I found these letters in with Herbert Woodford Orton's papers.  Marian Hogley wrote them to the appropriately-named Mr Doughty, from University Hall, De Grey Rd, Leeds, on 28th April and 13 May 1918 shortly after she was nineteen.

Born on 25 April 1899, Marian graduated in 1919 from Leeds University.  She married Herbert Woodford Orton MC in 1923, and died of cancer in 1928.  I am the third child of her third child, Francis John Orton (1927-2007).

In these letters she describes her struggle to believe what she is expected to believe.  She clearly wants to believe it, but can't.

My transcription:

University Hall,

De Grey Rd,

Leeds

Sunday 28th April 1918.

Dear Mr Doughty,

I wish every day were a Sunday- there's such a delightful sort of atmosphere- you can feel that it's Sunday- but I don't know why, or what exactly makes it feel like Sunday.  And I've just heard Mr. Lightly preach.  I like his sermons- he doesn't talk above your head I suppose that is a real test of greatness in preachers.  I liked Mr Partridges sermons last Sunday- especially the evening one.  I heard him at Honley about three weeks ago, and I didn't care for his stiple[?] very much- he didn't seem very convincing somehow.  His arguments were quite strong, + I agreed with them- he was proving that there is Life after Death- but I don't know just what caused the unconvincingness- still it was there, and you felt as though you would like to believe it, but weren't quite convinced by what he said.

But last Sunday he was splendid, and I specially liked the way he referred to Mrs. Dyson.  He didn't say much, but what he said way [was?] true + beautiful.  I always feel that when people talk a lot about something like that they don't feel half as much.  On Sunday afternoon in Sunday School Mr. Butterworth referred both to her and to Marion Froggatt.  And it made me wish he would give up talking- it would have been far more impressive if he had just touched upon her life + work + let people just think- But to have it all put before you in cold words,- well it didn't feel sympathetic.  But I suppose some people feel comfort in talking.  It is a matter of temperament.

I have felt a great desire to write a sonnet to Mrs. Dyson- (she was my Sunday School teacher)- for publication in the Circuit Record.  I have made an attempt, but I am not satisfied.  It doesn't seem worthy of her, somehow- and I would rather have nothing at all than something unworthy of her.  Still I will send it to you and you can decide.  But don't put in if you don't think it is worthy.

Do you know Donald Hankey's "Students in Arms"?  The last time Mrs. Dyson took our Sunday School class, she said she hadn't been feeling well during the week, and so she hadn't been able to prepare a lesson.  But she read us a Donald Hankey's "Beloved Captain" and I feel sure it was as effective as the best prepared lesson could be, because it was a lesson- And could you find a nearer parallel to the character of the Beloved Captain than Mrs. Dyson's own?  The more I think about it the more does the resemblance strike me.  He was indeed a beloved captain- and one can't but notice the difference between one's self and her.

I have often found myself wondering what it is like to meet Death- what exactly it feels like to die- and I must admit that the very thought strikes me with absolute terror.  And I know that if any faith were as real to me as Mrs. Dyson's was to her, I should have no fear.  And it is just beginning to trouble me- how to make it real.  I confess I haven't paid much attention to it before- I thought it was all quite settled + now I find it isn't and everything seems upset.  I often used to think when we sang the hymn "At the parting of the ways"- that I must have passed it without noticing it, and now I find that I hadn't.  And so if you could give me any advice I should be glad- it is such an unsettled state to be in.  I believe it would need very little to make me an Atheist- and I don't want to believe that there is no God- Life would seem so empty, and yet I believe in my present state I could easily be persuaded.

It is only during the last week or two that I have thought about it and there's no one I can mention it to here- at least I don't like to.  And my home letters are common property in the family.  My faith in prayer seems utterly gone but I must do something, so I keep on praying- Perhaps it will come out right in the end.

Yours sincerely

Marian Hogley 

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Mr Doughty must have then replied to Marian's letter.  Marian wrote a second letter a couple of weeks later.

My transcription:

University Hall,

De Grey Rd,

Leeds

Sunday 28th April 1918.

Dear Mr Doughty,

I believe you understand my position much better than I do myself- at least you put clearly what for me seemed only a confusing mass of ideas more or less in conflict with one another.  I have read your letter several times and I find something more in it every time- and I'm glad you did make it into a sermon for me.  It has helped me immensely- I  know what I want- it is Faith, and I haven't got it- at least not enough of it.  The material things of earth are quite real to me, and I also feel that there is some power that rules the universe.  But whether this "power" is merely the forces of nature, a law which keeps things going, or a Being, who really does care for us,  that I can't decide.  If there were no God, wouldn't the trees + flowers still grow, wouldn't the seasons still follow each other?

Did you never wonder if Jesus was really the son of God?  Is it not possible that he was only a human being who in his zeal suffered crucifixion?  May not the miracles have been coincidences, or at least can they not be exaggerations?  And his appearance to the disciples, after his death- could not that be put down to an overwrought state of mind in them?  I do not seriously doubt His divine origin, but thoughts like these have troubled me.  Probably these confessions of mine will shock you- they do me.

But I believe if I had true faith I should be content to take more on trust.  An incident which occurred last week made me wonder if my nature was one incapable of having faith.  We were having a Garden party +  sports, + I had entered for the blindfold race.  One person is blindold + is driven like a horse, by someone who is not blindfold, round bottles.  The day before, we were practising- I had my eyes bandaged + I was being driven round the quad: suddenly I felt that if I took another step I should run straight into a big wall, so I stopped, and would not move until I had lifted the bandage and made sure that there was no wall.  I ought to have trusted the girl who was driving, and taken her word that I was far away from any wall.

I wish I could come across some definite thing which would convince me.  I wonder if I did no revision for the exams and had faith that I should get through, if I should?  But I couldn't have the implicit faith that would "remove mountains".  I suppose it is a thing which comes gradually- you can't find it suddenly, it must grow up stronger and stronger until you realised its presence.

Last night I walked to Meanworth[?] to Chapel- Mr Reader's Chapel.  The preacher was Mr. Watson from Headingly and he had some beautiful hymns- tho' his sermon did not appeal very strongly to me.  One hymn especially- 916- seemed full of new meaning; the others were "Rock of Ages", + "When I survey the wond'rous cross".

Mr. Reader asked me if I could give them any help in the Sunday School, I would like to- if only to oblige Mr Reader- but when I'm not sure of myself, am I fit to try to teach children.  It is such a responsibility, I would hate to fail in it.  Or do you think that by trying to make them see clearly, I might make things more clear for myself?  Really, I would rather not undertake it, than begin + then feel myself incompetent.  If you're not sure of God yourself how can you expect to convince other people?  But children have faith, haven't they?  I wish I had never grown up!  I dread the thought of old age.  But I suppose you never notice yourself growing old.  Last Sunday night, the minister from Great Horton was preaching at Wodhouse Moor Chapel.  And he's an old, old man, very feeble- his voice is unsteady , and he can't see very well.  But he must have been wonderful when he was younger.

It isn't death itself that frightens me- it's the uncertainty of what comes after.  To me, it seems the end of all things- and life is so wonderful really, and I do enjoy it.  I wish I felt as certain as Browning does.  I haven't read much of him, but for my birthday a few weeks ago, one present was a little book- a "Calendar of Thoughts from Browning" just short quotations from his poems.  I'm afraid I don't care for Wordsworth very much.  I did his poems for Matric: and I think you never appreciate them really when you've had to do them for an exam.

I have decided to come home for the week end next week, but my friend has not decided whether she will come with me or not.  If she doesn't, I would like to have a talk with you, but if she does, I'm afraid it will be impossible.  You see, she doesn't see things the way I do.  She does not attend church regularly- sometimes she never goes all through the term, she never mentions God, she has the finest + truest of characters.  I really think she is prejudiced againt it, by the behaviour of her mother's people, when her father died.  They were very strict church people, but they refused to give her any help.  And I think Florrie is embittered- at least I gathered that that was her attitude, when she told me about it.

I'm afraid I shall have to stop now, tho' I could go on writing for hours, I believe.  I wish I could put just what I feel, but I can't express myself.

Yours very sincerely

Marian

I had almost forgotten about the sonnet.  Is this better?

"At eventide in peace did softly rise.
If this be true, that souls- tears past, past sighs-"
At last in heaven

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When Marian died in 1928 Mr Doughty sent these two letters to her mother, who must have passed them on to Herbert for them to be in his papers.  It was obviously a sensitive subject, questioning the teachings of the church.

These letters are the only ones I have of Marian's, and I find the subject very interesting given my own lack of belief in the supernatural.  Given that this is just a snapshot of how she felt when she was nineteen, I would be very interested to find out how her views developed over the next ten years.  Did she get her faith back, or discuss her ideas with anyone?  Or did she just keep her feelings bottled up? I would love to find out.  Please feel free to pass comment or point out any transcription errors.