[Letter from Elizabeth Upshur Teackle to her husband, Littleton Dennis Teackle, August 2, 1811]

My dear husband

When the last mail went out I wrote you a short letter, and today the truth I was so exceeding unwell, I had not power to enlarge my epistle. Revived and renevated with the spirits of a fine morning, and I thank God that I can add, the glow of joy that a degree of returning health bestows. I have look’d around for some employment suited to my feelings, and which may continue this elasticity, through the day: as it has always been my opinion that an act of duty is the best preserver of one’s good humour and tranquility. I naturally resort to the discharge of one of those pleasing tasks, where duty claims her due in concert with the hearts free will. Sunday, you know, in the Country is the day which most people rather endure than improve. The mind tied down to a prescribed rule of action from the love it has for independence

naturally revolts from the constraint and from it’s waywardness refutes that good which might be assumed to itself, relaxes into supineness and morbid inanity. Thus it is too often with me - I am sorry for it. My failings convict me of weakness in this point, and I must, positively, endeavour to correct them. This morning, when for the first time in the space of five weeks, I took my circuit through the garden, I was full of cheerfulness, and thought only of the present enjoyment, when lo! Entering the house, looking around, and finding Sunday delimated in the mild tranquility of its colouring throughout the [aparturing] I was as near as possible to the dreadful ennui which a constraint on my choice of amusements always has hitherto produced. And I verily believe I shou’d have imagined myself sicker than ever had not a thought of you and my writing plan presented itself. In this I am already so happily engrossed that I almost never

never again to put a black mark on this holy day. Certainly if we seek to fit our employments to their proper time, no hour of our lives may be lost. There is a system in all things, but woe be unto me! I am but a theorist in systems. It remains for you to direct me to their practice. Your theories are so promptly follow’d up by action, that a superficial observer wou’d doubt whether your mind ever form’d a plan at all, or whether your system grew out of your practice. I mean this as a just tribute of praise to the active energies of your mind, but I almost tremble whilst I write it, for you hate flattery and have so often accused me of the oily flow of the tongue’s balsam to vanity. Now we have lived together too long to be over complacent and to each other and, man and wife like, truth is extorted from us by the actual existence of merit. After this fine climax, I can but revert to a certain passage of your last letter,

in time to exculpate myself from your charge of self-complacency. Believe me, it is not my intention to take as the one of my own merit the indirect compliment you have there paid me in transcribing Mr. Gilmor’s panegyric on my critique; although to tell you in truth, my feelings, I won’t say vanity, for I must think the delight I felt was of a nobler origin, were deliciously roused on perusing your letter. Whatever praise you condescend to repeat of me, I naturally claim as due, and it gives me a pleasure far above the vain feelings that the indiscriminate applause of the crowd cou’d create. For I know it is not your interest to make me ridiculous, or to embue my mind with ill placed self-esteem.

I am charmed to find you so pleasantly situated. Now then I see why the strictest prudence shou’d dobar

you the innocent enjoyments of a refin’d and extensive intercourse with your frd^s. It costs you nothing, and on the other hand you gain by it. I suppose the beaux of Balt. wou’d tear your eyes out for preferring the beauty of an obscure corner of the Eastern Shore to that of their infallible city, and that too emblazoned by all the factitious ornaments that were and the fairest light can give. However, you have a right to your opinion and if Charlotte looks prettier in her plain guise than Mrs. McKim with all her finery, so much the greater honor to Nature and her.

I receiv’d Mrs. Donnell’s present and thank her for it.

Tell Molly Gilmor I shall expect to see her en passant and anticipate the period with much pleasure.

I wrote to Mr. G. by last mail.

Eliza went down yesterday,

Mama’s health is no better. She intends commencing her Northern jaunt soon.

I shou’d be glad you wou’d write me how your arbitration goes on, and whether you’ve sold your vessel. Also write me whether the pork is 8 doll[ar]s pr barrel or pr hundred wt.

Elizabeth is getting well again.

I have endeavour’d to economize my little cash as well as possible and have not spent more than 3$ in any other way than for the family but it takes much more than I had an idea of for domestic disbursements. I buy as I go, and have raised no ally whatever, more than I can pay at the moment except the hams w[hic]h I was absolutely oblig’d to send to Mr. Robertson’s for. I wou’d have done without them myself, but have had my friends from Accomack with me.

Someone or other of them ever since you went away, and occasionally the girls from the neighborhood have taken pity on my solitude. I believe there is no one cou’d live by themselves for a time with less inconvenience than I. Yet I must take a kindness as ‘tis meant, in good part. As for my relations and yours, our home is their [home]. I wish it to be so.

God bless you.
E.U.T.

Sunday night
I wish joy my dear husband! For [torn page] has at last turn’d one pleasant [torn page] you. I have just receiv’d your letter [an]nouncing your success versus that vi[llain] Gratham. I beg pardon for this strong expression. I feel it and must out with it. I told Mr Jackson, who brought the letter, of your victory and he congratulates you, as do all your friends whom I have told of it. You will soon be at home now won’t you? I have receiv’d the books

and have amused myself with them this afternoon. The other articles will come to hand in due time. Good night. I know you feel reliev’d from a weight of care and therefore reasonably may wish you pleasant dreams.

E.U.T.
Will you bring me a silver thimble? Your little finger will do for a measure?

L D Teackle, Esqr.
Barney’s Hotel
Baltimore
2 August 1811