resourceful, unapologetic, and unafraid. You may be sure that the boys looked at him curiously, and asked themselves, "Can he do it?" Of course there were cautious conservatives who doubted the competency of the new incumbent. This tribe is always with us. However, there was ground of assurance in the known confidence of Doctor Ryland, and nothing remained but to wait and see its vindication. No misgivings troubled the Doctor himself. Without bluster or consequential airs, the assistant professor made prompt acquaintance with his tasks, and discharged them with an efficiency that left nothing to be desired. He was on his mettle, conscious of the questioning curiosity centered upon himself. For the first time in his life he stood before the footlights of public observation and expectation. Leadership had thrust its burdens on him early and had imposed its first critical test.

CHARLES LEWIS COCKE AND SUSANNA VIRGINIA PLEASANTS ABOUT 1840

A survey of the affairs of the dining hall convinced him that a change of methods was necessary, and with pure audacity he introduced them. At the opening of the fall session of 1840 he presented the boys with a new bill of fare. To their astonishment he gave them oysters, finding them as cheap as other meats. He gave them raisins and plum pudding for dessert. He scored instant success, and the boys' heartstrings were in his hands. Without incurring increased expense, the new manager secured a new satisfaction with the dining hall. Noiselessly other needed changes were made and the voice of the growler ceased to be heard. At the helm was an officer who knew college boys, and the college spirit was noticeably improved. Like competency appeared in the duties of the class room. He could teach mathematics and he did. Before the Commencement in 1841, Charles L. Cocke was recognized as a distinct contribution to the life of the Institution. Here is a young professor who does not propose to rest content with inadequate facilities and outworn methods. His whole nature cries for improvement and for better ways of doing things. What a boon to many a school and college would such a man be. Good Doctor Ryland's face wore a smile which plainly said, "I told you so." His judgment of capacity and character was sufficiently justified. The young comrade was to him an object of ever-deepening interest and their relations steadily ripened into sincere and loving friendship.

Now, the President knew that his assistant was romantically entangled with an affair of the heart. He also knew the fair young woman who was responsible for that state of things. Miss Susanna V. Pleasants lived five miles north of Richmond in a lovely old Virginia home which bore the Indian name of "Picquenocque." Knowing that a matrimonial alliance was imminent, the Doctor, one day, ventured to ask Charles about the date of the coming event. He warmly approved the match and was exuberant in congratulations. As a matter of fact he was hoping that the marriage would tend to fix his assistant more firmly in Richmond College. This genial intrusion into sacred privacy was not resented, but Charles found it inconvenient to confide. The question was asked in November, and at that very moment the issue to be decided between the sweethearts was whether the ceremony should come off on the last day of December, or the first of January following. That problem enabled the young gentleman to make a complete but truthful evasion. His honest reply was: "I know neither the day, nor the month, nor the year." There the matter ended, and the mystified Doctor relapsed into silence. Later the mighty problem was solved and the marriage was solemnized on the last day of 1840. Doctor Ryland, officiating, beamed on the happy pair and found great merriment in the perfectly true, but dextrously non-committal answer, made just six weeks before. The bride and groom had not quite reached their twenty-first birthdays when they began that remarkable human pilgrimage which was to endure a little more than sixty years. The angels of domestic peace and joy sang benediction all the way. That home life is a glorious memory now, but its lesson is more precious than gold. An astronomer discerned a luminous star. On closer inspection he found it, not single but binary. The twin stars joined their radiance, which came streaming down in one glorious pencil of light. Such a star beams forever in the Hollins firmament.

CHAPTER II

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