Brazoria, December 29, 1831
Dear Cousin,
Henry returned yesterday and gave me your welcome letter. Yes;
my friend, there is a pleasure in meeting with congenial feelings and
tastes and sympathies, that few—very few—in this cold and selfish
world can appreciate and enjoy. It is therefore like the diamond
to the miser—invaluable.
I entered upon the busy stage of life with ideas of human nature,
which, had they been true, would have made this Earth a paradise.
My temperament was sanguine and confiding, my sensibility acute.
The early part of my life was spent happily in the quiet enjoyments of
home; and in the dreams of youth unpoisoned by ambition; unruffled
by care, unclouded by a true knowledge of man. The world was to
me what the veiled Prophet of Khorassan was to his blind devotees.
My angel Mother, and my nobleminded and kind hearted father were
my first standards of human nature. In the ardor of young hope I
supposed the rest of the world to be something like them. It was a
childish dream after my twentieth year the silver veil began to
rise;—gradually—for the impressions of my whole life—short as it
had then been—were not to be shaken off at once. Pecuniary troubles
swept away my father's ample fortune, and broke up our family
home. Ever ardent and persevering he conceived the idea of a
settlement in Texas which I was destined to accomplish.
I entered this country with my ideas of the perfectability of human
nature but half corrected, I labored with faithful intentions, and as
disenterested views of general good as circumstances and my
capacity permitted. I had never learned the value of money, at least
that value which the world gives it: and the hope of amassing wealth
was not the principal incentive that led me here. For the first time
Ambition kindled its fires in my breast, but I think I can with truth
say that the flame was a mild and gentle one, consisting more of the
wish to build up the fortunes and happiness of others, and to realize
my dreams of good will to my fellow men than of the overbearing
spirit of military fame, or domineering power. My ambition was to
redeem this fine country—our glorious Texas—and convert it into a
home for the unfortunate, a refuge from poverty, an asylum for the
sufferers from selfish avarice.
Here the hand of nature had spread her bounties with such
profusion that the most indigent, with moderate industry, could make a
support. The poor, but honest, man's cottage would not be looked
down upon with contempt from the lofty attics of the lordly palace,
for in that particular there would be perfect equality.
I took upon myself the task of getting secure and valid titles for
their land, and to furnish each emigrant with solid grounds on which
to build the hopes of his family, and his humble "forest home"
Avarice was as incompatible with such views as I trust it has ever
been foreign to my heart. Had I fixed an unreasonable value upon
my labors and been rigid in exaction, or been led away by the
mania for speculation, none but the wealthy would have been
benefitted. My still youthful imagination (I was but 28 years old)
became enthusiastic. I had read of the withering march of the
blood-hounds of war over the fairest portions of the old world
spreading fire and famine and desolation and death in their course,
and sweeping whole nations from existence—all to promote the
happiness of mankind. I could not understand it, but I could
understand how that happiness might be promoted by conquering a
wilderness by the axe, the plough, and the hoe.
Thus I entered Texas. Is it surprising that, with such feelings—
the " Silver veil" but half raised—I have too deeply suffered from
the ingratitude of the few who returned me abuse and curses for
my hard and painful labors to build up their fortunes ? I did feel
it. And there have been moments when I have been threatened with
misanthropy.—moments only, for, like the withering blasts of the
Sirrocco, they could not have been longer endured. It was but the
weakness of human nature, and as such may be pardoned. I looked
around for some congenial minds to unburden my own. Judging
by my exalted and unnatural standard I saw but selfishness, envy,
jealousy, false pride disappointed vanity, and vindictive, furious
revenge. It soured, disgusted, and sickened me. In this unhappy
frame of mind I lost my good, and dearly beloved brother, my sister
was settled for life in Missouri, as I thought, and I began to feel like
an isolated, lone being. Reason and reflection had done much toward
correcting this morbid and baneful excitement, and I began to look
upon my fellow beings more as they deserved, though when
prostrated by sickness, with a fevered brain it still comes over me, as
you have perceived in some of my letters.
I had become convinced that I could not find happiness in a
general and extended intercourse with the world, nor in popular favor,
nor office, nor honors, nor wealth, were all these within my reach
And yet I was a social being. The life of a hermit is odious to
me. I need a social circle—a few friends of congenial tastes the
want of which left a void. That void is being filled. My sister's
family, and Henry's, and Archibald's, and you—my friend, you,—
how shall I ever thank you for venturing into this wilderness-
how express the happiness of the ten days visit at Henry's—his
family so lovely and blooming and cheerful, and his own tail figure
and sea-beaten countenance smiling over them? Yes, we will be
happy. Before you came I had begun to change the opinion that I
was laboring here solely for others and posterity, and am now
convinced that I shall enjoy some of the fruits of my planting. This
is a powerful incentive to persevere and finish my labors, and finally
wash my hands of all participation in public matters. We will
then arrange our cottages—rural—comfortable—and splendid—the
splendor of nature's simplicity. Gardens, and rosy bowers, and
ever verdant groves, and music, books, and intellectual amusements
can all be ours; and that confidence and community of feeling and
tastes which none but congenial minds can ever know; all these,
without excessive wealth we can have. Millions could not buy them,
but the right disposition, with competence, insure them.
You say the world knows nothing of me. I have never sought
for notoriety, nor extended fame, nor do I expect any thing of the
kind. A successful military chieftain is hailed with admiration and
applause, and monuments perpetuate his fame. But the bloodless
pioneer of the wilderness, like the corn and cotton he causes to spring
where it never grew before, attracts no notice. He is either cried
down as a speculator, or his works are too unostentatious to be
worthy of attention. No slaughtered thousands or smoking cities
attest his devotion to the cause of human happiness, and he is
regarded by the mass of the world as a humble instrument to pave the
way for others. I feel thankful that my happiness does not depend
upon the possession of fame. My ambition is to deserve and receive
the approbation of the good, and I feel truly grateful to you for
your kind intentions in this respect. But pray do not, through
partiality, say too much.
On reviewing what I have written I fear you will laugh at my
enthusiasm, and think I am suffering my fancy to wander in the
Elysian Fields when every thing around ought to remind me that
before I can enter them the Styx and Inferrms are to be passed.
It may be so; but even that can not prevent enjoyment by
anticipation.
I hope for the best, and must still believe that all our difficulties
with the governt will be speedily and satisfactorily adjusted. I
shall go home tomorrow and lose no time in communicating with
the Government in such a manner, I trust, as to make all go right
again, There must be a change of some kind, as we are now situated
our commerce is anihilated; all emigration to the country is entirely
stopped, and our hopes of prosperity totally overthrown. Do the
people of my colony, or of Texas, or do I, merit this? No; we
have been to this Government true as steel. And we have redeemed
from a state of nature, and given value, and credit, and consequence
to a large territory whjch they knew nothing about and which,
comparatively, was valueless before. All this we have done under full
authority from, and under the especial request of the Government,
at the risk of our lives, and by years of sufferings and hardships,
without the cost of one cent to the nation. Our fidelity and hard
services, it seems, are to be rewarded by acts of arbitrary despotism,
and a total disregard of the constitution and our just rights. Shut
out from the civilized World, which, after ten years of struggling
through cane-brakes, thickets famine, Indians and wild beasts, we
were just beginning to get a glimpse of, we are to be condemned to
the wilderness forever, and forever deprived of the consolation of
dividing our homes and lands with our nearest relations and dearest
friends who might, otherwise, emigrate and join us!
Never was a man more consciously scrupulous and faithful in the
discharge of his duties to any government than I have been to the
Mexican. I came here in good faith, have labored in good faith, and
now there is a struggle between my desire to adhere to them and the
indignant feelings which their acts create. I will exhaust all
honorable means of obtaining the redress of our grievances. Should these
fail the last resort will he adopted. One word from me now would
anihilate every Mexican soldier in Texas. But I am opposed to all
violence—all bloodshed—so long as there is even a plausible hope
of avoiding such extremes. And I am opposed to a separation from
Mexico, if the government will treat us as we merit, and as the true
interests of the Country require.
Our situation is extremely delicate and interesting. To remain as
we are, is impossible. We have not the right kind of material for
an Independent Government, and an union with the United States
would bring Negro Slavery—that curse of curses, and worst of
reproaches, on civilized man; that unanswered, and unanswerable,
inconsistency of free and liberal republicans. I think the
Government will yield, and give us what we ought to have. If not, we
shall go for Independence and put our trust in our selves, our
riffles, and—our God. Adios
SFA