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expand1997 (1)
1Author:  Royall Anne Newport 1769-1854Add
 Title:  The Tennessean  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: MY ancestors came from England. They were part of the persecuted dissenters, who sought an asylum in the wilds of America—of those enterprising few, who landed at Plymouth, in sixteen hundred and twenty. Dear Friend—You complain, in your last, of the violent proceedings of your town on the old subject; but it is trifling, compared to the zeal of our minister.— Though my health is little improved, since I wrote you last, yet I went to hear Mr. Williams, last Sabbath. I was shocked at the discourse; but, dear Thomas, it would cost me my life, if this were known. He raged, he stamped, he foamed at the mouth, and all this for a mere phantom—a shadow. Strange, that our teachers should set such examples of wrath. I am sure, Christ enjoins it upon us, to be meek and lowly. But I will try to give you a plain account of some of the sermon. He said that “the cross of St. George, in the English colours, was a downright popish relict; that it was Idolatry, and popish whoredom, to retain this ensign of hellish superstition.” But his language would be too tiresome to you, and withal, not edifying. So much did his discourse affect the congregation, that they held a meeting, that same evening, and passed a decree, that it should be publicly cut out of the colours, and should never be seen amongst God's people.” I am very doubtful that this is not the right way—moreover, our minister and another one, by the name of Roberts, had some very uncivil talk that same evening. This cannot be the right way—we have lost it, somehow. We are, in truth, without teachers; for I would put no more faith in this madman, Williams, than I would in Satan. It puts me in mind of a saying of Luther's friend, Mclancthon, of Wittemberg. He said “that he longed to be dissolved, and that for two reasons—first, that he might enjoy the much desired presence of Christ, and the heavenly church—secondly, that he might be freed from the cruel and implacable discords of divines.”— But I shall not, I trust, be long in this turbulent world. I am heart-sick of it. What a monster is man! Better had we remained in England:—I could laugh, there; here I dare not smile. Adieu, dear friend, &c. &c. Dear Charles—So soon as thee receives this letter, thee will proceed home without delay.—I am ruined!— All my effects were seized yesterday, to satisfy Clark & Co. of Liverpool, vs. Burlington & Co. I do not understand this; I am bewildered; something is wrong in this business. I did not know that I owed that house aught, except part of the last importation; but I know nothing, nor can I do any thing. Haste thee home with all speed. I am very much indisposed—thy mother is distracted; we need thy presence and assistance. The family send their greeting to thy young friend. Very Dear Friend—Your situation is one that admits of little relief—nothing but time can heal the wounds of the heart. But permit me to mingle my tears with yours—permit me to say that I feel for your sufferings, and that on a double account; but this is too tender a subject, and yet I cannot forbear. Dear Charles, forgive me, for in your breast alone I would repose the secret of my heart; but I dare not name it—cannot you guess, oh, dearest Charles? Write to me, quickly, and let me know. But I am raving—I sat down to console you, whilst I need consolation myself. I shall see you, at the end of the term, at all hazards—in the mean time, 2* let me know whether I may dare to hope—you understand me. Say to your sister, that her sorrows are mine. You say she weeps incessantly.—Oh, God! tell her it wounds me to the heart—never again write to me thus. Dear Charles, you have pierced my soul. Say something to relieve me.—Accept the trifle I send you, until you can make it convenient to return it. Do not let this mark of my eternal regard for you, wound your delicacy—you know my heart—you know if I were in your situation, and you in mine, that I would be proud to give you this proof of our friendship. Know, from henceforth, that what is mine is yours. Your very distressed friend, Sir—Agreeable to your request I waited on Mr. Hunter and demanded a settlement: he said he was ready, and forthwith we proceeded to the place where his books were kept. Upon examining the accounts between him and your father I am sorry to inform you that he brings your father in debt. Upon presenting the account you sent me, he denied the whole; and made use of language that is useless to repeat to you. I do think myself that your account is just; but you can get nothing of Hunter. The property you spoke of was sold a few days since for the benefit of “Clark & Co.:” therefore Hunter is insolvent. It is thought, pretty generally, that the goods were purchased by his friends and with his own money. You ask of Hunters reputation—he has hitherto been esteemed an honest man and a fair dealer; but since your affair, he has fallen very much in the esteem of the public. It is hinted here that he laid this plan of treachery when last in Liverpool; the agent for that house says he failed for the sum for which the seizure was made. I am very sorry for your situation, and have no comfort for you but the very poor ones of patience and resignation. Should you have any farther commands in this city I will attend to them with pleasure.—Yours, respectfully, &c. “Dear Henry.—You will receive this by Captain T., who has undertaken to visit you and learn your true situation. Your captivity has afflicted us with the deepest sorrow; your mother is unconsolable and refuses to be comforted. Our Government is negociating your ransom, which is attended with much difficulty; but I expect it will soon be brought about: if them Spanish dogs don't cut your throat or something worse, you will receive one thousand dollars. If that will set you at liberty I shall think it well laid out. I am in too much trouble to say more. “You will recollect, said she, that my father promised to see the Vice Roy and ask his permission for your friend to deliver the letter; he promised you he would go that evening and accordingly he went, but was unable to get an audiance that evening. After his return he came into my parlour, as he always does when he concludes the business of the day. Whilst he was talking in a careless manner, and growing sleepy he yawned and observed, “Your friend is still here, he has been with me often. He is disguised in the habit of an Indian, and has two fleet horses ready, and now the nights being dark, you may expect him. Heaven grant you may get safe to your country, where you will sometimes deign to think of I received your kind letter of November last, in which you congratulated me on my happy asylum—alas, my dear brother! this proves how little you know of the world—much better, had it pleased Divine Providence, that I had followed my parents to the grave! Much better for me, had I been destitute of those advantages, to which alone, perhaps, I owe my present distress. But I will try and compose myself, if it be possible, for the purpose of acquainting you with the principal incidents which have happened to me of late. What has become of you? Have you forgot your Mary? Are you alive? Oh, for heaven's sake send me but one line, but one word—I ask no more. But it is in vain—you cannot be living—what has become of Wilson? has he too forgot me? Alas then, I have no friend! ye cannot both be dead!—but I will cease to complain— Oh that God would take me to himself! There was but two—but no matter—and yet I cannot think that if living, you would forget me. My last letter you never answered—I heeded that not, as I expected to see yourself. I looked not for a letter, but I looked in vain for either. This is the last I shall trouble you with; I shall ask no more for help, where no help is to be found. I received your favour this day: I am truly glad to hear that you have returned, and that Mary is at length happy. I have never heard of Dupon since Mrs. Cary left here—old Mr. Simpson is dead. His oldest daughter, Clarissa, ran away with Hunter, it is supposed, as she was missing the night he escaped from prison, and has never been heard of since. I hasten to reply to both yours of this instant. Hunter owns the property mentioned in your letter. You refer to me for information respecting its value: this I would wish to decline.—In the first place I am not a judge; and in the second place the price of property is so fluctuating that it is not easy to say. It might sell to day six per cent higher than it would to-morrow. “Dear Sir.—Agreeably to my promise, I communicate the following particulars relative to Miss Simpson.
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