My dear Bailey--I have been very much gratified and very much hurt by your letters in the Oxford Paper:[66] because independent of that unlawful and mortal feeling of pleasure at praise, there is a glory in enthusiasm; and because the world is malignant enough to chuckle at the most honourable Simplicity. Yes, on my soul, my dear Bailey, you are too simple for the world--and that Idea makes me sick of it. How is it that by extreme opposites we have, as it were, got discontented nerves? You have all your life (I think so) believed everybody. I have suspected everybody. And, although you have been so deceived, you make a simple appeal--the world has something else to do, and I am glad of it--Were it in my choice, I would reject a Petrarchal coronation--on account of my dying day, and because women have cancers. I should not by rights speak in this tone to you for it is an incendiary spirit that would do so. Yet I am not old enough or magnanimous enough to annihilate self--and it would perhaps be paying you an ill compliment. I was in hopes some little time back to be able to relieve your dulness by my spirits--to point out things in the world worth your enjoyment--and now I am never alone without rejoicing that there is such a thing as death--without placing my ultimate in the glory of dying for a great human purpose. Perhaps if my affairs were in a different state, I should not have written the above--you shall judge: I have two brothers; one is driven, by the "burden of Society," to America; the other with an exquisite love of life, is in a lingering state--My love for my Brothers, from the early loss of our Parents, and even from earlier misfortunes,[67] has grown into an affection "passing the love of women." I have been ill-tempered with them--I have vexed them--but the thought of them has always stifled the impression that any woman might otherwise have made upon me. I have a sister too, and may not follow them either to America or to the grave. Life must be undergone, and I certainly derive some consolation from the thought of writing one or two more poems before it ceases.