Carlile wanted Isis to become a philosophical lover, and had written her something to that effect, which called forth the following letter:--
"Why, my dear, this very paragraph alone is sufficient to turn the argument in my favor. You say that you should have by right given me on the first onset five or seven years of hard study in philosophy; and then again you say, perhaps had you done so, I should ere this have run away, you not being so situated as to be able to lock me up, or I should have died. Does not that prove that there is nothing charming about philosophy; or why fear me? I am enamored with love. I love with all my heart, with all my mind, and with all my soul, and with all my strength. I very soon found out the beauties of love; I have experienced the delightful sensation that love produces. I have felt its power; I have received its cheering influence, and have drank deep draughts from the fountain of love. In vain have I been endeavoring to find out the charms of this divine philosophy. The charms of love presented themselves immediately to my view. But no, like the glorious Constitution of England, its charms are lost, are hidden, and the more you become acquainted with either the more anxious are you to run away from both. Such is the impression that remains still upon the mind. And your letter, believe me, has advocated the cause of love more ardently than even mine did, for one word in favor of philosophy you have bestowed twenty in favor of love. 'Tis true, indeed, the first sheet of paper was entirely occupied with the subject of love. The commencement of the second sheet, says, 'How charming is divine philosophy, not dull and crabbed. It is the perfection of love, and to this I want to bring you.' Then again you fall into full strain and sing the praises and glories of love. I confess myself that I have never been a philosopher, because I saw nothing in it to admire. I saw everything in love, and I want to become a scientific lover--not a philosopher, but an unequalled lover, a paragon of perfection, of constancy, and of faithful love--pure, uncontaminated, unsophisticated, unmixed, natural love. Love sincere and true wants not the aid of philosophy; does not want any restraint and will not bear it, it cannot long exist in thraldom. It must be free as the air we breathe. It will not be told that it must love thus far and no further. No, no, that will never do. I do not say that it is to be indulged in to the injury of other duties or claims; that it is to satiate itself. No, that would be a mere carnal passion, an animal propensity, and a profanation to call it love. It is not the love I feel, not the kind of love that I am pleading the cause of: I want a love, virtuous and pure, but still unbounded. When we talk of moderate love, philosophical love, etc., it amounts to nothing. There is no such a thing as a moderate true lover. Pray tell me how do you like a moderate reformer? 'Tis just the same. A Whig, a half and half sort of a Radical. Nay, the subject will not bear the comparison. I am an out and out Republican, an enemy to kings, priests and lords, and have not patience to hear anyone talk of being a politician when his head is stuffed up with superstition. And how in the name of wonder can you preach philosophy to me in my present situation, surrounded as I am by almost insurmountable difficulties? If I had only one very large one to overcome then I might listen with some degree of patience to-your preaching and entreaties. But then I have a thousand little troubles, real troubles, besides all my imaginary ones, and they are numberless. And I have one as huge as a mountain, our separation. Ah! none of your philosophy for me, I make no account of it, Diogenes (I don't know if I am correct in spelling the name, but you will understand to whom I allude). He might very comfortably preach philosophy he having nothing to do with the practice of it--no-cares, no troubles, no nothing upon his mind, and really he had nothing to engross his time but to roll an old tub about and write moral sentences and philosophy. I tell you what, Richard Carlile, I will make this agreement with you, that if you will consent to my going into the country and taking up my abode in some sequestered spot, far from the busy haunts of men, I will become all you wish me to be, quite a philosopher in petticoats; I will write pastorals. I shall then have no annoyances; I will even try to forget you for a time. I think a few years' study would make me perfect, quite inanimate. You say, 'imitate me'. I cannot, you're a man, and Richard Carlile.