The very absence of the reading habit tended to develop action, and the power of thinking out problems afresh, unhampered by the trammels of other men’s thoughts. The haughtiness begotten by slave-holding made it doubly hard for the master to bow the knee even to a sovereign. The habit of command and responsibility of power, which shone on the battlefield and in the council-chamber, were learned on the lonely estates, where each planter was a king. Behind all these elements of training were the ideals which moulded the mind and the character.
Berkeley’s taunting question to Bacon, “Have you forgot to be a gentleman?” owed its sting to this suggestion that he had been false to the traditions of his class. If we hold that tact and courtesy and gracious hospitality are results of education, we must admit that the Puritans of New England might have learned much from their neighbors in Maryland and Virginia. The education of politics, of power, of high traditions in virtue and in manners the Colonial Cavalier possessed. The education of books he lacked. Here and there, however, we find traces of some omnivorous reader even in the earliest times. Books were highly valued and treasured by generation after generation. We find among the old wills that “Richard Russell left Richard Yates ‘a booke called Lyons play,’ ‘John porter junr. six books’ ‘John porter (1) my exec’r, ten books,’ ‘Katherin Greene three bookes,’ ‘One book to Sarah Dyer,’ ‘unto Wm. Greene his wife two books & her mother a booke,’ ‘Anna Godby two books,’ ‘Jno. Abell One booke in Quarto,’ ‘Richard Lawrence One booke.’”[1]
Master Ralph Wormeley’s library numbered several hundred volumes, and a man might have found enough among them to gratify any inclination. If his tastes were frivolous, here were “fifty comodys and tragedies,” and “The Genteel Siner.” Were he an epicure, he might regale himself with “the body of cookery,” and revel in its appetizing recipes for potpies and the proper method of roasting a sucking pig; and if his mind were piously inclined, the resources of the library were unlimited. Side by side on its shelves stood “No Cross, No Crowne,” “The ffamous Doctr Usher’s Body of Divinity,” “Doctr ffuller’s Holy State,” and last and longest, the ninety-six sermons of the good parson Andros.
Some of these old colonial sermons came to an unprofitable end. A bundle of them was laid away in a drawer, and, when sought for, it was learned that they had been torn up and used by the damsels of the household as curling-papers. The writer might have been at least half-satisfied in the reflection that his discourses had touched the head, if not the heart.
In spite of all the old inventories which are being brought to light to show the existence of books and book lovers in the South, the fact remains that the Cavalier was no bookworm. He felt that a boy who had learned to ride, to shoot, and to speak the truth, had received the rudiments at least of education. Whatever he learned more than this was acquired either in the old field-school or more often from a private tutor, usually a clergyman of the Church of England. Some attempts were made by private persons to found public-schools. In 1634, Benjamin Sym devised two hundred acres of land on the Pocosan River, together with the milk and increase of eight cows, for “the maintenance of a learned, honest man, to keep, upon the said ground, a Free-School for the education of the children of Elizabeth City and Kiquotan, from Mary’s Mount downward to the Pocosan River.”
“Richard Russell in his will made July 24th, 1667, and proved December 16th, the same year, now among the records of Lower Norfolk county, declared: ‘the other pte of my Estate I give & bequeath One pte of itt unto Six of the poorest mens Children in Eliz: Riv’r, to pay for their Teaching to read & after these six are entred then if Six more comes I give a pte allsoe to Enter them in like manner.’”
In spite of private gifts, and individual effort, and public Acts of Assembly, the school system of New England did not and could not thrive at the South, because it was out of harmony with the spirit and institutions of the people. The plantations were so separated that any assembling of the children was difficult, the spirit of caste was too strong to encourage the free mingling of rich and poor, and the traditions of the Cavalier were not traditions of scholarship. The sword, not the pen, had always been the weapon of the gentleman. Montrose, and not Milton, was his hero. When Captain Smith proudly boasted that he did not sit mewed up in a library writing of other men’s exploits, but that what his sword did, his pen writ, he expressed the ideal of the Colonial Cavalier.
“I observe,” quoth Spotswood ironically to the Virginia Burgesses, “that the grand ruling party in your House has not furnished chairmen of two of your standing committees who can spell English or write common-sense, as the grievances under their own hand-writing will manifest.”
Ebenezer Cook in his “Voyage to Maryland,” writes with acrimonious sarcasm of “A reverend judge who, to the shame of all the Bench, could write his name.” The jest of the Sot-Weed Factor scarcely outstripped the sober truth, and a century later the general ignorance was almost as dense. Several instances are on record where the servant signed his name and the master made his mark. The cross or other conventional sign was not uncommon, and in general the letters of the names are evolved slowly and painfully, as by men more apt with the gun than with the quill.
Hugh Jones, a Fellow of William and Mary College, writes of his countrymen that, for the most part, they are only desirous of learning what is absolutely necessary, in the shortest way. To meet this peculiarity Mr. Jones states that he has designed a royal road to learning, consisting of a series of text-books embracing an Accidence to Christianity, an Accidence to the Mathematicks, and an Accidence to the English Tongue. This last is “for the use of such boys and men as have never learned Latin, and for the Benefit of the Female Sex.”