Benjamin Flower at Newgate to Eliza Gould at the Gurneys, Walworth, Tuesday, 20 August 1799.

Newgate, Aug 20. ’99 —

Tuesday Night 12 oclock.

My Dear Friend! —

   For so you permit me to call you—a thousand thanks for that permission—it is indeed an alleviation of the pain which your letter, in more than one place, has given me.

   In your two last visits I made minute inquiries after your health: Your assurance in both that your late complaint was entirely removed, your appearing in such charming spirits, rendered the information in your last, as surprising as it was distressing.  Had I entertained the most distant idea of your Situation, would most assuredly have deferred sending my last.  I could say much to induce you not to attempt giving any reasons for declining what I proposed; I cannot admit the thought.   I—but I check myself.  I wish to avoid dropping a word that may in the least degree, agitate you.  Dismiss me from your thoughts, so far, as I may be the means of giving you one uneasy sensation.  You profess “to feel a peculiar interest in my happiness”—You wish me “to consider you as my Friend.” My heart will never, while it beats at all, cease to beat with gratitude for these very kind, and, I am sure, sincere professions of esteem: but I will add—the only act of “friendship,” the only proof you can, for the present, possibly give me of your “being interested in my happiness,” is—to give rest to your own mind:—to dismiss every person, and every thing that may give it pain, to dwell on those        exalted pleasures which you are in the full possession of—the approbation of your conscience and your God, and I need not add, the esteem and affection of those you most value.  In a word, Do every thing in your power for your recovery.  One line, as soon as possible, to let me know how you are, I intreat; but from your promise of “writing the first letter you are able to me”—altho’ on a subject so very near my heart—altho’ you may somewhat conceive the anxiety with which I shall expect your letter—that promise I entirely release you from.  You have friends who if they hear of your illness will be uneasy till they hear of your recovery.  You ought not, you must not, till your recovery, write a line that may have a tendency to discomfort yourself.  I now correspond with you in your own terms.  I will not in this letter go a step further.  I only claim the common privilege of a friend, in what I have already written, and in what follows.

   You are one of the last persons who would wish to give pain to anyone, more especially to a Friend.  Avoid therefore, when addressing me, the use of the phrase “warmest gratitude.” Whatever I may hope one day to possess (a hope I must cherish)—Though I must indulge the thought that you cannot have one “substantial reason” to prevent my proceeding in what I proposed—so far from your being my debtor, I am wholly your’s.  What have I yet to ballance against your favours [letters] received at Cambridge, and those received in my present confinement?  The latter, by the very circumstance of that confinement, so much enhanced.   “You injure me!”—No—You have already been the Angel of Heaven to make me a better man; and I firmly hope the world will find me so, in consequence of those impressions of various kinds, your letters have made upon me.  You have therefore a most powerful claim—but I forget myself  I will not now enter on the Subject.   I will only drop a friendly hint or two in reply to some other parts of your letter—G. Fordham’s conduct surprises me a little, and but a little.  It will serve for conversation, but pray think nothing farther about it.  I hoped that sit­uation, and I hope any similar situation, will be only temporary, for a few months.  You asked my advice, you asked that advice of other friends—you followed our opinion.  You have nothing to reflect on yourself, and therefore must not be unhappy.  You have most deservedly, and I am firmly persuaded for your own happiness, dismissed Feltham from your heart.  Pray try and dismiss him from your thoughts.  Before I received your last, I had read the correspondence over—three times.  I have since read the two letters you allude to, as abstractedly and as impartially as possible.  Altho’ the full merits of your cause do not therein appear, it is impossible that any one possessing any sense of justice, and I will not say of candour, can draw conclusions unfavourable to you.  Your character is perfectly safe.  Feltham cannot—He shall not injure it, in any respect.  I must wish to see if the “Crayon painting” is a likeness.  This favour you will not refuse me.

   Friends must take pleasure in the company of, and in communicating to each other, their sentiments & feelings.  To shew you the value I set on your friendship, and your company, you shall, as I hinted in my last, make your own terms.  If I, in conversation drop a word that makes you uneasy, a look from you shall check me.   Recollect I have not yet presumed to ask your affections.  I have in very simple terms, declared the state of my own—avoiding indeed the language I might have used to convey some idea, however inadequate, of their strength.  I have only asked permission to open to you more fully, my heart.  I do not say you can, or that you will be able to return, what is my chief desire in this world.  If after my proposed correspondence when you will be in possession of my soul, you should say—“Thank you for you Confidence—I give you credit for sincerity—I have still a friendship for you, but with sentiments such as I hold respecting what ought to form the basis of so solemn a compact as union by marriage—I find myself compelled to declare, You are not the man with whom my heart, and my hand can unite!”—Whatever I may on such an occasion suffer, and I know how severely and how long I have suffered on an inferior occasion, the loss of a friend—You shall never hear, nor shall ever any one else hear a word from me, bordering on reproach.  I will indeed lament in secret, that Eliza Gould did not think me formed for her, and could not be happy with me, but that such being her decided opinion, I cannot in the least blame her for her resolution.  I have, in spight of my determination said more than I intended, but it is only by way of explanation, that you may perfectly understand me: not to give, but to prevent that uneasiness, which I know your friendly heart will feel, however “substantial” you may imagine your “reasons,” if you should refuse to comply with my proposal of “settling the terms of a correspondence,” which has been my only request.  Friendship, worthy the name, will not terminate in this world.  Our’s sprung from the mind, and will last as long as our mental existence.  If I could admit the idea, that any unhappy Circumstances could prevent our most intimate union here, I would still indulge the thought—yea, I will close this letter, and this day, and retire to rest with the heart cheering prospect, of an union in “another and a better world.” If you go before me to that world, your spirit shall be the first I will seek on my entrance.   Should I precede you, my spirit shall be the first to hail your’s to the regions of immortal friendship, and increasing, neverending happiness!

                     Yr very sincere Friend & hume Servt

                                             Benjn Flower

Wednesday Morng

P.S.   I find myself, thank God, more composed in my mind than for several days past—Pray have you read, that charming little piece alluded to in Mrs Thoton’s Memoirs—“Gambold’s Mystery of Life.” I printed it in the Cambridge Intelligencer in July ’96.  If you have not seen it, you have a pleasure to come, and I will procure it you.  Do you wish for any book, you have not wth you.  This, and various other questions I hope shortly to have personally answered.

Text: Timothy Whelan, ed., Politics, Religion, and Romance: The Letters of Benjamin Flower and Eliza Gould, 1794-1808 (Aberystwyth: National Library of Wales, 2008), pp. 63-65. The “Memoir” referred to above is An Account of the death of Mrs. Anne Thornton, of the borough of Southwark, who departed this life the 18th day of March, 1799. The short poem “The Mystery of Life” appeared in the Cambridge Intelligencer on 20 August 1796. Flower took the poem from The Works of the Late John Gambold, A. M. (1789) (263-64).  The closing stanza reads:

Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills,

My soul an unknown path shall tread,

And strangely leave, who strangely fills

This frame, and waft me to the dead:

O what is death!  ‘tis life’s last shore,

Where vanities are vain no more;

Where all pursuits their goal obtain,

And life is all retouch’d again;

Where in their bright result shall rise

Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and joys.