Benjamin Flower at Cambridge to Eliza Flower at the Gurneys, Keene’s Row, Walworth, Thursday, 16 December 1802.

                                                            Cambridge Dec 16. 1802

   From your letter, Dear Love, received this morning, I fear if you mend at all, it is indeed very slowly, almost imperceptibly.  The language in which you describe the state of your health is nearly word for word, as in the two letters preceding.  “I am better, my cough has troubled me but little.” In yours of Monday last you say—“To morrow I hope to take an airing on the turnpike.”   Tuesday was here a very fine day, and I hoped an airing would have done you good.   On Wednesday you repeat the sentence—“To morrow I hope to take an airing on the Turnpike”; on reading this sentence I could not help sighing—When will to morrow come?  When I reflect, that without any cold you went out ten days since, but that going out for a few hours to be avoided, a cough, (tho’ I am now assured it is slight) I am more and more confirmed in my opinion, that “I must bring my mind to submit to a months estrangement.”—mind if you are at home within one month from last Tuesday.  If Mr Addington was by, (to say nothing of Mrs Gurney) I firmly believe he would not flatter you with the prospect of an earlier period.  However if you do but mend surely, and go on well in the main, which you say not one word about in any of yr letters (of much more consequence than the fate of a bird) I will endeavour to be not only resigned but thankful.

   I told you my Love, your tough Ben would soon get about again.  The dose of Rhubarb I took on Monday evening, did me good; and yesterday I recommenced taking my old medicine, Compound Tincture of Bark, & Elixir of Vitriol. I am after taking two doses sensibly the better and am now nearly as well in bodily health as ever.  My Egg Stomach is returned.  Nothing I believe is wanting completely to restore me but the company of my Eliza.   Then the mind will be at rest, and the body will be in order.   I have rested tolerably well these 2 nights past; as well as I expect to do while I rest in solitude.  

   And now my Dear Love as I can no longer evade your question about Dick, I must entreat you to bear his loss without losing that dignity of mind which becomes you.  You may be sure, no animal on which I had fixed my eye, or who resided in my house should have been starved. No one has been to blame.  I do therefore entreat you by the affection you bear me, by the regard you have to yourself more particularly in your present situation, that you could not make more of the accident than you ought.  I may be wrong, but I cannot help thinking that the disposition of mankind may be effected even in the events.  I seldom have laughed at any one for their feelings at the loss of animals; perhaps a little ridicule at an old maid or two for the loss of a cat; however I will confess I have felt the loss of our little domestic.  But as Mary says “what is to be must be”; and so it seemed in the present circumstance.  On Thursday last, while I was at Dinner in the Counting house, I exclaimed—“Where’s Dick, I’ve not seen him since I came home.” Mary replied—In the front Parlour.  I could not be easy, but must gratify my curiosity, even in the middle of my Dinner, and rose up, and brought him into the counting house.  I let him out of his cage, and gave him some moss seed; he seemed as well as usual.  About an hour afterwards, and before it was dark turning my eyes to the window, I saw him flutter at a strange rate, falling down, rising & falling.  I think he must have been siezed (Desrick says they are so seized at times) with a fit.  Mr Hart, my late Landlord was in the Counting house, & we were talking together.  Alarmed as I was I took the cage, and just held it to the windows (he was below) hoping to get him in it: when suddenly he flew to the other side of the room as I thought.  Mr Hart—who was by the table thought he saw him near the chimney, but could not tell.  I looked about for a minute, & called Mary.  He must have died almost instantaneously, as not the least note of any kind was heard—probably in attempting to fly up the Chimney—he was thrown back for Mary saw his remains—nearly consumed!  She began screaming dreadfully—and ran out in the street, my concern was then wholly turned to her.  I afterwards took the parts which were remaining, and in the evening wrapt them up in a white sheet of paper, and interred them under one of your plants.  This accident it was I believe that brought on my illness.  I sat up till two writing my remarks, but I had not one half hour’s sound sleep the whole night.  I was thinking how my Dear Eliza would be affected.  I was sure she would not reflect on her Ben who did for the best in endeavouring to preserve the bird, but how a sudden impression might affect her; I indeed was resolved to let her know of the matter before she returned; but I could not help evading her Question from time to time.

   I really think my love when any strong feelings arise on such a subject we ought to check ourselves, and to ask—Are such feelings right?  How do we feel at the death of a fellow creature or even thousands of our fellow creatures who have immortal souls at stake?  It was rather a rough way of preaching resignation, that one of the Coal porters practised with Mary.  The fellow who had a sack on his back carrying it into our coal hole—hearing her shriek—exclaimed—“What’s the matter Ma’am—My Birds burnt!  Is that all—The Bird has no soul to live for ever—Be concerned that your immortal soul may not be burnt hereafter”!  Really there is so much meaning in such an expression as may lead to some serious reflections on the nature and regulation of our feelings.  I could not help thinking on the hymn I had chosen at Mr Gurney’s the preceding Sabbath Evening—

There’s not a Sparrow or a Worm

But’s found in his decrees

or of Popes lines

He sees with equal eye as God of all

An hero perish, or a Sparrow fall

Bishop Hopkins I remember observes in a Sermon on Providence—[“]That not even a Sparrow but God has before ordained.  The number of his days or what bough he shall light—what grains it shall pick up—how long it shall live & when it shall die.”

   Our other Dick looks very handsome, & is as bold as ever.

   Now my Dear Love assure me that you do not fret about the matter.  Tho’ perhaps I miss my little companion as much at least as anyone could, yet, I have scarcely had a thought about him, but in connection with you. I now never make up my mind about any event till I have asked myself—How will it affect Eliza.   Her happiness is mine, and I have no other!  Write to me a few lines by return.  I will be sure to send you a basket of Eggs &c by Monday’s Coach.  I had anticipated yr wish about the Ecclesiastical Researches. But my paper is full—Miss Luccock Miss somebody else, I know not who & Miss Jenning’s drank tea here this after noon—Farewell

                                             Yr   B F—

Do not trouble yr self to repeat yr directions about the Society papers.  Are Hemming’s affairs quite settled  Will he  recover the large debt?  Respects to all Friends.

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. 262-64 (a more annotated text than that which appears on this site). 

References above include Joseph Hart, Jr., who retired from business in Cambridge in 1793, and whose father had been a member at St. Andrew's Street congregation (see Church Book: St. Andrew’s Street 123); Ezekial Hopkins (1634-90), Bishop of Derry, Ireland, whose Works, which included his Treatise on the Vanity of the World and numerous other sermons, was reprinted in 1771; Robert Robinson’s Ecclesiastical Researches (1792); a daughter of Samuel Luccock of Cambridge; and another reference to the Cambridge Benevolent Society.