[45] Parts of this letter have been torn, and words have been lost; some of which are here conjecturally supplied between brackets.

You begin what you say upon the ‘Idiot Boy,’ with this observation, that nothing is a fit subject for poetry which does not please.  But here follows a question, Does not please whom?  Some have little knowledge of natural imagery of any kind, and, of course, little relish for it; some are disgusted with the very mention of the words pastoral poetry, sheep or shepherds; some cannot tolerate a poem with a ghost or any supernatural agency in it; others would shrink from an animated description of the pleasures of love, as from a thing carnal and libidinous; some cannot bear to see delicate and refined feelings ascribed to men in low conditions in society, because their vanity and self-love tell them that these belong only to themselves, and men like themselves in dress, station, and way of life; others are disgusted with the naked language of some of the most interesting passions of men, because either it is indelicate, or gross, or vulgar; as many fine ladies could not bear certain expressions in the ‘Mother’ and the ‘Thorn,’ and, as in the instance of Adam Smith, who, we are told, could not endure the ballad of ‘Clym of the Clough,’ because the author had not written like a gentleman.  Then there are professional and national prejudices for evermore.  Some take no interest in the description of a particular passion or quality, as love of solitariness, we will say, genial activity of fancy, love of Nature, religion, and so forth, because they have [little or] nothing of it in themselves; and so on without end.  I return then to [the] question, please whom? or what?  I answer, human nature as it has been (and ever) will be.  But where are we to find the best measure of this?  I answer, [from with] in; by stripping our own hearts naked, and by looking out of ourselves to [wards men] who lead the simplest lives, and most according to Nature; men who have never known false refinements, wayward and artificial desires, false criticisms, effeminate habits of thinking and feeling, or who having known these things have outgrown them.  This latter class is the most to be depended upon, but it is very small in number.  People in our rank in life are perpetually falling into one sad mistake, namely, that of supposing that human nature and the persons they associate with are one and the same thing.  Whom do we generally associate with?  Gentlemen, persons of fortune, professional men, ladies, persons who can afford to buy, or can easily procure books of half-a-guinea price, hot-pressed, and printed upon superfine paper.  These persons are, it is true, a part of human nature, but we err lamentably if we suppose them to be fair representatives of the vast mass of human existence.  And yet few ever consider books but with reference to their power of pleasing these persons and men of a higher rank; few descend lower, among cottages and fields, and among