There are little signs whereby we may know how matters are going on. This makes the business of Carlisle the bookseller of great amount in my mind. He has been selling deistical pamphlets, republished Tom Paine, and many other works held in superstitious horror. He even has been selling, for some time, immense numbers of a work called The Deist, which comes out in weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I think, has had about a dozen indictments issued against him, for which he has found bail to the amount of many thousand pounds. After all, they are afraid to prosecute. They are afraid of his defence; it would be published in all the papers all over the empire. They shudder at this. The trials would light a flame they could not extinguish. Do you not think this of great import? You will hear by the papers of the proceedings at Manchester, and Hunt's triumphal entry into London. It would take me a whole day and a quire of paper to give you anything like detail. I will merely mention that it is calculated that 30,000 people were in the streets waiting for him. The whole distance from the Angel at Islington to the Crown and Anchor was lined with multitudes. As I passed Colnaghi's window I saw a profile portrait of Sandt, the destroyer of Kotzebue. His very look must interest every one in his favour. I suppose they have represented him in his college dress. He seems to me like a young Abelard--a fine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no joke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar nose, and plump temples. On looking over some letters I found the one I wrote, intended for you, from the foot of Helvellyn to Liverpool; but you had sailed, and therefore it was returned to me. It contained, among other nonsense, an acrostic of my sister's name--and a pretty long name it is. I wrote it in a great hurry which you will see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought it would ever be seen by any but yourselves. Give me your patience, sister, while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name, Or sue the fair Apollo, and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instil Great love in me for thee and Poesy. Imagine not that greatest mastery And kingdom over all the realms of verse Nears more to Heaven in aught than when we nurse And surety give to love and brotherhood. Anthropopagi in Othello's mood; Ulysses storm'd, and his enchanted belt Glowed with the Muse: but they are never felt Unbosom'd so, and so eternal made, Such tender incense in their laurel shade To all the recent sisters of the Nine, As this poor offering to you, sister mine. Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are; Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where; And may its taste to you, like good old wine, Take you to real happiness, and give Sons, daughters, and a home like honied hive. Foot of Helvellyn, June 27.