The Austin weekly statesman. (Austin, Tex.) 1883-1898, 1883-04-26
THE VETERAN ADDRESS.
Delivered by Maj. Joe H. Stewart at
Bolton.


Texas Soldiers of 1856 and the Widows of Oh
Texas Soldiers, Ladies and Gentlemen:
| feel at this moment as if l wer
at some holy shrine. What an honor
standing here almost in my youth, t.
be called upon to speak to you.
When quite a boy l visited tn,
Smithsonian institute at Washington
and, alone and without companion
prompted by curiosity, entered thu
various rooms and apartments of thai
institution. At length found myself
uShered into a large room, perhap:
eighty feet square and fifty feet from
floor to dome, and | saw the whiteC
walls hung with the pictures of dis.
tinguished Indian warriors, adorned
with war paint and feathers and
human scalps dangling from wampum
| belts. Each eye seemed firmly fixed
on me and L felt, in nv boyish fear
as if confronted by living red men
At that moment remembered all the
thrilling accounts / had heard and
read of these men of the forest-the
occasion inspired the remembrance
and reflections.
Looking now into your faces, l am
alike impressed with this occasion
These wrinkled brows, snowy heads
| and trembling limbs; these sunken
eyes, cleaning yet with the sunbeams
of patriotism, impress me with the
magnitude of this presence, and l
realize that | am, at this hour, stand
ing in the presence of the grandeSt
living heroes of one of the greatest
political revolutions hitherto known
among the children of men.
Such collection of the living por-
traits of men of three score years
and ten, penciled by the very master
hand of the universe, it has rarely
been the privilege of men to behold
since the days of the prophets and
patriarchs of the olden time.
1 shall not allude in detail to the
historical events in the early days of
Texas-that grand temple erected by
you and the dead heroes of the young
republic, within whose walls all the
liberty-loving men now living and to
come hereafter may gather cour-
age and inspiration, and upon
whose polished walls your pictures
will hang when nails are eaten with
rust, when cords and tasselS are
broken and when marble structures
are crumbled into atoms and dust.
Yes, that temple of imperial struc-
ture whose foundation stones are laid
deep and sure on the rock of ages and
whose dome now grows and swells
towards heaven and eternity. would
only wipe the dust from it's plain,
old, noble urns.
Every nation has had it's heroic pc
riod and its heroic race. The heroes
of BeXar, of the Alamo, of Goliad, of
San Jacinto and the Texas Revolution
furnished the heroic race for Texas,
and the revolution 1885 and 1886 was
her heroic period.
guished above all others by concur
renee OF grand agencies with grand
results = by uncommon examples of
the rarer virtues and qualities of man,
tried by an eXigency that occurs only
at the beginning of new epochs, when
the great bell of time sounds out an
other hour.
The heroic race is that one in the
course of history which is recognized
as the great agency to kindle and
feed the moral imagination, move the
heart and command the intelligent
wonder of the world for all time to
come.
Such an age was the Texas Revolu-
ton, such race was that which
fought the enemy upon her then
traclxless prairieS.
That was not the age of the looking
glass, of dainty appetites and of gen
tie manners. sam Houston, like
Achilles, sometimes cooked his own
scanty meal. Men then, and women,
too, wore blue denimS and buckskin;
they may have seemed to possess no
ray of fancy, no emotion of taste;
others may have had a quicker eye
for the beautiful in art, may have
contributed more wit, more song
may have worn more decorated armor
in battle-yet, their lives and deaths
have been whole Iliad in action
'grander, sWeeter, of more mournful
pathos, of more purifying influence
than anything yet sung by old or
modern bard.
In 1885, Mexican oppression and
domination became SO inSupportable
that revolt and arms were the only
recourse for free citizenship within
the borders of Texas, and the few COL
onists staked life and fortune upon
the hazard of independence. All
brave and loyal hearts throbbed in
tendereSt sympathy for the little band
struggling for life and freedom.
Tennessee sent her Ed Burleson,
her Davy Crockett and her James II.
Swisher; Georgia her Ward and
Rusk, her Lamar and Fannin;
Connecticut her E. M. Pease; Mis-
c,ic hnr II
Carolina her Travis and her Bonham;
McKneely; Kentucky her Ben Milan;
the Old Dominion her Stephen F.
Austin, her William L. Hunter-who
now sits before me bearing the leaden
and bayonet scars of Labardie, his
head ripe with years and honors-and
she sent her Frank Johnson, and
there he sits, presiding over your as
ISOLATION like an old and honored
prince of the royal blood; the land of
the Teutons sent her Kleberg; and
hundreds of true hearts gathered
around them-and Drawer and more
loyal men never defended Woman's
honor or eSpouSed a country's cause
They came from the south, from
the north and the east; from the
banks of the flowing Rhine and the
land of the green shamrock, to con-
test the palm with the imperious
and eager foe. They came not for
help or sordid gold, for the infant re-
public was
Too poor to possess the precious ores,
And too much of a stranger to borrow.
The world, in all the ages, has fur
nished no grander eXemplars of chiv-
airy, self-abnegation and God-like
manhood. Young men, just in the
untold delights of a honeymoon,
kissed their tender brides sad fare
well and left to join the patriot band
that were then here fighting for free
dom.
A legend tells of an impetuous
young father and husband who had
heard the tales of woe and danger
that went out from the women and
children of this land; for a moment
he looked down into the cradle upon
his first-born, that had just learned
the first lisping accents of baby-hood;
on Bonded knee he kissed the boy,
arose and wiped the tears, at parting,
from the'eyelids of his fond wife and
then, speechleSS with emotion, turned
his face towards Texas, and, with
quickened footsteps, sought the CORY
field of battle-he now sleeps upon
the banks of the Salado river, and at
each nightfall a mourning ash tree
sings his requiem; and for nearly half
a century, woman, now gray, of
sweet but sad face, clad in weeds of
mourning, has made annual pill
rrriroooraS t0 fhat hoIlOmod cnot