Benjamin Flower at Cambridge to Eliza Gould at the Gurneys, Walworth, Sunday, 22 December 1799.

Cambridge Dec. 22.d 1799

   The severity of the weather prevents my rambling to any of my friends in Cambridgeshire, and I as usual when at home, spend my Sabbath morning in solitude: and how can I spend it more to my satisfaction than in epistolary conversation, with my most Dear Eliza, whose very kind letter just received informs me that next week, that the first day of the ensuing year will unite us in the closed, most endearing bonds—yes—will inseparably unite us for time and for eternity; for altho’ our outward tabernacles may and must one day be dissolved, our minds, that best portion of us, that immortal nature, shall part but for a very short period—perhaps never never part: for have not departed spirits a knowledge of those they have left behind, and are they not in some manner present with them; but if this latter thought is merely conjecture, I am sure the other is not—the parting cannot be long between those united in the bonds of christian love and friendship, in such bonds as ours, in which soul and soul, and heart and heart are encircled and indissolubly united. If I did not feel confident that that merciful God, who has so surprisingly appeared for me, in his appearance for you, in preserving you from the effects of inclement weather, and in restoring your health, I should indeed be very uneasy at your account of your cold and sore throat.  Miss Gurney’s letter by one interlineation, after informing me you had caught cold,—“that your lungs were not at all affected,” made me tolerably easy: but she did not mention your sore throat: I depend on what you say, “that you have no other complaint, that you are nursing yourself,” that you will do everything in your power to get well.  If you should unhappily experience a return of your former complaint, so as to excite the least alarm in your friends, do not send for any apothecary, particularly any one with an outlandish name, but at once have the best physician your friends can recommend: but I will not give way to such a thought, I will hope and trust in God that he will very speedily restore you, and I feel, I assure you I do—comfortable. 

   But, my dearest Life, I can hardly help gently chiding you for “walking in a heavy fall of snow,” (I guess for at least a mile).   Was the Inn such an inhospit­able one, as the Hotel at Exeter?  Could you not have remained an hour in a room with a fire in it, and have given a man a trifle to have watched for a coach for you?  I tremble, indeed I do, when I reflect on the dangers you have lately been exposed to.  You had an instance during our journey to Bedford, how much the supposition, even when the danger was past, of losing you affected me: “and suppose” said you in your lively way, when discoursing on your late illness—“suppose I had died in Devonshire?”  The very sentence struck like death on my heart, and tears were the only answer I could give you.  Blessed be God I have escaped that state in which my only remaining prayer would have been, that my heart might not be long in breaking.

   You have been very kind my Love in assenting to my wishes respecting the day of our Union.  Every thing relative to that day, even the least minutia shall be as you wish it.  Have you any plan respecting the day?  Do you wish to spend the day at Walworth, as I think you said you should, if we did not go to Hertford, or had you rather set out for Hertford soon after breakfast?  Is it your wish to have our friend Miss Gurney at my brothers?  I have no doubt he with my sister will make her heartily welcome.  I know that you, equally with myself, wish to avoid as much parade as possible on the day.  I mention these things now, as I intend going to my brother’s by coach on Tuesday night, to stop at Ware, and walk early the next morning to Hertford, to spend Xmas day there, and to breakfast—shall I stay and have a charming half hour before breakfast, with you on Thursday morning; but I cannot exactly determine the latter point, as I may in that case have to walk late at night, two miles for the Ware Coach.  However Thursday, is the day, I trust I shall see you, and remain with you till you are completely mine.  If however you cannot determine respecting the manner in which we are to spend the day, it is not material, but while I think of it, give me a line or two by Tuesday’s post (as much more as your health will permit) directed to me at Hertford.

   The Closets are prepared and will be put up to morrow.  I have had two new Bath Stoves fitted in—one in our little parlour, the other in the best bedroom, in the latter the brick work was out of order, and it was thought necessary to have it done up directly.   I would have had another in the bed room on the first floor, but my mother told me she had a Bath Stove in London, which I might have, and I thought I had better see it first.  If it will not do, we can easily and without trouble have another fixed in whenever you please. Isaacson could do nothing for us at Linton.  Everything went extravagantly dear.  I wish the sale at Cambridge had been larger.  I think I mentioned in my letter of the 18th, that I bought a tent bedstead and check furniture.  It is a very good one, Miss Jennings thinks too good for a servants Room—half a dozen stained chairs and one arm’d chair nearly as good as new—a small mahogany Table—plenty of breakfast and Tea good common china—tea pots &c, a lot of coarse earthen ware, such as pickling jars & etcetera’s, some of which are beyond my ordinary abilities even to tell the name of; however I did not go very much out of my depth as the whole lot cost but four shillings.  Miss J- tells me “if I can go on furnishing a house as I have begun, I shall do the matter cheap with a witness.” I observed in the Morning Chronicle of Friday—Two sales of furniture, one in Charlotte Street Blackfriars—the other of remarkable genteel furniture at a Mr Well’s Auctioneer’s Long acre—but I forget—you are not I am sure fit to go out.  I will bring a particular answer to some questions in one of your late letters about furniture.  Pray how do you like Tent Bedsteads with circular tops?  They always struck my fancy, and I liked the looks of them, particularly with handsome chintz furniture, better than four post—but I am going out of my province, and so, leaving this matter to your superior judgment—no more at present, about furniture. 

   On emptying my great coat pockets, I found two draughts belonging to you, I find they will keep.  I believe Eliza the fact is—we were both so happy in travelling together, that we were food and medicine to each other, and no wonder Bark draughts were altogether forgotten.   I have been every day since Tuesday last, oiling, and brown papering, and flannelling my ears, and swallowing a teaspoon full twice a day of warm drops in water, whether with any effect a short time will determine.  I wish you could sleep as well as I do.  My last moments before I repose at night are employed in a prayer for you.  As soon as I awake in the morning, I begin dialoguing (learned men may coin a word now & then) “how do you do Eliza—Have you rested well.”—Tolerably well my love—How do you do.”  I then salute my pillow, and keep on chattering away, and I make you chatter away to me in return, by answering in such a manner as I think you would do were you by my side, and were we, as we shall be, to use the expression of our poet Milton, respecting our first parents—“Imparadis’d in one another’s arms.” I hope my paper came safe yesterday.  I need not ask you—how you liked—“The Affectionate Heart.”

   And now, my Dearest Eliza, we are both very nearly approaching the most important day of our lives. The close of another year of such a life of variegated scenery, and chequer work as mine has been a reflection of the crowning mercy which my God is giving me, in you—altogether raise such a variety of reflections and sensations in my mind that I know not how to express myself, and indeed tears of mingled wonder, delight, and gratitude, oblige me for a few minutes to lay down my pen.  I have at some periods of my life regretted that I was not united to one or the other of my youthful attachments: but this I regret no longer. I never before knew one whose mind I felt so paired with mine.  I have lately been apt to regret that I had not the opportunity, or that I did not seek it of cultivating your acquaintance when at Tiverton, that we might have been six years forwarder in happiness, but in that case I should probably have settled at Tiverton, we might have been hampered in our connection with the Dennys’s family: so that I have now nothing to regret.  No.  Our God has ordered all our concerns for the best; our lives shall therefore be devoted to him.  He has made one of the apparently most unfavourable events of my life, my commitment to Newgate the means of my renewed acquaintance and of my begun and rivetted attachment to you.  Tho’ I was not long in taking my resolution, yet I very seriously considered before I took it.  I can now with the most heartfelt sincerity say that from the first moment I declared my heart yours, to the present, I have not had one repentant thought shall I say?  no that would be an improper term.   I will say I have not had one single thought bordering on doubt or suspense as to the propriety of the step I had taken.  My affection has been continually on the increase, and my judgment has always followed and closed in with that affection.  I have often had occasion to sing of judgment now I will sing of Mercy.  I am now looking back like Israel of old, on all the way which my God has led me thro’ the wilderness; I trust he is introducing me into a “Canaan” in this world, preparat­ory to an introduction to the heavenly Canaan in a future world.  We will go on arm in arm together in our Christian course.  We will be helpers to each other in all that is christian, excellent or praiseworthy.  You my Love, to my shame, I confess it, have I can evidently perceive, made greater advances in the divine life than I have; your temper and disposition are more thoroughly formed in the gospel mould: you have more improved both your mercies and afflictions.  I assure you I will daily and hourly strive to follow you.  Give God the Glory my dear love. I can assure you altho’ my language to you has always been that of sincerity, yet I should almost have been fearful of saying what I have, did I not assure myself that you are possessed of the crowning grace of a christian—humility; that you consider yourself as a debtor for every thing amiable and excellent, and that you are ever ready to ascribe all the glory to that God who has made you in so remarkable a manner to differ from so many thousands,—from the generality of the human race.  Thus Gratitude and Humility, will I doubt not fill your bosom, as indeed, at least for the present hour, it does mine.  Oh! may these sensations never depart from either of us.

   Since I began my letter I have received one from my Brother Richard.  The following is an extract.  After ridiculing me for acting unbecoming a person of a “philosophic mind,” because I had complained to him of the want of conveniencies in my house, he adds—“I am very glad to hear Miss Gould is so well; before your letter came to hand I heard of her looking charmingly; may health, prosperity and every other blessing compatible with this state of trial attend you, and your intended is my most sincere wish.  My wife unites with me in love, & desires me to renew our invitations to Miss G- & yourself.  We shall be glad to see you in your way to London to stay as long as you can with us; also to visit us after the Priestly ceremony of matrimony has taken place.  I have hinted to my friend T. H. that I shall be glad to see him to celebrate the marriage of the Editor of the Cambridge Intelligencer, fill bumpers to his bride, and unite in the Chorus of the Birth day of Liberty—“Fall Tyrants fall &c.”

   I shall depend on hearing from you my Dear Love on Tuesday Morning at Cambridge, and on Wednesday Morning at Hertford: but do not fatigue yourself. Miss Jennings & Mrs Roope desire to be remembered.  We were all felicit­ating our cheer to day, that I hurried you a little, out of Devonshire.  You see as it is, you have not entirely escaped travelling in the frost and snow, though I hope by the time you have received this you are recovered from the effects of it.  Dalrymple’s father has sent you a Turkey, it is directed to you at my brother’s in Cannon Street.  I have written to him to send it you by the Walworth Coach. I believe my brother is in Town, but if you do not receive the parcel some time on Monday, cannot you desire one of the Walworth Coachmen to call for it.  In that case send a note to Cannon Street.  I shall be a little, tho’ I will endeavour to be only a little anxious for your letter on Tuesday, which I hope will inform me of your being quite well.  Adieu, thou dear possessor of my heart, and rest assured of the eternal affections of him, the summit of whose happiness it is to subscribe himself

                                             your own

                                                         B.   Flower

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. 216-21.

References are to Mr. Saumarez, her London physician; Joseph Cottle's poem, “The Affectionate Heart”; Thomas Hovell, chief partner in the firm of Hovell, Staples, and Eaden, haberdashers, mercers, papermakers, etc. of Cambridge; and Dalrymple, one of many apprentices who would work for Flower during his years in Cambridge.