In Young we have the type of that deficient human sympathy, that impiety toward the present and the visible, which flies for its motives, its sanctities, and its religion, to the remote, the vague and unknown:  in Cowper we have the type of that genuine love which cherishes things in proportion to their nearness, and feels its reverence grow in proportion to the intimacy of its knowledge.

This warm human sympathy is all she cares for in religion.

See how a lovely, sympathetic nature manifests itself in spite of creed and circumstance!  Where is the poem that surpasses the Task in the genuine love it breathes, at once toward inanimate and animate existence—­in truthfulness of perception and sincerity of presentation—­in the calm gladness that springs from a delight in objects for their own sake, without self-reference—­in divine sympathy with the lowliest pleasures, with the most shortlived capacity for pain?  Here is no railing at the earth’s “melancholy map,” but the happiest lingering over her simplest scenes with all the fond minuteness that belongs to love; no pompous rhetoric about the inferiority of the brutes, but a warm plea on their behalf against man’s inconsiderateness and cruelty, and a sense of enlarged happiness from their companionship in enjoyment; no vague rant about human misery and human virtue, but that close and vivid presentation of particular deeds and misdeeds, which is the direct road to the emotions.  How Cowper’s exquisite mind falls with the mild warmth of morning sunlight on the commonest objects, at once disclosing every detail and investing every detail with beauty!  No object is too small to prompt his song—­ not the sooty film on the bars, or the spoutless teapot holding a bit of mignonette that serves to cheer the dingy town lodging with a “hint that nature lives;” and yet his song is never trivial, for he is alive to small objects, not because his mind is narrow, but because his glance is clear and his heart is large.

Her contributions to the Westminster Review indicate that Marian Evans had read much and well, and that she was possessed of a thoroughly cultivated mind and much learning.  To their preparation she gave herself diligently, writing slowly, after a careful study of her subject and much thought devoted to a faithful thinking out of all its parts.  It has been many times suggested that these articles gave indication only of learning and studious effort.  They certainly give strong hint of these, but also of much more.  That on human life shows how much she had thought, and how thoroughly and philosophically, on one of the largest problems; while the one on Heine indicates her penetrating literary judgment and her capacity for analysis and interpretation.  These essays are not mere compilations, mere digests of learned information; they are studies of large subjects done in a large and inspiring manner.  Her essays on the poet Young and Dr. Cumming, and the two on