The following article, published in The Atlanta Constitution in 1890, includes an illustration and a brief description of the Kiser Law Building, completed in 1891 and designed by Bruce & Morgan.
Located at the northwest corner of Hunter and Pryor Streets (later Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive SE and Pryor Street SE) in Atlanta, the five-story office building was owned by M.C. Kiser (1830-18932), a local real estate developer.
When Kiser finally agreed to the project, the association formed a building committee that considered two designs for the structure: one by A.Mc.C. Nixon, and the winning plan by Bruce & Morgan.6 7
Although T.H. Morgan increasingly became the primary designer for Bruce & Morgan through the 1890s, A.C. Bruce still handled the majority of the firm’s output in the early part of the decade, and the Kiser Law Building appears to have been his design.
Bruce was a former cabinet maker and carpenter who lacked formal architectural training, and by 1890, the limits of his skill set were becoming readily apparent.
Many of Bruce’s designs from the early 1890s appear heavy-handed and anachronistic: you can see he was attempting to adapt to modern tastes, but his design sensibility was still fundamentally stuck in the 1870s — the Kiser Law Building was a prime example.
Looking at the illustration above, the building resembles a stack of drawers haphazardly piled on top of each other, and oversized windows of varying shapes and sizes junk up both facades.
That additive approach to design was typical of architects with a background in carpentry, who often designed buildings as if they were giant pieces of furniture, joining disparate elements and tacking on unnecessary embellishments instead of envisioning their compositions as solid masses to be sculpted into form.
The building’s overall style is equally baffling: Bruce was presumably aiming for the Romanesque, but for all the eclectic adornments, including terra cotta trim,8 9a decorative slate roof with iron crestings, ornamental iron balconies, and marble columns,10 he didn’t quite achieve a cohesive style. The pyramidal peaks and elaborate gables were also becoming rapidly outdated by 1891.
As construction began, it was reported that the Kiser Law Building would be constructed of either Berea sandstone or marble.12 It’s Atlanta, so it appears they opted for the cheaper sandstone for most of the structure and incorporated marble trim around the entrance.13
Set over a full basement, the building’s five floors included a 16-foot-wide central hall, served by one elevator, four stairwells, and two fire escapes. A light court was also designed to extend from the top to the bottom floor, so that each of the building’s 84 offices would be lighted and ventilated from the outside.14
The building was illuminated with electric lighting and included “water closets of the latest patterns…located in the rear [heh] of every floor.15
While it was originally reported that the building would be heated by steam,16 17 Kiser ultimately chose the Bolton Hot Water System, which was marketed as a “purely scientific, healthful way of heating.”18
I don’t really care enough about such things to learn more; however, the man who supervised the heating system’s installation told the Constitution: “…the larger buildings in the north have been heated by hot water apparatuses for the last ten or twelve years, yet it is practically new for the south…”19
No surprise, really: Atlanta’s self-conscious developers are always late to the game, simply replicating what was done a decade ago in the better cities of the North.
The floors of the Kiser Law Building were planned as follows:
Construction on the building began on April 8, 1890,28 with J.H. Matthews,29 “a wide-awake contractor”,30 supervising the project. The initial estimated cost of the building was $90,000, with a projected completion date of April 1, 1891.31 The cost rose to $100,000 by 1891,32 and the building was completed in August 1891.33 34
Local interest in the project was high, and while construction was still underway in November 1890, Kiser had reportedly received applications from 100 lawyers seeking office space.35
Firms began announcing their intention to move to the building in early 1891,36 and in June 1891, George W. Adair, who handled leasing for the property, reported: “The Kiser law building is nearly ready for occupancy, which is good news to those who have already selected their rooms, and others that are waiting for its completion.”37
Their lease agreements should have included the following caveat: the only thing slimier than a lawyer is an Atlanta developer.
In July 1891, Kiser leased nearly the entire law building — including the top four floors, the corner store on the ground floor, and the full basement38 39 — to a single firm: the Richmond Terminal Company, which had abruptly decided to relocate its headquarters from Washington, D.C. to Atlanta.40
The company stated its intention to use the Kiser Building as temporary office space until it could build its own facility in the city,41 signing a two-year lease for the then-unheard-of sum (in Atlanta anyway) of $14,500 a year.42 43
Commonly referred to as the “Terminal”, the company had previously purchased the Central Railroad and Banking Company, Georgia’s oldest railroad,44 based in Savannah. The Terminal’s new Atlanta headquarters consolidated the employees from both Savannah and Washington in a single location.
However, the Kiser Building was much too small to house the Terminal’s 250 to 300 workers,45 46 and one executive stated, “Unfortunately that building is not large enough to fully accommodate all the offices, but we will try to make do.” Kiser said of the negotiation: “…the trouble was they wanted more room, but finally concluded they could get along by adding the corner room and the basement.”47
The Terminal’s hasty relocation to Atlanta was more than a little suspicious, and there were allegations that it wasn’t “bona fide”, which the company denied.48 Atlanta’s newspapers, of course, hailed the move, with the always-bloviating Constitution prognosticating:
“A grand new depot and office building. That is the inevitable result.
The bringing of these offices to Atlanta is a bigger thing than might appear at first glance. This naturally makes Atlanta the center of the railroad situation of the south, and, as Atlanta is now the insurance center, it becomes beyond question the financial center of the south.”49
The lawyers who already selected offices in the Kiser Building just had to suck it, I guess. The Odd Fellows probably weren’t too thrilled either: the Constitution reported in July 1891 that “about ten days ago they selected the fifth floor of the Kiser building and immediately rented it as an Odd Fellows’ hall. Then the Terminal people came along and wished the place.”50
Anyone who knows how shit goes down in Atlanta could guess what happened next: Just six months after the Terminal employees began working in the Kiser building, the Central Railroad was forced into receivership by a local judge.51 52
Rumors of the Terminal’s financial difficulties and potential bankruptcy had swirled around Atlanta for months, spurred by the resignations of top executives and directors who had reportedly been battling for control of the company.53 54
There was also the time in January 1892, when the company apparently lacked the funds to pay its employees, delaying their paychecks for more than a week,55 56 57 58 a situation charitably described as “embarrassing.”59
The final blow was delivered in a lawsuit filed by a stockholder against the company, alleging that, among other things, the Terminal’s owners were conspiring to transfer $500,000,000 in debt onto the Central Railroad, “which it [could] never pay,”60 61 presumably with the intent to bankrupt it. Sounds like business as usual for an American enterprise.
Under the rules of the receivership, the Central Railroad’s 74 employees62 returned to Savannah,63 64 and while it initially appeared that the remaining Terminal employees would stay in Atlanta, they were ordered back to Washington in June 1892, leaving the Kiser Building nearly vacant.65 66The company hired George W. Adair to sublet the building,67 which was filled with lawyers as originally planned.68
Office structures tend to fall out of fashion quickly, and in 1930, the Journal said of the Kiser Law Building: “…the lawyers, loan brokers, and trade representatives [have] shifted to more modernly equipped buildings…”, noting that, “storms of nearly half a century have raised havoc with the structure and its artistic domes, its oriel windows, and its ornamental trimmings.”69
By 1936, the Kiser Law Building was reportedly “almost empty except for a store or two on the sidewalk.”70 No one seemed too upset when the structure was demolished in November and December 1936 for — take a wild guess — a parking lot.71 72 73
Major M.C. Kiser’s “Law Building” will be one of the handsomest buildings in the south, and when finished will be one of Atlanta’s greatest attractions.
The Constitution gives here an excellent cut of the building, made from the drawings of Bruce & Morgan, the architects. The uses to which the building are to be put have been fully explained in these columns.
The building will be erected at the corner of Pryor and Hunter streets, fronting on Pryor, and will be five stories in height. It will be devoted to offices for lawyers, with clubrooms for a Lawyers’ club. It will be just as complete as possible, an ideal building in every respect.74
The Cable Building is one of my favorite New York structures, mostly because I have fond memories associated with it, including the quiet Thanksgiving morning when I took the picture shown above.
Completed around late 1893, this 8-story steel-framed building1 includes a full basement and fronts on Broadway, Houston, and Mercer Streets on the border of Greenwich Village and NoHo.
The Cable Building was designed for the Broadway & Seventh Avenue Railway Company by Stanford White of McKim, Mead & White,2 and is a very early example of the Beaux-Arts style.
The building’s exterior was originally faced with Indiana limestone on the first and second floors, and the upper floors are covered in yellow brick and striking ornamental terracotta,3 topped by an elaborate copper cornice.
Each floor encompasses nearly 20,000 square feet4 and encircles a central light court of more than 3,000 square feet.5 6 At its opening, the building’s first floor was designated for retail use, with the top three floors designed for offices and the middle floors reserved for warehouse space.7
My favorite part of the exterior is the classically-inspired sculpture of two robed women guarding the portico on the east facade, designed by J. Massey Rhind.8
With that being said, the building’s overall design isn’t White’s best: the chamfered corners temper the appearance of bulkiness and provide interesting focal points, but the many large windows on every side of the structure clutter the composition, making it look messy and overwrought.
What makes the Cable Building impressive, however, is that it was designed to conceal a power plant for the street railway company, effectively creating “a building within a building”.9
Reaching 46 feet below the street surface,10 the building’s basement originally housed 550 tons of machinery that powered the company’s cable cars, including wheels measuring 32 feet in diameter and weighing 50 tons each.11
The machinery has long since been removed, and today the Cable Building’s deep bowels house the Angelika Film Center, where there’s a chance you may find me some late evening, watching an indie flick as nearby subway trains rumble past.
“We are trying to be as good as suburbia, by bringing nature back into the city. We are creating an urban environment where people walk. People don’t walk in suburbia. There are four rush hours there: morning, going to lunch, returning from lunch and going home. We have the only really pedestrian environment in the whole metro area.”
– John C. Portman, Jr., 19881
This sign at 74 Peachtree Street in Atlanta (previously 74 Whitehall Street) likely debuted with the Mangel’s store, which opened in May 19461 in a portion of the two surviving floors from the former Hirsch Building.2
Mangel’s was a New York-based retail chain3 that billed itself as “your headquarters for smart apparel at budget-saving prices,”4 and the Whitehall store was its second Atlanta location, with its first store in the city opening in 1919.5
Mangel’s operated at this location for decades, but seems to have quietly closed sometime after 1988.6
The following article was published in The Atlanta Constitution in 1899 and was written by Wallace 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 of How I Escaped, a semi-autobiographical novel written by W.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 to H.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.”
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
