The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1909-01-09
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seat of learning where 1 laid the foun
dations of the little education / posses!
today. The inside Of the school was II
keeping with the outside. Rougl
benches made by the village carpenter
with still rougher seats totally beref
of either paint or varnsh, but it would
be only waste of money. or let me pu
it better, it would be like placing {
fashionable hat on a crocodile's head t
use the brush on those articles. Hung
on the walls inside the door was a mar
of Europe. or what was meant for one
for the Columbus never yet was borr
who could outline the name or extent
of territory of any county there. Think
ing of that old map, no WI am half in
clined to say that there was d great
deal of truth in Jim Scully's remark
about that same map. Standing before
il one day with his hands thrust deep
into his trousers pocket, and with his
left eye half shut, he expressed his
opinion about it thus:
IT tell yez wild all the sincerity ov me
heart, that it was off that same map
Methusalem's childer larnt their geog-
raphy."
On one side of the map hung count
ing frame with balls of glass, wood and
cork, and on the other side was the
door OF a cupboard which served as a
blackboard, at the top of which was
written in chalk, Youth is the time of
learning"
At the far end of the room near the
large open fireplace was a table with an
old-faShioned chair behind it. and in
that chair sits Bartholomew Finnegan,
the schoolmaster.
Beside yon struggling fence that skirts
the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There. in his noisy mansion, skilled to
rule,
The village master taught his little
school.
A man severe he was. and stern to
view,
knew him well, and every truant
knew.
Wei had the boding tremblers learned
to trace,
The days disasters in his morning face.
Full well they laughed with counter
feited glee,
AT all his jokes, for many a joke had
he,
Fun Wen the busy whisper circling
round.
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he
frowned.
The love he bore TO learning was in
The village all declared how much he
knew.
Twas certain he could write and cipher,
Lands he could measure, terms and
tides presage,
And cen the story ran-that he could
gauge
In arguing, too, the parson owned his
skill,
For cen though vanquished. he could
argue still.
While words of learned length and
thund'ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged
around.
And still they gazed, and still the won
der grew.
That one small head could carry all he
knew"
1 never weary Of reading those beau
tiful and so descriptive lines of Cold
smith, for they remind me so much of
our dear old schoolmaster, Bartholomew
Finnegan. Bartle, to give him his short
name, is a man of about 55, clean
shaven and almost bald, his hair when
he was in the springtime of life being
a glaring red. The mouth is large, and
the nose is slightly turned up, and the
eyes are small and piercing and look
out so keenly at you from beneath
eyebrows. At the present mo-
inent, Bartle is in one of his composing
fits. His head is leaning on his left
hand, and his eyes are fixed on one of
the large beams that support the roof,
as if looking for inspiration there.
What is the nature of Bartle's COM
position? you ask me. AS long as
knew him he was at his one great owrk
the metamorphosis of
Ovid into English verse. 1t is a pretty !
difficult work, my budding Latin |
to translate Ovid into de- |
cent English, but into English verse, ali, |
well. However, Bartle was no ordi- |
nary mortal. for did he not think him
self a second Dryden?
when my great work is DONE he /
would say. with a gracious sweep Of |
his hand, every line of the translation |
shall breathe of the long resounding
march and energy divine
While Bartle composes, his dear pu-
pills compose. too. but their composition |
is a bit different to Bartles Mary |
Darcy is drawing a woman on slate |
With a piece of chalk, woman all nose
X
spectacle on her creation now Poor
Mary viii never be an artist. Joe Don
nelly is boring a hole through horse |
chestnut: his ambition would be TO get |
near the fire and throw it in. Every /
,hild in the school is at something they
should not be at, including your hum
Die servant. / was a budding poet
then; ! am a budding poet STILL and
likely to remain one, and the lines l had
icrawled on my slate were:
Poor old Bartle f. with his spectacles
on,
Is not bad teacher, but his mind is
half gone,
This is all 1 can say, so 1 won't keep
you long,
And now my young people, there's an
end to my song.
We children dearly loved Bartle. who
was known to us and to everyone for
niles around as THE Metamorphosfs."
Yes, we dearly loved him. and loved
aim most Of all in his composing fits,
or when they stole on him we were
sure of an hours idleness and a free
ION to follow our special bent of draw
ng, top pairing, pin sticking or poetry
writing. Bartle had three kinds of
spectacles, and each had its own spe-
,ial use. The spectacles with the ordi-
lary glass Bartle wore during his
-eaching hours, the one with the blue
glasses he wore during his composing
its. cit imparts soft. mellow light
o the brain" was his reason for using
{. and, oh. the spectacles with the
black glasses. Well, we had no love