Benjamin Flower, Newgate, to Eliza Gould, Mr. Gurney’s, Keene’s Row, Walworth, Wednesday, 6-9 September 1799.

                                                         Newgate Sep. 6-9.   1799

My very dear Friend,

   I have in some of those social parties in which I have spent many pleasant hours, heard it debated—“Whether persons who purpose to be united for life ought, during that state in which they are cultivating each others friendship and affection, to conceal or to expose their mutual imperfections?” I have on such occasions generally, if not always, taken the affirmative side.  I have argued, that where affection is sincere it will do every thing to acquire a return of affection, that when this return is secured, it may then depend on circumstances, how far either party may choose to discover their failings.  But whatever may have been my sentiments on this subject, I now freely confess, they have, since my acquaintance with you, undergone an alteration; and I find I dare not act upon the plan I have more than once endeavoured to vindicate.   Every conversation, with you, every letter I read of yours, tho’ not one of these to which I allude, was written for my perusal, confirms me in the opinion I had formed when I presumed to acquaint you with the state of my heart, that you ought to be acquainted with my life.  In the letter you left with me yesterday, and which I have to day re-perused with increased interest, I find additional evidence of the truth of one of your assertions in these letters—“That your disposition never wore a mask:”—Shall mine then?  Shall I run the risk of your hearing of any dark part of my life from others, and shall I conceal it myself?  No—I cannot—I will not: and whatever may be my fears as to the result, for indeed my fears now begin to agitate my soul, like the waves of the sea when the storm is rising, I will go through the task I have assigned myself.  I had indeed, my Dearest Eliza, rather suffer the object of my affections, and which I feel bound round my heart by ties the strongest, I had rather suffer the loss of that object, and those ties even to be cut asunder, yea to lose you forever in this world, than that you should in any case have to reproach me with deceiving you.  Bear with me therefore, while I put your esteem, your regard, your friendship, and may I add, after some late declarations expressed with such sweetness and sensibility, your affection to the proof!  I now proceed to the second, and I must add the most awful and distressing part of my life. 

   In my last, I hinted that during my apprenticeship, such was my desire for books pamphlets &c. that I laid out what little money I had in the purchase.  I shall entirely avoid the discussion, how far Parents ought to consult the taste of their children, and how far they ought to gratify their inclinations.  It is indeed my own sentiment, that great attention ought to be paid to their inclinations, whether they are vicious or whether they are innocent.  That every thing ought to be done, whether by reason, remonstrance, punishment, of indeed any kind, that may be effectual, to correct the one, and that equal care ought to be taken to gratify the other.  It is indifference, in either case, that does the mischief.  Parents in general, and I might add Tutors, do not take the pains they ought on this subject.  With respect to myself, I found so much inconvenience from a want of money, during the period alluded to, that I persuaded my father to let me provide myself with cloaths for a certain sum.  He acquiesced in this, probably from the Idea that it would initiate me into the method of keeping accounts, estimating expences &c.  This however proved a most disadvantageous method: the fact is, I lost money by my estimate, and by my allowance, and the consequence was, I found difficulties with respect to pecuniary matters, which led me to imprudencies.  I did not confide in my parents so far as to tell them my whole mind.  I feared they would be offended, and I did not choose to risk the consequence.  Seeking therefore other means for supplying myself with money, one means I took was that most disgraceful one—Insurance of Lottery Tickets.  I know not whether you are acquainted with the nature of this scandalous mode of gambling.  You must now spare me the disgusting explanation, altho’ any thing in conversation which you require I will explain to you.  Disgraceful however as the mode is, it is not thought so in general even by serious persons, who only argue respecting it, as it may, or not, be attended with success.  The elder branches of our family used occasionally to engage in it.  Unluckily, I should have said unhappily, (for I hate the unphilosophical, and unchristian terms, luck, chance &c) my first effort was attended with success: this encouraged me to go on, and one or two winters, I was totally successful, but in the end I was like almost every body else, materially injured.  At the close of my apprenticeship I had lost about Sixty Pounds, which a respectable office keeper, (that is as respectable as a man could be carrying on such a traffic) trusted me.  I dreaded my father should know it.  He never did.  About two months after the debt was contracted he died.  This let me make another reflection.  Very important indeed is it that children and youth should be taught to shun every undue means of acquiring property—success indeed in tricking, ought I think to be punished as severely as the want of it.  But this idea had not been inculcated on me.  I had seen persons at my fathers, and had heard them in conversation boast of their successes in lotteries, in speculations in the public funds, in privateering &c &c.   I had never heard their conduct condemned, and I did not think it wrong.  What I had therefore seen, attended with success in others, and uncensured even by those who made the highest professions of religion made no scruple in imitating; the sad consequences of which I am now about to relate.

   On the death of my father I came into the possession of a fortune of upwards of Four thousand pounds, my time was just expired, and it was settled by the Executors, that I should have 3/8ths of the business and my elder Brother the remaining 5/8ths.  My first care was to discharge the debt due to the Lottery office keeper which I did by selling out of the public funds what was sufficient for that purpose.  In the space of two months, an acquaintance of our family requested me to discount him a bill for 200£—I was always willing to oblige anybody I knew in the pecuniary way.  I lent him the money.  The bill however proved good for nothing, and the person I trusted shortly stopped payment, and almost the whole of the money was lost.  I was not a little provoked at this circumstance, added to the lottery loss.  This provocation was increased when I reflected on the situation in which I was placed.  From the very different turn of mind I possessed from that of my elder Brother, I found myself unhappy.  Had I followed my own opinion, and indeed I cannot but still think that opinion was not an unwise one, all circumstances considered I should at once have relinquished the connection, and have sought some other, where I could have been my own master, which indeed I was not, as my brother had a mean opinion of my capacity or inclination for business, and I had a sort of dread of him.  The consequence was, I never was a free Agent, and never was happy.  Knowing how severely I should have been blamed by my mother, and the whole family (we then lived all together) if I had relinquished my connection, I resolved to endeavour by speculations in the public funds, not only to repair the losses I have alluded to, but likewise to make such an addition to my property, as would render me so independent that I might act as I pleased in spite of any Family remonstrances: but whatever my motives might be, the means I took were utterly unjustifiable; speculations in the funds, if attended with success, scarcely any one thinks inconsistent with the strictest profession of christanity, so wretchedly partial are the ideas of morality in the christian world, yet they are doubtless one of the most disgraceful species of gambling.  In about a year and a half I lost upwards of fifteen hundred pounds.  This was about the summer of the [year] 1780.  At that time my younger Brother Richard, who, taking a turn to the farming business, was settled with a very respectable farmer at Little Marlow in Bucks, was taken ill of a fever.  I who had a very strong affection for him, much wished, as it was thought proper that one of the family should see him, much wished to go.  I accordingly set out.  About 3 miles before I reached the town where he resided, an acquaintance met me, and told me he was glad I was come, tho’ sorry for the occasion, advised me to be prepared for the worst, for he feared my brother had not long to live.  With a racked heart I hastened to his bedside: it pleased God to restore him, but such was my constant anxiety, so seldom was I from his sick chamber, that he had scarcely recovered before I was laid on the same bed of sickness: my disorder was equally violent, and my recovery equally doubtful.  In this situation, altho’ I felt some compunction on acc­ount of having injured my fortune, yet it was only partial compunction.  I considered the loss as inflicted by Providence, to punish me for some general sins of my life, or to wean me from the world; but I did not consider it as the punishment for my using improper means to increase my worldly substance, and if success had attended those means, I should have not have felt uneasy on the subject.  In other respects my mind was tranquil.  Before I was very ill, I made my will; as my relatives were not in want of money, I left a considerable part for charitable purposes, principally of a private kind; I acquainted my family in the instrument, of the hopes I had sustained, with some observations on the subject.  It is difficult I think to determine on the exact state of a person in such a situation:  my views of religious truths were in many respects solemn, and yet I am persuaded I had not those views of Christian morality which a christian ought to have.   What allowance will be made hereafter for defects of education, for that too common neglect of omitting to instruct young persons in every branch of morals, and of teaching the great importance of preserving the exact boundaries of the virtues of every class—what allowance will be made in such cases by the merciful but just judge of mankind, is a subject of great importance but difficult to investigate.  I, after a severe struggle, got the better of my disorder.  Without the least repugnance I renewed my speculations, but alas!  instead of extricating myself plunged into greater difficulties.  Every one of the family I believe thought I was getting rich, I was entrusted by my Uncles & my Mother (my Father’s executors) with the entire management of my younger Brother & Sister’s fortunes.  My Sister Clayton likewise would consult me & followed my advice.  She would now and then speculate tho’ not to a dangerous degree; I improved her fortune, and on her marriage, she with every grateful acknowledgment, nominated me one of their trustees for the settlement of her fortune.  My younger sister’s fortune I likewise on her marriage delivered up in an improved state, much to her satisfaction. I was likewise entrusted with by my mother with much of her property to exchange in different funds, or to manage as I thought proper.  While in this state of distress and anxiety, an offer was made me of the business of Anstie & Ck Tea dealers in Cornhill, the house now possessed by Mr Creak, who was not out of his time: by the advice of the family and quite agreeable to my own inclination, I took it, agreeing to let Mr Creak whose mother had considerable property, share the business with me: and now Oh! how I wished this opportunity had occurred a few years back.  I probably should have been happy.  I liked the business, was my own master, and in possession of a fine trade, but shocking to relate, I had lost my own fortune, and was now trading with my mothers property, unknown to her. I went on, and every endeavour to extricate myself only plunged me deeper—forgive me, my Dear Eliza, if I do not go into the minutiae of this dreadful part of my life, tho’ if you require it you shall as far as I can, have every particular as to the sum I lost of my mother’s property.

   But for the present let me finish this part by observing that altho’ I could have procured more, such was her confidence in me, I could not bear to run the risk of ruining her.  With a mind bordering on distraction, I wrote a letter to my uncle William knowing him to possess immense property, intimate with him, agreeing then with him on almost all subjects political and religious, tho’ of a very different disposition, a favourite nephew he used to call me—in such circumstances, indulging a hope, he might afford me some assistance.  I indeed acquainted him very partially with my affairs, wishing to try whether he might encourage me to be more open, but he, altho’ in a civil way, declined entering into them, and advised me immediately to consult my Mother & family.  This I could not do myself, but opened the matter to an intimate friend, one who with all my errors has loved me from the first moment he knew me to the present moment.  He was so affected, so distressed and so bent on saving me, that not having his own property, being in Trade, at command, he tried and nearly succ­eeded in borrowing a large sum, by which he hoped I should be enabled to carry on my business, and when things were tolerably settled, then by degrees to acquaint my family, informing them what he had done, and offering his assistance, at least in an equal degree, with any one of the family.  The scheme failed; upon which it was settled he should disclose my affairs to the family.  Indeed I wished him so to do.  I knew his warm heart would impel him to do every thing to save me, that he would not aggravate but extenuate my offence, that he would soften that anger I had so much, and so just reason to expect.  He so worked upon my Brother William, who I the most dreaded to see, that he at our first interview was mild with me to what I expected, and to my surprise declared himself ready to assist me, if Mr and Mrs Clayton would, and if I would solemnly engage never again to speculate.  This you may be sure I agreed to do.  The interviews with my mother was more affecting than any one can conceive.  My sobs and tears for some time choked my utterance.  She tho’ affected, yet soon recovered herself, was chearful, and begged me not so to distress myself, but by all means to keep up my spirits, as I might depend on every thing being done to make me comfortable which prudence would allow.  I now hoped whatever might be my regret, or however my reflections might cause me to pass my days mournfully, that, as I had no doubt, but the warm professions of friendship always made me by the Clayton’s were sincere, and that they would now break forth into action, that I should be continued in a very flourishing business, that my reputation would be safe, and that I might in time repair all my losses by honourable commerce—but these hopes were all dashed to pieces!

   Mr Clayton quite turned my sister’s affections, declared he would do nothing towards assisting me, & persuaded my brother William to desist from the attempt.  To Clayton therefore I owed, in great measure, the ruinous neglect of fastening me to sink; I was forced to give up my Connection with Mr Creak, and was now without property and destitute of any situation.  My Brother William invited me to his house, where my mother principally resided.  Mr Clayton I should have remarked, observed I ought to go to service, and he said, he would use his interest to get me a Clerk’s place in the bank, where the only place that could be got was with the small salary of 50£ a year, with 10£ addition every three years.  I have often wondered why he thus wished my humiliation. I went on for a twelvemonth without any employ.  Tired, heartily tired, of being a burden to myself and my brother, I at length with the approbation of the family, went into the Stock broking business.

   I indeed knew not what else to do, but I, as well as many others, have since wondered how I could be suffered to go to the very place where I should be constantly exposed to all those temptations which had already ruined me.  I should have remarked in its proper place, it was not merely speculations in the Funds which had reduced me. I engaged, others of the family did the same, in that scandalous, but what is very generally thought most honourable traffic—privateering, or robbing on the seas by act of parliament.  I met with the success I deserved—That is I lost 500£.  Another species of traffic equally scandalous, but thought honourable enough when success attends it—that by which I so severely suffered in my apprenticeship—Lottery Insurance.  By that I lost another 500£.  I lent as much to acquaintances, as my hands were always open to assist any one in my power.  But to finish my Residence in London—I continued in the Stock broking business but about a twelvemonth, my speculations tho’ not large were ruinous—That ruin was completed—I left business and soon after left my native Country.  The debts I had incurred were trifling comparatively speaking, but I was as willing to quit the horrid scene as my Family were willing I should.

   I have now got thro’ a period I must ever look back upon with shame & remorse—the criminal part of my life!  Oh my Dear Friend!—Will you now allow me to call you by that name!—Have I not injured your mind?  Do you not despise me, and are you not almost ready to lay down my history with disgust, and to turn from me with abhorrence!   Bear with me however I intreat you, while I endeavour feebly, for indeed it can only be feebly, to picture to you the sharpness of the sufferings which I indured for the seven years of that most unhappy part of my life alluded to.  Shall I describe those sufferings more immed­iately of a personal nature!  My own property wasting and wasted in the most disgraceful manner.  The personal inconveniences indeed I suffered, I mean domestic inconveniences, were but trifling.  I made a point of living genteelly, as I knew every body expected it: my house was open to my friends, and I was much esteemed.  But you cannot conceive the extreme anguish resulting from being constantly harrassed, from not being able to provide for the necessary expences of trade, especially when to this is added the constant dread of the true state of my affairs being discovered.  How often have I envied the cottager his bread & water.  With a mind formed to enjoy rational happiness, with a hand and a heart “open as day to melting charity,” with a natural disposition to do good, increased by religious considerations—Having formed a resolution on the first poss­­ession of my fortune (with other resolutions, entered in my diary) to dedicate at least a tenth of my income to benevolent purposes—but—my Talent wasted!  I had indeed experienced a sort of intellectual luxury, in wiping away the tear from the eye of affliction, in instructing the ignorant, in causing the heart of the widows to leap for joy.  Nothing of my own personal losses affected me so much as the consideration that enjoyments of so sublime a kind were owing to my own folly, at an end.  All I could now give to misery—that misery had so often allev­iated, was the tear & the sigh; instead of relieving sorrow I could only mingle with it, my own.  

   The loss of domestic happiness was not a small trial.  I wished to have settled early, with what I always esteemed the first earthly blessing, a partner for life, of a mind congenial with my own, who would divide my cares and double my pleasures.  The world have thought my views romantic on this subject—they will think so still—I cannot give up my Ideas—I think them rational, and I believe I shall carry them with me to my Grave.  At the age of 24 I felt an attachment for a young lady of 20, with whom, notwithstanding the anxiety, the grief I was daily enduring, I spent many, many hours which made me forget the whole.  This attachment was founded in personal beauty, in a visit to a friend one afternoon.  Her person, dress, manners & conversation altogether powerfully impressed me; her disposition I knew to be truly amiable.  When I first knew her a friend of mine was paying his address to her, the matter shortly after broke off.  Her family going to Margate I soon followed them.  I met with every civility, her mother and the Lady herself were so good, that in our parties by the sea side, and on our journeys of pleasure, it was contrived I should generally have the object of my affections.  I was honoured with her confidence, she told me the history of her late lover, and their reason of the connection breaking off.  During the Week I spent there, I forgot all the disagreeable occurrences at home.  Her talent at conversation was admirable, she had read very little, but with a capacity for improvement attended to every book I recommended, and always appear’d pleased with my Conversation.  I have good reason to believe she expected me to pay my addresses.  I ardently wished it, for tho’ I have not now that high opinion of her mind, and tho’ her sensibility was not either so refined or so active, and in short, altho’ she was in so many respects the inferior of the beloved object of my present affections, yet her amiable qualities, united with her charming person, and her various accomplishments, so rivitted my affections, that I earnestly longed for an union.  Her property was very trifling, my family suspected my attachment, and disapproved of it.  She I believe to the present day is puzzled to account for my behaviour; she knew nothing of the derangement of my affairs, till after she was married; tho’ during the whole of my acquaintance with her, they were too deranged for me to lay them before her, altho’ I was on the point more than once of doing it; but I knew she expected & her mother wished her to settle genteelly, and I still think, that altho’ I was not disagreeable to her, she had not that strength of mind, or indeed was capable of that very strong attachment, which on account of some heart qualities, will bear up a person above every thing else.  She married, after I had been acquainted with her about 2 years, a gentleman in tolerable circumstances and who soon after came into the possess­ion of a very flourishing business, in addition to which he has since had a large fortune left him by an Uncle.  She lives in great splendor.  When I paid her a visit last year, as I was handing her into her very elegant Carriage, she with all the affability of her former years exclaimed—“Ah! Flower—do not think my happiness consists in these fine things, I was indeed as happy as I am now, when I lived at that small house (pointing to one at a short distance), and when you laughed at my second hand furniture” (alluding to something that had passed in some rather satirical verses I scribbled on the occasion).

   But you cannot conceive the extremity of pain I suffered when I on the one hand was burning with affection, and on the other, hoping and despairing, des­pairing and hoping, respecting the recovery of my losses, and at last despair getting uppermost, and all my hopes of happiness blasted.  How did my heart once leap for joy, when I was suddenly informed that Peace was settled—this would, by the rise of the Funds, have occasioned such an alteration in my circumstances, as my speculations were then the deepest, and I should have so far recovered myself, that I resolved to have done for ever with them, and I should have settled matters with little loss: but the report of peace was groundless.  It proved to me nothing more than the sudden and momentary flash of lightning to the almost worn out weather beaten mariner, in a dark and starry night, in a shattered bark, on a tempestuous ocean; it served only to render the darkness and surrounding horrors more visable, and to overwhelm my heart the more completely.  So powerful indeed was a female influence over my whole soul, (I have been astonished at it myself) that in my visits, however low I might be on entering the room, I have, before long, assumed all my usual gaiety, and have entered into all the spirit of Conversation.  But when I retired home—not to rest, but to lye down on a pillow of thorns—what did I endure!  This circumstance, my attachment, rendered indeed my cup of affliction peculiarly bitter.

   The effects of my unhappy conduct, as it respected my relatives, were most unfortunate: some of those effects yet remain, and will I fear accompany me to my grave.  I was on various accounts, when in a state of Prosperity, much respected.  Altho’ as I have already hinted, my elder brother and myself were not happy in our connection in business, the confidence which all the rest of the family placed in me, and the esteem and affection they all professed for me, made me most painfully feel the reverse which followed; I shall confine myself principally to facts, and be sparing of those unpleasant reflections which have passed on my own mind on the conduct of some of my relatives.  From my mother, who was in fact the only injured person, I experienced less reproach than I might have expected.  Altho’ every attempt was made, and those attempts have not yet, or at least had not very lately ceased, to estrange her affections, those attempts were, and I know will be in vain: but in proportion to her kindness was my anguish: altho’ she was still independent, and fully able to live genteelly, yet the thought of the injury I had done her, every time I reflected on it, and you may be sure those times were frequent, cut me to the quick.  My younger sister living at a distance, and never visiting her mother or family, owing to her husband, who engaged when that distance was mentioned as a serious objection, that he would come to London every year, totally violated that en­gagement—this circumstance has prevented my having any interviews with her; I soon found an alteration in her affections.  We used to correspond frequently, our letters were long, and on subjects not uninteresting, she possesses an admir­able talent for epistolary writing; but an alteration of style has been preceeded by neglect and indifference.  I have taken several opportunities to rekindle affection. I have occasionally directed one of the Intelligencers to her when it has contained anything that I thought interested her; I have sent her several verbal Messages, by different persons: my mother has sometimes employed me as her amanuensis to write for her, and I have never omitted, on such occasions, to put a postscript, expressive of my regret for the loss of her friendship: but all in vain: Under the influence, as I firmly believe, of a mercenary husband, who cares for those of the family only, he hopes to get by, I find that those affections which were so warm, and so well, so frequently expressed for the brother in prosperity, are entirely estranged from him in different circumstances.  My Brother William, has in the first instance behaved kinder than I could possibly have expected.  I am not disposed to blame, and therefore I will add, his general conduct since has been as civil as I could expect.  My Brother Richard has almost constantly displayed his affection.  His house has always been open to me, his wife has shewn me much affectionate friendship, and their behaviour to me during my present confinement has been remarkably kind and attentive. 

   With respect to the Clayton’s—there indeed I have met with such treatment as gave me a worse opinion of human nature.  My eldest sister I had a peculiar affection for.  I had done everything in my power for her happiness: Clayton was under peculiar obligations to me.   I introduced him to our family.  When he paid his addresses to my sister, my mother and brother William were very averse to the match.  I made use of every argument in my power to reconcile them, and I was not without success, particularly with respect to my mother.  So thoroughly did I almost always enter into my sister’s views respecting family matters, that it was a common expression of my Brother William’s—“Ben is always sure to be his sisters tool.” In my misfortunes I thought myself certain of the house of my Brother & Sister Clayton for my Asylum, and of their hearts for my solace: but oh what a cutting disappointment did I meet with.  I opened my affairs in a letter to Mrs C— in which all the sensibility of my soul was displayed; I am told, that on the first perusal, she was much affected, and expressed herself tenderly; this might be the case, but I never had one affectionate expression from either her pen or her lips, from that time to the present.  The unfeeling priest, you will call him so presently, got the better of every sisterly sensation.  I have already hinted, that it was owing principally if not wholly to Mr C— that the endeavour to continue me in a most respectable and advantageous business, totally failed.  This was the least unkind part of his behaviour.  It was very natural for me, very natural for the family to wish to keep matters as secret as possible from the world, and to put the best face on them.  My Uncle William, a very prudent man, when he was asked about them said—“It was very true that his Nephew Mr B. Flower had not been so fortunate in his speculations, as his father and many others had been, but he thought it was not the business of any one out of the family.”  Mr C— however avowed his intention to speak very freely, and very publicly on the subject.  He thought he said the interest of religion required that my character should be exposed; and indeed such was his diabolical malignity (suspend my dear Friend your judgment on this phrase till you read what follows) that in a stage coach, before persons he was unacquainted with, he absolutely threw out the suggestion, that I had been guilty of forging! my mothers name to come at her property in the Funds (a crime always punished with death) and that the friend I mentioned who had shewn such an anxiety for my welfare on his first acquaintance with my unhappy situation, had shared a part of that property!!

   Before I heard these latter circumstances, I contented myself with writing an affectionate remonstrance to my sister, soliciting a renewal of her friendship: but now my resentment against her husband was properly aroused. I informed Clayton, that as I never had made use of any illegal method to conceal my Mother’s property or indeed any method in itself simply considered, but what was honourable, I would most certainly if I ever found he repeated the atrocious calumny, prosecute him in a court of Justice. He narrowly escaped a horsewhipping from my friend.  We however stopped his mouth in these respects.  Indeed I have always found myself a match for a Priest, except in wickedness.  Wishing however still to be reconciled, I offered to Mr C- a renewal of civility, pressed it upon him for the sake of our family, for the sake of peace, for the sake of religion, and added my hopes, that all what was past would to the world at least appear forgotten; (Tho’ you may be sure the wound that base ingratitude had inflicted on my heart, and which ingratitude aimed not only at my reput­ation and my life, could not soon be healed.) He returned me the most abusive, proud, insulting in short priestly answer that can well be conceived.  He said “a due regard to his own sacred character, and the sanctity of his office, prevented his having any intercourse with such an incorrigible offender; That he positively forbid me entering his doors—but that he should take care in his family to pray for me, that my hardened heart might be softened.” To this I returned a short answer in that style of sarcastic severity it deserved.  To his reproach how I had injured him, I professed to lament—how deeply indeed I had injured him—by an alliance with our Family—humbly requested him to look back a few years when he was a country apothecary’s apprentice, but disliking work, was put to a methodistical academy, and without a single shilling, introduced by me to our family.  I admired his plea of sanctity of office—it was indeed the very best he could make—it had been the fashionable plea of Priests in all ages for conduct where every other species of sanctity was wholly absent.  I thanked him for his prayers, that is for his praying libels; and that I doubted not he would by way of giving them effect, never omit adding a prayer for himself, that God would forgive him that crime compared to which as Doctor Young would inform him, “all other crimes were virtues”—Ingratitude—That he might make himself perfectly easy with respect to my Company for that my shadow should never darken his doors till his prohibition was taken off in at least as express terms as it was laid on—Still however offering a renewal of civility whenever he thought proper.”

   My threat, my note, the remonstrances of the family, for all were attended at his shocking treatment of me, checked him in his Career, and policy in some measure at least, stopped his mouth. That same policy has at times even induced him since to speak respectfully of me.  But his heart is, if I may judge by his Conduct, the same.  I hope I am not insensible, and never have been insensible how much Christianity requires of its professors respecting the forgiveness of enemies.  The hope of reconciliation has never been out of my mind, and the performance of any service to any of the family would at all times afford me pleasure.  Hope indeed sometimes preponderates, that I may not only meet the friends of my heart, but even my most malignant enemies, transformed into friends, in a future world.  I have met Mr C- two or three times since at my brothers, on which occasions I have always behaved to him with respect. I have sent him Copies of my different publications—Have occasionally heard him, never omitting afterwards to go into the vestry, and chatting with my sister and her family.  But he has never taken off his prohibition, never hinted his wish to see me, but has shewn his marked desire to the contrary.  About two years since he visited Cambridge with my sister and their two eldest sons.  They staid at an Inn about half a day—but never called on, or made the least inquiry concerning me—Can I do anything more?  If I know my own heart, there is nothing that would give me greater pleasure than perfect reconciliation with every one.  I never found the task attended with difficulty, in any instance, but where a priest was concerned.  Your influence indeed, very dear friend, I feel very powerful, and if you should hereafter suggest anything which may afford even the most distant hope of reconciliation on terms honourable to the principles and character of a christian, and I am sure you are not capable of suggesting any other, I will venture to affirm your suggestion will be most thankfully followed.

   And now, my Dear Eliza, you understand what I meant when I said to you, my Trials had indeed been much greater than yours.  Reflect a moment on this last horrid article.  The reflection to me is indeed most bitter.  You never had the most distant idea that some of your late expressions proved arrows in my heart, tho’ I hope the wounds inflicted will be salutary.  You have told me “of the support you have rendered to all your family—The gratitude they all felt for you — “That your younger sister, had termed you, her father, mother, sister,” and in short had associated in you the Idea of everything lovely and affectionate.  How must your reflections on this subject have sweetened your Cup of Affliction—but oh! what a bitter, what a mortifying contrast does mine present.  But let me finish this article by a reflection less melancholy on my part.  I have to console myself that, with very few exceptions, my friends and acquaintance have thro’ all changing scenes been the same.  I have never wanted the house, the hand, and the heart of a friend.  They have, I have frequently found, made much better apologies for the most exceptionable parts of my conduct than I possibly could for my self.  They have considered my situation—my temptations—the circumstances I was placed in, and notwithstanding all my errors, they have loved me, and I will venture to add, will love me to my Grave.  Intimate and Confidential have been my friendships with both sexes, and they have been such as would do honour to any man.  This indeed has proved to me a rich cordial in this melancholy vale.

   Tedious as I must have been, I cannot finish without mentioning the last bitter ingredients in my Cup of affliction—My Reflections of a Religious nature.  Some few of these appear in my Diary, tho’ but a few; the task of keeping that diary became irksome, yea at last it was so agonizing, that I was obliged to desist.  My religious impressions run deep—my heart smiting me throughout the whole of my wretched conduct—Peace of Conscience exchanged for horror—The soul’s calm sunshine overspread with thick and black clouds—Heaven frowning—Conscience more severe in its reproaches than those of any of my fellow creatures could be.  Altho’ in public worship the discourses of the best preachers arrested my attention, and I was at times comparatively on such occasions, happy—yet in solitude when forced to look inward what w§ere my sensations, and how pungent were they!  The friend to whom I have more than once alluded, in some of my evening conferences with him, saw at times in my countenance such melancholy and horror bordering on distraction, that he intimated his fears of trusting me home by myself, lest I should take the River Thames in my way!  But the assurances I gave him that I was safe in that respect, and the manner in which I expressed myself satisfied him.  Even the amusement of which I was fond, the theatre, was merely such because it suited my melancholy thoughts; I att­ended Tragedy only, and never staid the entertainment; and you may form some Idea of what I must feel at that useful but most affecting representation of dom­estic distress—Moore’s Gamester. There was likewise a passage in Jane Shore so expressive of the state of my mind, that I could at times in solitude do nothing but repeat it.  As it will give you that state I transcribe it. 

Yet, yet endure, nor murmer, O my Soul!

For are not thy transgressions great and numberless?

Do not they cause the like rising floods,

And press thee like a weight of waters down!

Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee?

And who shall plead against it?  Who shall say

To power almighty, thou hast done enough;

As bid his dreadful rod of vengeance stay?

Wait then with patience ’till the circling hours

Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest,

And lay thee down in death!  The hireling thus

With labour drudges out the painful day,

And often looks with long expecting eyes

To see the shadows rise, and be dismiss’d!

   Thus when I looked around me, or above me, my situation was similar to that of the Psalmist—“Deep calleth into deep at the noise of thy water spouts; all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.” The heavens covered with blackness, the clouds falling in cataracts of water, and the stormy ocean overwhelming me.  Here my dearest Eliza, I again remark my superior affliction to anything you ever endured.  Whatever you have suffered, you have been happily incapacitated from feeling that anguish which has entered into my soul, and which was for years my inmate.  You have possessed throughout a peaceful conscience and a smiling heaven.  You have challenged the severest scrutiny of your conduct, and would not suffer even any “innuendo,” which might reflect on it, to pass unnoticed.  I could find no present relief but in my Tears: these “were my meat day and night”; nothing else afforded me nourishment, while not only “my enemies” said, but my soul said unto herself, “continually—Where is thy God.” But let me add with the deepest gratitude to that God, that mercy was mingled with judgment: some cordial drops were thrown into the bitter cup which enabled me to drink it.  On this less painful part of the subject, will you let me a little dwell, before I finish.  And let me in the first place offer up my sincere thanks to my God, that what I will call my moral or rather my religious sense had been preserved.   Deep as I had felt, how much safer was my situation, than if I had been hardened.  If it is an aggravation of my offences, may it not in some degree at least, be somewhat in favour of my general character, that the monitor within has never failed to be a monitor, that God’s vicegerent, conscience, has been so faithful in his office, and has punished me, much more than any of my fellow creatures possibly could.  I would farther esteem it an unspeakable mercy, that I have been preserved from those disgraceful and abominable sentiments, which have to the shame of my age calling myself enlightened, been termed philosophical.  Had I been the disciple of a Godwin[20] or even of a Hume,[21] I am persuaded what must have been the horrid consequence.  Life, I confess, if merely confined to this world appears to me a very trifle; and setting aside the gospel, I know not how to disprove the assertions—that every man has a right over his own life—that if upon the whole the balance appears to be unfavourable, that misery is his portion—and that he has no prospect sufficiently to cheer him—no one ought to blame or call his right in question of laying down his anguish and his life together.

   Cato appears to me to argue, on the mere principles of philosophy, without revelation, well on this subject; and Addison has not done him injustice[22]: but the fear of future punishment on the one hand, and the least glimmer of hope on the other will preserve the rash man from deserting his post, however painful or arduous his conflict may be, till his God calls him.  How melancholy has been the fate of some of the first Philosophers of France during the late Revolution. Look at Mary Woolstonecraft with her strong energetic mind.  These, in many respects, great characters, could not persuade themselves to continue the fight.  The world overcame them.  But blessed be God, in this respect, I overcame the world.   I will further add—The peculiar glory of the gospel, as displayed in the offer of free pardon to the truly penitent of all descriptions, I never wholly lost sight of.   Whatever doubts and fears I might have respecting my own character, whatever bitter things I might write against myself, my Soul felt it to be “a faithful” that is a true “saying, and worthy of all acceptation,” not only of general acceptation but of mine in particular—“That Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners”—and lest any unhappy creature like myself should see those peculiar aggravations in his sins which might lead him to except himself from this salvation—he is assured there is no exception—no not “even the chief of sinners.” How often, when reflecting on this passage, has the thought, like a ray of light darted across my mind—Then I am not excluded!  In one of those late conversations which I have so much enjoyed, I repeated to you a little piece or two of Dr Byroms. One poem of his in particular I found such a support to my sinking mind, that as you I believe never saw it, and the book is very scarce, I will transcribe from a memory which indeed can never lose it.  The title is—Against Despair.

Despair is a cowardly thing,

And the Spirit suggesting it bad,

In spite of my sins will I sing,

That mercy is still to be had.

                          2.

For He that has shewn it so far,

As to give me a penitent heart,

How heinous soever they are

Delights in the merciful part.

                          3.

By Affliction, so heavy to bear,

He searches the wound he would cure,

’Tis his to be kindly severe,

Tis mine, by his grace to endure.

                          4.

Then comfort thyself in his love,

Poor sinful and sorrowful soul,

Who came, and still comes from above,

To the sick that would fain be made whole.

                          5.

Who said, and continues to say,

In the deep of a penitent breast,

Come Sinner, to me come away,

I will meet thee, and bring thee to rest.

                          6.

A Refusal to come is absurd,

I will put myself under his care,

I’ll believe his infallible word!

And never, no never, despair!

Thus my situation was somewhat similar to that of the poor wearied mariners mentioned in the Acts—My soul was “without sight of Sun or Stars, no small tempest beating upon her—no apparent hope of being saved”—God and my own Conscience by turns addressing,—“You should have hearkened to me and you would not have suffered this harm and loss”—A dread of “falling on the rocks”—In this awful situation, what the mariners did, the wisest thing they could do, I did—“Cast anchor, and wish for day”!  I found the anchor (Oh! how can I sufficiently praise my God!) “Sure and Steadfast,” and “the day” has since arose.

   But this leads me to the third part I proposed of my history, and which will be the last, less painful for me to write and you to read.   I will finish the present with the reflection—that if after such a period of sin and sorrow as I have described, the “blessed hope” which has preserved me, and which is now “a lively hope,” should as I trust it will at last preserve me safe to the haven of eternal rest—If at length I should join the glorious assembly of the redeemed, who are casting down their crowns, lost in wonder love and praise, ascribing salvation to God and the lamb, surely there will be, if I may so express myself, a peculiar tone and energy in my hallelujahs, which amidst the countless millions of saved sinners, will signalize me for one who “loves much,” and who to all eternity, will “love much, because much is forgiven.”

   And now, my Dearest Friend, what can I say to you?  God grant I may not have put your esteem, your friendship, your “affectionate regard,” so very kindly expressed in your last incomparable note, to too severe a proof—for you now esteem me, can you now own me for your Friend—Can you persevere in your promise “to endeavour to cultivate your affectionate regard for me?” Let me hope, that, as I trust, my God has forgiven me, and has restored me to his favour and friendship, you whose soul is a collection of virtues, which may be justly termed emanations from the Deity, will imitate his forgiveness, and will not refuse me your esteem, your friendship, your heart.  You must be sensible how deeply the present subject must have affected me.  On the one hand, many consider­ations made me wish to avoid it.  On the other, I could not possibly be easy, that the dearest object of my earthly affections, one with whom my heart and hand is so anxious to unite, should not be acquainted even with the most unfavourable part of my character.  Reports you may have heard, Reports you in all probability will hear, and I could not bear the thought that there should be any reserve between us.  I have not dared to write any part of this letter but at my midnight hours, when sure of no interruption, and at a season best suited to the colour of my mind.  I have been obliged, such have been my sensations, frequently to des­ist, to turn aside, lest my paper, blurred by my tears, should render my writing unintelligible.  You will much oblige me, by not adverting to the subject in your visit to morrow.  I know I cannot support the Conversation.  I have endeavoured to keep up my spirits when you have been with me, and indeed your affectionate language has always raised those spirits, but for the past week, I assure you, both before and after your visits, the only relief of my overcharged heart has been my Tears.

   I hope, shall I add, I trust, we have happiness the most rational and refined before us.  But could I admit the thought that by any unworthy conduct of mine, I could make you unhappy, then, after one fervent prayer for your rising above, as hitherto, the effects of the unworthy conduct of another, one prayer for your felicity, temporal and eternal,—I have then only one more to add for myself—That knowing what you must suffer in consequence of such conduct—my penitent heart might not be long in breaking—that the grave might speedily own all my sins & sorrows, and that my Dearest Eliza, after a few tears shed over that grave, might forgive & forget—

                                 her B Flower

Monday Morning

2 oclock

Monday Evening, 11 oclock.  It was my Intention to have sent this letter in the course of the day, but being obliged to look it over that you might be able to make it out, the same reason that made me write it in the solitude of the Eve­ning, has made me defer reading it over till the same season.  After finishing the above, I had about five hours tolerable sleep.  At breakfast I took up the letters you were so kind as to leave with me yesterday, and read the whole.  A short anecdote will convey to you a better idea of the impression which those letters, following the former, made upon my mind, than any language I can use.  Lewis the 14th one day after hearing that admirable preacher Massillon, thus add­ressed him—“I have heard many great preachers whose discourses have always pleased me, but I never hear you without being displeased with myself.”  One thing, a little surprised, diverted, and yet mortified me.  In a letter to Mrs Gurney, you say “I hope you will not think it disrespectful that I send you a letter so replete with erasures & blunders.” Well thought I, “I should much like to see this letter, for it must, from the Pen of Eliza Gould, be a curiosity,” thus taking for granted that what I had been reading was a corrected copy.  When lo!  and behold!  to my astonishment and confusion, on folding up the letter I found it by the dir­ect­ion and Post mark, to be the original!  I was while reading it, as on former occas­ions, wondering how you could write so free from blunders &c!—what must you think of my letters.  For goodness sake do not associate the Idea of correctness with respect.  Well, after all, is not a letter full of blunders, like the present, very suitable to the life full of blunders, and vice versa. You see we both write in character. 

   My Brother Richard has sent me a very friendly letter to day—but you will see it before you read this.  But I will check my pen, I wish to go to bed in good time to night, that I may be in health & spirits to enjoy your Company to morow.  I think the best way will be to give this packet into your own hands when you return home: though you will think me something like the Irishman who said to his mistress—“Arrah my dear honey, I shall write you a good long letter soon, but as I have nobody else to send it by, I shall send it by myself.”

         I will not say how a Letter, or a line from you as soon as you have read this will be most anxiously expected. 

Text: Flower Correspondence, National Library of Wales, Aberystwyth; for an annotated edition of this letter and the complete correspondence of Eliza Gould and Benjamin Flower, see Timothy Whelan, ed., Politics, Religion, and Romance: The Letters of Benjamin Flower and Eliza Gould, 1794-1808 (Aberystywth: National Library of Wales, 2008), pp. 83-102. 

William Fuller, Benjamin’s uncle, was a wealthy banker and owner of the firm of Fuller, Chatteris, & Co., located at 24 Lombard Street, London.  His brother, Richard Fuller, was also a banker at 84 Cornhill, London (Wakefield’s [1790]: 376; Holden’s [1805]: 1.143).  The Fullers, like Flower and nearly all of his relatives and friends, were Independents. Both brothers subscribed £10.10 to the Sunday School Society in 1789 (Plan 26). Though an Independent, William Fuller was generous toward other Dissenting denominations, presenting a gift of £1000 in stock and annuities to the Particular Baptist Fund in London in 1798 which was to be used to support six Baptist ministers each year “who stand in need of relief and are esteemed diligent in preaching the Gospel of the Grace of God, Men of Education, and of exemplary piety in life and conversation” (Valentine 30).  At his death in March 1800 at the age of 95, William Fuller left his daughters an inheritance of more than £600,000. Jane Flower, then around twenty-one years of age, would soon marry John Dawson of Lancaster.

Mr. Anstie of Lombard Street, a Dissenter, was listed as a subscriber in 1778 to John Collett Ryland’s Contemplations on the beauties of creation (“Lists of Subscribers”).  He may have been a Baptist, for on 20 July 1806, a Samuel Anstie and his brother, Alfred Anstie, possibly relations of Mr. Anstie, were proposed for communion at Maze Pond (Maze Pond 2.f.146v). A Mrs. Anstie, from the Baptist meeting at Broadmead in Bristol, was proposed for communion on 26 April 1812 (2.f. 175v).

William Creak was a London tea-dealer, first as a partner with Anstie and then with a Mr. Worstead before entering into business on his own at 69 Cornhill (Wakefield’s [1787]: 42; Lowndes’s [1799]: 47).  Flower was first approached about joining with Creak in 1781, shortly before Creak finished his apprenticeship. The new firm was called Flower, Creak, and Worstead, with offices in Cornhill.  Creak, a Baptist, joined the congregation at Unicorn Yard, Southwark, in July 1774 (see Unicorn Yard Church Book, fol. 223, Angus Library, Regent's Park College, Oxford).  He began to absent himself from communion after dissension arose in the church over the resignation of William Clarke (fol. 57), who left Unicorn Yard in 1784 (after serving there for 22 years) to assume the pastorate of the Baptist meeting in Bampton, where Eliza Gould and her family attended.  At a church meeting on 27 January 1785, a report was read in which Creak had informed the church’s messengers that he would return “when those differences were accommodated” (fol. 258). Creak continued to absent himself and was accordingly admonished by the deacons (fol. 259).  Eventually he was advised to seek dismissal to another church of like faith and order (fol. 262).  He chose to do nothing, however, and the church reluctantly removed him as a member (fol. 264).  Whether Creak moved his membership to another Baptist church is unknown, but he appears to have remained an active Dissenter, subscribing to the Sunday School Society in 1789 and to Flower’s edition of Habakkuk Crabb’s Sermons in 1796. 

Flower’s mishandling of a portion of his mother’s legacy would be the major factor in his libel suit against Clayton in 1808.  Though he speculated with the funds of members of his family, he “solemnly” declared years later  “that I never procured a shilling of it by any fraudulent, or illegal act.” See Benjamin Flower, A Statement of Facts, Relative to the Conduct of the Reverend John Clayton, Senior, the Reverend John Clayton, Junior, and the Reverend William Clayton . . . (Harlow: B. Flower, 1808), xiv.  The close friend Flower confided in at the time of his financial trials was most likely Bannister Flight, son of Thomas Flight (d. 1800), a deacon in the Baptist church at Maze Pond, Southwark. As a young man Bannister, along with Joseph Gurney and George Flower, Benjamin’s father, subscribed to John Ryland, Jr.’s, Serious Essays on the Truths of the Glorious Gospel, and the Various Branches of Vital Experience (1771). Flight and Benjamin Flower also subscribed to John Collett Ryland’s Contemplations in 1778. The Flights, like the Gurneys, were early supporters of the Sunday School Society and one of the leading families at Maze Pond during the ministry of James Dore.  Though he grew up in the church, Bannister did not join Maze Pond until 7 October 1792 (Maze Pond Church Book, vol. 2, fol. 17, Angus Library, Regent's Park College, Oxford).  He would later play a significant role in Flower’s defamation suit against  Clayton in 1808.

Flower wrote at length about his experiences with Clayton in his youth: “I was thus deprived of a most respectable situation in a flourishing concern, and cast on the wide world; and this by the persuasion of a man I till then thought one of my dearest friends-my obliged brother in law!” (Statement of Facts, xvi). Clayton had even told William Flower, “I would not contribute a shilling were it to save [Benjamin] from a jail!”  “What he afterwards recommended was,” Flower surmises, “that I should be placed out as a servant; a clerk in some counting-house, as that, to use his own words, ‘would be most becoming my humbled state’; and he further most obligingly offered his services to procure me the place of a bank clerk, the salary of which was at that time fifty pounds a year!” (Statement of Facts, xvi-xvii).

Thomas W. Aveling also writes of Clayton’s controversy with Flower surrounding his misuse of money: “On no subject did he [Clayton] descant more frequently than on honour and honesty.  In the great commercial city where he exercised his ministry, he had, on many occasions, observed, how loosely men talked and acted on these matters; how little they seemed to regard the exhortation of the inspired book, ‘Owe no man anything, but to love one another;’ how, under a profession of piety, too many insinuated themselves into the confidence of others, and then ruthlessly invaded their property, and despoiled them of the means of support.  Nothing roused his hallowed indignation more than these deviations from moral probity, issuing often in shameless bankruptcies, by which in various instances he had seen widows reduced to beggary, and orphans to their last crust ... He would point out that God, in His providential government, has allotted to every one his own portion of earthly good, which he is at full liberty to use, with moderation, and to improve by every legitimate means; but he strongly denounced the reckless and unmeasured speculations, by which those who concocted them ruined themselves, and involved innocent parties in the wide-spreading desolation” (Thomas W. Aveling, Memorials of the Clayton Family [London: Jackson, Walford, and Hodder, 1867], 124-25).  Aveling is incorrect, however, in attributing Hall’s 1791 attack on Clayton in Christianity Consistent with a Love of Freedom to the influence of Flower.  Aveling argues that “It is probable that Mr. Hall was incited to write some bitter things against this sermon [Clayton’s The Duty of Christians to Magistrates] by a person then living at Cambridge, who, although related to Mr. Clayton’s family, might perhaps be regarded as an enemy, because the latter had reproved him for mal-practices in money affairs, and had withdrawn from all association with him.  With this person Mr. Hall was then on terms of intimacy; but in process of time he saw reason entirely to decline his friendship; alleging that, ‘if acrimony were to be banished from our world, Mr. [Flower]-would die the death of starvation, for the want of his chosen aliment’” (Aveling, Memorials, 151).   The truth is, Flower was living in Paris in 1791; he did not settle in Cambridge until the summer of 1793, at which time he first met Hall.

Not only did his sister not visit Benjamin in Cambridge, she also never visited him during his stay at Newgate.  “Visiting a brother in prison,” Flower wrote in 1808, “was not deemed by her a moral, a relative, or a christian duty.” Her primary reason was that she was afraid of “giving offence” to her husband (Statement of Facts, xxv).  While Flower was in prison, the Claytons also attempted to alienate Benjamin’s mother from him through their efforts to disparage his marriage to Eliza.  Flower was much disturbed at these actions:  “I had for many years been acquainted with the disposition and the character of the object of my affections, and my heart followed the dictates of my understanding.  I conceived that no one, not even my mother, whom I respectfully informed of my intention, had any right in such an affair to dictate to me.”  To Flower, “the most virtuous and affectionate attachment was the most prudent, not perhaps, in the eye of the world, but invariably so in the eye of God” (Flower, Statement of Facts, xxv-xxvi).

William Godwin (1756-1836) was one of the most controversial political philosophers of his day.  After a brief stint as a Dissenting minister, Godwin declared himself an atheist in 1785.  His fame derived mostly from one book, An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, and its Influence on General Virtue and Happiness (1793).  His central thesis was that man could reach perfection by gradually improving his environment and institutions.  Man’s problems were not innate, but produced by his interaction with the outside world, and if all obstacles to truth could be removed, general good and universal benevolence would prevail by means of human reason, not by feeling.  Godwin influenced many of the Romantics and revolutionaries during the early and mid-1790s, such as Wordsworth and Crabb Robinson; by the late 1790s, however, most had rejected, or at least, significantly modified, his phil­osophy.  Robert Hall blamed Godwin for much of the spirit of infidelity existing in England in the late 1790s in his famous sermon, Modern Infidelity Considered with Respect to its Influence on Society (1800).

Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-97), radical author and feminist writer, was best known for A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), which argued that marriage should be based on intellectual companionship between the sexes and that women should be granted equal education and opportunity. She went to Paris in the early 1790s, where she met an American, Gilbert Imlay (1754?-1828).  After the birth of their daughter, Fanny, Imlay deserted Mary. She returned to England, where she met William Godwin.  Not long after their marriage, Wollstonecraft died after giving birth to a daughter, Mary (later Mary Shelley), in 1797.   Wollstonecraft also authored A Vindication of the Rights of Man (1793) and a short posthumous novel, The Wrongs of Woman; or, Maria (1798).  The following notice by Flower of her death appeared in the Intelligencer on 16 September 1797:  “On Sunday morning died in childhood, Mrs. Godwin, the wife of Mr. William Godwin, of Somers-town.  She was well known throughout Europe by her literary works, under her original name of Wollstonecraft, and particularly by her Vindication of the Rights of Women.  For affectionate manners, strength of understanding, and sensibility of heart, she was seldom equaled.  Her last work, (Travels in Sweden, etc.)  while it displays a fund of the finest sensibility, discovers that anguish of mind, which it is deeply to be lamented was increased by the gloom of scepticism.”