Page:The Essays of George Eliot, ed. Sheppard, 1883.djvu/265

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WORLDLINESS AND OTHER-WORLDLINESS.
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and he compels our colder natures to follow his in its manifold sympathies, not by exhortations, not by telling us to meditate at midnight, to "indulge" the thought of death, or to ask ourselves how we shall "weather an eternal night," but by presenting to us the object of his compassion truthfully and lovingly. And when he handles greater themes, when he takes a wider survey, and considers the men or the deeds which have a direct influence on the welfare of communities and nations, there is the same unselfish warmth of feeling, the same scrupulous truthfulness. He is never vague in his remonstrance or his satire, but puts his finger on some particular vice or folly which excites his indignation or "dissolves his heart in pity," because of some specific injury it does to his fellow-man or to a sacred cause. And when he is asked why he interests himself about the sorrows and wrongs of others, hear what is the reason he gives. Not, like Young, that the movements of the planets show a mutual dependence, and that


"Thus man his sovereign duty learns in this
Material picture of benevolence,"


or that—


'More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts,
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang."


What is Cowper's answer, when he imagines some "sage, erudite, profound," asking him "What's the world to you?"


"Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk
As sweet as charity from human breasts.
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,
And exercise all functions of a man.
How then should I and any man that lives
Be strangers to each other?"


Young is astonished that men can make war on each other—that any one can "seize his brother's throat," while


"The Planets cry, 'Forbear.'"


Cowper weeps because

"There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart:
It does not feel for man."


Young applauds God as a monarch with an empire and a court quite superior to the English, or as an author who produces "volumes for man's perusal." Cowper sees his father's love in all the gentle pleasures of the home fireside, in the charms even of the wintry landscape, and thinks—