Atlanta - Yesterday, Today And Tomorrow. John R. Hornady
the skin of those in authority, and, taking his pen in hand, he addressed the following to the world at large, heading the editorial "A Word to Strangers:"
" If you arrive in town on any of the numerous railroads that terminate here, it will probably be just before dark. After refreshing yourself with a hearty meal at some one of our well conducted hotels, you will feel a desire to take a stroll about town, at least through Whitehall Street. Starting from the vicinity of the railroads you can proceed fearlessly till you come to the first cross street, called Alabama Street. Don't think of walking out of your direction to walk up that street unless the moon shines particularly bright, or unless you hang to the coattail of some friendly guide; as without such aid you would probably find yourself in about two minutes at the bottom of a pit, fifteen feet in diameter by eighteen feet deep, which occupies the center of the road, and thus occasion considerable trouble to those who happen to be near, in procuring ropes to drag you out, and in such case, you might besides, be inclined to form an unfavorable impression in regard to our city regulations, as did a gentleman last week, who was hauled out of the pit pretty badly injured.
"Passing this point, you can continue in Whitehall Street, but by all means take the right-hand side, as on the left side are two deep trenches dug out of cellars. At present they are admirably adapted to catch unwary passengers. In one night last week, during a rainstorm, they caught no less than five — two ladies and three gentlemen, returning from a concert. One of these was a stranger in the City, and while spreading himself before a blazing fire in the Holland House, to dry the red clay with, which his garments were beautifully covered, gave way so much to his feelings that he was observed very much upset at the mention of our venerable city council.
"Proceeding on the right-hand side of the street you will have a very comfortable walk until you come to Cook's corner, where the pavement ceases. Here you had better turn square round and walk back, for directly in advance is another pit, fifteen by eighteen feet, ready to take you in. In some parts of the town we believe these holes have been covered over. The one in front of Loyd & Ferryman's store, where a man fell in and broke his neck some weeks since, we are credibly informed was promptly covered after the event."
This editorial throws light not only upon the condition of the streets at that time, but it serves also to illumine the journalistic methods of the period, for, mark the fact, there is a post-script, and it reads as follows:
"P. S. — Since the above was put in type we are gratified and delighted that each of the pits mentioned above, have been temporarily covered with plank so as to avoid recurrence of further accidents."
Why did the editor print the editorial after the conditions complained of had been corrected? Was it because there was no type with which to fill the yawning gap it would leave or because the editor having produced the satire, deemed it too good to be lost?
It seems to have been difficult, then as now, to keep highways in proper condition, for we find the "Daily Examiner" discussing the same subject, three years after the "Intelligencer" had found the evils corrected before he could get his criticisms into print.
The "Examiner," in October, 1855, called attention to the fact that a verdict had been returned against the City of Chicago in the sum of $3,100 in favor of someone who had been injured on the sidewalks of that city, and observed:
"Here is a warning to all municipal authorities, but particularly should it be to those of Atlanta. A walk down Whitehall Street is not the thing it should be, and we should not be surprised to hear some day of a verdict like that at Chicago, rendered by a jury of our own citizens in favor of some poor devil, over a broken leg, or of a widow with nine children, whose husband's neck was broken by a tumble into one of the numerous dark cellars that ornament the business part of the town."
In reading these ancient editorials, one wonders what they did with so many "dark cellars," since the Eighteenth Amendment had not been adopted, and why the widow, or, shall we say, tentative widow? should have nine children; questions the answer to which is lost in the mist and mystery of long-gone yesterdays.
With a virile press, with constantly increasing educational facilities, with a full quota of churches, with a multiplicity of manufacturing establishments, and with an ever expanding commerce, Atlanta continued to go forward at a most gratifying stride, and the approach of the great conflict between the North and the South, found it one of the most prominent cities of the South. The uncertainty which attaches to all new cities had disappeared. Permanency had stamped its mark upon the community and those who had invested their money here, faced the future with an assurance that became contagious. Growth was rapid, and the character of citizenship long since had ceased to be of the transitory, adventurous type.
It was thus that the war found Atlanta a prosperous, progressive and growing community, adorned with many handsome homes and pretentious places of business. The conflict left it deserted and desolate beyond all power of description. What shot and shell failed to destroy the flames consumed. Save for a few buildings, which for various reasons were left standing here and there as gaunt reminders of what had been, the City was reduced to a heap of smoldering ruins, a scene of vast and unutterable melancholy.
Sherman had proved to the full his theory of what war is.
CHAPTER III. Old Scars Are Healed.
ON the Southeast corner of Whitehall and Alabama Streets at one of the busiest intersections in Atlanta, there stands one of the ancient iron lamp posts that adorned the City in the days of its youth — a short and slender relic of the antebellum period. Crowded by a huge ''white way" standard and overshadowed by a great office building, it is passed day after day by hurrying multitudes with scarcely a glance. Yet it is worth more than a cursory examination, for it constitutes what is, in the business section, the only visible reminder of the inferno through which Atlanta passed when day after day, for over a month, the shells of the Union Army rained upon the City.
At the base of this ancient post one observes that there is a hole, round and clear-cut, almost as large as the post itself, and from a small bronze tablet fastened to its top, he learns that this hole was made by a shell, for the inscription says in part:
''The damage to the base of this lamp post was caused by a shell during the War Between the States, Battle of Atlanta, July 22nd, 1864."
To read a tablet like this in an age like this, amid a scene like this, is to receive a distinct shock. Viewing the towering buildings that stretch block on block; seeing the endless stream of pedestrians, of automobiles and street cars, and listening to the roar and din of a great City that throbs with the noise of boundless energy, it is impossible to grasp at once the significance of what the words mean. They seem to suggest some wild and horrid hallucination, rather than to convey a sober truth, and one is prone to wonder if it can be a fact that shot and shell fell here so recently. If doubt leads to further observation, then doubt increases, for nowhere else is such evidence to be seen, so thoroughly has the work of rehabilitation been done. The word of the historian must be accepted for the visible evidence is gone, all save the slender iron pole, with its gaping hole and its tiny tablet of bronze.
The thoroughness with which the scars of war have been removed is one of the wonders of Atlanta. Deeper than those inflicted upon any other Southern city during those four years of bitter warfare, they have disappeared, vanished, gone like an evil dream, the last detail of which is forgotten when the sunlight of a new day floods the room and the hush of night gives way to the voice of birds.
While these impressions were flooding my mind as I looked upon the ancient lamp-post, I recalled how in my youth, when Atlanta was my home, I used to go with other boys to the old swimming hole in Peachtree Creek, and recalled also that we used to see about this creek the earthen works thrown up by the rival forces as they fought for the great prize which Atlanta constituted in the eyes of the military leaders. A great wilderness it was in those days, reached after a long walk beyond the point where the diminutive horse cars stopped to begin the return trip to the City. Through this wilderness one could see where the breastworks had wormed their tortuous way. Overgrown with trees and covered