Dead Poets Society

Dead Poets Society
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.