I have a chance to finish the first part of my book to-day, and save
myself from Hades; and here I am writing to you--just a line. (Of
course it turned out to be six pages!)

Your last letter was very noble; I can only say to you, that the
treatment which makes you upbraid me is not done for _my_ sake; that
the life which I live is not lived for _my_ sake. You say perhaps
you are better than I; it is very possible--I often think so myself;
but that is nothing to the point. I should be very wretched if I sat
down to think what I am. Oblige me by being better than my ideal--if
you can! You must understand, dearest, that behind all that I am
doing, there is truth to the soul; and that truth to the soul is
love, and the only love. I am seeking for nothing but the privilege
of treating you as myself; and rest assured, that if I treat you any
differently it will be better than I treat myself! There is no peril
in our life except that!

Some day you will understand that I can sometimes feel about myself
that I am utterly hateful, utterly false, utterly shallow and _bad_;
and that to get away from myself would be all that I desire in life.
I cannot imagine my having such opinion of you; but some
dissatisfaction--just a little--I may have. Only let us love
perfection, you and I, with all our souls, and I think our love for
each other may safely be allowed to take care of itself. Remember
the two ships in Clough's poem, which parted, but sailed by the
compass, and reached the same port.

I shall spend no more time comforting you about this.

And dear Corydon, when you are angry at my doubting your power, and