USA > Georgia > Floyd County > Rome > A history of Rome and Floyd County, State of Georgia, United States of America; including numerous incidents of more than local interest, 1540-1922, Volume I > Part 41
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A DISCORDANT NOTE AMONG THE METHODISTS. - Orthodoxy with religious sects was more studious- iy adhered to half a century ago than it is today. For instance, when the first Methodist Church was built at Sixth Avenue and East Second Street in 1850, the members generally gave vent to their religious fervor by shout- ing; some of them even became ex- hausted and rolled on the floor. Such
a new-fangled device as a pipe organ was not to be tolerated, for was not the natural melody of the human voice sufficient unto the Lord?
Little by little, however, a progres- sive spirit asserted itself, and arti- ficial notes were held by a faction of the brethren and sisters to be not only desirable, but necessary to a whole- some development of the soul. The progressives were led by a woman- Mrs. Wm. A. Fort, formerly Eudocia Hargrove, daughter of Zachariah B. Hargrove, one of the founders of Rome; the conservatives were led by Daniel R. Mitchell, himself one of Rome's founders, who named Rome, and a donor of the very land on which the church stood, and a liberal sub- scriber to the building fund. Colonel Mitchell invariably carried a heavy hickory walking cane and was accom- panied everywhere he went by a mon- grel dog whose elongevity and bench- leggedness would dub him in Germany a dachshund. For convenience in at- tending to his church duties, Col. Mitchell did not always sit with the family, but occupied the corner of a bench or pew in the extreme front of the edifice. Mrs. Fort sat dangerously close by, and on the occasion in ques- tion she had brought well wrapped in a shawl and unknown to Col. Mitchell a bulky object.
As the choir lifted up their voices, Mrs. Fort jumped to her feet and be- gan playing vigorously on a melodeon, and singing "Hallelujah!" until the rafters rattled. Colonel Mitchell gave her a withering look, seized his walk- ing stick and stalked out of the church, closely followed by his dog and a num- ber of churchmen who shared his feel- ings. When the Forts and the Har- groves spoke to the Mitchell adherents again it was to announce (thank you!) that they had affiliated with the Pres- byterian Church, and when the Under- woods (born musicians) spoke, it was to declare they had gone to the Episco- pal
Time and a better understanding heal all such rifts among Christian brethren. Colonel Mitchell passed away in 1876 in Florida, and eight years later the "shouting" brothers and the "musical" brothers who were left put their shoulders to the wheel for a brand new church in a differ- ent neighborhood, with one of the best pipe organs that could be procured.
The removal, writes Mrs. Naomi P. Bale, "caused much dissension and heartache among the membership.
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3
5
A GROUP OF PICTURESQUE OLD HOMES OF ROME.
1-"Terrace Hill," John H. Lumpkin (now Robt. L. Morris) home. 2-"Oak Hill," home of Miss Martha Berry. 3-"Alhambra," DeSoto Park, built by Philip W. Hemphill. 4- "Nemophila," the Hoyt home, where Frank L. Stanton brought his bride. 5-A. S. Burney home. 6-"Arcadia," Daniel S. Printup home, in North Rome. 7-"Woodlawn," home of Dr. A. C. Shamblin, built by Judge Jas. M. Spullock, and once owned by Judge Max Meyerhardt.
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Many had been led into the light about the old institution's sacred altars. There, too, had marriage vows been plighted, children consecrated by bap- tism to God; and from these dear por- tals loved ones had been borne, never to return. Is it any wonder that our hearts clung tenaciously to this old edifice ?"
A FAMOUS SCHOOL TEACHER. -Rome and Cave Spring used to boast a school teacher whose reputation for whipping obstreperous youths spread far beyond the borders of the state. In the days before the war it was left for Col. Simpson Fouche to apply doses of "hickory oil"-a dozen sharp licks in the palm of the hand with a ruler- but when Palemon J. King came along he outdid Col. Fouche at his best.
Prof. King fought through the Civil War and made a fine soldier. He was brought up with straight-laced ideas about obedience and pure book learn- ing, and was always prepared to back up his words with force if need be. His military school was the Confeder- ate army, and his preparation was made at Hearn Academy at Cave Spring.
Plenty of Romans remember Prof. King-"P. J.," as many preferred to call him. He was a powerfully-built man of six feet and 200 pounds, a kind- ly man, but one who insisted on hav- ing his way with the pupils placed under his charge. His hair was thin, but long and white, and he wore a full beard. His coat was a Prince Albert cut, always black; his trousers were black, and his shirt was stiff bosomed and white; his collar standing and his tie usually a loose bow with long free ends; and he wore a sort of gaiter on his feet, with broad toe, and thick soles, and elastic for stretching the up- pers over the foot, with straps to pull 'em on. Like many of the people of the time, he blacked his own boots. He carried a white cotton handker- chief in his right-hand hip pocket or hid away in his coat-tails, and on oc- casion he wore specs that magnified small print for his eyes of blue. He had no time for the frivolities of the day, but religiously read from the Bible each morning some helpful pas- sage to his young charges; and if he laughed it was usually after hours or on some jaunt when he could properly relax. His idea was to let them learn, and if they refused, then-take the "consequences."
Several stories are told concerning
the stern though just measures Prof. King pursued. One concerns Hal Wright, who later became a popular and leading member of the Rome bar. Hal was more or less of a wayward and good-for-nothing boy, as the ped- agogue viewed him. While going to school to Prof. King at Cave Spring, Hal broke one of the rules, but be- fore Prof. King could get to him with a hickory, he had run out of the build- ing and made good his escape. Prof. King followed, but the young imp of Satan had too much start to be over- hauled. From a safe distance Hal placed his thumb to his nose and wig- gled his fingers, but he did not go back to school next day. He went far, far away-to Texas, some folks say. Prof. King did not forget that super- latively contemptuous gesture or the infraction of discipline.
In two years Hal decided to come home. His good mother, Mrs. Har- riet Wright, herself a teacher who had had experience with mischievous boys, laid the law down to him. "If you re- turn here, I'm going to put you in school again, so you won't be worry- ing the life out of me," she wrote. Hal was willing, only he was hoping deep in his heart that Prof. King had moved on. Prof. King hadn't.
"Well, 'fesser, I'm back," announced Hal, with a grin.
"All right, Hal, just take that front row desk and I'll lend you a blue back speller until you can provide yourself with a book. Here is a slate, too."
Recess time came and Hal romped like a care-free kangaroo over the school greensward with his playmates, and splashed through the water cress as if nary a moccasin lay hidden there. Finally time came for school to let out for the day, and Hal started side- wise for the door.
"Hold on, Hal, I want to speak with you," invited Prof. King.
Hal declined the invitation, for Prof. King had taken two giant strides to the blackboard, and had brought out from behind it with a savage swish a bundle of hickories with newspapers wrapped around the handles, and inean-looking and long. Hal grabbed his hat and jumped down the steps four at a time. Hal's legs had grown those two years, but so had the de- termination of Prof. King. The old war-horse ran so fast that his long coattails stood out straight behind and his whiskers parted perfectly in the middle and met again back of his neck. All the boys and all the girls stood
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A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
in awed silence, and most of them were pulling for Hal.
Little Cedar Creek, three feet deep and fifteen feet wide, loomed ahead. "No time to hunt a foot-log," reason- ed Hal, as he plunged in and came out dripping on the other side.
"I've nearly got the young jack- anapes!" exclaimed Prof. King as he followed Hal's lead and lost one of his gaiters in the creek bottom's sand.
Yes, gentle reader, Prof. King caught that boy; caught him under a weeping willow tree, but it wasn't a willow switch he tamed him with, and Hal wept copiously under the weeping willow.
Several years elapsed and Prof. King hired a hall in the Masonic Tem- ple Annex at Rome, and set up his school. There was room for about 20 boys, and some of them were the three Rounsaville brothers, Barry and Louis Wright, Wilson Hardy, Lindley Mc- Clure, Hugh Parks, Fred Hanson, Hamilton Yancey, Jr., Eddie Peters, Andrew Mitchell, Victor Smith, Harry Morris, Waldo Davis and Oscar Todd. It was the good year 1895, and all was well until Rob Rounsaville dan- gled a cork spider with rubber legs over the face of a boy in front. The boy jumped out of his seat and Prof. King caught sight of Rob's wonder- ful insect.
"Come up here!" thundered Prof. King; "I'll teach you how to make light of my instruction, sir!"
Prof. King reached for a ruler this time, to crack Rob across the knuckles, when George Rounsaville let loose an ink bottle from the rear of the room. The cork flew out of the bottle, and everybody got a little ink, but Prof. King received most of it, as the bottle hit him on the right temple where his hair had receded. Roy Rounsa- ville was about to hurl an arithmetic but the old gentleman had disappear- ed down the long hall, yelling "Po- lice!" as he went. The scholars took a recess; no use to hold school any more that day. As usual, the police were somewhere else, and it was ten or fifteen minutes before Prof. King could locate one, or swab most of the ink and blood from his face. By that time the Rounsaville boys had entirely disappeared.
"I know where to find 'em," said Joe Sharp to Bill Jones. Sure enough, George and Rob and Roy were hid- ing under some bales of hay at the Rounsaville warehouse. The police-
men told them to come to police court, and there some kind of justice was meted out-it matters not just how much. George left to join a circus and Rome quieted down. School really broke up.
Not very long after this incident, Prof. King encountered another bit of bad luck, this time of a less deliber- ate character. He was getting his whiskers trimmed in a barber shop about where the Nixon Music House is located. A careless brick-mason working on the roof above let a brick fall through a sky-light and hit Prof. King on the head. Result: the barber lost the price of a perfectly good trim.
In the spring of 1898, while the Spanish-American war was on, the King School was opened over the Cald- well Printing Company's present lo- cation on Third Avenue. A large brass dinner bell rung out of the front window by Prof. King announced that recess was over. The hallway stairs were long and carried the human voice in a sonorous volume into the profes- sor's sanctum and ears. This hap- pened often. The boys emitted cat calls and yells until the old man's life was miserable. After perpetrating a war-whoop or a bleating "Baa-a-a!" they would disappear around the near- by corner. Prof. King's chin would appear at the window, his whiskers quivering. The boys would come to the class room, next day in all the robes of perfect innocence.
Across the street in "Poverty Hall" Rev. Hay Watson Smith, a Presbyte- rian minister, as well as a teacher, had started a select boys' school, and had taken some of the cream of the students away from Prof. King. One day the Smith School boys made use of Prof. King's hall; likely as not they heaved some coal up the steps. Prof. King threw the dinner bell out the window at them, and was about to invade the Smith premises when Wilson Hardy and Barry Wright came across with an apology.
A week after this Hugh Parks got a whipping for whistling in school, and when he whistled again, Prof. King choked him until he grew white in the face. Two chastisements in one day for one boy was not unusual. Many wore a double thickness of pants and an occasional book in the seat.
That was one way, the old fashioned way, of learning, and they all learned to love the courage, the manhood and the ideals of Palemon J. King.
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WHIGS IN FLOYD .- Floyd Coun- ty Whigs met Tuesday, Aug. 3, 1852, at the court house and elected dele- gates to their state convention, which convened Aug. 17 at Macon. The leading Whigs of the county follow, according to The Courier of July 29:
A. N. Verdery Jno. Hendricks
J. H. Craven
T. J. Verdery
W. E. Alexander
Wm. H. White
H. A. Gartrell Robt. T. McCay
Richard S. Zuber Genuluth Winn
J. J. Yarbrough
J. D. Ford
Henry Harris
C. L. Webb
Robt. O'Barr
Joel Marable
G. W. Shaw
J. G. Mckenzie
W. J. McCoy
Jos. Ford
Wm. A. Choice
W. C. Hendricks
A. G. Ware
Dr. H. B. Ransom
C. M. Bayless
P. Steward
J. S. Ward
Wm. Adkins
G. M. T. Ware
F. D. Locke
Jno. DeJournett
M. W. Johnson
A. M. Lazenby
Dr. Geo. M. Battey Willis Bobo Edmund Metts
A. B. Coulter
Robt. Battey
R. J. Mulkey
S. W. Stafford
A. L. Patton
Allen Griffin
Wm. Clark
T. M. Wood
B. W. Ross
Alfred Shorter
J. R. Payne
J. W. Gear
F. M. Cabot
C. Attaway
C. T. Cunningham
Jno. Harkins S. T. Sawrie C. W. Johnson
S. G. Wells N. W. Lovell
A. M. Sloan
F. M. Allen
J. Berry
S. Allman
I. Dave Ford
Wm. Ketcham
L. R. Blakeman
C. H. Morefield *
Thos. J. Perry.
** %
A DUEL ON BROAD .- It was sort of customary in the old days to shoot folks you didn't like. The original "Bill" Arp and "Bill" Johnson had been good friends up to about 1863. "Bill" Johnson had asked "Bill" Arp to look after his younger brother, Jeff Johnson, at the front in Virginia. Jeff had got down sick, and here was "Bill" Arp back in Rome on a fur- lough. The two "Bills" met out in the country somewhere and came to town in "Bill" Johnson's buggy. They went into a saloon next to the old Choice House or Central Hotel, where the Hotel Forrest now stands. After a few drinks, they fell to quarreling. "Bill" Johnson accused "Bill" Arp of neglecting his brother Jeff.
Both of them may have been armed; one account says "Bill" Johnson gave
"Bill" Arp the choice of two of John- son's pistols. At any rate, they went outside, and "Bill" Johnson said, "Now, you walk across the street, and when you reach the sidewalk, you turn around and shoot, because I'm going to be shootin' at you!"
"Bill" Arp was born in Bartow County and had lived nearly all his life in Chulio District of Floyd, and he was game to the core.
"Bill" Johnson waited coolly at the near curb and "Bill" Arp strode brave- ly across. The firing started. As they shot, they advanced on each other. No cover was between, not even a trash box. L. P. Reynolds, of 216 North Fifth Avenue, Fourth Ward, an eye- witness, says when "Bill" Arp's pis- tol was empty, he rushed forward to strike "Bill" Johnson with the butt of it. This was not necessary. His antagonist was down and dying from several wounds, for Arp was a crack shot. "Bill" Johnson had counted at least once. He shot Arp in the chest or side and the bullet followed a rib to the back, lodged under the skin and was cut out.
After the war Bill Arp and Jeff Johnson happened to find themselves crossing the Etowah River at Free- man's Ferry in the same batteau. Arp couldn't swim, and Johnson started rocking the boat. Arp shucked off his coat and started rocking until the water began coming over the side. "All right, Jeff," said Arp, "when she sinks I'm going to camp around your neck-I golly!" "Quit that, Bill; don't be a fool!" urged Johnson. Arp ceased rocking and they paddled the balance of the distance in peace.
Bill Arp later moved to Clarendon, Ark, and went to farming again. Mr. Reynolds and Virgil A. Stewart say he fell off a wagon load of corn in 1883 and was killed. Another account has it that he was traveling with a caravan of "prairie schooners," tied up at night, went to sleep under a wagon and had his neck broken when the mules, still hitched to the convey- ance, started off suddenly. There he lies, in the forks of the Military and Helena roads-the man who furnish- ed a noted name to Georgia.
* *
AN INLAND VOYAGE .- We left Rome about daylight on a drizzly Fri- day morning on board the steamer Re- saca, of the White Star line, Captain George H. Magruder in command, with a full crew and the venerable Captain Frank J. Benjamin in the engine room,
B. T. Hawkins
Henry A. Smith J. D. Dickerson O. Renaud
A. G. Pitner C. McCoy
Jno. C. Eve
T. J. Treadaway Larkin Barnett
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A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
said Montgomery M. Folsom in The Rome Tribune about 1895.
Sam Cosper was first mate and Hub Coulter second, and I was the lone passenger. I was weary and worn out, sick and disgusted, and I wanted to get as far from civilization as possi- ble with the means at my command.
Some men would have started for darkest Africa, feeling as I did, but I decided to compromise on darkest Ala- bama, and I succeeded beyond my own expectations.
We carried as cook and steward two of the most peculiar characters that it has ever been my fortune to run up with-Amy, a matronly negress of the old sort, ready to sympathize with all your sorrows and to offer you a cup of coffee or sassafras tea every time she saw the wrinkles deepen on your forehead, and Dick, a diminutive darkey who might have been anywhere from fifty to one hundred and fifty years of age, just as you chose to calculate.
Dick was about five feet high, of a pale dun color, with a little goatee of scattered whiskers on his retreating chin and a short-stemmed black pipe of the rankest sort that the fiends of nicotine ever dreamed of in their wild- est vagaries stuck between his lips, the kindliest, most inoffensive and ob- liging darkey I ever laid my eyes upon.
There was such an air of humility, without any fawning affectation, about him, such a desire to please and such an air of general obligingness about both Dick and Amy that we made friends on the spot, after Cap- tain Magruder had kindly placed them at my disposal.
As for Captain George Magruder, the good Lord never created a more royal-hearted gentleman, and many were the legends and traditions that he recounted as we stood on the deck looking out over the broad expanse of rippling waters, all agleam with the shimmer of myriad stars, with the searchlight of the steamer wandering from shore to shore of the historic river.
And then how delightful it was to creep up into the pilot house with Sam Cosper and listen to his rich fund of anecdotes and incidents and to hear his merry laugh ring out through the sombre silence above the throb, throb, throb of the engine and the swish of the parting waters.
We had reached the ultima thule of our voyage, Lock 1, 300 miles be- low Rome, by water. Heaven only
knows how far it was by land, for nobody ever traversed it, but we could feel a change in the air which indi- cated a marked difference in latitude. and, besides, there was a glint of green on the waving willows and a dash of crimson on the maples that showed that we had glided down nearer to meet the springtime.
This was about noon on Saturday. The drifting clouds had passed away and the sun shone hazily on the shaggy mountain peaks that loomed up all around us, for we had reached the point where the wild Sand mountain range crosses the course of the Coosa, and below us for eighty miles the river rushes over rapids and plunges along through narrow gorges and dashes over cataracts, offering an insur- mountable barrier to further naviga- tion.
The Federal government has ex- pended many thousands of dollars in the improvements at the three locks, where there is a fall of over twenty- five feet in the river within a few miles, and is still at work, as often as an appropriation can be secured, endeavoring to extend the navigable portion of the stream still farther southward.
If that eighty miles between Lock 3 and Wetumpka could be opened, Rome would have 1,200 miles of water- way through one of the most fertile sections of the south, taking in the granaries of the Coosa valley and the rich cotton fields along those alluvial bottoms, as well as the fine timber- lands of the mountain region below.
But oh, how lonely is that out-of- the-way region, peopled only by the lumbermen and "hill billies," as the rural population is characterized by the steamboat men. I gazed on the lock-keeper's house, provided by the government, perched high on a swell- ing hill above the river, and wonder- ed how he managed to while away his leisure hours.
You see, it is his duty to open the locks twice a day and see that they are in working order, whether any boat passes or not, and otherwise he has nothing to do. But there are plenty of buffalo perch in the river, and dur- ing the winter large flocks of wild geese and ducks, so that aside from the solitude of his surroundings, his situation is not an unpleasant one.
Dinner was announced soon after we turned our faces homeward, and we sat down with a relish to a bountiful meal, which we enjoyed as only such
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WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE-AND BOATS.
Note at the top the sea-going appearance of the good ship "Sequoyah", built by Troop 2 of the Boy Scouts in "Beaverslide" . Is it any wonder that Rome lads can swim, dive and sail ? .sewhere are seen various boats and bathers, the Eagle Troop of Girl Scouts at the Carnegie Library, and boys engaged in games on Hamilton Field. Most of the pictures were taken Sept. 5, 1921.
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voyagers are able after a breezy ride in the face of a stiff gale.
Then began the toilsome journey up the river, which is full of shoals and unusually low for the season, which necessitates the most careful naviga- tion to prevent the vessel sticking on the rocks or running her nose into a mud bank. Six miles an hour was the average speed, and I had an opportu- nity of viewing many points noted in the history of the country.
There was Canoe Creek, coming in from the westward, which glides through the wildest portion of that mountain region, whose inhabitants are cut off from civilization amid the gloomy forests of the mountain sides and the low green valleys, where they raise their little crops and look after their small flocks of half wild goats, razor back hogs and scrub cattle.
Then there was Big Will's valley and Will's creek, lying between the Lookout and Sand Mountain regions, where thousands of acres of wheat lands lie green and glowing with the first touches of spring, and where once the Cherokees had one of their most important towns in the long ago.
A little farther up is Greensport, consisting of a small country store and a shack of a sawmill to cut the tim- ber rafted down from the adjacent mountain slopes; and nearby, the old Federal road, which was opened by General Andrew Jackson during his campaigns against the Five Nations, especially the mighty Muscogees, crosses the river.
As I gazed on the adjacent landings on either side of the river, memories of Talladega, Big Bend and Emucfau came up before me with all the ro- mance attached to those memorable days when "Old Hickory" broke the spirit of those dauntless warriors and haughty chieftains and laid waste their towns, destroyed their crops and forced them to make terms with the hated pale faces.
Ever and anon we passed a ferry with its long wire stretched from shore to shore, and slack enough to permit the boat to pass over it without foul- ing, and the ferryman squatted in his flat craft, which was tied to the roots of some ancient tree on the shore.
Then we would pass a group of "hill billies," male and female, in pictures- que garments huddled together on some overlooking bluff, in various at- titudes of listless interest, the girls giggling and gesticulating and the men smoking short pipes or whittling
with long-bladed knives on some treas- urad scrap of white pine board which had been saved up for that special purpose.
About the middle of the afternoon we reached the quaint old town of Gadsden, at one time one of the most important points in all that country, since it was in the center of the rich lands along the river and supplied a territory extending far down the river and far up into the hills on every hand. Prior to the war, a great deal of business was done at Gadsden, and as the only means of transportation was by the river, the traffic was very profitable to the steamboat owners.
But the building of the Rome and Decatur and Cincinnati Southern rail- roads changed the face of things. At- talla has taken away much of the trade formerly enjoyed by Gadsden, and Birmingham and Chattanooga are get- ting the greater share of the business that formerly went to Rome, and steamboating is not very profitable these days.
By the time we had taken on the cargo destined for Rome, twilight had fallen and we were just able to dis- cern a group of raftsmen signaling from the shore when we reached the ancient landing at Turkeytown. They were "hill billies" from away back, and a young lady who embarked at the same place had the dew of the mountain in her deep blue eyes, and the scent of sweet balsam on her clothes, so that I knew she had come down from some homestead, old and gray, in the neighborhood of the House of Rocks.
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