[Letter from Elizabeth Upshur Teackle to Caleb Upshur, April 22, 1810]
Mentioned in this letter
Princess Anne April 22d, 1810
My Dear Caleb
That I have not earlier replied to your flattering notice of my Ode, is neither the result of a weak sense of the compliment you have therein paid my understanding, nor of lukewarm friendship; rather, lay it to the charge of a timidity which, in spite of the encouragement you so kindly have given my little talent in the literary way, sensitively withdraws from the farther investigation of that sense and taste which, on a better acquaintance with my proficiencies, might be worse pleased with their extent. No - at the very time my ruling Passion Vanity was most gratified by the contributions laid on your praise, she resolv’d not to hazard the little ground her subject had gain’d for her, by pursuing farther conquests beyond the bounds of common sense, whose steady voice happily was heard amidst the clamour of passion & vain glory, through the tenacious ear of self interest.
As to the subject of your elegant epistle
Which does honour, both to the Muse and her disciple, all I have to reply to it is, that perhaps you have mistaken that for principle, and or orthodoxy in my poem, which was only intended, by its ambiguous authoress, shou’d breathe the gentle language of charity and compassion for those errors of our sex, which she wou’d rather hope are the result of a surprise of ambush’d feelings on ill guarded minds, than as the deliberate treachery of depraved hearts, clueless of consequence, on the world at large, in the gratification of individual interest, insatiable passions. I cou’d but smile, my dear fellow, at the civility with which you caught hold of my text; but, whilst I acknowledge you to rank amongst the ablest of casuists, I must, with due decorum declare, that like many other polemics, you pervert the spirit and meaning of the creed to answer the purposes of your favorite hypothesis. Charity is my doctrine, enjoyment your creed, and yet, in so masterly a manner have you blended these, that for the soul of me, I can scarcely discriminate of what sect I am. I know full well
of Zeno, and you are decidedly Epicurean, let us split the difference: It is so much my desire to assimilate to you in all things that I beg of you to name some go between Philosopher who shall amicably unite us in following the purest dictates of the heart, and the wisest dictates of the head. In giving birth to my little ode, I must candidly own my heart was chief agent. Altho you have, with your usual enthusiasm, given unbounded rope to your prejudices in unqualified favor to all you espouse; and crown’d that head with Ivy, which shou’d wear the cypress, or mournful willow. Poetically, madly enamor’d of the Muses, I have to bemoan their coldness: even Sappho never felt more amorous flames, inspired by Lesbian Dames. Nor did her burning passion glow with more destructive fury when Phaon was the theme, than the fire which mounting to my brain frighten Apollo from me; who fearing the scorching of his golden locks and tuneful strings, hides himself from me, in the closest court of Parnassian shades: But since Mortal [dar]kness, and immortal glory can never commingle
into one essence, I will worship that shrine as a sainted one, whose idol I cannot woo to my love. I will clothe myself in sackcloth and ashes, and making a pilgrimage to Parnassus, throw myself at the feet of Apollo and the Nine, asking pardon for having invok’d them in orison, to Baphostical. You see my cousin, how prone I am to sinking, having suffer’d this solemn subject to smack of that levity, which you have so often witness’d, and no doubt deplored, when extreme youth was some excuse for it; when the heart’s light blood frolick’d to the brain and render’d it giddy. I am inclin’d to believe with the immortal Pindar of most modern times, that “there is no making a velvet purse of a sow’s ear.” The natural bent of the mind will appear when constraining circumstances cease, casually, to bias it. The cares of the day over, tonight I am resolv’d to unbend a little in this epistle to you, and as the words flow from my pen, my youthful feelings flow into my soul. I am at Hungars — present to me are the days which are gone; present to me a[s] those juvenal affections which shall no[t]
pass away as the fleeting hours.
As a proof that I am not quite so modest as I pretended to be, I have enclosed you a little essay of mine, hoping it may afford you, if not new lights on the subject of amatory poetry, at least a laugh; even at my expense, you may enjoy it, for, I have often observ’d with what zest you partake of the feast of Momus. Laugh then dear Caleb, “laugh and grow fat.” Would I cou’d.
After all my hopes (and I did cher[ish] them) of seeing my good Jacob one of us. [And] calling him whom I esteem, brother. I am told the sad dog has quit the chase almost without taking the scent, and is now running down fresher game. Oh! You hound! You cur, Jacob. Littn too has left the fair Milcah of golden hair; to her despair, and forsooth is settling his phiz into the true matrimonial Quiz. Well boys! God bless you all.