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TIKAI’ST‘s SEXDAY AMERICAN ATLANTA CA . SENDAV. SEI’TEMISEI
I Do Hope It Is a Good Place,’ Says tin
White-Haired Daughter of Governor Lump
kin, Who Refuses To Be Awed oy the Sky
scrapers and Traffic Jams of Her Namesake
By TARLETON COLLIER.
• •* > v’
LiSi
M 'HT-
M us. MARTHA ATALANTA WILSON
LUMPK1N-OOMPTON is afraid -with
an uncertain little shake of her head—
that Atlanta is not as good ns it might be.
Mrs. Lumpkin-Compton has every right in
the world to express an opinion on this subject.
.You must know that she is the Martha of the
old Marthasville and the very same Atalanta
whose abbreviated name became that of the
city, the really great city, of Atlanta. And so
the little old white-haired lady in Oecatur can
talk as much aft she pleases about Atlanta, and
feverence will greet her opinion.
She talked a great deal about it last week.
Because, strangely enough, she had never in
nil her eighty-six years really seen Atlanta un
til one fine morning a few days ago, when she
was the guest of The Sunday American for a
long ride that bore her through the crowded
downtown streets, through crowded crossings
where her carriage had to stop while jams were
disentangled, and under the shadow of tower
ing office buildings. Then she rode out into the
more quiet, the greeuer streets of homes.
She had never seen any of it before. She
knew the old Atlanta, whose Peachtree street
merged into broad wooded fields, ami into a
vista of rolling hills about where Baker street
is to-day.
Rut this big. tmsy city—
Those who rode with her waited breathlessly
. for the thrill they thought was coming. Here
was her own city grown from a little town of
cow paths to a modern marvel of skyscrapers
and traffic policemen. Here was a time for
her pride to become ecstatic and emotional.
Here was the moment for a great denouement,
like that which would come perhaps when a
mother found that her long-lost child had
grown to be a President. Rip Van Winkle’s
was a tame situation compared to hers. Here
was a setting for a Scheherazade tale.
To have a great city named with your name,
to know that even if you were a little old
white-haired lady almost helpless, your name
would be perpetuated in a tremendous living
monument—
To know that your own city had grown to
heroic stature just oue week before, when by a
heartbreaking effort it had captured a South
ern League baseball pennant—
* Rut the little white-haired lady wasn’t even
visibly impressed. She saw it all, office build
ings. crowds, automobiles, and all. She was
held up for the first time in a traffic jam. She
felt for the first time the thrill of watching her
coachman duck hurriedly ahead of a moving
street car. She came out of placid Decatur and
saw it for the first time. She felt the visible
spirit of the town which will bear her name
forever, and forever grow greater.
Then they asked her what she thought of it.
“I do hope it is a good place,” she said, with
her eighty-six-year-old voice a little plaintive.
“From what they read me from the newspa
pers. though. I’m afraid it isn’t.”
• It was then she shook her head uncertainly.
“All this turkey-trotting and this baseball.
Don’t they think of anything else here? It cer
tainl.v doesn't look like it.
“And to think of the eighteen women killed
.last year, shot or stabbed or strangled to death.
And to think of the long trial that is just over,
and the crime that caused it.”
Then she guessed that much of her trepida
tion regarding Atlanta's morals was the news
papers’ fault.
"Folks want to lead these things,” she said,
“and the papers print them. Maybe the town
is getting along all right spiritually. Some peo
ple tell me it is. If it is, Pm glad.”
She saw her city for the first time -and
hopea that it was good. She was unabashed
by the noise and the roar, calm and judicial,
and. it must be cou/essed. critical.
The fleets of automobiles—long silent limous
ines: stocky, fussy runabouts; screeching ambu
lances—-did not impress her favorably. As a
matter of fact, she despises automobiles, and
all the money In her own city of Atlanta could
not tempt her to put her foot in one.
She thanks you very graciously for the in
citation to go a-driving. but if the bid specifies
an automobile, she must decline.
The baseball pennant victory does not impress
her.
* "Are you a ball man?” she asked her com
panion. suspiciously, when the conversation
drifted toward the glorious league finish.
•‘Baseball and these automobiles and these
high buildings all go together in my mind.”
So she doesn’t like the skyscrapers. She re
members, too. that once there were ox carts on
her Atlanta streets, safe ox carts, that didn't
jam up at the corners with infinite danger to
pedestrians, and with terrible fright for little
old ladies
As her carriage moved along the crowded
streets, it seemed that she was trying to reha
bilitate the unusual scenes with ghosts of old
Atlanta, with quaint visions of Marthasville.
She passed the New Kimball Hotel, and beck
oned the driver to stop. There she mused a
[while.
“Once I owned two lots here.” she said. “Mr.
Mitchell gave them to me when the town was
named Marthasville. After years, 1 traded them
for a fine horse. If was a good horse, but just
suppose I had kept the land until today!”
She sighed, a little wistfully, it seemed. The
Nile. old. lady is not overburdened with this
V- rld’s goods. In fact, she frankly confesses
poverty, and has a story of misfortune to u-ii
you. It is tl# story of a woman. U
helpless, forced to sell at an L
price the home of a lifetime becuu
University. endowed with a sort of
nent domain, wanted it.
She had reminiscences of other
town beside
cences were
apt to be when
and have seen much
spots about
' the hotel site. But the reininls-
scattered, and aimless, as they arc
you are eighty-six years old.
The upshot of them all
was that she would rather have her Athens
home hack than all Atlanta.
She is n sort of anachronism, this little, old
lad.v of the great city, whose dreams are laid
in the still places, In the old places where
there are no automobiles to frighten white-
haired folks, and no office buildings to bewilder
thorn. Her homo. also, is a reversion to former
times, and her household, too.
The household is just herself, who is a nearly
helpless, white-haired old lady, and a single
negro woman. The negro woman is named Km-
nin Foster, and is of a type fast disappearing
in the South. She is of the present generation,
born since “slav’y times,” but born of a mother
who belonged to Mrs. Compton as a slave before
the war. Emma came into a family whose
slaves were friends. Not a minute during the
day is she far from the little old lady. Miss
Compton walks always with Emma’s help. One
■ jHuSK' ■
Atalanta
Compton
is shown at
garden
planted at j
her Decatur
hand is on her stout stick, the other clinging
tight, like a baby’s, around the long middle lin
ger of the tall negro woman, who walks by
inches beside her.
Emma is a valuable part of the household.
The little, old lady would stop every vegetable
wagon that drives along her quiet street. The
vegetable wagons, she will tell you. are the one
comfort left her out of the past. She hopes
they will not go as the other things went, and
that she will nut be forced to go to market.
She is no great hand for shopping, having been
in only one store in all her life.
But we were talking of Emma. Mrs. Comp
ton hails the wagons, and Emma comes to her
side, fearful that the little old lady, with her
penchant for driving a bargain, will overstock
the larder.
“Miss,” says Emma, “we don’t need any more
now. You might gel a watermelon for Sunday,
or some corn. now. but that’s all.”
Emma knows that there are no watermelons
or corn in the wagon. And so “Miss” lets the
vegetable man proceed. Emma is a subtle, un
obtrusive, but invaluable aide, keeping the little
house in order, as eager to greet guests and dis
pense hospitality as “Miss” herself, and always
with an eye on the little old lady.
The two live in a cottage at fi Line street,
in Decatur. It is a modern cottage, it must l**
confessed. Mrs. Compton is a little resentful
of that fact, you can see. and once within her
gate she will begin to tell you of the wonderful
old home in Athens, with walls two feet thick.
But that wonderful home went when the State
1'niversity grew out around its dominion, and
now the little obi lady must live in a modern
cottage.
A rather pretentious garden and chicken run
surround the house. The garden is the great
source of the littJe lady’s present-day pride.
She will show you the apple trees, and the
quince trees, and the cherries and the tigs, all
planted by herself, and all growing rapidly to
a maturity as if they would 'hasten to fruit
before the white-haired lady of the house
would have no more use for them.
And the garden. It is a wonderful thing
to plan and direct such a garden at eighty-six.
There is lettuce and salads and col lards, not
to sj**ak of beans and corn, and garden “sass”
is general.
It is homelike enough, this home of the little
old lady who deserves so much from Atlanta.
Inside the home you step into an atmosphere
of the old South. Every stick of the furniture
rears itself with the dignity of age and aristo
cratic craftsmanship. Hardly a stick but i<
invested with a sanctity. The old piano, nearly
a hundred years old. is closed and locked, it
being the most sacred.
No; not the most sacred. That honor at
tache's itself without contest to tin* great couch
in the ball. it bears a modern appearanee.
with its leather covered cushion^. but Mrs.
Compton will tell you that once it was gen
uinely covered with the characteristic horse
hair fabric. And it was the scene of many
courtships, even that of Mrs. Compton -even
those of Mrs. Compton, it should be said, be
cause there were many beaux who came
a-courtlng the daughter of Governor Lumpkin.
“If this old couch could talk.” she mused.
Then .ilie broke off. and abruptly, irrelevantly,
with a fierce vigor, as if the memory of some
old heartache had come out <»f the past to
taunt her, she cried :
“Marry for love, and nothing else. do you
hear. There is nothing else.”
But about the house. True to the old South
ern tone, its guest room is its most pretentious,
with two large four-post lieds. and dressing
tables, chiffoniers and chairs of dark brown
oak and walnut. Nothing in the house savors
of the last half century. Tin* furniture came
from the revered home in Athens, where the
little old lady lived all her life, even when
she was a little girl and when her father called
her Atalanta l*»cause she danced like a sprite
out of the fairy books.
He was a great man himself, being (Jovernor
Lumpkin, twice the bead of the State, United
States Senator, and a figure of power and
prominence. But lie little dreamed perhaps
that tin* name his fancy conjured up for bis
daughter would live to a greater prominence
than his. When the prominent Mr. Lumpkin
heard that his third child was a girl. In* was
glad. He had dreamed of a child whom lie
would call Martha Wilson, after a lie loved rel
ative.
Mrs. Lumpkin, now, viewing the dainty little
stranger, thought herself of a name as dainty,
and insisted that the girl he named Euphrosyne
Merciful fate, however, with a realization that
Euphrosyne would never do as the name for
the South’s first city, allowed the father’s
wishes to prevail.
But Mr. Lumpkin was nothing if not ohival
rous.
“The tenderest man with women that I ever
knew,” says Mrs. Compton. Consequently, lie
di<l not count his victory in the matter of
nomenclature with much boastfulness. He
even puzzled over some means of pleas!mr Mrs.
Lumpkin, who still begrudged her Euphrosyne.
It developed that the little girl learned early
to dance like a daughter of tile gods.
"Wife,” said Mr. Lumpkin --(Jovernor Lump
kin, then, four years having passed “I have
a name for the little girl to please you. We
will call her Atalanta, after the light-footed
lady of the myth.”
And Mrs. Lumpkin straightaway forgot her
Euphrosyne. and was comforted. And with tin*
girl, a great city was named.
It .came aliout like this. The old Western
and Atlantic railroad was U*ing built, and it
came to an end at a spot in the foothills, sex-
oral miles from the Chattahoochee. It was a
spot of pine forests and of virgin underbrush,
ami it belonged to Sam Mitchell.
The road builders wanted to make Decatur
the end of tie* line, and to give tine to Decatur
all tlic prusp< rily that would ensue. But after
the manner of the old Southerners. Decatur
scorned the railroad and prosperity.
But Mr. Samuel Mitchell, who owned the
pine thicket, saw further, being of a more prac
tical mind, and he offered land for the houses
and shops at the terminus of the road. Soon
the little clump of houses and shops was dig
nified by the title of town, and they called it
Terminus.
Then thought of a real town* was engendered.
(Jovernor Lumpkin, then a practicing lawyer,
was. called to draw the charter and arrange
the thousand details that are incident to cre
ating a municipality, whether that municipality
grow to Im> a wonderful city or whether it grow
inward and dry up.
“Very good.” announced Mr. Sam Mitchell,
when it was done. He offered to pay (Jovernor
Lumpkin for the work, but the Governor would
have none of his fees.
“Then we’ll name the town after you,” said
Mr. Mitchell.
But the (Jovernor demurred. Already the\
had named a county after him. and i village in
South Georgia, and lie hankered for no such
monument. The future of the town seemed
doubtful, anyhow.
Then Mr. Mitchell was inspired to a stroke
of genius. He reached for the blank elnwter.
and wrote thereon the name “Marthasville.”
The Governor smiled, and was instantly re
warded for all his labor. It was a delicate
compliment Mr. Mitchell had paid him. select
ing the name of the Governor’s little daughter.
Still refusing a fee. the Governor agreed to
accept for his daughter the two town lots, on
the site of the preserit-da.v Kimball. These
were tin* lots which figured in the horse trad-
slip appears
at the age of
Calhoun
bottom is
Mrs. Compton
about to
can become great, she thinks, without so much
thought of high buildings and automobiles and
baseball. A city can he great and good as
well. She hopes Atlanta is.
After the city was named the second time
for her, she visited it once or twice, coining
here to the home of her relatives, the Wilsons,
some* of whom live here to-day. She is related,
by the way. als< to .Justice Lumpkin, of the
Supreme Court, to Mrs. w. L. Feel, and a
number of other prominent Atlantans.
But she visited the city seldom, prefering
the home in Athens which her famous father
built especially for her. He built it with thick
walls and stout rafters because sin* was always
afraid, so afraid of storms and lightning. When
he died and her husband died she kept board
ers among the* college Imivs, as did most of tin*
older, better citizens of the town, impoverished
as they wore after the war.
Then tin* university outgrew itself and its
hounds. It- authorities coveted the staunch
house near by. Then, several years ago. after
she had lost old “Buss,” the negro woman
whom she* had reared, and who to her was
the dearest person and most valuable compan
ion on earth, and after a series of other uiis
fortunes, the university corporation took her
home.
She can not understand yet how they made
her sell it for $10,000 But sin* found herself
out of the home in which she had lived uii
her life, out of the world in which she had
grown old. She came to Decatur at the in
stance of Colonel (Jeorge Napier, her “guardian.”
as she calls him, and found herself settled in
a new home.
It is very comfortable and pleasant, but still
it is not "her home.” It is near Atlanta, her
city, but that doesn’t matter. Her friends
won’t take her out to see Atlanta anyhow, she
complains in explaining the reason she liad
never l>een to town before this last week. Even
if they did. even If she lived In Atlanta, she
wouldn't Ik* happy.
“What’s tin* use fn having a big city named
after you, what’s tin* use of owning a city if
there is another place you call home and which
is tin* dearest spot in the world to you? If t
had my only wish. Bd still 1k» in Athens.
“1 had a fine home there. Did you ever sea
it? I hof>e you see it some day. There’s a
picture.
“Of course I’m proud of Atlanta. I think if)
is great. But 1 do hope so that it is a good
town spiritually. I think myself it could 1*«
better.”
All this was the result of Mrs. Compton’s
first extended meditation concerning her own
city, meditations inspired by the rifle she took
■just the other day in company with Mrs. L. L.
Sisson, of Kirkwood, one of her most intimate
friends, with devoted Emma Foster and u,
newspaper reporter.
Several years passed. Between Milledgeville
and Athens the Lumpkin family moved, between
home and tin* Governor’s mansion at the Capi
tal. Meanwhile Marthasville prospered, and
grew, and the townsmen became ambitious for
their town. The Atlanta spirit. It seemed, was
alive then.
Marthasville. was a name with a provincial
smack, they told one another. It must be
changed. And yet, Governor Lumpkin, their
hero, must not is* aggrieved at the change.
Well, the little girl had another name that was
high-sounding and vaulting enough. Atalanta
would suit the most ambitious. And Atalanta
the city liecame, and later, through the verbal
contraction of the unknowing. Atlanta.
"I think that unconsciously I shed my spirit
over the city with my name." said Mrs. Comp
ton the other day. when some of her friends
gave her a birthday party. She is proud of
the fact that she has been vigorous and ener
getic and tireless all her days, working for a
living when she could have rested idle, en
thusiastic always, and dynamic. She realizes
that Atlanta Is all of this, and she feels some
thing of kinship with it.
Still, it is a very big and busy city, and she
is a very tiny person, fond of the quiet places
ulh* U*j ux carls fur all her energy. A city
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