CALL OF THE SOUTHWEST
1846-1856
The attraction of the Blue Ridge and Alleghany mountains was a fact freely confessed by eastern Virginians. Even before the Revolutionary War the section, now known as the Tazewell country, became an Eldorado, and thitherward set the streams of migration. Along the beautiful valleys and in the hearts of the hills lay the possibilities of fabulous wealth. Through the early decades of the nineteenth century this fascination continued, population increased, centers of culture were formed, and men of enterprise began to think of a railroad from Lynchburg, Virginia, to East Tennessee. Christian evangelism was active, but education lagged. There were fine brains in the Southwest, but the means of culture were deficient. The land called for the school teacher. Slowly the providential workings were preparing a place for a young professor in Richmond College, who as yet had no dream of it.
Seven miles north of the City of Roanoke, Carvin's creek pours down out of the mountains into the wonderful Roanoke Valley. Right in the aperture of the hills where it emerges, was discovered a little sulphur spring whose properties suggested the establishment of a watering place. Accordingly, Mr. Johnston, a man of wealth from Richmond, bought a hundred acres and built a commodious brick hotel near the two springs, one limestone, the other sulphur. This was somewhere near the year 1815. A race course was made one of the additional attractions. The place took the name of "Botetourt Springs," and at once leaped into fame as a health resort. The turnpike from the west passed immediately in front of the hotel and between the springs, which are one hundred yards apart. General Andrew Jackson stopped here for entertainment on his way to and from Washington City. General Lafayette, on his last visit to the United States, was an honored guest. Touring south, he came out of his way to pay respect to his old friend, Mr. Johnston.
Interesting legends from the old pioneer days gathered round the spot. One bold adventurer, named Carvin, was said to have built a rock castle on a crag near the springs and to have had many hair-breadth escapes from Indians and wild beasts. All that is certainly known is, that he left his name on the little creek that passes nearby. A huge, isolated mountain, in the shape of an elephant, rises just one mile to the north, and tradition says that cowardly slackers of the Revolutionary period made it a hiding place. They mended pots, plates and pans, and so were called "tinkers." Thus it comes that the beautiful mountain wears a homely name and perpetuates an unworthy memory.
Botetourt Springs was popular and well patronized by seekers for health and pleasure, but the death of Mr. Johnston brought a crisis, and in 1840 the property was on the market. The administrator, Col. George P. Tayloe, offered it to the highest bidder. Just at this time a Baptist minister, the Rev. Mr. Bradley, from New York State, had come into the neighborhood, seeking a home and work. Being an intelligent man and especially interested in education, he saw that this property was capable of being converted to the uses of a school. His zeal and industry soon materialized in the organization of the "Valley Union Education Society," and that body purchased Botetourt Springs with promises to pay.
THE VALLEY UNION SEMINARY, 1842-1852
The buildings were easily adaptable to the purposes in hand. The old hotel, consisting of a basement and two stories, provided a dining hall, a chapel, and thirty-one rooms. Then, there were seven smaller buildings with two to four rooms each. These latter were ranged on opposite sides of the front yard, at right angles to the main building. In the fall of 1842 the "Valley Union Seminary" was launched, under encouraging conditions, with Mr. Bradley at the head. The patronage was large and the prospects alluring at the outset, but soon the relations of the Principal with his faculty and students became unhappy. He was a worthy, irreproachable man, and intellectually competent, but it seemed impossible for him to make tactful adjustments with the young Virginians. The management was changed, attendance was large, and the only cloud on the enterprise was the unpaid notes. The affairs of Mr. Johnston's estate must be wound up. The young Seminary in its third year was in the breakers, and looked disaster in the face. It was now in the spring of 1845. Deliverance must come speedily, or another dead school would pass into the abyss. In this critical hour, two or three students just returned from Richmond College said to members of the society: "We know a man who can handle your Seminary and make it go." Any remark that hinted at relief was more than welcomed by the trustees, who asked whom the students had in mind.
"It is Professor Charles L. Cocke of Richmond College. He is only twenty-five years old but he has had five years' experience in teaching. He knows how to bring things to pass, and if your school can be pulled out of a hole, he is the man you want."
Such was the homely but emphatic tribute of the college boys, and it did not pass unheeded. Propositions from the Society went promptly to Richmond, and the Professor was induced to come to the mountains to look the situation over. The Society was pleased with him, and he was impressed with the possibilities of the Seminary. The call of the great Southwest sounded in his ears and the visions of the things that may be, beckoned him on. The call was made in the spring of 1845. He would ponder it devoutly.
Shall he break all the tender ties that bind him to his Tidewater home? Shall he sunder relations with Richmond College and bring grief to the heart of his devoted friend, Dr. Ryland? Shall he take his young wife and three little children into a rugged land, remote and destitute of the comforts they have known? Such questions voiced the negative, self-regarding view, and he asked himself: "Is not this Southwest a land of great promise and educational need? May not this be the providential arena for the realization of my fond dream of mental liberation for the daughters of Virginia and the South?" This noble speculation, still working, was hid away in his soul, vague and undefined. It would grow. This was the positive and unselfish view, and he knew it. "Yes, I will go," was the final settlement of the painful controversy. Like Abraham, he would go forth all unknowing, yet believing in the guidance of a divine wisdom. No, this young man was not the football of impulse. His decisions were the outcome of long deliberate thought. This was the most vital step of his life. He heard the voice of duty, that "stern daughter of God," and obeyed. He had an imaginative power which went, not to the uses of poetry, but to the practical problems of life. It was his habit to project his thought thirty years forward, deploying before him the reasonable developments of a growing civilization. In these forecasts, imagination did him a fine service. Here was the spring of those ceaseless demands for enlargement and improvement of facilities, which later marked his work as college president.
The spring of 1846 is come; the six years of work in Richmond College are closed; the farewells are spoken; and Mr. Cocke journeys toward the sunset. It is a weary overland drive of five days in a carriage from Richmond to Botetourt Springs. Lofty "Tinker" salutes the pilgrims as they move up the highway, and now the vehicle stops in front of the old hotel, whose front yard is a wilderness of weeds. Mrs. Cocke's heart sinks within her as she looks on the inhospitable desolation. Ghosts of dilapidation and decay stretch out hands of welcome in sheer, grim mockery. The anguish in the young wife's heart is momentary. With a sublime courage, equal to that of her husband's, from that awful moment she goes smilingly with him to the task of preparing for the coming session. Unwittingly, they are laying the foundations of the noble Institution which, today, is a pride and joy to the state and nation. Little do they dream that before the closing of their toil, they will see girls from thirty states parading and singing on that outlandish front yard.
"I'd rather walk with God in the night
Than go alone by day."
By a business arrangement with the trustees, Mr. Cocke had put into the treasury of the Society $1,500.00 of his own and his wife's money, to stay off the creditors. On the 23rd day of June, 1846, the session opened with the new Principal in charge. It was a new dignity, truly, but how precarious and involving what weight of responsibility! The young soldier is on the firing line with an independent command. He can hardly anticipate the leagued masses of trouble, disappointment and despair that lurk in the mountains, plotting his destruction. For the next twenty-five years we shall see the storms of battle break upon him, and we shall see his banner waving in victory to the shoutings of a multitude. The Principal is a born leader. He is resolute and confident without egotism; resourceful and wise without display. The Richmond College boys were right. Here is the man. However, the burden-bearing years must develop the fact. The first nine years will carry us through seasons of struggle and painful progress. With the outstanding facts of this period, it is the purpose of this chapter to deal.
He was now the head of a co-educational Seminary, which from its inception was designed to be strictly benevolent in character. In ample proof is the fact that $45.00 paid the student's bill for tuition and board for five months. The school never made money, nor was that ever its end. The purpose of the founders was to put education in the reach of all who thirsted for it. Such was the generous basis of the enterprise. The small revenues thus realized, yielded the teachers pitifully inadequate reward, and made improvements practically impossible.
You may be sure that good order was maintained and good lessons were required. From the start, Mr. Cocke's administration won popular confidence and approval. Soon after his coming he was announced to speak in the Baptist church in Big Lick (now the City of Roanoke), and a large audience was there to greet him. In the address he said, among other things, "I have come to Southwest Virginia to give my life to the cause of education, to spend and be spent in that work." A fine impression was made on the citizens, and on dismission a gentleman said to a lady: "That is the man to send your son to." Fifteen years later that boy was a Colonel in the Confederate army. This boy's older brother had told Mr. Cocke that Thomas was a bad boy, and had added, "If he does not behave, I hope you will thrash him." For two whole sessions the youth found himself seated at the table next to Mr. Cocke and the coffee pot. He was entrusted with messages here and there, and finally the boys began to say that Tom Lewis was Mr. Cocke's pet. Not so: that was his ingenious discipline. He could control horses and boys without whipping. In the long after years the Principal had no more faithful and devoted friend than Colonel Lewis. Once a group of older boys made some of the younger ones drunk. The offenders were promptly expelled, and nothing was done to the innocent victims. Other young men made angry threats, and their expulsion followed. Rebellion grew; a large body of the boys defiantly paraded the campus, making the situation ominous. The school was called to the chapel, the boys on one side and the girls on the other. The Principal fronted the boys and said: "I am the head of this school and I am going to run it. I have sent some disorderly students away, and if necessary I will send more. I will send every one of you home and start a new school, and if I can't run it I will give it up and go at some other business." The audience understood the tone of that voice and took warning from the gleam in the blue eyes. After that the incident was closed.
His skill in dealing with mischievous boys is exhibited in another episode. Some of them felt that school life was dull without a little spice of adventure, so in pure fun they sallied forth at night to visit the neighbors' orchards, and even to take unwarranted liberties with their chicken roosts. Complaints came to the Principal, who at once sought a private interview with the culprits. He talked to them kindly, yet with earnest protestations against such pranks. He knew they were not thieves, far from it, but they should not take people's property that had cost labor and care. After duly moralizing on the case, he closed the interview with the following burst of magnanimity: "Now boys, if hereafter some irresistible impulse is on you to prowl, spare the neighbors and plunder my poultry yard." What human heart but a school boy's could resist an appeal like that? One night not long thereafter, Mrs. Cocke heard curious noises on the back premises. Mr. Cocke slipped out in the darkness and readily took in the situation. The following night he stood at the window of one of the boys' cottages and saw the preliminaries looking to a midnight carnival on roast duck. Just as the feast was ready to begin, there was a tap at the door. Hospitality invited entrance, when in stepped Mr. Cocke! To his friendly inquiries they responded that they were about to dispose of a savory meal and coolly invited the visitor to share it, which he as coolly proceeded to do. The party was jolly, and though all knew that nobody was deceived, the fact was not betrayed by one look or word. Mr. Cocke bowed himself out with a pleasant good night, and the mystified marauders went to bed. Depredations ceased, and the boys' admiration of that midnight diplomacy was unconcealed.
When a boy was guilty of some offense, not mean, but mischievous, his case was stated in the presence of the school, and the roaring laughter that followed was sufficient correction. There was not a case of disobedience among the girls in the years 1846-'52, but they would keep their windows open. The boys lifted hats in passing, and were rewarded with pleased and winning glances. Often while sitting by the open window, a thoughtful look covered one side of a girl's face, while on the other side, looking window-ward, played a bewitching smile. In those days was established the yearly October visit to the top of Tinker. The day of the excursion was a "secret between Charles and the Lord," as Mrs. Cocke once humorously said to the inquiring girls. Arriving on the summit, and viewing the landscape over, suddenly an apple would fall in the midst, as from the sky. Where did it come from? The girls knew, and the boys knew. The boys had gone before and hidden behind the rocks and brush. Then the mountain scenery lost its charm, and a romantic search for flowers began.
The halls of the Seminary filled to their capacity and the Principal pleaded for more room. Alas, the Trustees had no money, and the school's revenue was a sacrifice to the benevolent principle of minimum rates. The Institution he wanted could come only through increased equipment and accommodations. There the young Principal was, the sport of harsh conditions. One balm came to his heart in the timely sensible praise of the Trustees. In their meeting, January 10, 1851, they said in formal resolution: "We cannot speak in terms too high of the untiring diligence of the Principal and his assistants in maintaining judicious discipline, and in the prosecution of their responsible duties."
His efforts for notable success had a double motive. First, he quite properly wanted to convince all of his capacity for educational work. Second, by the overcrowded conditions, he wanted to force an issue on the Trustees respecting the future policy of the school. The accommodations were palpably insufficient, and as there was no possibility of increasing them, what should be done? The Principal knew what to do. He boldly advised a radical change: dismiss the male department and convert the Seminary into a school for girls. To his immense delight, the proposition was accepted. The new order looked like the opening of an approach to the goal of ambitions born in his college days. His loyal interest in the education of young men was not abated, but the dream of the higher education of women became a passion. This important decision was made in the spring of 1852, and thus a ten years co-educational school, in which Mr. Cocke had labored for six prosperous years, came to a close. With mingled feelings of grateful hope and keen anxiety, he now faced a golden opportunity. He enjoyed the distinction of being the head of the first chartered school for girls in Virginia. The fall session of 1852 opened with eighty-one pupils. That of the fall of 1853, with one hundred and fifty. The wisdom of the radical change was fully justified. It was a time of radiant satisfaction and jubilant hope.
THE FEMALE SEMINARY AT BOTETOURT SPRINGS, 1852-1855
But it was now that the battle with austere conditions and scant equipment became the torment of his mind. The Trustees could give no material aid, and popular interest in education was too feeble to proffer financial help. It is simple truth to say that on this vestibule of his great enterprise, the gravest doubts and trepidations of his whole career assailed him. In moods of depression the heroic man feared that he had attempted the impossible. Was he unnerved or unstrung? Not for one minute. In these black days he fronted his task with the resourcefulness of an uncommon manhood. The stamina of his nature came to expression in a way that surprised even himself. He made imploring appeals to friends who were well to do in this world's goods. A good providence put him in touch with two noble spirits, Mr. John Hollins and his wife, of Lynchburg, Virginia, members of his own denomination. Mr. Hollins presented the Seminary with a gift of $5,000 cash, and then the daylight began to break. The good man proposed as a condition of his gift that the old management by an Education Society and its appointed Trustees must give way to a board of self-perpetuating Trustees. To all concerned the proposition seemed wise and just, and it was so ordered. It was then generously agreed that the name of the Institution should be changed, and that henceforth it should be known as "Hollins Institute." To Mr. Cocke and the dissolving Society, this appeared to be a compliment well deserved by the man and his wife who had saved the life of the school.
The transfer of all the property of the Valley Union Education Society to the Trustees of Hollins Institute was made in March, 1855. Thus in the first nine years of his incumbency, Mr. Cocke saw two revisions of the original charter granted in January, 1844. By the first revision in 1852, the Seminary was made a school for girls. By the second, in December, 1855, the name of the Institution was changed, the old management was abolished, and its functions put into the hands of a self-perpetuating Board of Trustees. No friction arose; all was harmony. The old régime passed, but its personnel remained steadfast.
In all the stress and tribulation of the past years, Mr. Cocke had been the central bolt that held the structure intact. Around his single heroic personality gathered all the forces that made possible the perpetuity of the Institution. His reward had now come, and a blessed assurance threw its foregleams on the future. He was now in his thirty-sixth year and athrill with that full health and masculine energy that was his blessing to the end of his life.