The first instruction given within its walls was in a little summer school taught by Mrs. O. J. Carr, which I attended.
Previous to this my mother was my patient and affectionate instructor, an experienced and efficient one I will say, as teaching had been her profession before coming west.
Asa Mercer was at the head of the University for a time, followed by W. E. Barnard, under whose sway it saw prosperous days. A careful and painstaking teacher with a corps of teachers fresh from eastern schools, and ably seconded in his efforts by his lovely wife, a very accomplished lady, he was successful in building up the attendance and increasing the efficiency of the institution. But after a time it languished, and was closed, the funds running low.
Under the Rev. F. H. Whitworth it again arose. It was then run with the common school funds, which raised such opposition that it finally came to a standstill.
D. T. Denny was a school director and county treasurer at the same time, but could not pay any monies to the University without an order from the county superintendent. On one occasion he was obliged to put a boy on horseback and send him eleven miles through the forest and back, making a twenty-two mile ride, to obtain the required order.
The children and young people who attended the University in the old times are scattered far and wide, some have attained distinction in their callings, many are worthy though obscure, and some have passed away from earthly scenes.
We spoke our “pieces,” delivered orations, wrote compositions, played ball games of one or more “cats” and many old-fashioned games in and around the big building and often climbed up to the observatory to look out over the beautiful bay and majestic mountains. That glistening sheet of water often drew the eyes from the dull page and occasionally an unwary pupil would be reminded in a somewhat abrupt fashion to proceed with his researches.
One afternoon a boy who had been gazing on its changing surface for some minutes, caught sight of a government vessel rounding the point, and jumped up saying excitedly, “There’s a war ship a-comin’!” to the consternation though secret delight of the whole school.
“Well, don’t stop her,” dryly said the teacher, and the boy subsided amid the smothered laughter of his companions.
Cupid sometimes came to school then, as I doubt not he does in these days, not as a learner but distracter—to those who were his victims.