I remember the time we were alone in some remote canyon, and I watched, mesmerized, as he scaled the wall in front of me. The veins in his arms and legs were bulging, and every muscle in his sinewy body seized as he skillfully placed his hands and feet in all the right crevices, his naked flesh glowing with sweat.
I was awestruck by the grace and swiftness of his movements, his near-superhuman strength and endurance. Tears began pouring down my cheeks as I realized he was the most strikingly beautiful human being I had ever seen — still is.
No one on the street would give him a second glance: his initial presence is quiet and unobtrusive, and while reasonably handsome, his face is not unlike that of a million other men.
I still remember the first time I saw him walking in the door, though — I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I’d never experienced a moment so rapturous, and nothing has matched it since. My heart leapt inside me as if I had rediscovered a long-lost companion, although, to my knowledge, I’d never even seen him before.
Our connection wasn’t immediate at all: the first time we were alone together, we barely spoke a word. I was too busy trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of what my gut was screaming at me. Back then, I lacked the courage to trust my inner guidance.
In truth, he also irritated me a little — he was so distant and aloof, so maddeningly lost in his own thoughts until something triggered him to speak. Honestly, he was a lot like me. So this is how other people perceive me, I thought.
When the flame finally lit between us, though, the fire became all-consuming. He was the only person I’ve ever met whose mind seemed to operate on the same wavelength as mine. Our conversations were deep, absorbing, and intoxicating, often lasting for hours.
He made me feel rejuvenated and alive: his presence was warming, comfortable, and familiar. I quickly felt I knew everything about him, somehow — not his biographical details, necessarily, but every line written on his soul.
The act of discourse with him elevated me: having been stuck in an emotional and spiritual abyss for years, I witnessed new sparks of light and hope descending on me in the darkness.
I admired him for his honesty and directness, his gentleness and humility. I judged him to be a deeply honorable man, perhaps the only one I’ve ever met. For the first time in my life, I studied another person’s character and found my own lacking.
His integrity and sincerity were refreshing, and I recognized that the deception and hypocrisy I had long turned to for survival no longer served me. His essence inspired me to change my behavior, to honor my own quiet nature.
The way out of my malaise was still unclear, but my senses were quickened and my imagination aroused. Long fatigued and embittered by a succession of frustrations and defeats, I finally found the strength to make the first steps toward a higher path again — to dare believe such a path even existed.
His arrival signaled the start of a time when the fragile form of an existence that I had constructed for myself began to disintegrate. I can neatly divide my life between the period before I knew him and the many years since.
I knew his presence in my life would be brief: he was only stopping for a little while, on his way to the far-off desert.
When he eventually left, I dreamed that his old home had burned, and as I walked among the charred remains, I spotted a single chair, untouched by the flames. I sat in the chair, alone, and began to contemplate.
His memory still inhabits my mind at least once a day, and when it does, I say a prayer of grace for him.
I believe grace is transmitted to any person when it’s petitioned on their behalf by another. When I pray for him, however, I suspect the effect is especially potent, guided by a powerful but invisible line of connection that somehow links us — and always will.
Wherever he may be, wandering in that desert, a part of my soul is still with him. One day, perhaps, we’ll meet again.
Historical research often yields few clear-cut answers, particularly when it involves small towns or rural areas with scant documentation. Such is the case with the Bartow M. Blount Residence in East Point, Georgia, designed byG.L. Norrman — a structure that likely never existed.
Bartow M. Blount (1859-1942,1 pictured here2) was the president of Blount & Bell (later the White Hickory Wagon Company34), a buggy manufacturing company he established in Atlanta in 1878.56
In 1885, Blount relocated the factory to nearby East Point,78 and in 1891, at the age of 35, he managed 150 employees, with the facility cranking out 6,000 wagons per year.9
East Point is a small suburb of Atlanta that sits on the doorstep of the city, only five miles southwest of West End — don’t even try to figure that one out. In 1890, the town had a population of just 738,10 and Blount was unquestionably its leading citizen, later becoming its first mayor.1112
In August 1889, The Atlanta Constitution reported that Blount bought two acres of “the D’Alvigny property at East Point,” with plans to “erect a handsome residence” on the land.13
Several months later, in January 1890, the Constitution listed a “residence for Mr. Blount, East Point, $5,000” in a description of G.L. Norrman’s planned or ongoing projects.1415
Norrman and Blount were both founding members of the Capital City Club1617 and were undoubtedly on familiar terms, so Norrman would have been a natural choice as the home’s designer. However, there’s no evidence it was actually built.
The East Point Riot
East Point has always had a reputation for being one of Atlanta’s more rough-and-tumble neighbors, and local newspapers at the time were particularly keen on stories of the town’s criminal activity following the “East Point Riot” of September 1889, spurred by the attempted rape of a young White girl by a 14-year-old Black boy, who was subsequently lynched by a masked mob.18
Amid unsubstantiated rumors the next evening that the “negroes were congregating for the avowed purpose of avenging the death of the negro boy,” a group of ten or more White men rode through the streets of East Point and whipped fourteen Black men,19 an act that was harshly rebuked by the state’s governor20 and was lambasted in the pages of the Constitution.212223
One state senator seized the opportunity, pushing for a bill to allow emigration agents to operate in Georgia, saying that he wished “to provide that if any of the northern or western states should see fit to send here for our surplus negroes they may be able to do so…”, citing “the assault of a pure white girl by a negro at East Point, a rendezvous for mean negroes.”24 Doesn’t sound too different from a 21st-century politician.
Ten men were ultimately arrested for the whippings, but their cases were all dismissed by the court because there was — here’s a running theme — “no evidence.”2526 Good ol’ Southern justice.
Back to Blount
Needless to say, you’d have been unlikely to find much of Atlanta’s rich White social set in East Point circa 1890, so the city newspapers didn’t print many stories about elegant dinner parties or tasteful residences in East Point — probably because there weren’t any. With that being said, there aren’t any news items about Blount moving into a new home that year.
Later reports stated that Blount planned to build a residence at East Point in the fall of 1894,2728 although I can’t find any evidence that it was constructed at that time either. Was the home planned in 1894 the same one Norrman had on the boards in 1890, or entirely different? We’ll never know.
City directories are often helpful in determining a property’s existence, but in this case, they’re useless. By the late 1890s, East Point residents were included in Atlanta’s directories, but the town apparently lacked numeric addresses, so Blount’s residence was listed as simply “East Point”.293031
A convoluted entry from a manuscript titled Early History of East Point, Georgia, provides the following information about land along East Point Street:
Dr. C. D’Alvigny, Sr. was the next purchaser and builder. He bought the property that belongs to Mr. B.M. Blount, at the time, had it cleared up and built a home, part of which is the Blount home, Mr. Blount having added several other rooms, and improvements.32
Based on that description, it appears Blount never built the homes planned in 1890 and 1894, but instead expanded and renovated an existing dwelling built by D’Alvigny.
Blount and his family moved to Atlanta circa 1900,33 and in 1901, he bought the Milton Dargan Residence on Piedmont Avenue34 — also designed by Norrman — becoming the home’s third owner in just four years. The Atlanta rich changed homes like their underwear back then.
The Dargan house should really be called the Blount Residence, because the Blounts lived in it far longer than the Dargans — by about 30 years — ultimately selling it in 1932,35 when they returned to East Point.
The White Hickory Wagon Company fell into receivership in April 1929 after defaulting on a $70,000 loan3637 — who the hell was still buying wagons at that point? — and with the failure of his company just months before the Depression started, I suspect Blount’s final years were bleak.
When he died at East Point in 1942, Blount’s residence was listed as 303 East Point Street3839 (later 2861 East Point Street), an ugly little 19th-century cottage that still survives. The structure has a plain vernacular design with a few clumsy embellishments and piecemeal additions, and I assume it’s the same home Blount occupied throughout the 1890s.
References
Bartow Blount Funeral To Be At 11:30 Tuesday”. The Atlanta Journal, April 6, 1942, p. 7. ↩︎
Illustration credit: “The Delegation Which Will Represent Fulton County At The State Convention.” The Atlanta Journal, June 2, 1896, p. 1. ↩︎
“Increasing Capital.” The Atlanta Constitution, April 21, 1893, p. 5. ↩︎
“The Delegation Which Will Represent Fulton County At The State Convention.” The Atlanta Journal, June 2, 1896, p. 1. ↩︎
“Notice of Dissolution.” The Atlanta Constitution, December 21, 1878, p. 2. ↩︎
“A Lovely Suburb.” The Atlanta Constitution, April 26, 1891, p. 7. ↩︎
“Wait For The Wagon.” The Atlanta Constitution, September 26, 1886, p. 2. ↩︎
“A Lovely Suburb.” The Atlanta Constitution, April 26, 1891, p. 7. ↩︎
Thompson, Sam N.Early History of East Point, Georgia, or, “A Historical Sketch of Pioneer Days”. East Point, Georgia: East Point Historical Society (1984). ↩︎
E. Fogette. Sacred Heart Catholic Church (1885). Abbeville, South Carolina.12Transept on the southeast elevation of Sacred Heart Catholic ChurchSteeple on Sacred Heart Catholic ChurchRose window on the southwest facade of Sacred Heart Catholic Church
The following article, published in The Atlanta Journal in March 1890, describes a log cabin built outside of Vinings, Georgia, as a summer residence forA.E. Thornton, anddesigned byG.L. Norrman.23
Located in Cobb County, roughly 10 miles northwest of central Atlanta near the Chattahoochee River, Vinings was a tiny rural outpost in the 1890s; today it’s a sprawling suburb of leafy neighborhoods and office parks.
Approximate Location of Thornhurst
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, many of Atlanta’s prominent citizens maintained “summer homes” in the surrounding countryside, typically only a few miles outside the city for easy access via wagon or train. Vinings, for example, was a stop on the Western and Atlantic Railway.4
And Albert E. Thornton (1851-1907, pictured here5) was as prominent as they got — one of those deep-pocketed men who seemed to have a hand in just about every conceivable business enterprise.
By 1890, Thornton served as president of four cotton oil mills,6 president of the Land Title Warranty and Safe Deposit Company in Atlanta,78 and vice president of the American Pine Fibre Company in Wilmington, North Carolina.9
The Atlanta National Bank,14 founded in 1865 by his father-in-law, Alfred Austell15
Thornton would have been well-acquainted with G.L. Norrman’s work, since Norrman designed the renovation for Atlanta National Bank in 1886,16 as well as residences for one of its chief employees, Paul Romare. Norrman and Thornton were also members of the Capital City Club.17
About the Writer
It was a slow news day when the Journal published this front-page article, which describes nearly every aspect of “Thornhurst”, Thornton’s 600-acre country estate at Vinings, in exhaustive detail — including the family dogs.
The author of the article was Walter H. Howard (1870-1902, pictured here18), who at 19 years old was the youngest member of the Journal‘s writing staff.19
Howard eventually became the city editor of the Journal before moving to New York and working for The New York Journal, notably as a war correspondent in Cuba during the Spanish-American War and later as a foreign correspondent in London.20
Howard then returned to Atlanta and served as an editor for the short-lived Atlanta Daily News,21 but like so many hot-shot journalists, he burned out fast, dying at the age of 32 after a years-long battle with tuberculosis.2223
Following his death, Howard was described as having “the energy of a dynamo,”24 yet it’s hard to find much of it in this plodding, prosaic piece that has all the rhetorical brilliance of a typical college freshman’s essay. My favorite line: “chimneys that one reads about, or, perhaps, dreams about but never sees.”
Howard’s depiction of Thornhurst as “a log cabin in the mountains” is also amusing: there’s exactly one small mountain at Vinings — Mount Wilkinson — although I would characterize it as a large hill. Today, the area is as hot and polluted as the rest of Atlanta, but you can be sure it was never a place for “cool draughts of pure mountain air.”
Thoughts on Thornhurst
The construction dates for Thornhurst are unclear, but the project was first announced in December 1889, and the article here was published in March 1890, so the homewaslikely completed in 1890.
Another description of the structure from October 1891 — nearly two years after this article was published — revealed that the interior had yet to be fully furnished, and that Thornton and his wife, Leila, spent “some few days out of every week or so there.”25
The same report said the Thorntonsplanned to build an “elegant residence”on the property, at “a point of commanding prominence overlooking the Chattahoochee river and some very rugged country.”26Those plans apparently never materialized, but presumably Norrman would also have been the designer for the larger home.
Norman’s specialty was elegant residences, so it must have been a unique challenge for him to design a six-room log cabin that “preserved some characteristics of antebellum days,”27 as the 1891 article put it, using old-fashioned building techniques described as “peculiar to the backwoods.”28
The latter article provided a little more detail about the home’s construction that wasn’t included here, notably the following:
“The space in the walls between the logs are daubed with mud, and the entire surface inside and out is shelaced [sic], adding infinitely both to the beauty and the durability of the structure. The roof is of thatch.
The rustic effect has been carried out in detail on the interiors. Here the mantels are of barked ash poles, notched and rugged. The floors of the cottage are of polished wood.”29
Thornhurst’s Fate
From the 1890s to the 1900s, local social columns regularly reported on the Thorntons’ excursions to Thornhurst, where they often hosted large parties and social gatherings in the summer months, including at least one barbecue in 1906 for the employees of the Atlanta National Bank.30
As the Journal noted in 1900:
“Among the country places of Atlanta persons, “Thornhurst,” owned by Mr. and Mrs. Albert E. Thornton, arouses pleasant memories in the minds of a number of Atlantians who have visited this home during the summer.”31
The last mention of Thornhurst in an Atlanta newspaper appeared in January 1908,32 nearly a year after A.E. Thornton’s death.33 Leila Thornton inherited the entirety of her husband’s estate, including Thornhurst and other real estate holdings, which the Journal said made her “perhaps the wealthiest woman in the state.”34
The final published reference I can find to Thornhurst is in the Summer Social Register of 1911,35 and beyond that, the date of the cabin’s demise is unclear.
When Leila Thornton died in 1931, she was a resident of the Biltmore Hotel in Atlanta,36 and it appears the family’s estate in Vinings had already long been sold off, with the cabin presumably demolished.
Coincidentally, a Log Cabin Drive exists in Vinings today, named after the Log Cabin Community Church, which was founded in 1912 and housed in a log cabin. Based on a photograph of the original church, it wasn’t the same as Thornhurst.
I guess Vinings had more than one log cabin.
A Place Of Beauty.
An Atlanta Gentleman’s Country Home On The Banks Of The Chattahoochee.
Mr. A.E. Thornton’s Country Residence Near Vining’s Station–An Elegant Log House Built on the Top of a Hill Overlooking the River.
Written for The Journal.
There is in course of construction on the banks of the Chattahoochee river, one mile from Vinings station, an ideal country home of a city gentleman.
The place is owned by Mr. A.E. Thornton, president of the Atlanta Cotton Seed Oil company. It consists of six hundred acres of well wooded land among the small mountains to the right of the little station; at a place where the river bends well towards the south in its course.
The house is on the summit of a tall hill near the river side. At the bottom of the hill a clear spring branch threads its way through a mass of undergrowth and finally mingles its waters with those of the Chattahoochee.
The house is nothing more than a log cabin, but it is the most elegant one in the state. It is a story and a half high and contains six rooms, four down stairs and two above.
Every piece of wood that is being used in the construction of this picturesque building is fine, and was cut and prepared for use on the place. For this purpose a small steam saw mill was put up at the foot of the hill by the side of the branch, and all of the logs and planks used on the place are sawed in it.
The House Itself.
The log house is built upon a stone foundation. The first story is built of evenly selected logs, lain one upon the other, and the small crevices between them neatly filled with hardened cement. The upper half story is covered on the outside with fancy shingles.
The bark is scraped off of all the logs, and they are neatly scraped, but unpainted.
And then the chimneys. They are chimneys that one reads about, or, perhaps, dreams about but never sees. There are two of them, one at each end of the house. They are regular old fashioned log chimneys with the cracks stopped up with cement. They are what are called double chimneys, furnishing a fireplace for each of the four down stairs rooms.
These chimneys are four feet deep and sixteen feet wide at the base, and taper gently to the top, where they are four by nine feet. The logs of which they are built decrease in size toward the top so that the appearance of the chimneys is entirely symmetrical.
The Broad Porches.
The house has two very broad porches. The front porch faces the west, giving a magnificent view of the glorious sunsets to be seen in these mountains. The posts supporting the roof of this porch are nicely-selected pine saplings, sawn so that the knotty branches form artistic rustic brackets.
The back porch is a broad, open plaza, fourteen by forty-two feet, without any roof. It is inclosed by rustic banisters and railings of knotty pine branches.
From this porch, through a vista dimmed by intervening trees, is the view of the river, about a hundred yards off. Mr. Thornton’s place has about one mile of river front, and the grounds from the house to the river will be cleared out nicely so that the view will be unobstructed.
Inside The House.
The inside of the house is finished with an exactness and nicety that is charming to observe.
The walls and ceilings of the rooms and hallway are cleanly and smoothly scraped and painted white.
The very broad inviting hallway, leading through the house from one porch to another, gives passage to cool draughts of pure mountain air.
Everything inside the rooms is arranged with the same artistic roughness as on the outside. The mantles are of pine and adorned with rough, knotty brackets. The large, old-fashioned hand-irons in the fireplace, across which are laid large logs of hickory and oak wood complete a picture of one of those comfortable rooms.
The stairway leading to the second floor is constructed in keeping with the rest of the house. The post at the foot and banisters are of the same knot covered pine branches, presenting a very pretty rustic effect.
The interior of the two rooms upstairs is finished with the same comfort and neatness as those below. Amply large closets are set on either side of these rooms and pretty little dormer windows looking out over the mountains on one side, and the river on the other.
The Water Works.
This log house of Mr. Thornton’s will have a complete system of water works in it.
And the water will be the purest spring water, cool and refreshing.
On the top of one of the mountains is the large, clear spring from which the water will flow. At this spring a tank has been placed, the bottom of which is sixteen feet above the top of the house. From this tank pipes will convey the water to the house, about a quarter of a mile distant.
The idea of having waterworks in a log cabin in the mountains is quite something new.
The new waterworks plant of the city of Atlanta will be on the Chattahoochee river just one mile and a half above Mr. Thornton’s place.
The Out Houses.
Just outside the house, near the open plaza, is a neat little kitchen and a servant’s house. The yard is surrounded by a tall picket fence, and will be laid off and planted in nothing but grasses and natural wild flowers.
The place has over a hundred good chickens on it and a separate inclosure [sic] has been built for them.
Then the dogs.
Mr. Thornton has a pack of five little beagle hounds, the smallest, prettiest little fellows imaginable. There are but very few of these dogs around Atlanta, and to follow them in a chase after a rabbit is an interesting experience. The little fellows never get tired. They will run a rabbit all day and never abandon the chase until it is killed or captured.
Besides these there are two fine fox hounds, and several other dogs, setters and pointers, will be taken to the place. A kennel has been built for the dogs as large as a stable, and an inclosure built around it.
The Stable And Orchard.
On the northern slope of the mountain, only a short distance from the house, is the stable.
In this Mr. Thornton will keep his cows and two carriage horses, his carriage, a wagon, and other farm implements. This barn and stable is perfectly arranged.
Below the stable is a newly planted orchard of fine peach, apple and pear trees, grapes and scuppernongs. The orchard is regularly and beautifully laid off and will be sown in clover. It contains about six acres of well-cleared land.
The place is peculiarly picturesque and beautiful. The buildings are all constructed upon a similar style of architecture, and the uniformity with which the work, the designs, and the arrangements of the buildings have been perfected and carried out is an evidence of Mr. Thornton’s excellent taste and good judgment.
Mr. George A. Yarbrough is the polite and efficient contractor who has so ably carried out this beautiful work for Mr. Thornton.
During the approaching summer Mr. and Mrs. Thornton will entertain some of their friends at their country seat in true English style.
Bruce & Morgan. George E. King Residence (1890). Inman Park, Atlanta.123456Oriel window on the north facade of the George E. King ResidenceGable on the west facade of the George E. King ResidenceAttic dormer and cornice on the east elevation of the George E. King ResidenceFretwork rails on the second-floor porch of the George E. King ResidenceLooking at the first-floor porch of the George E. King Residence from the northeast
References
“From Our Notebook.” The Atlanta Constitution, March 13, 1890, p. 4. ↩︎
“The Inman Park Sale.” The Atlanta Journal, April 21, 1890, p. 3. ↩︎
“Real Estate Sales.” The Atlanta Constitution, May 21, 1890, p. 6. ↩︎
“Hundreds of Homes”. The Atlanta Journal, July 30, 1890, p. 1. ↩︎
“Atlanta Building Up.” The Atlanta Constitution, October 3, 1890, p. 3. ↩︎
“Inman Park Items.”The Atlanta Constitution, December 19, 1890, p. 9. ↩︎
The following autobiographical account was written byPaul Romare (1828-1904, pictured here) of Atlanta and published in 1892-93.
Romare was born in Sweden and raised in a working-class family, butlater became an American citizen and one of Atlanta’s most prominent social figures, serving nearly 40 years at the Atlanta National Bank.
At the time he wrote this sketch, Romare was employed as the bank’s vice president, but was appointed president in 1903. When he died just a year later, it was reported that “no one had more friends than he.”1
Romare’s story provides a fascinating glimpse into his circuitous journey to the Deep South, an uncommon destination for Swedish immigrants in the 19th century.
The story is particularly interesting because of the many parallels between Romare’s life and that of his younger friend and fellow Swede, G.L. Norrman, whose own coy autobiographical sketch a few years later was much less revealing.
I kinda wish Norrman had taken a cue from Romare and shared more details of his early life, but alas, the enduring mystery of the man is part of his appeal.
Mr. Paul Romare.
Paul Romare, Vice-President of the Atlanta National Bank, whose history being somewhat out of the usual line, may prove a matter of interest to his many friends and the readers of these pages. We give his life and life work in his own words:
I am a Swede, born on the shores of the Cattegat, in the town of Tonkon, Province of Skane, Sweden, November 20, 1928.
I was the youngest of five children, three brothers and one sister. From the age of six to fourteen I attended the village school, where I obtained a knowledge of arithmetic, geography, and history. At fourteen I left school and began life in earnest. My father, Paulus Romare, was Captain of a merchant ship for over thirty years. Too young to launch out for myself, I went with him as cabin boy to New York in 1843.
Of course the impressions of this first sight of America and an American city were not only deep but naturally enchanting to a young lad such as I was. None but a foreigner can appreciate the newness and beauty of a place like New York, and right then I felt that at some time this to me new world must and should furnish a home.
Of course I returned with my father in Sweden, and remained at home one summer. The next fall I sailed again as cabin boy with an older brother, who was the Captain of a ship. We sailed from Stockholm to Marseilles, returning home in the summer of ’45. That same summer I sailed again with a friend of my father’s for the Island of Java, touching Cape of Good Hope going and returning.
Resting a while in Stockholm I sailed with the same Captain for New York once more, and from New York to Rotterdam, Holland. While in this city the First Mate left the ship and I was given his position at the age of eighteen. However, by this time I had considerable acquaintance with the sea and sea-faring, and had gathered some knowledge of navigation from my father, brother, and present Captain. We returned to America, visiting Philadelphia and New York, and while in this city that had for me so many charms an incident occurred which changed my future and indeed my entire life. My Captain and I had a quarrel, and vowed I would never return with him to Sweden. Of course I kept my decision a secret for prudential motives.
Of course I ran considerable risk, but I went at once to see a friend, a Swede who live in New York for some years. I told him I was determined to remain in America. He promised to come to our ship that night in a boat and help me off. Like a true Swede, he kept his word, and I was soon securely hid in his home.
Just at this time, unfortunately for me, my brother’s ship was in the harbor of New York ready for sea. He was duly notified by the Captain of my escapade. He hastened to our mutual friend, feeling sure he knew of my whereabouts. I heard him coming; I knew his step. A closet being near, I opened the door, went in and was secure and out of sight. I could even hear his voice and what he said. My friend was astonished at my leaving; it was all news to him. I knew from what my brother said he did not believe one word, but seeing search in vain he left, and before next morning he was far out on the Atlantic. The ship I had so hastily abandoned also left in a day or two.
Left now absolutely master of myself and fortune at the mature age of eighteen, a stranger in a strange land, not one word of English at my command, I began to turn my thoughts to the serious side of my situation. That America was to be the home of my adoption was absolutely decided. That a knowledge of the English language was absolutely necessary to my progress in the new home was also decided. What to do while gaining that knowledge was the next serious question. This last query was soon settled by my shipping on an American brig as a sailor, bound for Mobile. On that trip I took my first lessons in English. On the vogage I found Dana‘s “Two Years Before the Mast.” Being far more familiar with the sea than I was with the land, the book naturally caught my fancy, being the plain and simple experience of a man who was two years before the mast. How I read it, now after the lapse of so many years, I cannot tell, but that I did read it and enjoyed it I am certain. Having no one near me who knew one word of my native tongue, I soon from sheer necessity had quite a vocabulary at my command.
I made various trips after this, crossing the Atlantic at least a dozen times; also had two or three trips to the West Indies and Mexico–on one of these trips taking army supplies to troops in Mexico. My last trip was from Charleston to Havana and back to Charleston, and in this city I was attacked with rheumatism, upon which my slight misfortune hinged my future plans.
One summer day, stopping at a cigar store on Broad street, I met a gentleman, a Swede, who had recently purchased large interests in the iron works at Cooperville, South Carolina. I had seen him before, and being countrymen, we were mutually drawn to each other. Approaching me, he said in Swedish, “Come, go with me to the iron works; you will soon get well, and I am in need of an interpreter. I cannot speak English, and I need a good man who can help me manage the business. I decided to go, and at the iron works took my first lessons in native business, first clerking at the supply store and then keeping books for the company. I was there from 1850 to 1854. It was then a prosperous concern, working about three hundred hands and manufacturing pig iron, bar iron, and hollow-ware.
In the summer of 1854, having laid aside some money, I resolved to see my native land once more. I left New York the last of April and reached my old home on Sunday, May 15. I notified no one of my coming. Reaching our house I rang the bell, asking for Captain Romare. My father did not know me, but in a little while all the household gathered to rejoice over the long lost and long regretted.
After a most delightful visit I returned to the home of my adoption. That fall I accepted a position in the Bank of Chester from the President, Mr. George S. Cameron, who was a friend of mine as long as he lived. I remained in Chester till the commencement of the war, when I enlisted with the old Chester Blues, the first company that left our place. I remained with that company till I was detailed for service in the War Department at Richmond, and was there till the evacuation, when I left with the retreating army, and in a few weeks the surrender at Appomattox ended the struggle.
In 1863, I was married in Grace Church, Camden, to Miss Lucy Fisher. I returned to Camden, and in the fall came to Atlanta to accept a position in the Atlanta National Bank, offered by my old and true friend, George S. Cameron, who with General Alfred Austell were the founders of that bank immediately after the war. I may mention that I received the first deposit ever made in that bank.
The rise, success, and prosperity of the institution are too well-known to be repeated. My life and life-work I may truly say has been here. For more than a quarter of a century my days have been spent in this bank, and to it has been given my best of life and time. Those who began here when I did are few indeed. I may say that I am the only one of the original officers and stockholders that is still interested in the bank.
I have made my home in Atlanta; here I expect to spend the rest of my life, and departing bequeath to this city and her people my fondest wishes and blessings.2
Finch, Alexander, Barnes, Rothschild & Paschal (FABRAP). Bunger-Henry Chemical Engineering and Ceramics Engineering Building (1964). Georgia Institute of Technology, Atlanta.12Windows on the Bunger-Henry BuildingSun screens on the Bunger-Henry BuildingLooking at the Bunger-Henry Building from the southeast
Sometimes late at night Or very early in the morning In that twilight between sleep and waking I hear the faintest little signals — Transmissions from some place close, Yet I can never trace their origin. It doesn’t happen very often: There’s usually too much noise.
If I could shut up the world, I would — I’m tired of hearing our words. Years of yapping have yielded nothing But spectacle and heartache. It’s time to close our nasty mouths And seek shelter in quietness; To commune in solace, And listen to the wisdom of silence.
Smallwood, Reynolds, Stewart & Stewart. Jefferson-Pilot Building (1990). Greensboro, North Carolina.123
References
Schlosser, Jim. “Building designers to draw from past”. Greensboro News & Record (Greensboro, North Carolina), February 26, 1988, p. A12. ↩︎
Schlosser, Jim. “Jefferson-Pilot building provides another trade-off”. Greensboro News & Record (Greensboro, North Carolina), July 3, 1988, p. D1. ↩︎
Hopper, Kathryn. “New Jefferson-Pilot building officially a part of downtown”. Greensboro News & Record (Greensboro, North Carolina), July 22, 1990, p. D1. ↩︎
