measure to a false delicacy, and, if I may say it
without rudeness, a certain want of comprehensiveness of thinking and
feeling. Persons in the lower classes of society have little or nothing
of this: if an idiot is born in a poor man's house, it must be taken
care of, and cannot be boarded out, as it would be by gentlefolks, or
sent to a public or private receptacle for such unfortunate beings.
[Poor people] seeing frequently among their neighbours such objects,
easily [forget] whatever there is of natural disgust about them, and
have [therefore] a sane state, so that without pain or suffering they
[perform] their duties towards them. I could with pleasure pursue this
subject, but I must now strictly adopt the plan which I proposed to
myself when I began to write this letter, namely, that of setting down a
few hints or memorandums, which you will think of for my sake.

I have often applied to idiots, in my own mind, that sublime expression
of Scripture that _'their life is hidden with God.'_ They are
worshipped, probably from a feeling of this sort, in several parts of
the East. Among the Alps, where they are numerous, they are considered,
I believe, as a blessing to the family to which they belong. I have,
indeed, often looked upon the conduct of fathers and mothers of the
lower classes of society towards idiots as the great triumph of the
human heart. It is there that we see the strength, disinterestedness,
and grandeur of love; nor have I ever been able to contemplate an object
that calls out so many excellent and virtuous sentiments without finding
it hallowed thereby, and having something in me which bears down before
it, like a deluge, every feeble sensation of disgust and aversion.

There are, in my opinion, several important mistakes in the latter part
of your letter which I could have wished to notice; but I find myself
much fatigued. These refer both to the Boy and the Mother. I must
content myself simply with observing that it is probable that the
principal cause of your dislike to this particular poem lies in the
_word_ Idiot. If there had been any such word in our language, _to which
we had attached passion_, as lack-wit, half-wit, witless, &c., I should
have certainly employed it in preference; but there is no such word.
Observe (this is entirely in reference to this particular poem), my
'Idiot' is not one of those who cannot articulate, and such as are
usually disgusting in their persons:

Whether