But I could not help it. Had I loved him
less, I might have used him better. He and Zenobia and
Priscilla--both for their own sakes and as connected with him--were
separated from the rest of the Community, to my imagination, and
stood forth as the indices of a problem which it was my business to
solve. Other associates had a portion of my time; other matters
amused me; passing occurrences carried me along with them, while they
lasted. But here was the vortex of my meditations, around which they
revolved, and whitherward they too continually tended. In the midst
of cheerful society, I had often a feeling of loneliness. For it was
impossible not to be sensible that, while these three characters
figured so largely on my private theatre, I--though probably reckoned
as a friend by all--was at best but a secondary or tertiary personage
with either of them.
I loved Hollingsworth, as has already been enough expressed. But it
impressed me, more and more, that there was a stern and dreadful
peculiarity in this man, such as could not prove otherwise than
pernicious to the happiness of those who should be drawn into too
intimate a connection with him. He was not altogether human. There
was something else in Hollingsworth besides flesh and blood, and
sympathies and affections and celestial spirit.
This is always true of those men who have surrendered themselves to
an overruling purpose. It does not so much impel them from without,
nor even operate as a motive power within, but grows incorporate with
all that they think and feel, and finally converts them into little
else save that one principle.
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