But I must say, though in ever such an ill temper (which you know is just the time to select for writing a panegyric upon good temper) that I am glad you do not despise my own right name too much, because I never was called Elizabeth by any one who loved me at all, and I accept the omen.  So little it seems my name that if a voice said suddenly ‘Elizabeth,’ I should as soon turn round as my sisters would ... no sooner.  Only, my own right name has been complained of for want of euphony ... Ba ... now and then it has—­and Mr. Boyd makes a compromise and calls me Elibet, because nothing could induce him to desecrate his organs accustomed to Attic harmonies, with a Ba.  So I am glad, and accept the omen.

But I give you no credit for not thinking that I may forget you ...  I!  As if you did not see the difference!  Why, I could not even forget to write to you, observe!—­

Whenever you write, say how you are.  Were you wet on Wednesday?

Your own—­

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

R.B.

But my letter came last night, did it not?

Another thing—­no, to-morrow—­for time presses, and, in all cases, Tuesday—­remember!

E.B.B. to R.B.

Saturday.
[Post-mark, December 20, 1845.]

I have your letter now, and now I am sorry I sent mine.  If I wrote that you had ‘forgotten to write,’ I did not mean it; not a word!  If I had meant it I should not have written it.  But it would have been better for every reason to have waited just a little longer before writing at all.  A besetting sin of mine is an impatience which makes people laugh when it does not entangle their silks, pull their knots tighter, and tear their books in cutting them open.