Only love the spirits.

I have now given you, Raphael, my spirit's confession of faith--a flying
outline of the creation I have undertaken. As you may perceive, the seed
which you scattered in my soul took root. Mock, or rejoice, or blush at
your scholar, as you please. Certain it is this philosophy has ennobled
my heart, and extended and beautified the perspective of my life. It is
possible, my excellent friend, that the entire structure of my
conclusions may have been a baseless and visionary edifice. Perhaps the
world, as I depicted it, nowhere exists, save in the brain of your
Julius. Perhaps, after the lapse of thousands on thousands of years,
when the wiser Judge promised in the future, sits on the judgment-seat,
at the sight of the true original, filled with confusion, I should tear
in pieces my schoolboy's design. All this may happen--I expect it; and
even if not a vestige of reality is found in my dream, the reality will
fill me with proportionately greater delight and wonder. Ought my ideas
to be more beautiful than those of the Creator? How so? Could we
tolerate that His exalted artistic structure should fall beneath the
expectations of a mortal connoisseur? This is exactly the fiery
probation of His great perfection, and the sweetest triumph for the
Exalted Spirit, that false conclusions and deception do not injure His
acknowledgment; that all tortuous deviations of the wandering reason at
length strike into the straight road of everlasting truth; that all
diverging arms and currents ultimately meet in the main stream. What an
idea, Raphael, I form of the Great Artist, who, differently travestied in
a thousand copies, still retains identical features in all this
diversity, from which even the depreciating hand of a blunderer cannot
remove admiration.

Moreover, my representation may certainly be fallacious, wholly an