Inside the stone chapel of Welton Academy, a private school nestled in the
remote hills of Vermont, more than three hundred boys, all wearing the academy
blazer, sat on either side of the long aisle, surrounded by proud-faced parents,
and waited. They heard the reverberations of the bagpipes as a short, elderly man
swathed in flowing robes lit a candle and led a procession of students carrying
banners, robed teachers, and alumnae down a long slate hallway into the
venerable chapel.
The four boys who carried banners marched solemnly to the dais, followed
slowly by the elderly men, the last of whom proudly carried the lighted candle.
Headmaster Gale Nolan, a husky man in his early sixties, stood at the podium
watching expectantly as the procession concluded.
“Ladies and gentlemen … boys …” he said dramatically, pointing toward the
man with the candle. “The light of knowledge.”
The audience applauded politely as the older gentleman stepped slowly
forward with the candle. The bagpiper marched in place at the corner of the dais,
and the four banner carriers, lowering their flags that read, “Tradition,” “Honor,”
“Discipline,” and “Excellence,” quietly took seats with the audience.
The gentleman with the candle walked to the front of the audience where the
youngest students sat holding unlit candles. Slowly, he bent forward, lighting the
candle of the first student on the aisle.
“The light of knowledge shall be passed from old to young,” Headmaster
Nolan intoned solemnly, as each boy lit the candle of the student sitting next to
him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished alumni, and students … This year, 1959,
marks the hundreth year that Welton Academy has been in existence. One
hundred years ago, in 1859, forty-one boys sat in this room and were asked the
same question that now greets you at the start of each semester.” Nolan paused
dramatically, his gaze sweeping the room full of intense, frightened young faces.
“Gentlemen,” he bellowed, “what are the four pillars?”
The shuffle of feet broke the tense silence as the students rose to attention.
Sixteen-year-old Todd Anderson, one of the few students not wearing the school
blazer, hesitated as the boys around him rose to their feet. His mother nudged
him up. His face was drawn and unhappy, his eyes dark with anger. He watched
silently as the boys around him shouted in unison, “Tradition! Honor!
Discipline! Excellence!”
Nolan nodded, and the boys sat down. When the squeaking of chairs subsided,
a solemn hush fell over the chapel.
“In her first year,” Dean Nolan bellowed into the microphone, “Welton
Academy graduated five students.” He paused. “Last year we graduated fifty-one
students and over 75 percent of those went to Ivy League schools!”
A burst of applause filled the room as the proud parents sitting next to their
sons congratulated Nolan’s efforts. Two of the banner carriers, sixteen-year-olds
Knox Overstreet and his friend Charlie Dalton, joined in the applause. They both
sported Welton blazers, and, sitting between their parents, they personified the
Ivy League image. Knox had short curly hair, an outgoing smile, and an athletic
build. Charlie had a handsome, preppy look about him.
“This kind of accomplishment,” Dean Nolan continued as Knox and Charlie
looked around at their schoolmates, “is the result of fervent dedication to the
principles taught here. This is why parents have been sending their sons here and
this is why we are the best preparatory school in the United States.” Nolan
paused for the applause that followed.
“New students,” he continued, directing his attention toward the newest boys
to join the ranks of Welton Academy, “the key to your success rests on the four
pillars. This applies to seventh graders and transfer students alike.” Todd
Anderson squirmed again in his seat at the mention of transfer students, his face
revealing his self-consciousness. “The four pillars are the bywords of this
school, and they will become the cornerstones of your lives.
“Welton Society candidate Richard Cameron,” Nolan called, and one of the
boys who had carried a banner snapped to his feet.
“Yes, sir!” Cameron shouted. His father, sitting beside him, beamed with
pride.
“Cameron, what is tradition?”
“Tradition, Mr. Nolan, is the love of school, country, and family. Our tradition
at Welton is to be the best!”
“Good, Mr. Cameron.
“Welton Society Candidate George Hopkins. What is Honor?”
Cameron sat stiffly as his father smiled smugly.
“Honor is dignity and the fulfillment of duty!” the boy answered.
“Good, Mr. Hopkins. Honor Society Candidate Knox Overstreet.” Knox, who
also held a banner, stood.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is discipline?” Nolan asked.
“Discipline is respect for parents, teachers, and headmaster. Discipline comes
from within.”
“Thank you, Mr. Overstreet. Honor candidate Neil Perry.”
Knox sat down, smiling. His parents, sitting on either side of him, patted him
with encouragement.
Neil Perry rose to his feet. The breast pocket of his Welton blazer was covered
with a huge cluster of achievement pins. The sixteen-year-old stood dutifully,
staring angrily at Dean Nolan.
“Excellence, Mr. Perry?”
“Excellence is the result of hard work,” Perry replied loudly in a rotelike
monotone. “Excellence is the key to all success, in school and everywhere.” He
sat down and stared directly at the dais. Beside him his unsmiling father was
stony eyed and silent, not acknowledging his son in the least.
“Gentlemen,” Dean Nolan continued, “at Welton you will work harder than
you have ever worked in your lives, and your reward will be the success that all
of us expect of you.
“Due to the retirement of our beloved English teacher, Mr. Portius, I hope that
you will take this opportunity to meet his replacement, Mr. John Keating,
himself an honors graduate of this school, who, for the last several years, has
been teaching at the highly regarded Chester School in London.”
Mr. Keating, who sat with the other members of the faculty, leaned slightly
forward to acknowledge his introduction. In his early thirties, Keating, who had
brown hair and brown eyes, was of medium height—an average-looking man.
He appeared to be respectable and scholarly, but Neil Perry’s father eyed the new
English teacher with suspicion.
“To conclude these welcoming ceremonies,” Nolan said, “I would like to call
to the podium Welton’s oldest living graduate, Mr. Alexander Carmichael, Jr.,
Class of 1886.”
The audience rose to a standing ovation as the octogenarian haughtily shunned
offers of help from those beside him and made his way to the podium with
painstaking slowness. He mumbled a few words that the audience could barely make out, and, with that, the convocation came to an end. The students and their
parents filed out of the chapel and onto the chilly campus grounds.
Weathered stone buildings and a tradition of austerity isolated Welton from
the world beyond. Like a vicar standing outside of church on Sunday, Dean
Nolan watched students and parents say their good-byes.
Charlie Dalton’s mother brushed the hair out of his eyes and hugged him
tightly. Knox Overstreet’s father gave his son an affectionate squeeze as they
walked around the campus pointing to its land-marks. Neil Perry’s father stood
stiffly, adjusting the achievement pins on his son’s jacket. Todd Anderson stood
alone, trying to unearth a stone with his shoe. His parents chatted nearby with
another couple, paying no heed to their son. Staring at the ground self-
consciously, Todd was startled when Dean Nolan approached him and tried to
get a look at his name tag.
“Ah, Mr. Anderson. You have some big shoes to fill, young man. Your brother
was one of our best.”
“Thank you, sir,” Todd said faintly.
Nolan moved on, strolling past parents and students, greeting them and
smiling all the time. He stopped when he reached Mr. Perry and Neil, and he put
his hand on Neil’s shoulder.
“We’re expecting great things of you, Mr. Perry,” the dean said to Neil.
“Thank you, Mr. Nolan.”
“He won’t disappoint us,” the boy’s father said to Nolan. “Right, Neil?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” Nolan patted Neil’s shoulder and moved on. He noticed
that many of the younger boys’ chins quivered, and tears slipped out as they said
good-bye to their parents, perhaps for the first time.
“You’re going to love it here,” one father said, smiling and waving as he
walked quickly away.
“Don’t be a baby,” another father snapped at his frightened and tearful son.
Slowly the parents filtered out and cars pulled away. The boys had a new
home at Welton Academy, isolated in the green but raw woods of Vermont.
“I want to go home!” one boy wailed. An upper-classman patted his back and
led him away toward the dorm.
