R.B.

[Footnote 1:  ‘Purg.’ v. 52 7.]

E.B.B. to R.B.

Sunday Night.
[Post-mark, December 24, 1845.]

But did I dispute?  Surely not.  Surely I believe in you and in ‘mysteries.’  Surely I prefer the no-reason to ever so much rationalism ... (rationalism and infidelity go together they say!).  All which I may do, and be afraid sometimes notwithstanding, and when you overpraise me (not over_love_) I must be frightened as I told you.

It is with me as with the theologians.  I believe in you and can be happy and safe so; but when my ‘personal merits’ come into question in any way, even the least, ... why then the position grows untenable:  it is no more ‘of grace.’

Do I tease you as I tease myself sometimes?  But do not wrong me in turn!  Do not keep repeating that ‘after long years’ I shall know you—­know you!—­as if I did not without the years.  If you are forced to refer me to those long ears, I must deserve the thistles besides.  The thistles are the corollary.

For it is obvious—­manifest—­that I cannot doubt of you, that I may doubt of myself, of happiness, of the whole world,—­but of you—­not:  it is obvious that if I could doubt of you and act so I should be a very idiot, or worse indeed.  And you ... you think I doubt of you whenever I make an interjection!—­now do you not?  And is it reasonable?—­Of you, I mean?

Monday.—­For my part, you must admit it to be too possible that you may be, as I say, ‘disappointed’ in me—­it is too possible.  And if it does me good to say so, even now perhaps ... if it is mere weakness to say so and simply torments you, why do you be magnanimous and forgive that ... let it pass as a weakness and forgive it so.  Often I think painful things which I do not tell you and....

While I write, your letter comes.  Kindest of you it was, to write me such a letter, when I expected scarcely the shadow of one!—­this makes up for the other letter which I expected unreasonably and which you ‘ought not’ to have written, as was proved afterwards.  And now why should I go on with that sentence?  What had I to say of ’painful things,’ I wonder? all the painful things seem gone ... vanished.  I forget what I had to say.  Only do you still think of this, dearest beloved; that I sit here in the dark but for you, and that the light you bring me (from my fault!—­from the nature of my darkness!) is not a settled light as when you open the shutters in the morning, but a light made by candles which burn some of them longer and some shorter, and some brighter and briefer, at once—­being ‘double-wicks,’ and that there is an intermission for a moment now and then between the dropping of the old light into the socket and the lighting of the new.  Every letter of yours is a new light which burns so many hours ... and then!—­I am morbid,