[Letter from Elizabeth Upshur Teackle to her sister, Ann Upshur Eyre, November 11, 1810]

Nov. 11^th, 1810 P.Anne

Dearest sister

When friends love one another it is needless to observe the forms of etiquette which are only necessary to cold hearts, who distrust their own prompt actions may betray their real designs, or indifference of sentiment. This is not the case with you and I, whose affection cannot betray us into indirect disrespect; or any improper conduct to each other. It is true, I have not rec’d a letter from you since the last time, as Paddy says; and it is also true that I am very desirous to hear from you, and this being the most probable method of reminding you of your duty to me I make bold to scold your neglect of it, a little.

Geo. Kendall brought the joyful tidings that you were once more restored to tranquility, since which “epocha” I have been left to my own fertile conjectures

which sometimes present you in the regal dignity of undivided empire in your particular deportment; at others, gloominess presages depict you in all the majesty of your rights, struggling to maintain that authority which a too restless and ambitious personage contested for a time. Alas! Alas! My lady queen, how have you been beset! With intimating incendiaries plotting inmates. Discontented pride is a dreadful thing to deal with. Woe be to those who have to stem its torrent in another’s breast, confusion to her who carries the viper in her own.

Ah! Pray let me into all your affairs. It is a modest request I am sure, and befits the bashful dame who announces it. For her, she is still a hopeless widow bewitch’d. Mourn most tenderhearted lady! Mourn with your sister. To be a widow is bad; but to be a widow bewitched is worse, even worse than the fate of a widow befidgetted.

I am beginning to be most heartily sick of my solitude and want of proper help in my private affairs. It is so troublesome to have to manage everything one’s self. The nominal presence, only of a man about the house, is some comfort. The splendid state I now feel, of unquestion’d dominion is but the mockery of power. To be a queen without a subject, is to be a head without a tail. Now you know my husband is my own lawful liege vassal, and I scorn to domineer over lesser wretches, whose implicit obedience, & passive conduct affords no opportunity to the great display of that generalship which is my boast. Don’t start at this presumptuous piece of my presumption! For know that I am a general as well as sovereign over my good man, who suffers me step into his shoes without seeming to understand that he is on a pilgrimage barefoot to obey the commands of his manor serving tyrant, but apparently humble servant. This is a great secret of yours, mine

and the gate post, that general participator of the delicious communion of kindred souls. Retta and I have been to a wedding here in our metropolis. Quite an affair, I assure you, Miss Anne Denwood to Mr Barns. Everything went on to an iota. It was concluded after various judicious counsels that queen Elizabeth shou’d appear in her silver embroidered robe, the gracious gift of her friend & ally of Baltimore. Now this robe with the addition of a pair of old white shoes starr’d with jewels (alias copper spangles), cut an heavenly splash & so emblazoned the brighter beauties of her resplendent majesty, that lambent beams of pleasure play’d round her lovely face, and she was in the highest good humour on the momentous occasion. “She look’d a goddess and she moved a queen.” Ah! Dearest friend! If to you she deigns to unbend her state and condescend to indulge a little mortal vanity, be not jealous. Let not rankling envy pervade our benign soul. Tstsh!

Be vain to her in return. “Tell of your conquests and fight your battles o’er again. Shoulder your dress and shew how hearts were won.”

We are (that is I and my pink and yellow dresses) are waiting in breathless expectation of some vast explosion in Cambridge, which has been foretold, by augers, sapient in skill, will take place at the point, from the convulsed yearnings, throes and travailing of some mighty event enwomb’d at that fateful spot. No use ornaments, pearls, and satins are array’d in pious order to deprecate the too resplendent majesty of the awful issue. The bewildering evanescent apparitions of wedding dresses, favours, cakes, syllabubs, whips and trifles, dance before my madden’d brain, filling it with doubts that hope, and hope that doubts ‘tis “thy evil spirit” queen. “We’ll meet at Philippi.” Ah! Brutus! Aghast, thine eye met the mangled ghost of Cesar, refulgent beaming pleasure will play in mine, when at Philippi I meet the congenial spirits of

my soul! Dear evanescent apparitions? Be evanescent as apparitions, but steady as realities.

Well have you laughed yet? No! Why your risibles are trammeled; Surely your mouth’s sew’d up. God help some people, they can never see some people’s wit. So, unlike the dutch painter, I must subscribe under my production “Dish ish von orse.”

You have never wrote since I sent Cousin John my poem. No matter let it be call’d poem, “dish ish von orse”. Give mine love to him. God bless him to Northampton mit his wife. His snuff box now lies before me, and is in high favor. Not as most favoureds are doom’d, without secret cabals, and open contention against its power. Retta is its open enemy and myself am often tempted to question the loyalty of that affection which leads its patroness into

error, by the persuasions it carrys in its bosom.

Love to all

E.U. Teackle

The Gales¹ and Miss King who asked for you, were here two or three days a week ago. They had a tearing, romping fro[lic] at downright children’s fun, playing smut, and quizzed Mr. Henry² who was down from Balt. Major Carroll has been trying to cajole me since my return, but I remember the “old calico neck” to his sorrow, I shall never bring myself to trust him sincerely again. Genl Gale I have appeased in the name of the whole sex by granting him the kiss, (before his wife too) poor soul he is obliged to catch as catch can. Major Jackson has gone with his colleagues to An-s wearing a face, as Miss Gray says, running 9 yds to the pound, but with a heart, as I told him, delighted that he cou’d go to the W.S. and play the devil in his own way. Coquet & tantalize as he chooses, the mouth watering, languishing belles. Ha! Ha! Ha! Good!

paid

Mrs. Anne Eyre
Erye Hall Northampton
Court House,
Virginia