SD635. Sarah Flower to William Johnson Fox
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 2, 354 (in part).
[Harlow]
23 November 1827
You did not ask me to write, and perhaps will be little thankful for what you are like to receive, a regular confession of faith, or rather the want of it, from one whom you little suspect guilty of the heinous sin of unbelief. It reads like half jest; never was I more serious. My mind has been wandering a long time, and now it seems to have lost sight of that only invulnerable hold against the assaults of this warring world, a firm belief in the genuineness of the Scriptures.
No, not the only one, I do believe in the existence of an All-wise and Omnipotent Being—and that, involving as it does the conviction that everything is working together for good, brings with it comfort I would not resign for worlds. Still, I would fain go to my Bible as I used to—But I cannot. The cloud has come over me gradually, and I did not discover the darkness in which my soul was shrouded until, in seeking to give light to others, my own gloomy state became too settled to admit of doubt. It was in answering Robert Browning that my mind refused to bring forward argument, turned recreant, and sided with the enemy. And when I went to Norwich musical festival, oh, how much I lost! In all the choruses of praise to the Almighty my heart joined, and seemed to lift itself above the world to celebrate the praise of him to whom I owe the bliss of these feelings; but the rest of the “Messiah” dwindled to a mere musical enjoyment; and the consciousness of what it might once have been to me brought the bitterest sensations of sadness, almost remorse.
And now, as I sit and look up to the room in which I first had existence, and think of the mother who gave it, and watch the window of the chamber in which she yielded hers, in death as in life a fervent Christian, that thought links itself with another,—how much rather would she I have never been, than to be what I now am.
I have a firm belief in a resurrection,—at least I think I have,—but my mind is in a sad state; and before that goes, I must endeavour to build up my decaying faith. How is it to be done? I want to read a good ecclesiastical history. I dare not apply to papa. I dare not let him have a glimpse at the infatuation that possesses me. Had he been less rigid in his ideas of all kinds of unbelief, it would have been better for me. But I have had no one either to remove or confirm my doubts, and heaven alone knows what uneasiness they have given me. I would give worlds to be a sincere believer; to go to my Bible as to a friend in the hour of trial, feeling that whatever might befall, that would never desert me, and defying the world to rob me of its consolations.
My life has been like a set of gems on a string of gold,—a succession of bright and beautiful things, without a dark thread to dim their lustre. But it will not be always thus. It is not thus now, and some resources I must have against the evil time which is beginning to set in. The very study will be a delight, even if it has not the desired result. The consciousness that I have not examined as far as in me lies, weighs heavily upon me, and to you I now look to direct my inquiries. ’Tis a bold step, and I wonder how I could bring myself to it. I have often longed to speak to you, but that I could not do. And now it seems as if I could not bear to speak to any one, but I want quietly to read in my own room. What? Why, any books that you would deem suitable.
I shall soon be at home (London), and if you will lend them, and let me read them, my mind will, at all events, be relieved from whatever portion of guilt may mingle in its present uneasiness.
I hope this will not worry you. I would not be one to add to the annoyances that visit you; but that you have a sincere regard for me I now believe, and how it is returned let this confidence which you possess, unshared by any one beside, bear testimony.
I long to come home. Harlow is not what it once was, and it has added to the feeling of loneliness which has been coming on. Though I may often be mirthful, I am not always happy. But I am in a sad mood this morning, and to-morrow may be brighter in the heavens and in the heart. So I will not write any more than one thing, and that you know already, that I am yours affectionately,
Sally
Burn, and forget,—not me and those books,—but the letter and low spirits.
Text: M.D. Conway, Autobiography: Memories and Experiences (Boston, 1904), II, 26–28.
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