In a word, so great is the commutation that the soul then hated only
that which now only it loves, that is, sin.
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.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244