GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.
The academy term was now about to close, and the students were quite
earnestly engaged in reviewing studies, preparatory to the approaching
examination. Nothing else was talked much about, even by the boys.
Ronald came marching into the house one afternoon, fresh from school,
repeating the words:
“Step by step—step by step—step by step;” adding, “that’s our
countersign, mother—the scholar’s countersign; Mr. Upton gave it to us
to-day.”
“I thought a countersign was something to be kept private in the camp;
but you seem to take considerable pains to make yours public,” said Mrs.
Page.
“Well, it wont make any difference,” said Ronald; “Mr. Upton called it a
countersign, but he didn’t tell us to keep it secret.”
“What did he give you such a countersign, for?” inquired Mrs. Page.
“O, he was telling us how we might get so as to know more than common
folks,” replied Ronald. “He said that when he was a boy, all great and
learned people seemed to be perched on the top of a high pinnacle, and
he used to envy them; but he said he had no idea, then, how they got up
there, only he thought there was some sort of a miraculous good luck
about it. But he said he had since discovered that there was no royal
road to learning, and that if any man wanted to get to the top of the
pinnacle, he had got to go up step by step. He couldn’t fly up, nor leap
up, nor sail up in a balloon, nor go up in a railroad train, nor ride up
on somebody’s back, nor pull himself up by the waistband of his
trousers, nor—”
“Why, Ronald Page, he said no such thing!” interposed Kate, who had just
entered the room, with Jessie.
“Well, it amounted to the same thing,—I’ve got the idea, at any rate,”
replied Ronald. “What he meant was, that everybody had to work to get up
there—they went step by step, step by step; he kept bringing that in,
every minute. Was there ever such a person as Porson, mother?”
“Yes, there was a very learned Englishman named Porson; he was a
celebrated Greek scholar and a critic,” replied Mrs. Page.
“He was the man, then,” said Ronald; “for Mr. Upton told us he used to
say any one might become as good a critic as he was, if he would only
take trouble to make himself so; and Mr. Upton said that sometimes when
Porson wanted to be sure and learn a thing, he would read it a dozen
times, and then copy it off six times. That was the way he got to be so
learned and famous, I suppose.”
“It seems to me you paid unusual attention to Mr. Upton’s remarks,” said
Jessie; “you’ve repeated them very well.”
“I don’t believe I shall forget that ‘step by step’ very soon; why, I
should think he said that over more than twenty times.”
“I thought, while he was making the remarks, of that French engraving of
the top of the pyramid, in your portfolio,” said Jessie, addressing Aunt
Fanny.
“What, that soldier on the top of a pyramid? Let me find it, will you,
Aunt Fanny?” said Ronald.
[Illustration: [Tip-top]]
Permission was given, and Ronald soon found the picture, a copy of which
is given on the opposite page. It represents a French grenadier at the
top of an Egyptian pyramid. You perceive he is a little elevated—about
four hundred and eighty feet above the surface of the earth—and may well
be pardoned for exhibiting a slight degree of enthusiasm.
“The engraving is a pretty good illustration of Mr. Upton’s remarks,”
said Jessie. “You know the pyramids, a little way off, look as if their
sides were smooth; at least they look so in pictures. Now, if we should
see a man on top of one of them, we should wonder how he got there. We
should think there was some miracle about it, or else that he had got
faculties that common people don’t possess,—just as some people think
when they see a learned man. But if we go up to the pyramid, we shall
find that its sides are composed of steps, all the way up, and that the
way to reach the top is to climb those steps, one by one.”
“I always thought the sides of the pyramids were smoothed off even, till
I saw that picture,” said Ronald.
“When I went to school,” said Mrs. Page, “our teacher used to encourage
us, if we got disheartened, by telling us that ‘what man has done, man
may do.’ I heard that saying so often, that I got perfectly sick of it;
but, after all, there is a good deal of meaning in it. It isn’t
literally true that what one man has done, any other man can do. I might
study as hard and as long as Milton did, and yet I never should be able
to write such a poem as Paradise Lost. Some men are more highly endowed
by God than others. But, by patient effort, and perseverance, and
quietly going along step by step, as Mr. Upton says, we can do wonders.
We can accomplish anything, in fact, that does not require a very rare
and peculiar endowment from God. This is the way most people become
eminent, and it is the way all become learned. They toil up the steep
mountain, one step at a time, and if they get far above the crowd, you
may know that they have worked hard, and have a right to swing their
hats a little, with honest pride, as the soldier in the picture is
doing.”
“O, mother!” exclaimed Ronald, “did you know Kate was admitted to the
Grade of Honor, to-day?”
“No, I’ve heard nothing about it,” said Mrs. Page.
“Well, she was,” added Ronald; “and it was lucky for her, for it was the
last chance—there wont be any more promotions before examination.”
“I’m glad to hear she succeeded; but didn’t you get in, too?” inquired
Mrs. Page.
“No, ma’am,” replied Ronald, looking a little ashamed; “I didn’t expect
to. But Marcus said I should have got in, if I hadn’t whispered so
much.”
“Don’t you think it would have been better if you had denied yourself
the gratification of whispering, and got admitted to the Grade of
Honor?” inquired Mrs. Page.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Ronald, “I wish I had; but it’s too late now. But,
after all, I shouldn’t care about going in at the eleventh hour, just
for a fortnight; I should feel as if I didn’t hardly belong there.”
“O, yes, you don’t think much of sour grapes, do you?” said Kate, who
thought this was a reflection upon herself.
“Better late than never: better get in at the eleventh hour than not at
all,” said Mrs. Page.
“Well, mother, I’ll get into the Grade of Honor at the very beginning of
the next term,—you see if I don’t,” added Ronald.
“I hope you will,” said Mrs. Page; “and if you resolve to do so, I’ve no
doubt you will.”
This Grade of Honor, which they were talking about, had been established
in the academy, at the commencement of that term, as a substitute for
prizes. It had been customary to award prizes, at the end of each term,
for good behavior and successful scholarship. But there were always many
disappointed faces when the awards were made; and, as the prizes were
few, and the attainments and merits of the best scholars were often so
nearly equal that it was difficult to discriminate between them, it not
seldom happened that some who failed to get a prize were as deserving as
some who competed successfully for that honor. So, at the beginning of
the present term, Mr. Upton said he was going to try a new system, as an
experiment, which would allow every scholar to reach the highest honor,
if he chose to. The system was as follows:
Two grades or classes were established, the first and lower being known
as the Grade of Fidelity, and the higher as the Grade of Honor.
Excellence of deportment, and diligent effort and general faithfulness
in studies, were the passport to the first grade. It was not necessary
to be a very bright scholar, to get into the Grade of Fidelity. It was
open to all who made faithful endeavors, and who paid a decent respect
to the rules of the school. Those who, after at least a month’s
probation in the Grade of Fidelity, distinguished themselves by their
fidelity to all the duties of the school-room, and by the general
excellence of their moral characters (mere intellectual superiority, you
will observe, was not taken into the account), were admitted to the
Grade of Honor. The preceptor kept a credit and demerit account with
each scholar, and by this, principally, his or her standing was
determined. Every alternate week candidates were admitted to each grade.
The ceremony of admission to the grades was quite interesting. These who
were to enter the Grade of Fidelity, were called out by the preceptor,
and arranged themselves in a line before his desk. He then addressed to
them a few words of congratulation and advice, after which he said:
“I now present these candidates for admission to the Grade of Fidelity.
If it be your will that they be accepted, you will please to signify
it.”
The members of the grade having previously been seated together, in the
front desks, now voted on the question, by putting into a box that was
passed round a slip of paper on which was usually inscribed, “Yes—all.”
If a member objected to any candidate, he wrote, “Yes—all except——,”
naming the person he objected to. Unless a candidate was objected to by
at least one-fourth of the members, he was admitted. When it was
ascertained that the vote was affirmative, the preceptor hung a blue
silk ribbon around the neck of each candidate. The members then filed
out from their seats, and after giving the hand of fellowship to their
new comrades, the whole company joined hands, and sung one verse of a
song, commencing:
“We’re a band of faithful friends.”
The blue ribbon was the badge of the Grade of Fidelity, and was worn at
the reception of candidates, at the examination of the academy, and on
other special occasions. The scholars in this grade enjoyed no
privileges over their fellows; but it was considered quite important to
gain admittance to it, unless one was content to be rated very low,
morally if not mentally. Before the term ended, about three-fourths of
the students had been admitted to the ranks of the “Fidels,” as they
sometimes abbreviated their name. Some, however, were afterwards
degraded; for if a member fell below the standard, or was guilty of any
serious offence, he was dismissed from the grade.
It was not so easy to get into the Grade of Honor. One had to be very
exemplary in conduct, and very pure in character, to gain admittance
there. Less than one in six of the scholars passed this searching
ordeal. The names of candidates to this grade were posted up in the
school-room, three days before the ceremony of admission. Any member of
the academy had a right to object to a candidate, and could privately
inform the preceptor of his reasons. If a candidate was known to be
profane, or untruthful, or dishonest, or chewed or smoked tobacco, or
was addicted to any other bad habit, he was rejected, no matter how
exemplary his conduct in school might be.
When the hour came to admit candidates to the Grade of Honor, those to
whom no valid objection had been made, presented themselves, in front of
the preceptor’s desk, the members of the grade being seated upon the
platform. A separate ballot was taken for each candidate, and if
one-fourth voted nay, he was rejected. The preceptor then affixed the
badge of the grade, a pink silk rosette, to the left breast of the
accepted candidate; and then, taking him by the hand, he addressed to
him a few affectionate words of welcome. When all had gone through this
ceremony, the members of the grade formed a ring, inside of which the
candidates were admitted, one at a time. After making the circuit, and
receiving the hand of fellowship from each one, the new member fell into
the ranks, and another candidate passed through the same ceremony, and
so on to the end. The whole school then arose and sang a song beginning:
“Who are these, with honors decked;”
the members of the grade, meanwhile, standing in a circle, with clasped
hands. When the singing was over, they returned to their desks, the
school remaining standing until they had taken their seats. So ended the
ceremony of the initiation.
Those who belonged to the Grade of Honor enjoyed sundry privileges that
were denied to other students. They could leave their seats without
permission, and could even leave the room during study hours, without
being called to account. They had access at all times to the library,
while the other students enjoyed its privileges under some restrictions.
They were also clothed with a sort of monitorial power, and as their
testimony was received by the teachers with unwavering faith, it was
counted a poor time to brew mischief when one of this class was around.
It was of course expected that they would never take improper advantage
of their privileges, and, like the other grade, they were liable to lose
their position if found unworthy.
Jessie was among the first who were admitted to the Grade of Honor.
Ronald and Otis, after some delay, worked their way into the Grade of
Fidelity, but did not rise higher. Kate, as has been already stated,
rose to the higher grade on the last day when promotions were made, for
that term.
Abby Leonard did not remain long in Highburg, after her father’s
failure. After the first day, it was evident to all that she was
troubled and humbled, and those who had been inclined to exult over her
downfall, now began to pity her. But a message calling her home soon
came, and she was apparently not sorry to get away from a place which
had become so unpleasant to her. Only a few of her associates knew of
her intention to go, until she had left town.