The following article was published in The Atlanta Constitution in 1899 and was written byWallace Putnam Reed (1849-1903), a writer and historian who regularly contributed to the Constitution and other newspapers in the Southeastern United States.
In this article, Reed (pictured here1) recounts the events that led to the 1889 publication ofHow I Escaped, a semi-autobiographical novel written byW.H. Parkins, one of Atlanta’s earliest architects.
Five years after Parkins’ death, Reed was much more honest about the architect’s writing ability than in his gushing review of the novel ten years earlier. Funny how that works.
Also of note is that Reed claims to have edited the original version of Parkins’ manuscript, which is now housed at the Atlanta History Center, and that Parkins sent the manuscript toH.I. Kimball, the owner and developer of Atlanta’s Kimball House Hotel.
The Kimball connection was omitted in Reed’s 1889 review of the novel, possibly because Kimball left Atlanta in 1886 amid some controversy,2 which would still have been fresh in local readers’ minds.
By the time he died of stomach cancer in 1895, however, Kimball had become a distant memory in the city — the Journal noted at his death that “little was known of him since he went north a few years ago.”3
As Reed recounts here, Kimball forwarded Parkins’ manuscript to Archibald Clavering Gunter, who turned Parkins’ biographical narrative into a substantially altered work of historical fiction, leading Parkins to eventually conclude that he “had done himself an injustice.”
Reed, who was also a close friend of G.L. Norrman, here describes Parkins as “a straightforward man, eminently sincere and truthful,” lamenting that his “truthful narrative of adventure was lost to the reading world.” Conversely, his characterization of Gunter is quite damning: “He cared nothing for history.”
Article Excerpt:
About ten years ago the late William H. Parkins was among the leading architects of this city. He was a man of talent, and had some natural literary gifts which would have attracted attention if they had been cultivated.
One day Mr. Parkins paid me a visit, and placed in my hands a bulky manuscript.
“I have written a book,” he said, “and I want you to revise it. You see I wrote it with a pencil, at odd moments, and I know that it is not in proper shape for the printer. The arrangement of the chapters and the paragraphs requires attention, and perhaps some portions of the book should be condensed.”
I glanced over the work, and found that it was a graphic narrative of the author’s adventures during the war, when his devotion to the union cause led him to face many dangers. Leaving his home in South Carolina, he walked through the forests and mountains of western North Carolina and east Tennessee, and after passing through many perils he finally succeeded in reaching the federal lines.
It was an exciting chronicle, realistic and true, and the rattle and clash of sabers and the roar of the big guns made it a veritable prose epic of war.
I gladly agreed to transcribe the manuscript, making such changes as I thought necessary. The task occupied many long nights, and when it was finished, the result was a pile of copy which would have made a volume of about 350 pages.
The question of publication then came up. It was difficult for an unknown writer to find a good publisher, and Mr. Parkins knew it.
After some unsatisfactory correspondence, the author sent his manuscript to his friend, Mr. H.I. Kimball, who was then in New York.
Mr. Kimball was not a very busy man, and literary matters were not in his line. But a happy thought struck him. He heard people everywhere talking about Gunter and his novels, and he saw on every news stand big stacks of yellow-covered volumes bearing the titles “Mr. Barnes of New York” and “Mr. Potter of Texas.”
Inquiry brought out the fact that Gunter was his own publisher–a pushing, active man who knew how to get before the public and sell his books.
So the package from Mr. Parkins was turned over to the story writer and publisher for examination.
One evening Mr. Gunter found it hard to employ an idle hour. He had absolutely nothing to do, and, picking up the Parkins manuscript, he decided to glance over a few pages.
At the end of fifteen minutes he settled down in a quiet place and began to read critically and closely. An hour rolled by and he was still reading.
He was summoned to supper, but he did not move. A second summons came.
“I am not going to supper,” said Mr. Gunter, “this is the most fascinating thing I have seen in a long time, and I can’t lay it down until I have finished it.”
The reader was then left undisturbed, and at a late hour that night he carefully replaced the manuscript in its pasteboard box, and then sat down to write a letter to Mr. Parkins.
With a keen eye to business, the New Yorker offered to publish the book, provided the author would allow him to introduce a few sensations, and make it a novel instead of a matter-of-fact record. He also stipulated that the title page should read as follows: “How I Escaped; by William H. Parkins. Edited by Archibald Clavering Gunter.”
If these conditions were accepted, the publisher agreed to bring out the book in yellow covers and push its sale, paying the author a liberal royalty.
The Atlantian gave his consent to this arrangement, and in the course of a few weeks a new novel was on sale everywhere.
It had a big circulation in this country, Canada and England. Doubtless at least 100,000 copies were sold.
This was a brilliant success for an Atlanta novel, but Mr. Parkins was not entirely satisfied.
He was a straightforward man, eminently sincere and truthful, and after he had naturally considered the matter, he came to the conclusion that he had done himself an injustice in allowing a really valuable contribution to our war history to be spiced with thrilling fiction and published as a story.
He was seriously contemplating the publication of his manuscript in its original form when his last illness caused the idea to be abandoned.
It is a pity that this truthful narrative of adventure was lost to the reading world. As a picture of every day life in the confederacy and between the lines, it has never been equaled, and it would have been regarded as a work of permanent historical value.
Of course Mr. Gunter did his best from his point of view. He cared nothing for history. With him a sensational novel–one that would make the reader’s hair stand on end–beat history out of sight.
Then, his idea was to secure large and rapid sales for the book, and if facts stood in the way, he was ready to smash them at once and substitute his lurid fictions.
It must be admitted that he did his work well in the changes which he made in “How I Escaped.” Some of his scenes and incidents would have done credit to Dumas himself.
Mr. Gunter has been conspicuously successful as a popular writer, and he has made a fortune from his books. Yet it is a singular fact that he had no literary training and he was a middle-aged man when he came to the front with his first novel.4
W.H. Parkins. Main Building at Atlanta Baptist Seminary, later Samuel T.Graves Hall at Morehouse College (1890). Atlanta.123
The Background
The following article was published in The Atlanta Constitution in 1889 and reviews a semi-autobiographical novel written byWilliam Henry Parkins (1836-1894),45 known professionally as W.H. Parkins.
Parkins (pictured here) was Atlanta’s first architect, establishing a firm in the city by 1868.67
Before moving to Atlanta, Parkins worked as a carpenter in Columbia, South Carolina, in 1860,8 and was previously employed as a railroad engineer.
There’s no evidence that Parkins received any formal training before offering his services as an architect, although that was typical for Southern designers at the time.
Less typical was that Parkins was born in New York and was a Union sympathizer during the Civil War. When fighting began in South Carolina, he fled through North Carolina and Virginia to reach Federal lines, but was captured by Confederate forces and conscripted into the Confederate army.9
Following imprisonment in Richmond, Virginia, Parkins escaped again and fled with a group of men across North Carolina and Tennessee, aided by a covert network of Union supporters in the Appalachians, which was later said to be “thick with Unionists.”10
Parkins ultimately entered the Union-friendly state of Kentucky and later reached New York, returning to the Deep South after the War.11
Griffith Thomas with W.H. Parkins. Kimball House Hotel (1870-1883). Atlanta.121314
Parkins’ loyalty to the Union seems to have had little to no impact on his business as a Reconstruction-era architect in Atlanta, but one reason the city rebounded so swiftly after the War was that Atlantans have always valued money and status over personal conviction. Whereas carpetbaggers were widely reviled by most Southerners, in Atlanta, they were openly embraced.
It also didn’t hurt that there were only two or three practicing architects in Atlanta through the 1870s, and a lack of competition allowed Parkins to secure several choice commissions, including the Peachtree Street residence that later became the Governor’s Mansion (1869-1922),15 and construction supervision of the original Kimball House Hotel (1870-1883),16 designed by Griffith Thomas of New York.17
Based on illustrations and images, Parkins was the more talented of Atlanta’s designers at the time, but that’s not saying much. At best, his early designs appear to have been competent vernacular executions of the Gothic, Italianate, and Second Empire styles, comparable to those found in any Southern city.
W.H. Parkins. John H. James House, later Governor’s Mansion (1869-1922). Atlanta.181920212223
Parkins began contending with health issues in the early 1880s, but he also struggled to adapt to changing architectural tastes.
For the second half of his career, his attempts at the more sophisticated styles of the late 19th century were regrettable.
In 1879, Parkins formed a brief partnership withA.C. Bruce,2425 a Confederate veteran who had already established a successful solo practice in eastern Tennessee. Based on the firm’s surviving works, it appears Bruce handled the bulk of the design duties.
The firm disbanded in 1882, when Parkins’s ill health forced him to retire to southwest Georgia, where he operated a former plantation located outside the town of Morgan.26 Parkins had owned the farm since at least 18792728 and was later described as a “well-to-do planter.”29
W.H. Parkins. Frank Pulaski Residence (1881). Cuthbert, Georgia.3031323334
His initial retirement only lasted a few years, and in 1885, Parkins rented out his farm35 and returned to Atlanta to practice withL.B. Wheeler,363738 another architect from New York, forming a two-year partnership.
Parkins’s association with Wheeler resulted in his design for the Randolph County Courthouse (1886)39 in the southwest Georgia town of Cuthbert, and culminated with his work on the Oglethorpe County Courthouse (1887) in Lexington, Georgia.40
Parkins left the firm to establish the Atlanta Construction Company,4142 which collapsed six months later,43 although he maintained a solo practice in Atlanta until 1890, living part-time in the city to conduct business, while spending the remainder of his time at his farm.
W.H. Parkins. Terrell County Courthouse (1893). Dawson, Georgia.4445
As construction finished on his last known work in Atlanta, the Atlanta Baptist Seminary (1890, pictured at top), Parkins permanently relocated to southwest Georgia,4647 where he designed the final projects of his career, including the Dooly County Courthouse (1891) in Vienna and the Terrell County Courthouse (1891) in Dawson, both atrocious, fumbling attempts at the Romanesque Revival.
Even before Parkins died in 1894, he had become a relic of another era in Atlanta—many of his buildings in the city had already been destroyed, and since he hadn’t been a permanent resident for several years, his death received brief coverage in the local newspapers.
On the campus of Atlanta’s Morris Brown College stands the shell of Gaines Hall (1869), a building supervised by Parkins based on a Cincinnati firm’s design.48 The structure was gutted by fires in 2015, 2023, and 2024,495051 and is currently collapsing into a pile of bricks.
W.H. Parkins. Dooly County Courthouse (1891). Vienna, Georgia.5253
In the 1880s, Parkins wrote a manuscript detailing his experiences during the Civil War, which he titled Hiding Out or the Adventures of a Confederate Conscript: A Thrilling Narrative of the War Between the States.54
Unfortunately, Parkins was as skilled at writing as he was at architecture, and he convinced Wallace Putnam Reed of Atlanta to edit the manuscript for him.
Reed later charitably recalled that Parkins “had some literary gifts which would have attracted attention if they had been cultivated,” and reported that Parkins sent the edited manuscript toH.I. Kimball, the New York-based owner and developer of Atlanta’s Kimball House Hotel, with whom he was briefly associated in the firm of Kimball, Wheeler & Parkins.
Kimball then forwarded the manuscript toArchibald Gunter, a popular author and playwright of the late 19th century. Although virtually unknown today, Gunter had recently published two massive best-selling fiction books, Mr. Barnes of New York and Mr. Potter of Texas, and was eager for quick follow-up success.
Gunter asked Parkins’s permission to publish his biographical story as a novel, with the provision that Gunter could serve as an “editor”, adding “a few dramatic and fictive flourishes and some bright dialogue,” according to the article included here.
The resulting novel, How I Escaped, was published in the United States and England in 1889. As editor, Gunter substantially altered Parkins’s biographical narrative by adding multiple characters and side plots, which led Parkins to ultimately regret his decision.
The exact sales numbers for the book are difficult to determine, but it doesn’t appear to have been the success Gunter hoped for, especially compared to his previous releases. In 1899, Reed claimed the novel sold “at least 100,000 copies”—a respectable figure, but hardly remarkable.
W.H. Parkins of Parkins & Bruce. James Fricker Residence (1879). Americus, Georgia.55
Critical reviews of How I Escaped were also decidedly mixed. The World in New York wrote a glowing review of the novel and singled out the story’s “remarkable race-freak, the red-headed negro”—an invention of Gunter’s—as “a beacon of fun and frolic”.56
The People of London dismissed the novel’s trite plotting and was especially critical of the black servant character, named Caucus, using an offensive term to summarize his portrayal:
“Mr. Parkins is not to blame . . . for treading again the well-trodden ground, but he might have hit upon a more novel device than the troubles of a couple of lovers whose families are arrayed on opposite sides. The n****r element, too smacks of the stale; ever since Uncle Tom appeared the public in both hemispheres have been surfeited with the “colored gemman.” . . . We do hope and trust that we shall never again come across a novel in which a faithful and upright, but terribly tiresome, negro everlastingly exclaims “Golly!”57
The Glasgow Herald was equally scathing: “The author’s mechanical method is ill-concealed… the pieces are joined badly, producing the effect of one of those children’s picture puzzles which, when put together, present a surface intersected by ragged lines.”58
Of course, Atlanta’s newspapers in the 19th century were absolutely incapable of objectivity, existing primarily to extol the city’s self-proclaimed preeminence in the New South.
It’s no surprise, then, that the following review of How I Escaped is absolutely gushing, written by Wallace Putnam Reed under the pen name of “The Old Colonel”.59
“How I Escaped.”
Mr. Parkins, Of Atlanta, Writes A War Novel.
A Story of a Book’s Evolution, Showing How the Author Turned a Stirring Historical Narrative Into a Thrilling Romance of Southern Life in the Sixties, and Rivalled “Mr. Barnes, of New York.”
An architect and an author!
The two lines of business are dissimilar and yet it is possible to combine them.
Mr. W.H. Parkins, the well known and popular Atlanta architect, has tried the experiment, and he has no reason to feel dissatisfied.
Some time ago it occurred to Mr. Parkins that a narrative of his adventures during the war in South Carolina, giving an account of his unpleasant experiences as a union man in a secession community, his sufferings and trials and final escape, would be of some interest to the public.
After thinking the matter over, Mr. Parkins decided to write a book. When his manuscript was ready a judicious friend placed it in the hands of Mr. Archibald Clavering Gunter, the famous author of “Mr. Barnes, of New York,” and “Mr. Potter, of Texas.” Then our Atlanta writer patiently awaited the result. Ninety-eight times out of a hundred publishers return manuscripts. But it was not so in this case.
Mr. Gunter is a man of business, as well as a literary man. He is president of the Home Publishing company of New York, and is always on the lookout for something bright and fresh in the book line. He picked up the manuscript sent by Mr. Parkins, and turned over its pages carelessly one evening while waiting for supper.
“Supper is ready,” said Mrs. Gunter.
“All right,” was the reply; “will be there in a moment.”
Mrs. Gunter went to supper, and her husband remained behind reading the manuscript.
“Supper is ready,” said a servant, five minutes later.
“In a few minutes,” answered the reader.
“Mrs. Gunter sent me to see if you are coming to supper,” said the servant, a little later.
“Tell her,” replied Mr. Gunter, “that I can’t come. I am so much interested in this Atlanta man’s adventures that I must read on to the end.”
So Mr. Gunter sat up supperless and read some four hundred pages of legal cap paper before he went to bed. The next day he wrote to Mr. Parkins and suggested that the work would sell better in the shape of a novel.
Mr. Parkins answered that he had confidence in Mr. Gunter’s judgment, and would be guided by him. Mr. Gunter then made some suggestions to Mr. Parkins, and Mr. Parkins made some suggestions to Mr. Gunter. A few dramatic and fictive flourishes and some bright dialogue were added by Mr. Gunter, and the result is now before the public in the novel published last week under the title of “How I Escaped,” by W.H. Parkins, edited by Archibald Clavering Gunter.
In advance of publication, Mr. Gunter sent out circulars containing the following synopsis of the novel: “Book 1.—How I Stayed for Her. Book 2. —How I Fled from Her. Book 3.—How I Won Her. Book 4—How I Came Back and Fought for Her.” The heads of each chapter were also advertised as follows:
“Got Your Carpet Bag Packed? Amos Pierson, Love or Duty, The Empty Sleeve, A Confederate Detective, The Provost Marshal, The Blockade Runner, The Shovel or the Rifle, The Night Attack, She Came, The Redheaded Negro, The Honeymoon in the Blue Ridge, When Girl Meets Girl, Into the Dark Country, Through the Gaps, Through the Lines, The Letter of Life, The Fight for the Bridge, Where Was She? The Little Hostage.”
Arrangements were made to copyright the book in England, and have it appear there on the day of its publication here. The orders began to pour in, and before a single copy had been issued from the press 20,000 orders had been received.
This means a handsome profit for both author and publisher, and is a flattering success in an age when some of the best novels do not sell to the extent of more than 5,000 copies.
“How I Escaped” is a war novel, and it is one of the best, and perhaps the best, of its kind. Of course it is fiction, but it has the advantage of being founded on facts—facts in Mr. Parkins’s own experience, or the experience of others.
It would not be doing the story justice to synopsize it fully, but here is a faint outline. Just as South Carolina seceded, Lawrence Bryant, a young northerner residing in Columbia, became engaged to Laura Peyton, in spite of his rivals, Harry Walton, a gallant South Carolinian, and Amos Pierson, a crafty, scheming old speculator from Savannah.
The war came on, and Bryant’s sweetheart and family and his best friends tried to win him over to the cause of the confederacy, but his loyalty to the union never wavered. His acquaintances grew cold, and at last he was ordered to report for duty as a soldier. Bryant’s efforts to leave the country, dogged all the time by Bassett, the confederate detective make several thrilling chapters. At last he concealed himself in the hold of a blockade runner at Wilmington, but was discovered and taken prisoner by the confederates. For a long time he suffered every possible hardship, but by the aid of Laura Peyton effected his escape, and the two met in the Blue Ridge, where they were married.
The honeymoon was rudely interrupted by the appearance of Laura’s sister and Bassett, both of whom desired Bryant’s arrest. The hunted man gave the detective an ounce of cold lead, and made a break for the mountains. His adventures during his wanderings among the bushwhackers in western North Carolina and East Tennessee are told in a graphic and spirited manner that keeps the reader’s interest on the stretch from page to page. He reached Knoxville, went to New York, and thence to Nassau, where he tried to communicate with his wife without success. Then he returned to New York, and started for Atlanta after Sherman had captured the city. He went with the army to the sea, and on to Columbia, where he arrived just in time to save his wife and child from the dangers of that ill-fated capital.
Bryant’s persecution, it seems, was all due to the animosity of his rival, Amos Pierson, who had influence with the confederate government. This man Pierson comes to grief after the burning of Columbia, and gets soundly pummeled by Bryant. Harry Walton, the other suitor for Laura Peyton’s hand, was a chivalric southerner. In the chapter on “The Fight for the Bridge,” occurs the following description of Walton’s death, after holding the bridge for hours with a single regiment against a division of federals:
The captain of artillery, aided by a couple of pioneers, had rapidly dug a hole in the center pier of the bridge. Into this four men running down, placed four kegs of gunpowder. Walton turned from his men, and he and the artillery officer both stayed and to this mine deliberately attached a fuse. Then they coolly waited until the rear guard had crossed the bridge, and reached the little breastwork on the other side of the river. Before this was done there was another heavy volley, and several of the men sank dying as they crossed the stream, while Walton himself gave a start that indicated he had received another wound, and the captain of the battery fell down upon the bridge. Coolly striking no less than three matches to get a light, under this fusillade that became more deadly every moment, Walton deliberately lit the fort fire that led to the mine; then shouldering the wounded artillery officer, staggered across and took position behind the breastwork to check the federal advance for the last time. Both the batteries of artillery limbered up and started off after the confederate infantry. A division had been saved—a regiment almost annihilated.
But all this meant little to Caucus and myself now—we looked only at the smoking fuse that would explode the bridge under which we were concealed. The black’s face had become ashen. His chattering teeth said: “Golly, when dis blows up we blow up, too!” The crossfire from the federals and confederates made it certain death to venture on the bridge. Caucus, before I know what he was doing, plunged into the stream, and, in twenty or thirty vigorous strokes, reached the center pier. Up this he climbed, for it was not more than five feet high, and sheltered by the heavy log cribbing from the confederate musketry, deliberately pulled out the lighted fuse from the mine. For a moment the South Carolinians did not notice it, but a second after a cry from Walton came across the river. Cursing the black, he called to his men to follow him, and, firing his revolver at Caucus, ran across the bridge.
The confederates rose up, but the fire from the approaching federals was too heavy. A few of them fell wounded; the rest dropped again behind the breastwork.
A dozen strides brought Walton to the center of the bridge. He pulled out another fuse, and attached it to the powder, this time cutting it off very short.
His revolver firing had driven Caucus into the river, where he swam back to me.
As the colonel was about to light the fuse, he paused, staggered, clapped his hand to his side, reeled and sank upon the bridge, the lighted port fire from his hand falling sizzling into the river. The federal advance was already at our end of the bridge.
With a yell of rage for their fallen commander, the South Carolinians rushed from their breastwork, charged across the bridge, and at the center the blue and gray met. Clubbed muskets, bayonets and even fists were used in the struggle.
Swept back by overwhelming numbers across the bridge, the confederates bore with them the dead body of their officer—another hero fallen for that lost cause whose banner had already begun to droop, and whose stars began to fade.
As I gazed at this, a wave of blue surged round me. I had not come to the federal lines—the federal lines had come to me.
But there are other fighting episodes equally as stirring as this incident. Fortunately, however, war is not the main staple of the book. There is a charming love story running all through it, and this tones the gunpowdering element down delightfully.
To give fuller details would be to interfere with the reader’s enjoyment of the novel, It should be said just here that “How I Escaped” has no tinge of sectional bitterness or prejudice. It is simply a vivid, rushing torrent of incident and dialogue, punctuated with the rattle of musketry and the booming of cannon. The author has given his story the true local coloring, and made it in the main a faithful picture of certain phases of life in the south during a period that tried men’s souls, and developed all that was best and worst in human nature. Some minor flaws—some little blemishes—appear on the surface, but very few American novelists have produced a first book so full of interest and excitement.
Some idea will be given of the impression produced by the book when it is stated that a stranger in New York wrote to the author, offering him a large sum, cash down, for his interest in the profits. The offer was promptly refused, as it is confidently believed that the sale will reach at least 100,000 copies.
It is more than likely that the reading public will hear from Mr. Parkins again. He has not exhausted his material—he has merely thrown out a few nuggets as a sample of the wealth waiting to be developed and shaped when there is a demand for it. The success of “How I Escaped” will doubtless induce Mr. Parkins to carry out his original plan, and give the world a history of the inside of the confederacy, from the standpoint of a non-combatant who was a close observer of the social, political, military and industrial aspects of the situation.
It is hoped that Mr. Parkins will carry out his purpose, He has done so well in his first flight through the airy realm of fiction that there will be a general desire to see him make another excursion—this time in the field of history, where he can utilize the facts—the reminiscences of which his novel has given us a foretaste.
G.L. Norrman. Gable on the facade of the Bisbee Building (1902). Jacksonville, Florida.1234
The Background
As if he hadn’t already gushed enough over G.L. Norrman, in a December 1902 article for The Augusta Chronicle, Wallace Putnam Reed—under the pen name Major Junius—pontificated on why he considered Norrman “the ideal of the best type of southern gentleman”.
These were Reed’s final published remarks about Norrman—he died less than five months later, in April 1903.5
Article Excerpt:
In Mr. G.L. Norrman, the well-known Atlanta architect, I have found my ideal of the best type of the southern gentleman of the old school. To me this is somewhat remarkable because Mr. Norrman is a foreigner by birth—a member of one of the noble families of Sweden.
He is a sort of “Admirable Crichton,” the master of many arts and accomplishments, a scholar, philosopher, man of society and a recognized leader in his profession.
Sam Smallonce said that a man could not ride a few hours side by side with Norrman in a car without getting enough ideas from him to fill a bright, strong, original book.
He is an instructive, fascinating talker, and a polished, epigrammatic writer whose contributions are always welcomed by the press. His views of character, conduct and life are those which made our ante-bellum southern gentlemen recognized the world over as the most honorable and chivalric of men. Some of his ideas were so strikingly expressed some time ago in his lecture on “Architecture As Illustrative of Religious Belief, and as a Means of Tracing Civilization,” that I hope he will be induced to deliver it again, in Atlanta and in other cities. It is just the kind of lecture to interest broad-minded, cultured fearless thinkers.6
References
“Plans Made for Bisbee Building”. The Florida Times-Unionand Citizen (Jacksonville, Florida), September 17, 1901, p. 6. ↩︎
“Filling in the Blank Spaces”. The Florida Times-Unionand Citizen (Jacksonville, Florida), February 24, 1902, p. 5. ↩︎
“Dr. Armstrong Back.” The Sunday Times-Union and Citizen (Jacksonville, Florida), May 25, 1902, p. 5. ↩︎
“H.C. Seaman.” The Sunday Times-Union and Citizen (Jacksonville, Florida), June 1, 1902, p. 5. ↩︎
“Wallace P. Reed Yields to Death”. The Atlanta Constitution, April 18, 1903, p. 1. ↩︎
Junius, Major. “Pen Pictures of Well-Known Atlanta Men”. The Augusta Chronicle (Augusta, Georgia), November 23, 1902, p. 11. ↩︎
G.L. Norrman. Bienville Hotel (1900, demolished circa 1969). Mobile, Alabama.
The Background
Four days after his gushing comments about G.L. Norrmanfor the Macon press, Wallace Putnam Reed contributed the following report to The Augusta Chronicle about Norrman’s sudden late-career resurgence.
Article Excerpt:
My Augusta readers are lovers of the fine arts, and they will be glad to learn that one of their friends, Mr. G.L. Norrman, the famous Atlanta architect, is winning new honors.
When Norrman planned the splendid Hotel Bienville for Mobile he said nothing about it here. But he could not hide his light under a bushel. The Constitution‘s pictures of his designs for the new dormitory and mess hall at Athens have attracted attention everywhere, and without expecting it this modest man of genius is now overwhelmed with visitors and orders.
The matter interests me, because I have long been convinced that the man who can design and construct a great work in the architectural line is really a greater man than a poet or historian. The arts are different, but the first endures longer than the two others. In recent years we have seen the growth of public interest down south in schools of technology, and this is on the line of my remarks.
To put it more plainly, we of the south are outgrowing the old idea of a plantation aristocracy, whose younger sons must be professional men or nothing. Our young men of the future will be those who can compete with the Carnegies. Like that great Scotchman, they will start at the bottom and work their way up. When they succeed they will have all the social and political prominence they desire.1
References
Reed, Wallace Putnam. “Random Gossip”. The Augusta Chronicle, May 7, 1901, p. 4. ↩︎
G.L. Norrman.Projected design of Candler Hall (1901). University of Georgia, Athens.1
The Background
Following a similar article in The Savannah Press, in May 1901, Wallace Putnam Reed wrote the following sketch of G.L. Norrman for his “Random Atlanta Gossip” column in The Macon Telegraph.
Reed recounted remarks attributed to a man from Birmingham, Alabama, about Norrman’s recent work, including the Bienville Hotel in Mobile, Alabama, and Candler Hall at the University of Georgia in Athens (pictured above).
One interesting aspect of the conversation is the speaker’s claim that “we are trying to induce Norrman to move to Birmingham.” Norrman considered moving to Birmingham, Alabama, in 1899,234 but ultimately remained in Atlanta.
Article Excerpt:
A Birmingham man who is a graduate of the University of Georgia called my attention, this morning, to the new dormitory, and mess hall of that institution, designed by Mr. G.L. Norrman, an Atlanta architect, who is somewhat famous throughout the South.
“These will be the handsomest buildings on the campus,” said the visitor from Birmingham, as he pointed to their pictures on the first page of the Constitution. “I don’t know anything of the kind in Europe or America, at the same cost, which is equal to these structures, measured by the standards of beauty and utility. By the way, we are trying to induce Norrman to move to Birmingham. The new Hotel Bienville in Mobile is his work, you know, and it has made him the most popular man in Atlanta. There is something in fine architecture that appeals to the heads and hearts of all classes. I would rather be a great architect than almost anything else.”
In the meantime Mr. Norrman who was standing within hearing walked off without waiting to be introduced to his admirer. Like most men of the genuine artistic temperament, he gets his satisfaction out of the work and cares less for compliments than any man I know.
If he cares for distinction he can easily make himself recognized as one of the foremost architects of this country. The late John Wellborn Root of Atlanta, enjoyed that distinction, but in some lines Mr. Norrman is regarded as his superior.5
G.L. Norrman. Candler Hall (1902). University of Georgia, Athens.
The Background
In April and May 1901, Wallace Putnam Reed wrote at least three similararticles about G.L. Norrmanthat were published in different newspapers throughout the Southeast. The first article is included below, written by Reed for his weekly column in The Savannah Press.
Here, Reed claimed Norrman was “A Swedish gentleman of aristocratic ancestry”, but that appears to be inaccurate.
All evidence indicates Norrman came from an ordinary middle-class family, and if he falsely presented himself as a descendant of Swedish nobility, it was entirely unnecessary—he was remarkable enough on his own merits.
Article Excerpt:
Mr. G.L. Norrman, the well known Atlanta architect, has a legion of friends in Savannah who will be delighted with his splendid designs for the State University dormitory and mess hall, which were the most notable illustrations in The Constitution the other day.
Mr. Norrman is in love with his profession.He is an original thinker, a scholar, and a traveler who has studied on their sites the best examples of the world’s ancient and modern architecture. When I do not find it convenient to spend a leisure hour in a big library I hunt up Norrman. He is a favorite with our brightest men, and the south is dotted with churches, public buildings, and residences which bear testimony to his skill and artistic taste.
This man is worth a column here if we had the time and space. A Swedish gentleman of aristocratic ancestry, he has made himself the master of our language, and few writers have his happy gifts of expression. Though comparatively a young man, he is a type of our old-fashioned gentleman in his notions of honor, chivalry, and personal responsibility. It is gratifying to me to see his name imperishably linked with our university. His work will help it in more ways than one.1
References
Reed, Wallace Putnam. “Random Georgia Gossip.” The Savannah Press (Savannah, Georgia), April 27, 1901, p. 4. ↩︎
Thomas H. Morgan once claimed that G.L. Norrman “made friends easily,”1 but it could also be said that he made enemies easily.
Norrman’s rivals were as colorful as he was, but none were as endearingly antagonistic as Sue Harper Mims (1842-1913, pictured here), a prominent Atlanta socialite and the leader of the city’s Christian Science congregation.
Between 1898 and 1899, when he designed and oversaw construction of the church’s sanctuary, Norrman—who worshiped Norse gods—made several audaciously disparaging remarks about Christian Science beliefs, drawing rebuke from Mrs. Mims.
It’s hard to determine whether Norrman and Mims were truly adversaries or if they just enjoyed taunting each other—perhaps it was a little of both.
Here, Norrman’s friend Wallace Putnam Reed recounted a humorous exchange between Norrman and Mrs. Mims, published in January 1900 for his weekly column in The Augusta Chronicle.
Article Excerpt:
“I see that Architect Godfrey L. Norrman, of Atlanta, has been in Augusta in consultation with the owners of the burned district. Mr. Norrman is not only an accomplished architect, but has a fine sense of humor. He was the architect for the Christian Science Temple in Atlanta, which was erected by Mrs. Livingston Mims. It is a beautiful building of pure white, built after the pattern of the Parthenon, and is made of white plaster over brick walls. When the work was completed and Mrs. Mims was looking at the pretty structure, she exclaimed, “It is beautiful, but I wish it was marble,” whereupon Architect Norrman promptly replied: “Well, Mrs. Mims, you just think it marble, and it will be marble.” It seems that several times during the building of the Temple Mr. Norrman had complained of some indisposition and the Christian Scientist said to him: “Mr. Norrman, just think you are well, and you will be well.” The architect desired her to apply her doctrine to the temple.”2
Continuing the apocalyptic theme established in his previous article about G.L. Norrman, in May 1899, Wallace Putnam Reed of The Atlanta Constitution wrote the following article entitled “A Scientist’s Dream and Its Terrors”.
In the story, Norrman and a friend—undoubtedly Reed himself—discussed the potential cataclysmic effects of an earthquake in the Isthmus of Panama. The conversation was spurred by Norrman’s interest in the 1692 Jamaica earthquake, as he was said to “devote considerable attention to such exceptional freaks of nature”.
Norrman then went to sleep and experienced what he described as “the worst dream I ever had”, picturing his own slow, agonizing death—a curious foreshadowing of his actual death by suicide 10 years later.
The story was published by several other newspapers throughout the United States.
A Scientist’s Dreams and Its Terrors
Some time ago Mr. Godfrey L. Norrman read a thrilling account of the great earthquake which destroyed the old city of Port Royal in the West Indies.
The narrative interested him, and he could not dismiss it from his mind.
His fondness for scientific studies had caused him to devote considerable attention to such exceptional freaks of nature, and the story of the Port Royal disaster led him to speculate upon the possibilities of similar calamities in future.
One evening the matter came up while he was conversing with a friend who took a deep interest in such subjects, and in the course of their talk some startling theories and suggestions were discussed.
“What would be the result if an earthquake should up tear up the Isthmus of Panama?” asked Mr. Norrman’s friend.
“It would be far-reaching in its effects,’ was the reply, ‘and it would doubtless make the region we live in uninhabitable.”
“You are right,” said the other. “I have studied the matter for years, and I have formed some very positive opinions about it. The great earthquakes of the past in the tropics may be repeated. Possibly they will occur in new localities, and on a gigantic scale. the Panama isthmus is only about fifty miles wide. Now, it would be easy for a big earthquake to tear a chasm several miles wide through that narrow strip of land.”
“Just so,” assented Mr. Norrman.
“Very well,” continued the prophet of evil. “It is understood that the Pacific is perhaps fully two inches lower than the Atlantic. You know what would happen.”
“Yes,” answered the interested listener, “the gulf stream would change its course.”
“Change is no name for it,” said the talker. “The gulf stream would rush with fearful velocity through the chasm into the Pacific and where would we be?”
“Buried under mountains of snow and ice,” replied the other.
“No doubt about that,” said the man who was predicting future horrors. “The loss of the gulf stream would suddenly change our climate. The gulf would freeze into a solid mass of ice. Florida would be covered with snow-clad glaciers, and Georgia would be bleak and cold as Alaska. The change would kill almost every living thing, but after some years this frozen territory would have a suitable animal and vegetable life. Polar bears would be numerous and perhaps tribes of hardy people like the Eskimos would live here. Other quarters of the globe would send exploring expeditions in this direction, and new Pearys and Andrees would try to discover traces of our buried civilization.”
“Do you really believe all of this?” asked Mr. Norrman.
“Yes, don’t you?”
“Some of it—I hardly know to what extent,” was the response, “but I am inclined to agree with you that such a convulsion as you suggest would suddenly revolutionize our climate and make it impossible for us to live here. The diversion of the gulf stream would probably give us conditions similar to those of the arctic region.”
There was more talk on the same line, and at a late hour Mr. Norrman went to bed with his head full of some very sensational theories, facts and predictions.
Naturally, he had a dream, and it goes without saying that it was a holy terror. He was ripe for it—in the very state of mind for a nightmare.
At first the dreamer found it very pleasant. He was on one of the islands near the Florida peninsula, and the glories of that flowery land and the summer sea dazzled and delighted him.
Suddenly he staggered and came near falling. He felt dizzy and sick. The waves began rolling mountain high, and the island seemed to be rocking.
What was the matter?
A telegraph operator rushed out of his office and shouted to a group of tourists:
“An earthquake has torn the isthmus of Panama wide open from sea to sea!”
The tourists hurried away to carry the news to their families.
Mr. Norrman was left alone on the beach.
He had been watching numerous ships at a distance as they moved slowly over the waters.
All at once their speed increased. They began to move rapidly, and in a short time they darted by in the direction of the Isthmus, so quickly that the spectator wondered how those on board could breathe. The vessels seemed to fly like arrows.
The stiff breeze, growing stronger very moment, was getting colder.
The solitary watcher on the beach felt too weak to walk to in a place of shelter, and he was glad to sit down where a huge rock shielded him from the gale.
He remained there some two or three hours. The ships were no longer visible. Great masses of white fog advanced from every quarter, and a heavy snow began falling.
The white fog began freezing, and big masses of ice could be seen in the gulf, circling around the island, while in the distance icebergs loomed up all in their white and awful splendor.
Unable to move, the man by the rock felt that he was rapidly and surely freezing to death. The ground about him was covered with ice and snow. He was chilled to the very narrow, and shivered like an aspen leaf.
No human being ever suffered more than Mr. Norrman during that frightful ordeal. Certain death apparently was his doom, and he gave up all hope. His tortures were so unbearable that he was anxious to die and end his misery. His ears, nose, feet and hands were frozen, and it was impossible for him to crawl.
Yet his mind was abnormally active. He recalled all that he had ever read and heard about the horrors of arctic life, and he felt the keenest curiosity about the extent of the earthquake and its effects upon the south Atlanta and gulf states.
Even in those moments of excruciating pain his thoughts turned to Georgia, and he laughed deliriously when he pictured to himself the astonishment of the promenaders in their spring costumes on Peachtree street when they lost their climate at one fell swoop, and found the snow drifts piling up around them.
But human endurance has its limit.
A tremendous howl exploding from his own throat awoke Mr. Norrman, and leaping from his bed, with chattering teeth and shaking limbs, he made a rush for the grate, and got as close as he possibly could to the fire.
It was a pleasant spring night, but he was nearly frozen, and it took an hour to restore its circulation.
“That was the worst dream I ever had,” said Mr. Norrman, “and it makes me shiver to think of it.“
Atlanta and the United States were in the throes of the Great Blizzard of 1899 when Wallace Putnam Reed, a friend of G.L. Norrman‘s, wrote the following article as part of his weekly column in TheAtlanta Constitution.
Two days before the article’s publication, Atlanta received 6.5 inches of snow and recorded its all-time low temperature of nearly -9 °F12 in a cataclysmic nationwide cold snap.
Described by one forecaster as “probably the most remarkable in the history of the country”,3 the blizzard left hundreds of Atlantans stranded without food and fuel for heat,456 and caused more than $1 million of crop losses in Georgia and $100,000 of pipe damage in Atlanta.78
With the ice and snow still melting, Reed asked a timely question— “Is our climate changing?”—and introduced his readers to Norrman’s belief that Earth’s geographic poles cataclysmically shifted at earlier points in its history, a debunked pseudoscientific theory first hypothesized in the late 19th century.
Here, Reed referred to the infamous “Cold Friday” of 1833, which was previously reputed as the coldest day on record in the Atlanta area,9 although the city didn’t even exist at that point. Reed also mentioned Terminus and Marthasville—both were early names for Atlanta.10
Our Polar Weather And Its Suggestions
Is our climate changing?
Occasionally this question is asked in a humorous way by some old-timer who takes the position that the war ruined everything down this way, including our weather.
But the suggestion has a serious aspect.
A few exceptionally cold winters in the course of a century, or a dozen centuries, would not be conclusive proof of a permanent change of climate.
This globe of ours is very old. According to the scientists, it is at least 100,000 years old, and in that period many remarkable physical revolutions have occurred.
Of course we have had very cold spells in Georgia before the present age. Everyone of my older readers is ready right now to remind me of that memorable and destructive freeze two generations ago, along the thirties, shortly before the big panic.
That was bad enough, but there were fewer people here to suffer in those days, and Atlanta escaped entirely, because there was then no Atlanta—not even Marthasville or Terminus; and I doubt whether Hardy Ivey [sic] had built his solitary cabin on the site of our metropolis.
It was a terrible visitation—that cold Friday. Fruit trees, vegetation and crops were ruined. Thousands of forest trees exploded–bursting wide open.
The people had not recovered when the panic came. then, cotton fell 3 or 4 cents, and many farmers lost everything. Their creditors pushed them to the wall, and sold them out, not sparing even their beds, pots and kettles and cheap tableware.
Some scientific men maintain that in the remote past this was a very cold region. Mr. G.L. Norrman touches upon the subject very entertainingly in his recent pamphlet, entitled “Architecture as Illustrative of Religious Belief.”
Mr. Norrman accounts for the flood by suggesting that sometime during the earth’s existence the accumulation and congealing of the vapors at the poles made them the largest diameter of the globe, and, when this took place, the earth naturally found its equilibrium on a different axis, and turned about 90 degrees.
This is a very startling suggestion, and there is a sufficient basis of fact for it to attract the attention of the thoughtful.
The pamphlet referred to in the foregoing paragraphs says that the poles were perhaps changed from some points near the present equator, taking the place of the former equator at points near the present poles. If such a change in the poles occurred, it would account for many curious phenomena on this sphere.
Such a change would of course change the beds of the oceans.
What are now productive valleys may have been the bottom of the ocean, and the present bed of the ocean may have been tilled valleys, ages and ages ago.
This change of the oceans would have caused a tremendous rush of the waters, destroying everything in their way.
It would account for the phosphate beds, where animals of every kind—lions, tigers, elephants, fish and reptiles—are piled together, as firmly as if a million Niagaras had rammed them in the crevices where they are found.
The coal beds, also, may have had a similar origin, though they may be traced to other causes.
Only some such catastrophe as the changing of poles will satisfactorily account for the remains of tropical plants and animals under the ice and snow in Siberia and Greenland, and the existence of glaciers at the equator.
Remains of tropical animals and plants could hardly have been in the arctic regions, unless that part of the earth had been tropical at some time, and unless a very sudden change in the temperature had taken place.
Whatever power caused the phosphate beds, the coal beds and the existence of tropical plants and animals under the ice and snow of the arctics was necessarily a power sufficiently great to destroy nearly every vestige of life and civilization.
Only on isolated mountain tops could life have been preserved.
People do not like to think of such gigantic convulsions of nature, and contemplate the possibility of their repetition.
Yet, the pendulum always swings backward. Its return may be delayed, but sooner or later it must come.
It is possible, therefore, that sometime in the future another violent shock will cause the present poles and the equator to change places; or again reoccupy their former localities.
The human mind can hardly grasp the full meaning of such a change.
Under such conditions the now frozen regions around the poles would be transformed into productive garden spots, while our south Atlantic and gulf states would be buried under mountains of perpetual snow and ice.
Intrepid explorers would probably make their way to Georgia, Florida and Cuba, and return to their tropical Greenland homes with big stories of the polar bears and reindeers seen in this locality.
Fortunately, there is no immediate danger, unless a tremendous earthquake should unexpectedly bring about the change.
For hundreds, and possibly thousands of years to come, this will probably remain the sunny south, with a delightful climate, and a rapidly increasing productive capacity.
The speculations of the scientists will not justify anybody in knocking off work and neglecting the improvement of their real estate.
If Georgia ever becomes an arctic territory again, it will probably be thousands of years hence. By that time our history will have been forgotten. New races may then live here. Perhaps not a vestige of our present civilization will remain.
So we need not concern ourselves bout these matters.
Some years ago there was a very brilliant Atlantian of a scientific turn of mind who was greatly worried over the idea that an earthquake or a canal across the isthmus of Panama might divert the gulf stream from its course, and turn this region into a frozen waste, where no human beings could exist, but his warnings did not alarm many people.
Let us leave the calamities of the future to those who will have to bear them. In the meantime we have our hands full taking care of ourselves and the sufferers at our doors during our occasional blizzards.
Following the 1900 Galveston hurricane, which remains the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history, G.L. Norrman opined that the Texas port city should build a seawall.
His comments appeared in Wallace Putnam Reed‘s column for The Macon Telegraph in September 1900.
If it sounds like Norrman was familiar with Galveston, there may be a reason: when he emigrated to the United States in 1874, he likely did so through the Port of Galveston.
It’s also possible that Norrman worked in Galveston as a draftsman before starting his practice in South Carolina—one source claims his early career in the United States included “a few years spent in Texas.”1 I’ve never been able to confirm that, though.
“Galveston should have a sea wall. Holland is below the ocean, and yet it is efficiently protected by dykes. Galveston is six feet above the sea, and a wall is feasible.
“Then the buildings should be of a substantial, storm-proof character. People should prepare proper safeguards and not charge every disaster to Providence.”2
