And if we may bring anger under this head, as being, according to some, a transient hatred, or at least very like it, this also, as unruly as now it is, yet then it vented itself by the measures of reason.  There was no such thing as the transports of malice or the violences of revenge, no rendering evil for evil, when evil was truly a nonentity and nowhere to be found.  Anger, then, was like the sword of justice, keen, but innocent and righteous:  it did not act like fury, then call itself zeal.  It always espoused God’s honor, and never kindled upon anything but in order to a sacrifice.  It sparkled like the coal upon the altar with the fervors of piety, the heats of devotion, the sallies and vibrations of a harmless activity.

In the next place, for the lightsome passion of joy.  It was not that which now often usurps this name; that trivial, vanishing, superficial thing, that only gilds the apprehension and plays upon the surface of the soul.  It was not the mere crackling of thorns or sudden blaze of the spirits, the exultation of a tickled fancy or a pleased appetite.  Joy was then a masculine and a severe thing; the recreation of the judgment, the jubilee of reason.  It was the result of a real good, suitably applied.  It commenced upon the solidity of truth and the substance of fruition.  It did not run out in voice or indecent eruptions, but filled the soul, as God does the universe, silently and without noise.  It was refreshing, but composed, like the pleasantness of youth tempered with the gravity of age; or the mirth of a festival managed with the silence of contemplation.

And, on the other side, for sorrow:  Had any loss or disaster made but room for grief, it would have moved according to the severe allowances of prudence, and the proportions of the provocation.  It would not have sallied out into complaint of loudness, nor spread itself upon the face, and writ sad stories upon the forehead.  No wringing of hands, knocking the breast, or wishing oneself unborn; all which are but the ceremonies of sorrow, the pomp and ostentation of an effeminate grief, which speak not so much the greatness of the misery as the smallness of the mind!  Tears may spoil the eyes, but not wash away the affliction.  Sighs may exhaust the man, but not eject the burden.  Sorrow, then, would have been as silent as thought, as severe as philosophy.  It would have been rested in inward senses, tacit dislikes; and the whole scene of it been transacted in sad and silent reflections....

And, lastly, for the affection of fear:  It was then the instrument of caution, not of anxiety; a guard, and not a torment to the breast that had it.  It is now indeed an unhappiness, the disease of the soul:  it flies from a shadow, and makes more dangers than it avoids; it weakens the judgment and betrays the succors of reason:  so hard is it to tremble and not to err, and to hit the mark with a shaking hand.  Then it fixt upon Him who is only to be feared, God; and yet with a filial fear, which at the same time both fears and loves.  It was awe without amazement, dread without distraction.  There was then a beauty even in this very paleness.  It was the color of devotion, giving a luster to reverence and a gloss to humility.