“Why did not the Frenchman make punch of it at once?” asked Hollingsworth.  “The jack-tars would be delighted to go down in ships and do business in such an element.”

I further proceeded to explain, as well as I modestly could, several points of Fourier’s system, illustrating them with here and there a page

or two, and asking Hollingsworth’s opinion as to the expediency of introducing these beautiful peculiarities into our own practice.

“Let me hear no more of it!” cried he, in utter disgust.  “I never will forgive this fellow!  He has committed the unpardonable sin; for what more monstrous iniquity could the Devil himself contrive than to choose the selfish principle,—­the principle of all human wrong, the very blackness of man’s heart, the portion of ourselves which we shudder at, and which it is the whole aim of spiritual discipline to eradicate,—­to choose it as the master workman of his system?  To seize upon and foster whatever vile, petty, sordid, filthy, bestial, and abominable corruptions have cankered into our nature, to be the efficient instruments of his infernal regeneration!  And his consummated Paradise, as he pictures it, would be worthy of the agency which he counts upon for establishing it.  The nauseous villain!”

“Nevertheless,” remarked I, “in consideration of the promised delights of his system,—­so very proper, as they certainly are, to be appreciated by Fourier’s countrymen,—­I cannot but wonder that universal France did not adopt his theory at a moment’s warning.  But is there not something very characteristic of his nation in Fourier’s manner of putting forth his views?  He makes no claim to inspiration.  He has not persuaded himself—­as Swedenborg did, and as any other than a Frenchman would, with a mission of like importance to communicate—­that he speaks with

authority from above.  He promulgates his system, so far as I can perceive, entirely on his own responsibility.  He has searched out and discovered the whole counsel of the Almighty in respect to mankind, past, present, and for exactly seventy thousand years to come, by the mere force and cunning of his individual intellect!”

“Take the book out of my sight,” said Hollingsworth with great virulence of expression, “or, I tell you fairly, I shall fling it in the fire!  And as for Fourier, let him make a Paradise, if he can, of Gehenna, where, as I conscientiously believe, he is floundering at this moment!”

“And bellowing, I suppose,” said I,—­not that I felt any ill-will towards Fourier, but merely wanted to give the finishing touch to Hollingsworth’s image, “bellowing for the least drop of his beloved limonade a cedre!”

There is but little profit to be expected in attempting to argue with a man who allows himself to declaim in this manner; so I dropt the subject, and never took it up again.