This Morning I received a letter from George by which it appears that Money Troubles are to follow us up for some time to come--perhaps for always--these vexations are a great hindrance to one--they are not like Envy and detraction stimulants to further exertion as being immediately relative and reflected on at the same time with the prime object--but rather like a nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I revoke my Promise of finishing my Poem by the Autumn which I should have done had I gone on as I have done--but I cannot write while my spirit is fevered in a contrary direction and I am now sure of having plenty of it this Summer. At this moment I am in no enviable Situation--I feel that I am not in a Mood to write any to-day; and it appears that the loss of it is the beginning of all sorts of irregularities. I am extremely glad that a time must come when everything will leave not a wrack behind. You tell me never to despair--I wish it was as easy for me to observe the saying--truth is I have a horrid Morbidity of Temperament which has shown itself at intervals--it is I have no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling-block I have to fear--I may even say that it is likely to be the cause of my disappointment. However every ill has its share of good--this very bane would at any time enable me to look with an obstinate eye on the Devil Himself--aye to be as proud of being the lowest of the human race as Alfred could be in being of the highest. I feel confident I should have been a rebel angel had the opportunity been mine. I am very sure that you do love me as your very Brother--I have seen it in your continual anxiety for me--and I assure you that your welfare and fame is and will be a chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know no one but you who can be fully sensible of the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all what is called comfort, the readiness to measure time by what is done and to die in six hours could plans be brought to conclusions--the looking upon the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the Earth and its contents, as materials to form greater things--that is to say ethereal things--but here I am talking like a Madman,--greater things than our Creator himself made!! I wrote to Hunt yesterday--scarcely know what I said in it. I could not talk about Poetry in the way I should have liked for I was not in humor with either his or mine. His self-delusions are very lamentable--they have enticed him into a Situation which I should be less eager after than that of a galley Slave--what you observe thereon is very true must be in time.