SD627. Sarah Flower to William Johnson Fox
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 2, 348-352.
Dalston
May 31st [1827]
“What in the name of fortune is the girl going to do with this tremendous sheet of paper”? Never dread the worst my dear Mr Fox but suspend your judgment one minute—now in reward you shall hear what a delicious treat you may expect when you have turned over a new leaf. Now do not peep. Yes you may just take one, only one. I do most positively forbid your reading that Genius’s poetry tho I grant it looks very tempting until you have waded thro the prosy part. No! No! I am quite too cunning for that. So now having done as they do with children (—there—take your physic there’s a good child and then you shall have something oh so nice afterwards)—shall I tell you whose mine these gems come from?—and yet I wish they were mine with all my soul—and Im sure it would be with all my soul if they were—“bah”—forgive me and if you knew what a bad muddling cold I have had you would– They are “the boy” Robert Browning[’]s æt 14!!—and so they as well as he can speak for themselves[.] Suppose we say no more about them for I so want to ask you how you do—two indirect answers I have had to this question one thro the gude wife the other thro the gude sister both very satisfactory—of course I did not deserve another on my own account, tho I vow I will not say that next week– You cannot tell how disinterestedly I used to watch the clouds and longed to give them lessons how to behave—to hold up their heads, or turn out in toto—but they were bent on a country dance it seems and to those that remained behind I used to give them tit for tat—return their black looks with others– Still despite rain hail wind or any other ungentle influences the country is still the country– There! have I not been a visiting to tarn summit but you know so well what I mean—is there really one green tree within ten miles of London? oh no! They are withered by this immense hot house—do the birds sing half so sweetly? No their little throats are glutted with the soot from its fires (suppose we establish a company for curing smoky birds as they do smoky chimnies)—and the people! how different the low lived half sneering “get on” of a London carman, with his blackened face, dirty cloathes and miserable altogether—every thing; to the good tempered “gee whoa” of the nice country carter by the hedge side with his clean brown phiz, (except where the red completely puts the other out of countenance), white smock frock & scarlet waistcoat and hard-working honest happy look—oh I do envy every body who leaves this mess of brick and mortar, for hill and grove and wood and water not that I wish to leave my home again unless I could take the best part of it with me—it was very nice to come back to them all (tho every thing was so incessantly happy where I had been)—and Lizzie seemed so glad to see me and hear me, and as I had left her awhile she has quite a sensation to come back to with her voice fingers & forehead which can do any thing they like in any way—oh those maddening melodies—dont you see the sunset on the sea shore and the groups of classical looking beings chasing the billows as they slide from the shore—there’s one greek girl I always see with floating hair and white drapery pointing to her little foot which the waves had dared to kiss because they could not resist such a temptation—and that picture of Sappho; those pictures I mean—dont you see her seated at her loom, her pale listless melancholy, and as the one bewildering thought steals over her a large tear gathers and swells and at last it falls on her idle fingers and then she starts and gently moves aside her work and exclaims “oh! My sweet mother ’tis in vain I cannot weave as I have wove, so wildered is my heart and brain with thinking of the youth I love”—and then she tries to gain the mastery over her heart, and sets again to her work and passes her marble hand thro her raven locks to shade her tumultuous face—and then she pales and flushes and then the tears come faster and faster till they fall in showers, and then she looks up and sees her mother gazing, and then she throws her work violently by and rushes into her mothers arms and says “oh! my sweet mother tis in vain I cannot weave as I have wove &c &c and then I have just forgotten that Lizzie says you do not like the song and then long before this you are calling me a great simpleton for |ranting| about such a trifle—let me see where was I—for my ideas seem, perfectly “Slimniferified” (there! I know I’ve spelt it the wrong way)—it cannot be at writing to you, for I am sure I have been unceremonius enough because I know that you do not insist on proper respectful reverend letters, it must be this villanous cold which has almost worn out myself and my patience– I was so glad it came the day after Liz went to Richmond, and she knows never a word about it and she has been very poorly since she has been there for this morning I had a note and it said “Now I am quite well I can tell you that I have been quite an invalid”—so I think I shall say the same in answer. All the people said, I looked so well on coming home tho’ not quite stout enough to “crush a bear”—now all my roses are withered by this cold and you would declare I am not strong enough to bear a crush—really they are very provoking these colds that prey upon ones very vitals—thereby taking away the appetite and preventing our preying on our victuals– I do not mean that we forgot to ask for blessing—but you must be asking for mercy—what is all this little nonsense in comparison to your most weary time– Heaven grant that we may never have opportunity to make such another—oh there is such a gorgeous sunset I know there is, I must run up into Daddies room indeed I must good bye for five minutes. What a delicious flood of light he has been bathing in, I watched him sink but almost expected him back for another dip—ay I did watch him go behind those houses—houses! at will—tho’ my heart travelled fast and far and I thought of all the lovely scenes I have left behind and how I have seen them in this most exquisite of all times, there was a sort of pleasure in looking on the hard abrupt line of brick—(my only horizon) and thinking that Lizzie and others I love were looking on mellow lighted landscapes whose beauties scarce need aught to heighten their loveliness– I felt glad that the pleasure was now on Lizzies side, not from any benevolent motive, but it eased my conscience, for I have enjoyed myself almost wastefully while she I know has been pining for a peep at some of natures gems—how the sunbeams dart across my page and make it so bright—“not before they are needed”—I vow I said it first– I wonder what I am to be when I go into that other state,—wherever it is? I have often fixed on a bird, a blossom, a star, it all depends on the mood– Now I feel that I would be a sun beam so much rather than any thing else– Oh how nicely I could brush over all my loved haunts; nestle down in the vallies and shoot over the hills—go to sleep with a grave for my pillow in the little burying ground you know where and wade and bathe in the little stream, glance on Ben Lomond dance on the Forth, and then come back again to my quiet resting place, and then how nice it would be when some people were seated at their desks to dart across the paper, and aided by my own bright ray read their brighter thoughts– Mind I’d promise not to blind your eyes tho’ I might eye your blind and perhaps peep between it—look at me how all my blank paper seems to have vanished in a twinkling and by far the most (should I not say only) important things unsaid; what could induce such rambling—my cold, still my cold, poor thing I believe it has more said about it than it deserves– I have not seen Mrs Fox to-day—more shame for me—as there was almost a promise in the |way|—and moreover some talk about this concern going into partnership with hers “A sad unsteady traveling companion Mrs F’s letter is going to choose pray dont tell Sally Flower I said so”—but its not the case I believe so I’ll tell you how it happed– I went to the Hackney on duty, thinks I to myself when I |sees| the turning to Homerton it is not very much farther so no wonder I seized it—and when I got there I thought I couldnt get home, and when I got home, I felt that I could go and hang myself only it was too much trouble– You see I have not had much walking lately, and if I had had less writing some folks would have been spared the trouble of reading—it really is too bad for shall I tell you a piece of a secret it is well any way for me—if you are sorry that I here own them of course I shall kick up the heels of my heart and if you are glad why then I mean to make out to myself that its not because you are tired but because you like me to say that I am really
Yours very affectionately
Sally
Give my kind love to “|J C| & Milly” and kind regards to Mr & Mrs Florance– Now do not write please because you think it a duty, I would rather wait and hope that inclination might some day prompt a line or two for my benefit from Ringwood—“line and wood” rather an unpleasant association—so now good bye in right earnest after the positive assurance that I am no relation to Paul |Pry|, for tho I do leave paper I must just say a little word about that boys poems. he is mad to publish them– You know there is a whole book full from which these two are extracted. What ought he to do? I have copied them verbatim.—I wonder what you will think of them—when I came to “Ague” thinks I my boy, you are sending people to the hundreds of Essex & the fens of Lincolnshire dangerous ground—but as if he had seen the evil he has introduced classical allusion so as thoroughly to avoid all thought of the ridiculous but not another word–
The first born of Egypt
That night came on in Egypt with a step
So calmly stealing oer the gorgeous train
Of sunset glories flooding the pale clouds
With liquid gold, until at length the glow
Sank to its shadowy impulse & soft sleep
Bent oer the world to curtain it from life–
Vitality was hushed beneath her wing—
Pomp sought his couch of purple—care-worn grief
Flung slumbers mantle oer him. At that hour
He in whose brain the burning fever fiend
Held revelry—his hot cheek turn’d awhile
Upon the cooler pillow. In his cell
The captive wrappd him in his squalid rags
And sank amid his straw. Circean sleep!
Bathed in thine opiate dew false hope vacates
Her seat in the sick soul leaving awhile
Her dreamy fond imaginings—pale fear
His wild misgivings, and the warm life springs
Flow in their wonted channels—and the train
The harpy train of care forsakes the heart.
Was it the passing sigh of the night wind
Or some lorn spirit’s wail—that moaning cry
That struck the ear?—’tis hushed—no! it swells on
On—as the thunder peal when it essays
To wreck the summer sky—that fearful shriek
Still it increases—tis the dolorous plaint
The death cry of a nation–
It was a fearful thing, that hour of night.
I have seen many climes but that dread hour
Hath left its burning impress on my soul
Never to be erased. Not the loud crash
When the shuddering forest swings to the red bolt
Or march of the fell earthquake when it whelms
A city in its yawning gulf could quell
That deep voice of dispair. Pharaoh arose
Startled from slumber, and in anger sought
The reason of the mighty rushing throng
At that dark hour around the palace gates,
—And then he dashd his golden crown away
And tore his hair in phrenzy when he knew
That Egypts heir was dead—from every home
The marbled mansion of regality
To the damp dungeons walls—gay pleasures seat
And povertys lone hut, that cry was heard
As guided by the Seraphs vengeful arm
The hand of death held on its withering course
Blighting the hopes of thousands–
I sought the street to gaze upon the grief
Of congregated Egypt—there the slave
Stood by him late his master for that hour
Made vain the worlds distinctions—for could
Wealth or power arrest the woe?– Some were there
As sculptured marble from the quarry late
Of whom the foot first in the floating dance
The glowing cheek hued with the deepning flush
In the night revel—told the young and gay.
No kindly moisture dewed their stony eye
Or damp’d their ghastly glare—for they felt not
The chain of torpor bound around the heart
Had stifled it for ever. Tears stole down
The furrow’d channels of those witherd cheeks
Whose fount had long been chilld, but that night’s term
Had loosed the springs—for twas a fearful thing
To see a nations hope so blasted– One
Press’d his dead child unto his heart—no spot
Of livid plague was nigh, no purple cloud
Of scathing fever—and he struck his brow
To rouse himself from that wild phantasy
Deeming it but a vision of the night–
I marked one old man with his only son
Lifeless within his arms—his witherd hand
Wandering oer the features of his child
Bidding him [wake] from that long dreary sleep
And lead his old blind father from the crowd
To the green meadows—but he answer’d not
And then the terrible truth flash’d on his brain
—And when the throng rolld on some bade him rise
And cling not so unto the dead one there,
Nor voice nor look made answer—he was gone,
But one thought chaind the powers of each mind
Amid that nights fell horror—each one owned
In silence the dread majesty—the might
Of Israels God whose red hand had avenged
His servants cause so fearfully——
_________
The Dance of Death
“And as they footed it around
They sang their triumphs oer mankind”
de Stael–
Fever
Bow to me bow to me
Follow me in my burning breath
Which brings as the simoom destruction & death.
My spirit lives in the hectic glow
When I bid the life streams tainted flow
In the fervid suns deep brooding beam
When seething vapours in volumes steam
And they fall—the young the gay—as the flower
Neath the fiery winds destructive power–
This day I have gotten a noble prize
There was one who saw the morning rise
And watch’d fair Cynthia’s golden streak
Kiss the misty mountain peak
But I was there and my poisnous flood
Envenom’d the gush of the youths warm blood
They hastily bore him to his bed
But oer him death his swart pennons spread
The skilled leech’s art was vain
Delirium revelled in each vein
I mark’d each deathly change in him
I watch’d his lustrous eye grow dim
The purple cloud on his deep swoln brow
The gathering death sweat’s chilly flow
The dull dense film obscure the eye
Heard the last quick gasp & saw him die.
Pestilence
My spirit has past on the lightnings wing
Oer city & land with its withering
In the crowded street, in the flashing hall
My tramp has been heard—they are lonely all.
A nation has swept at my summons away
As mists before the glare of day.
See how proudly reigns my hand
In the black’ning heaps on the surf beat strand
<Wh>ere the rank grass grows in deserted streets
<Wh>ere the terrified stranger no passer meets
<Wh>ere around the putrid air
So lurid and red in Erinnys stare
Where silence reigns where late swell’d the lute
Thrilling lyre mellifluous flute.
There if my prowess ye would know
Seek ye—and bow to your rival low[.]
Ague
Bow to me bow to me
My influence is in the freezing deeps
Where the icy power of torpor sleeps
Where the frigid waters flow
My marble chain is more below
When the Grecian brav’d the Hellesponts flood
How did I curdle his fervid blood
And sent his love in tumescent wave
To meet with her lover an early grave.
When Hellas victor sought the rush
Of the river, to lave in its cooling gush
Did he not feel my iron clutch
When he fainted and sank at my algid touch.
These are the least of the trophies I claim—
Bow to me then—and own my fame.
Madness
Hear ye not the gloomy yelling
Or the tide of anguish swelling
Hear ye the clank of fetter and chain
Hear ye the wild cry of grief and pain
Followed by the shattering laugh
As when fiends the life blood quaff
See see that band
See how their bursting eye balls glare,
As the tigers when crouched in the jungles lair
In India’s sultry land
Now they are seized in the rabies fell
Hark—tis a shriek as from fiends of hell
Now their [sic] is a plaining moan
As the flow of the sullen river—
List! there is a hollow groan.
Doth it not make e’en you to shiver—
These are they struck of the barbs of my quiver
Slaves before my haughty throne
Bow then bow to me alone——
Consumption
’Tis for me ’tis for me
Mine the prize of Death must be
My spirit is oer the young & gay—
As on snowy wreaths in the bright noon day
They wear a melting and vermeille flush
E’en while I bid their pulses hush—
Hueing oer their dying brow
With the |spring| of healths best roseate glow.
When the lover watches the full dark eye
Robed in tints of ianthine dye,
Beaming eloquent as to declare
The passions that deepen the glories there
The frost in its tide of dazzling whiteness
As |Juno’s| brow of chrystal brightness
Such as the Grecians hand could give
When he bade the sculptured marble “live.”
The ruby suffusing the Hebe cheek
The pulses that love & pleasure speak
Can his fond heart claim but another day
And the loathsome worm on her form shall prey.
She is scathed as the tender flower
When mildews oer its chalice lour
Tell me not of her balmy breath
Its tide shall be shut in the fold of death
Tell me not of her honied lip
The reptiles fangs shall its fragrance sip
Then will I say triumphantly
Bow to the deadliest—bow to me!
Address, on integral page: Revd W J Fox / Florance Esqre / Ringwood / Hants.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library.
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