[Letter from Elizabeth Upshur Teackle to her sister, Ann Upshur Eyre, October 6, 1810]

6^th Oct. 1810 P.A.

Dearest girl

I do thank you from the very bottom of my soul for writing, knowing, as I do, the many sup^d obstacles you have had to encounter amongst the number, dear one, you know your laziness as a scribbe is not the least powerful of the genii, who govern, wondireful spells, the bright host of your airy brain, and often deny to your friends those effusions of thou[ght], which in absence, are most dear to those who [torn page] you. Those who can most easily call into action the bright coruscations¹ of colloquial talent, [wr?] [torn page] often appal’d at the dull, mechanical exertions necessary to bring their ideas to the distant [torn page] of friendship and those minds the most liber[ally] endow’d by nature, crowded with active [ea?] revolt at the slow medium of letters, for the expression of their multifarious conceits. [torn page] we often see the finest geniuses living on[ly] for the purposes of present pleasure, and of aught but the enjoyment of a transitory [re]nown, amongst their delighted companions, who only retain by a sense of general gratification the recollection of talents whose fame shou’d be transmitted, at least, to their grandchildren talents which by producing through the [torn page] of the industrious letter writer a regal system [torn page]

[torn page]rsation, long continue to give to her friends even after death, the splend[id] fruits of her imagination, matured by reflection, and polish’d, and adorn’d, a judicious selection of elegant language, which a closest only, can make perfect. As my pen moves over the paper, my belov’d sister, fresh inexhaustable arguments flow to my mind to convince you how much I value your letter; [ho]w much the writing of them is due to your [torn page]ame. Can I use a stronger one than this?

Poor Christiana! Her protracted illness tells me in plain language that she has not been attentive to the advice I gave her on parting. She has not taken her medicine, I know, and she deserves a severe scold, and if I were this moment at her pillow, tying on her night cap, or [g]reasing her poor ancles, I’d give it her, round [sc]rape. Tell her so. Tell her from me, that [to]day she must throw in the bark” manfully, perhaps, in a little time a fresh course of "phlebotomy,” blistering, puking &c will be the inevitable consequence.

Your whimsical dolours, as you have humorously described them to me, at once excite my pity & visibility. You may [torn page] exclaim with Mrs. Betty Brown in the

beggar girl, “will my sufferens ne[torn page] have an end,” or else, your ideas taking a n[torn page] philosophical turn, exclaim with the poet “What is this world? Thy school oh misery! She who knows not that, was born for naught." I think I have also somewhere read this piece of palatable advice. “School thyself in adversity”. This is a knotty lesson, and in my opinion suits a Zeno tur[torn page] not to feel better than as disciples of Epicurus whose sweetest tone is taught in Pleasure’s on [torn page]ing doctrines.

I have enclosed for brother John a new parody of the willow taken from [torn page] famous story of Ruth which amused him [covered page] much when we were discussing it. [The?] bitter flirtation with Apollo was an inte[torn page] between the winding an hank of cotton, and flourishing off, of a rose on my new ledger. I have also an answer to it, but bethink me of my fame for modesty, and this being rather of the dingy cast, I choose to withhold it.

Retta and I have commenced a course of historical reading, and taking all together, spend our time pretty humdrumically and pleasant. Uninterrupted by those little adventures arising from