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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.