_R.B. to E.B.B._
Saturday.
[Post-mark, December 20, 1845.]
I do not, nor will not think, dearest, of ever 'making you happy'--I
can imagine no way of working that end, which does not go straight to
my own truest, only true happiness--yet in every such effort there is
implied some distinction, some supererogatory grace, or why speak of
it at all? _You_ it is, are my happiness, and all that ever can be:
YOU--dearest!
But never, if you would not, what you will not do I know, never revert
to _that_ frightful wish. 'Disappoint me?' 'I speak what I know and
testify what I have seen'--you shall 'mystery' again and again--I do
not dispute that, but do not _you_ dispute, neither, that mysteries
are. But it is simply because I do most justice to the mystical part
of what I feel for you, because I consent to lay most stress on that
fact of facts that I love you, beyond admiration, and respect, and
esteem and affection even, and do not adduce any reason which stops
short of accounting for _that_, whatever else it would account for,
because I do this, in pure logical justice--_you_ are able to turn and
wonder (if you _do ... now_) what causes it all! My love, only wait,
only believe in me, and it cannot be but I shall, little by little,
become known to you--after long years, perhaps, but still one day: I
_would_ say _this_ now--but I will write more to-morrow. God bless my
sweetest--ever, love, I am your