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.
Thus did the passions then act without any of their present jars,
combats, or repugnances; all moving with the beauty of uniformity
and the stillness of composure; like a well-governed army, not for
fighting, but for rank and order.
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