John A. Quitman to His Sister, May 21, 1833

Monmouth, May 21st, 1833.

But a few days ago, my beloved sister, your now wretched brother was the happy father of four blooming children. The hand of Providence has fallen heavily upon me in these last three days. Our beloved little Edward, who had never before had a moment's illness, was for about a week affected with derangement of the bowels, which at length resulted in cholera, and his pure spirit left this world for a better on the morning of the 18th. Oh! this was a severe blow to his fond parents, but a heavier yet was in store. On the night before last, my beloved, my beautiful, noble, and affectionate little John was seized with the fatal scourge, without any premonitory symptoms, and in six hours the little angel left this world for a better one. He had no pain, and was resigned, fond, and affectionate to the last expiring sigh. His poor mother is almost inconsolable at the loss of her two darlings. His sister, the constant, inseparable companion of his studies and his sports, looks as if she was deserted by all the world. His father's hopes, his high expectations, where are they? Oh! there is a void in my heart, a burden on my breast; yet I have strength, and will resign myself to this hard, hard dispensation; but Eliza, my dearest Eliza, with all her firmness, is nearly broken-hearted. Who shall describe a mother's sorrow? Two sweet children, upon whom her soul doted -around whom were twined the very tendrils of her heart-torn from her bosom so suddenly! The pestilence fell upon our house with unexampled fury. My German gardener died the day poor little Edward was buried. A servant-maid was attacked the same day, and still lies very low. We are now at Woodlands. A storm passed over last night, and physicians say the pestilence will cease. Its peculiarity has been to fall upon the most healthy localities and avoid others. Its sweep was short, but, merciful Heaven, what a blow! Eliza and I have determined to be resigned to our hard lot. Our poor little son appeared uncommonly beautiful and intelligent the day before his death. He breathed affection for all, and, though perfectly well, he seemed to have some presentiment of his fate. I saw its shadow along my path for weeks. Two hours after the first symptom of his disease, he said, “Father, I will never get well.” He was at the grave when his infant brother was buried, observed every thing with attention, and gave his mother an account of all. Their little graves are side by side, under a beautiful tree, below the garden. We had two of the best physicians, but no human skill could save them. Their heavenly Father had selected their pure spirits to surround His throne.

SOURCE: John F. H. Claiborne, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Vol. 1, pp. 132-3

Felix Huston to John A. Quitman, June 16, 1833

June 16th, 1833.

MY DEAR FRIEND, — I have heard with feelings of great sorrow the severe visitation of Providence which you have suffered in the loss of your dear children. When I reflect what they were when I saw them, how much of promise they evidenced, how healthy, intelligent, and beautiful they were all that could warm with hope the breast of a parent—I think, with tears in my eyes, of my own dear Joseph, and that he, like them, was, by untimely fate, taken from the arms of those who had too much of their happiness, too much of their hopes dependent on him. Oh, my friend, how much of all our fondest anticipations, of our warmest affections and dearest hopes, may be buried in these little tombs! I have suffered more while thinking and deploring the loss of my boy, who was so promising, so much intertwined with all my plans, all my hopes, and with my very heart-strings — more than I thought my stubborn nature would submit to. Often have I shed tears on the midnight pillow, and my heart would swell as though it would suffocate me. Such was the shock, that I felt as though it would madden me; and even now I sometimes lose that self-control and equanimity which I had fancied I possessed. These are afflictions to which stoicism must yield, for nature is stronger than all the consolations of philosophy.

Accept, my friend, my sincere sympathy with you; consolation I can not offer; but the tears which I have shed over the grave of my child have again flowed over the remembrance of yours, who are fresh to my mind as beautiful flowers that have been crushed by the ravages of a dreadful tornado. Assure Mrs. Quitman of my regret for her bereavement, and may Heaven preserve you and her.

Your friend,

FELIX HUSTON.

SOURCE: John F. H. Claiborne, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Vol. 1, pp. 133-4