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.
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