North. “To the God of the fearless and the free is dedicated this altar, made from the stones of the Alamo.”
West. “Blood of heroes hath stained me. Let the stones of the Alamo speak that their immolation be not forgotten.”
South. “Be they enrolled with Leonidas in the host of the mighty dead.”
East. “Thermopylæ had her messenger of defeat, but the Alamo had none.”
A new monument, upon whose summit stands, rifle in hand, the statue of a Texas ranger, has been placed in the capitol grounds.
The legislature which met soon after the burning of the old capitol provided for the erection of a new one. Three million acres of public lands were set aside to meet this expense. The new building was finished and dedicated in 1888.
The historic old church of the Alamo was purchased by the state in 1883. The battlefield of San Jacinto has also become the property of the state. This beautiful spot, consecrated by the blood of heroes, is guarded by the same encircling trees, which, clad in the green of spring’s livery, looked down upon the birth of freedom on that long-past 21st of April. May the coming centuries see them still standing, mute witnesses to the bravery of men who had no peer!
The last year of the nineteenth century witnessed in Texas a calamity which wrapped the state in gloom and stirred the entire country to instant and generous sympathy. This was the Great Flood at Galveston.
Earlier in the same year (April 7) the city of Austin had suffered a severe loss through water. The wonderful barrier of granite—the largest dam in the world—which imprisoned the waters of the Colorado River between the wooded hills on either side, thus forming an artificial lake thirty miles long, had suddenly given way; the mighty torrent set free had poured through the gap, carrying ruin with it and leaving havoc behind.
In August, 1899, there had been a flood of unusual magnitude in the Brazos River. An angry sea had swirled down from the Red Lands above; the long and fertile valley of the Brazos was laid waste; several lives were lost, and much valuable property was destroyed. But these floods were dwarfed in importance by the tidal wave from the sea which on September 8 and 9, 1900, beat against the Gulf coast and fell with special violence upon the Island of Galveston.
A blinding storm of rain fell ceaselessly throughout the whole of the first day; a furious wind drove the salt spray across the island from Gulf to bay. By nightfall the streets were submerged; the lower floors of many dwellings were under water. During the night of horror which followed, the railroad bridge connecting the island with the mainland was swept away, and the city lay isolated and helpless at the mercy of the hurricane. As the hours passed the people huddled together in their rocking houses, climbed to the upper stories and out upon the roofs, with the savage flood climbing after them. Thousands were swept to death from these insecure places of refuge. Whole blocks of buildings crumbled like so many sand houses into the waters; the foamy waves were strewn with a mass of wreckage: shingles, beams, furniture, household goods, animals dead and dying, human beings battling for their lives in the darkness or drifting stark and stiff with the storm.
Many stories of heroism, of self-sacrifice, of pathetic devotion, are told of that awful night; many strange incidents are related. Strong men perished, while frail and delicate women survived unhurt; skilled swimmers succumbed; helpless babes floated to safety. One little child, torn from its mother’s arms by the gale, drifted through the débris, across the island, across the bay, and was found the next day, quite unharmed, nested like a bird in the limbs of an oak tree on the mainland!
When the morning dawned, pale and wan, a ghastly spectacle met the dazed eyes of the survivors. The waters, receding sullenly, exposed masses of ruins; thousands of corpses strewed the uneven sands; not a sound from the outer world penetrated the dismal silence. There was a single moment of paralyzed despair; then, with a splendid courage, almost without parallel, the stricken people took heart and set life in motion again for themselves and for their beloved city. Help poured in from every direction: money, provisions, clothing, doctors, nurses; best of all, words of sympathy and cheer, which lightened the task. In an incredibly short time almost all traces of the Great Flood had disappeared, and the lovely island lay serene and smiling, as before, on the bosom of the Gulf. It is believed that from six thousand to seven thousand people perished in the storm.
In September, 1901, a sea wall, planned for the protection of the island against such storms, was begun; this enclosing wall, which is to cost one and a half million dollars, will be when finished sixteen feet broad at the base, sixteen feet high, and five feet in breadth at the top.
The dawn of the twentieth century was marked by the discovery of petroleum in vast quantities in southeast Texas. In the earliest days of Lone Star history, certain of the incurving bays west of the Sabine River were known as the Oil Ponds, because they offered upon their smooth surface a secure refuge from the stormy Gulf outside to all manner of sailing craft. The meaning of their strange quiet was undreamed of until the first well on Spindletop Heights near Beaumont shot its geyser of oil hundreds of feet in the air. The oil wells at Beaumont and elsewhere now number many scores; their rich output seems inexhaustible.
Long-continued droughts and the appearance of the boll weevil, an insect very destructive to the growing cotton, marred the splendor of this opening year. Vigorous measures have been taken to exterminate the boll weevil, and despite all drawbacks the crops of cotton, corn, and rice have steadily increased in size and in value.
In 1903 S. W. T. Lanham was inaugurated governor.
On the 16th of May, 1888, there was a mighty gathering of people at Austin. They had come—men, women, and children—from every quarter of the great state: from the Pan Handle and from the coast; from the wide prairies of the west, and the wooded hills and valleys of the east. There was a throb of pride in every heart and a sparkle of joy in every eye; for Texas was about to give a housewarming, as it were, and her children had met together to have a share in the home feast,—the new capitol was to be dedicated.
The beautiful City of Hills was bathed in a flood of golden sunshine. The air was sweet with the breath of roses blooming in the gardens. A thousand flags and pennons and banners fluttered from housetops, floated from tall flag-poles, and waved from open windows. There was music everywhere, and everywhere the tread of moving feet and the gay noise and confusion of a happy crowd.
From the crest of its long sloping hill the new capitol, vast and majestic, looked down on all this life and color. Its massive walls arose like the façade of some proud temple; its pillars of rosy granite reflected the light; its great dome soared into the blue sky. No wonder the people burst into shouts of delight on beholding it!
The dedication ceremonies took place at noon in the presence of an immense throng of citizens and soldiers. Among the orators of the occasion was Temple Houston, a son of General Sam Houston. The day was one long to be remembered. At night the noble building was illuminated, and the lofty halls and corridors were filled for hours with the best, the bravest, and the fairest of the sons and daughters of Texas.
New Capitol at Austin (1888).
In the old days when the world still believed in fairies and gnomes and elves and water-sprites, it was thought that each country had its guardian spirit, or genie, who watched over it and protected it from evil. If the poets of those far-away times were now alive, they might picture the Genie of Texas standing, invisible, on the huge dome of the capitol, looking out over her beloved state, and saying, “All is well with my people.” They might imagine her describing the scene under her eyes to the guardians of other states in words like these:
“I see around me, widespread and beautiful, the free State of Texas. Below me, clad in flowers and bathed in mellow light, lies Austin. Crowning the hills, on which fifty years ago the Red Man dwelt in his wigwams and hunting-lodges, are stately government buildings, mansions, and churches. The enclosing gardens, rich in the herbs and blossoms of a semi-tropical region, are fair under the over-arching blue sky. In their midst, crowning its own hill-tops, stands the University planned by the Republic in 1839. Here the young men and the young women of the state, alike eager in effort and high in achievement, move about the hushed halls, or pass, book in hand, through the academic grove without.
“To southward, beyond prairies threaded by the crystal waters of the rivers San Marcos and Guadalupe, I see San Antonio, that old town filled with memories of heroic deeds. The Alamo, treasured by my people, still stands on the plaza once dyed by the blood of Travis and his men. But how the gallant St. Denis would stare if he could come riding up and look from the brow of his favorite hill into the valley he loved! The village has become a great city. The streets are alive with traffic, handsome houses line the river-banks almost to the old Missions of Concepcion and San José. The United States army post is there as of old, with the stars and stripes proudly waving over its fine buildings.
“To east and southeastward are Goliad and Gonzales, sacred in the pages of Texas history; and the river La Vaca, up which La Salle and his men sailed to build ill-fated Fort St. Louis; and the San Jacinto, washing the reedy edge of the famous battle-ground. There are Houston and Columbia, whose streets in the early days were trod by the fathers of the Republic. There is Nacogdoches; and there is the Old San Antonio Road, which is still a traveled highway; and many a town which played its part in the stirring scenes of past times.
“Northward and westward lies the newer Texas with thriving cities, such as Dallas and Fort Worth, Sherman and Denison; and Waco on the site where half a century ago stood the village of the music-loving Wacoes.
“A wonderful network of railroads binds all these towns and cities together—a network which has been woven as if by magic. In 1852 the Sidney Sherman, the first locomotive engine west of the Mississippi River, ran out of Harrisburg on a short stretch of railroad. Now there are nine thousand miles of railroad in the state.
“Every year vast fields of grain lie golden and ripe for the harvest, where a short time ago plover and partridge hid in the prairie grass. Along the coast the rich plantations of sugar cane wave and rustle in the breeze, and the smoke of the sugarhouses at grinding-time is black against the sky.
Ashbel Smith.
“In Stephen F. Austin’s day there were little patches of cotton about the cabin doors of the settlers. To-day Texas grows one-third of the cotton raised in the world. No fleece so white, no stalks so weighted with bursting bolls, no fiber so strong and yet so delicate, as that of the cotton of Texas.
“I see,” the Genie might continue, “I see orchards of fruit trees, and vegetable gardens, and rose bowers, making green and glad the face of the country.
“I see at Galveston and Sabine Pass the largest ships now sailing with ease, where in 1863 the Westfield and the Clifton grounded in mud or on a sand-bar.
“A mighty bulwark, sprung up as if by magic, stretches its arms around the Island City and guards it from any fury of the sea.
“The mysterious and limitless pools and lakes which lie far below the surface of Texas soil have been forced into service. I see artesian wells spouting their sturdy columns of clear healing water in hundreds of places; and reservoirs of oil, whose fountain-head no man knows, yield their priceless gifts to the hand.
“Herds of cattle swarm about the great ranches of the west; while in the vast unfenced solitudes soft-eyed antelopes, and other wild creatures of the forest, still rove in primeval freedom.
“Libraries spring up; new institutions for the afflicted arise; smiling homes invite to comfort and repose the thinning ranks of the veterans of the Southern Confederacy.
“Last, and best of all, wherever there is a quiet hamlet or a growing town or a busy city, I see a schoolhouse. It may be but a rude cabin, where through the unchinked logs the children may watch the birds building their nests, or it may be a stately building which glorifies the memory of some generous giver, like the Ball and Rosenburg Schools at Galveston; it may be a crowded little place where the boys kick their heels against time-worn benches, or it may be the handsome University of Texas. But big or little, stone building or log cabin, there is always the schoolhouse; and within it the school children, the future men and women of the state. Upon them, even more than upon railroad or cotton crop, depend the prosperity and welfare of the state. I breathe a prayer for all who tread this free and unfettered soil to-day; but chiefly I call down blessings upon the school children of Texas.
“All is well with my people.”
So might speak the Genie of Texas from the dome of the capitol.
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