takes itself seriously,
as, being agonised, of course it must. Calvinism, essentially, asserts
three things: that sin exists, that sin is punished, and that it is
beautiful that sin should exist to be punished. The heart of the
Calvinist is therefore divided between tragic concern at his own
miserable condition, and tragic exultation about the universe at
large. He oscillates between a profound abasement and a paradoxical
elation of the spirit. To be a Calvinist philosophically is to feel a
fierce pleasure in the existence of misery, especially of one's own,
in that this misery seems to manifest the fact that the Absolute is
irresponsible or infinite or holy. Human nature, it feels, is totally
depraved: to have the instincts and motives that we necessarily have
is a great scandal, and we must suffer for it; but that scandal is
requisite, since otherwise the serious importance of being as we ought
to be would not have been vindicated.

To those of us who have not an agonised conscience this system may
seem fantastic and even unintelligible; yet it is logically and
intently thought out from its emotional premises. It can take
permanent possession of a deep mind here and there, and under certain
conditions it can become epidemic. Imagine, for instance, a small
nation with an intense vitality, but on the verge of ruin, ecstatic
and distressful, having a strict and minute code of laws, that paints
life in sharp and violent chiaroscuro, all pure righteousness and
black abominations, and exaggerating the consequences of both perhaps
to infinity. Such a people were the Jews after the exile, and again
the early Protestants. If such a people is philosophical at all, it
will not improbably be Calvinistic. Even in the early American
communities many of these conditions were fulfilled. The nation was
small and isolated; it lived under pressure and constant trial; it was
acquainted with but a small range of goods and evils. Vigilance over
conduct and an absolute demand for personal integrity were not merely
traditional things, but things that practical sages, like Franklin and
Washington, recommended to their countrymen, because they were virtues
that justified themselves visibly by their fruits. But soon these
happy results themselves helped to relax the pressure of external
circumstances, and indirectly the pressure of the agonised conscience
within. The nation became numerous; it ceased to be either ecstatic or
distressful; the h