Jessie

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.

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:

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:

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.