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3 F 3 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 * # f