If you can say that with a good conscience,” continued his father,
“then I’m sure I shan’t blame you, and you ought not to blame yourself;
and I think you _can_ say it, for it agrees with what your teacher told
me. Come, cheer up! and don’t think any more about it. It will all come
out right, by-and-by. You’ll be admitted next year, and you’ll be able
to keep up with your class better than though you entered now.”
These words of encouragement somewhat revived Whistler’s feelings, and
as nothing more was said in his presence about the matter, by his
parents, the tide of disappointment and mortification soon began to
subside. His sensitive mind, however, was not wholly relieved, and,
intimate as he shortly after became with Clinton, he could not impart to
his cousin this unhappy secret. Immediately on his return from his
vacation, in accordance with a plan he had formed, he asked his father’s
permission to enter a private school, instead of returning to the old
one; but the reasons he gave were not deemed satisfactory, and the
request was not granted. He accordingly reëntered the public school,
and, to his great relief, none of his mates laughed at him for coming
back, or even alluded to his unsuccessful attempt to get into more
select, if not better company. But he was very glad when the first day
of the term was over.
Whistler was a diligent scholar; but, although by no means a dull boy,
he did not learn his lessons without much hard labor. Some branches he
acquired more easily than others. He had a taste for drawing, and copied
maps and even pictures very neatly. He was also a good reader, and in
declamation and composition he stood among the best in his class. But in
some other branches, particularly spelling and arithmetic, he was rather
backward. Nevertheless, he was an industrious scholar, and made fair
progress in his studies.
But Whistler was not destined to get through the first day of the new
term without some unpleasant experiences. It so happened that in his
first recitation, which took place in the afternoon, he “missed” two
questions that were put to him. He felt vexed and mortified, and, at his
second failure, he could not keep the tears from coming into his eyes.
The teacher, as he recorded the demerits, noticed his pupil’s emotion,
but made no remark. He afterwards requested Whistler to step to his
desk, when school was dismissed.
When the school closed for the day, Whistler proceeded to the place
appointed, but not without some unpleasant apprehensions, arising from
the imperfect lesson referred to. His fears were dispelled, however,
when the teacher, pointing him to a seat, remarked very pleasantly:
“William, you are a pretty good draughtsman, and I’ve been thinking that
perhaps I could get you to do a small job for me.”
“I should be happy to,” replied Whistler.
“Do you suppose,” continued the teacher, taking a couple of pictures
from his desk, “that you could make a large copy, in outline, of each of
these figures?”
Whistler looked at the engravings a moment, and replied, with some
hesitation:
“I could copy them better on the same scale they are there.”
“I know you could,” continued the teacher; “but that will not answer my
purpose. I want them to illustrate some remarks I wish to make to the
school, and they must be large enough to be seen across the school-room.
I have no time, just now, to copy them myself, and it occurred to me
that perhaps you would like to try your hand at it. You will find it
somewhat difficult, I suppose; but it will be a good exercise for you,
even if you should not succeed very well.”
Whistler readily consented to undertake the job, and his teacher
furnished him with some large sheets of drawing paper, and gave him such
directions in regard to the work as he deemed necessary.
Whistler now hurried home, where he found Clinton, who was so exhausted
by his forenoon’s tramp that he was glad to remain in the house the rest
of the day. With his characteristic dread of idleness, however, he was
busy at work with his pocket-knife, whittling out a puzzle for Ettie. It
was nearly completed. It consisted of a thin piece of wood, in which
three holes were cut,—one square, one round, and one triangular. The
holes were all of the same height and width. The puzzle consisted in
shaping a piece of wood so that it would stop up either of these holes.
To do this, he first made a square block,—a perfect cube. This, of
course, stopped up the square hole. He next rounded this into a
cylinder, so that it just fitted the circular hole, while by turning it
the right way, it would still answer to fill up the square one. He now
sharpened one end of this cylinder, until he had made a perfect
triangle, or wedge. This fitted snugly into the remaining hole, while
enough of the original form of the block remained to fill the other two
holes.
As soon as the puzzle was finished, Whistler went up to his chamber, and
began one of the drawings he had engaged to make. His cousin watched his
operations with interest, but was unable to render him any assistance.
Indeed, this hardly seemed necessary, for the swelling outline grew
quite perceptibly under Whistler’s pencil; and, although he did not get
along without a frequent recourse to the India-rubber, his success was
quite equal to his own anticipations. He had drawn maps on both an
enlarged and a reduced scale from the original, but he had never before
attempted to do either with the human figure, which is far more
difficult. He determined to try hard for success, however; and the
somewhat doubtful manner in which his teacher spoke of his ability to
execute the drawings, seemed rather to stimulate than discourage him.
This was precisely what the teacher intended to do. He knew that the
task was a difficult one, though not beyond Whistler’s ability. He knew,
moreover, that if he had told his pupil it was easy, the latter would
scarcely have believed him, and would, perhaps, have been disheartened
by the first difficulty; whereas, by taking the other course, the boy’s
ambition and spirit were more fully aroused, and he was prepared for a
strong and patient effort.
The next morning, Clinton having expressed some curiosity to see how a
Boston school was managed, he was invited by his cousin to accompany him
as a visitor, and he concluded to do so. Reaching the schoolhouse a
little before the hour of commencement, they stood in the yard, watching
the movements of the merry groups around them, when a large, ill-favored
boy cried out:
“There comes that big dunce that’s down in the fourth class! Let’s poke
some fun at him, boys. What’s his name?—does any body know? No matter,
we’ll call him Donkey,—ha! ha! Let’s give him that for a nickname! Don’t
you call him anything else,—will you, boys?”
“Good!—his name shall be Donkey!” said another boy; and several others
seconded the motion, while one or two began to shout “Donkey! Hallo,
Donkey!” to the unsuspecting butt of their sport.
Whistler, perceiving how matters were tending, now stepped forward, and
said:
“Don’t you do it, boys! It’s too bad to twit a fellow for what he can’t
help. That boy has been sick all his lifetime, and couldn’t go to
school, and that’s the reason he’s in the lowest class.”
“That’s all gammon!” retorted the boy who proposed the nickname, and
whose name was Nathan Clapp. “Bill Davenport has a natural sympathy for
dunces,—he doesn’t want much of being one himself. You know he tried to
get into the High School, the other day, and they wouldn’t take him, and
he had to come back here again. Let him stick up for Donkey, if he wants
to; it’s natural for him to stand up for his own breed!”
“If I’m a dunce, I should like to know what you are?” exclaimed
Whistler, his eye flashing with anger.
“I wasn’t such a big fool as to try to get into the High School, at any
rate!” replied Nathan.
“Don’t say anything more to him,—he isn’t worth noticing,” whispered
Clinton in the ear of his cousin; and the latter wisely heeded the
advice, and suppressed the angry retort which was trembling upon his
lips.
“Can’t say anything more, can you? Well, I think you had better shut
up!” continued the other boy; and then, turning to the lad in whose
behalf Whistler had interfered, and who had now entered the yard, he
continued, “Hallo, Donkey! how d’ ye do? Got your lesson, hey? Let’s
hear you say your a, b, c’s. There, Donkey,”—snatching the book from
under his arm, and pointing to a line,—“what letter’s that? Don’t you
know, hey? Can’t you speak, you dunce? Come, talk up like a little man!
nobody will hurt you. What’s that letter, hey?”
The boy, who was a peaceable and good-natured fellow, was evidently
annoyed by his tormentor; but he tried to take his jeers in good part,
and joined—not very heartily, it is true—in the laugh that was raised at
his expense. Nathan continued to hector him in this way for some
minutes, when Whistler, unable longer to repress his indignation, cried
out:
“Don’t mind what he says, David; I’ll warrant you will rank ahead of him
in less than six months.”
“You say that again, and I’ll rap you over the head!” exclaimed Nathan,
drawing himself up in a menacing attitude before Whistler.
“There’s no need of saying it again; but I’ll stick to it,” replied
Whistler, with firmness.
“Yes, you’d better back out! I knew you daresn’t say it again!”
continued the young bully.
“If you call that a back-out, you’re welcome to all the comfort you can
get out of it,” calmly replied Whistler.
“If you want to fight, then, come out here!” said Nathan, doubling up
his fists.
“No, I thank you,” replied Whistler; “I don’t believe in fighting.”
A boy here whispered to Nathan that the principal was in the
schoolhouse, and might overhear him. His voice, which had been loud and
defiant, was suddenly modulated to a very low tone, as he added:
“You’re a mean, sneaking coward! I’ll leave it to all of the boys if you
aren’t.”
This sudden transition from the loud tone of bravado to that of absolute
cowardice, was so ludicrous, that there was a general outburst of
laughter among the boys, in which Whistler himself heartily joined. They
began to challenge each other, in whispers, and declared that they were
not afraid of any body, in the softest tones. Nathan quickly disappeared
around the corner of the building, but the merriment went on until the
signal was given for school to commence.
Clinton went in with his cousin, and remained through the forenoon, an
interested spectator of the proceedings. The boys first assembled in a
large hall, where a chapter was read from the Bible, and the Lord’s
Prayer repeated by the whole school. The several divisions then went to
their own rooms, each with its own teachers, and remained in separate
session, with the exception of the recess, until it was nearly time for
the school to be dismissed. All the pupils were then assembled in the
large hall, and, after singing two or three verses of a hymn, the
principal observed that he wished to say a few words before they
separated. He then proceeded, somewhat in the following strain:
“I once knew a boy who was afflicted with a very painful disease, almost
from his infancy. For years he was confined to his bed, and it was
supposed that he would never be able to run about like other boys. He
had no father, and his mother was poor, and unable to provide him with
many of those little comforts that might have made his lot more
tolerable. He had a thirst for knowledge, but could not go to school,
and, indeed, he could not apply himself to books for any length of time,
his eyes were so weak. Still he managed to learn to read, and was quite
patient under his sufferings.
“When this boy got to be twelve or thirteen years old, his health
improved so much that he was able to walk about. The first desire he
expressed was to go to school; and as soon as he was well enough, he was
permitted to attend one of the public schools. As he had enjoyed few
opportunities of learning, the teacher was obliged to place him in a
class of smaller children than himself; but, for all that, he was as
intelligent a boy, and as promising a scholar, as you could find in the
school, all things considered. But he had not been in the school two
days, before one of the large boys, who was not a remarkably good
scholar himself began to make him the butt of his ridicule, calling him
a ‘dunce’ and a ‘donkey,’ and tried to set the other boys upon him.”
At this abrupt pause, most of the scholars looked earnestly, as if
impatient for the conclusion of the story; but a few, who recognized the
characters introduced, turned their faces towards David and Nathan.
After a moment’s delay, the teacher resumed his narrative:
“There was another boy in that school, who, though he did not learn his
lessons so easily as some children, was nevertheless a diligent and
faithful scholar, and behind none of his comrades in intelligence. This
boy gallantly interfered in behalf of the new pupil; whereupon the large
boy fell upon him, and began to ridicule him because he had been an
unsuccessful candidate for another school.”
The teacher again paused, and those of the boys who were not in the
secret began to wonder at the pointless conclusion of a story that
opened so promisingly. He soon continued:
“I’m not going to call any names,—I shan’t say, as David said to Nathan
of old, ‘Thou art the man!’ but—”
“It was Nathan who said that to David,” interrupted one of the older
boys.
“I believe you are right,” continued the teacher, who possibly had not
blundered without a purpose; “but, as I was saying, I shall call no
names. I will merely say that those three boys are members of this
school, and that I have related only what actually happened. And now, I
want to put two or three questions to the school, and I wish every boy
to answer yes or no. Those of you who think it is fair and honorable to
ridicule a boy for his low standing in school, when he has been sick all
his days, and had no opportunity to learn, will please to say ‘Aye.’”
There was no response.
“Those,” continued the teacher, “who think it is mean and dishonorable
to do so, will please to say ‘Aye.’”
There was a prompt and universal shout of “Aye!”
“Now, those who think it is fair and honorable to ridicule a boy, who
studies hard and makes good progress, because he happened to make a
failure once in his life, may say ‘Aye.’”
All were silent.
“Those who think it base and mean to do so, will please to say ‘Aye.’”
Again there was a prompt and hearty “Aye!”
“Yes, I think there can be but one side to that question,” continued the
teacher. “A boy who has had no opportunity to study, ought not to be
blamed for his ignorance; and one who studies diligently, should not be
laughed at if he does not happen to know everything. These are not
dunces. The real dunce is the scholar who has the ability and the
opportunity to learn, but who will not exercise the one or improve the
other, and so remains ignorant. I can’t blame you much for laughing at
such a boy. He deserves it.
“On the other hand, I do not consider that boy the most promising who
learns his lessons in the shortest time. Some of you have only to read
over a lesson a few times, and you are ready for recitation; while
others are obliged to work hard over it for an hour or more before they
can master it. Now, if some one should come in here, and ask me to point
out the six most promising scholars among you, I do not know that I
should select one of those lads who commit their lessons to memory with
so little effort; but I _do_ know that the boy who was laughed at
because he failed to get into the High School would be among the six,
and the others would be boys who, like him, appear to appreciate the
value of knowledge, and make a diligent use of their school privileges.
“I will close,” continued the principal, “by reading to you a few facts
from a magazine I have in my desk, which go to show that some of the
most eminent men of all ages were remarkable only for dulness in their
youth. Rev. Dr. Channing, at one period of his youth, says the writer,
was considered a dull, plodding character. At nine years of age, one who
afterwards became a chief justice in this country, was, during a whole
winter, unable to commit to memory the little poem found in one of our
school books, commencing,
“‘You’d scarce expect one of my age,’ &c.
Dr. Scott, the commentator, could not compose a theme when twelve years
old; and even at a later age, Dr. Clark, after incredible effort, failed
to commit to memory a poem of a few stanzas only. Wellington, at the
military school, was not brilliant. The teachers of Linnæus thought he
was fit for nothing but a common mechanic. Sir Isaac Newton ranked very
low in school until the age of twelve. When Samuel Wythe, the Dublin
schoolmaster, attempted to educate Richard Brinsley Sheridan, he
pronounced the boy an ‘incorrigible dunce.’ The mother of Sheridan fully
concurred in this verdict, and declared him the most stupid of her sons.
Walter Scott had the credit of having the ‘thickest skull in the
school,’ though Dr. Blair told the teacher that many bright rays of
future glory shone through that same ‘thick skull.’ Milton and Swift
were noted for dulness in childhood. The great Isaac Barrow’s father
used to say that, if it pleased God to take from him any of his
children, he hoped it might be Isaac, as the least promising. Goldsmith
was dull in his youth, and Shakspeare, Gibbon, Davy and Dryden, do not
appear to have exhibited in their childhood even the common elements of
future success.”
The principal now dismissed the school, and the boys filed out, in
military order, at the touch of a bell
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