—­“live and die,
Eat, drink, wake, sleep between,
Walk, talk like clock-work too,
So pass in order due,
Over the scene,
To where the past—­is past,
The future—­nothing yet,” &c. &c.

But we must all be machines:  you shall be a steam-engine;—­shall be a mill, with extensive water-privileges,—­and I will be a spinning jenny.  No! upon second thoughts, I will not be a machine.  I will be an instrument, not to be confided to vulgar hands,—­for instance, a chisel to polish marble, or a whetstone to sharpen steel!’

In an unfinished tale, Margaret has given the following studies of character.  She is describing two of the friends of the hero of her story.  Unquestionably the traits here given were taken from life, though it might not be easy to recognize the portrait of any individual in either sketch.  Yet we insert it here to show her own idea of this relation, and her fine feeling of the action and reaction of these subtle intimacies.

’Now, however, I found companions, in thought, at least One, who had great effect on my mind, I may call Lytton.  He was as premature as myself; at thirteen a man in the range of his thoughts, analyzing motives, and explaining principles, when he ought to have been playing cricket, or hunting in the woods.  The young Arab, or Indian, may dispense with mere play, and enter betimes into the histories and practices of manhood, for all these are, in their modes of life, closely connected with simple nature, and educate the body no less than the mind; but the same good cannot be said of lounging lazily under a tree, while mentally accompanying Gil Blas through his course of intrigue and adventure, and visiting with him the impure atmosphere of courtiers, picaroons, and actresses.  This was Lytton’s favorite reading; his mind, by nature subtle rather than daring, would in any case have found its food in the now hidden workings of character and passion, the by-play of life, the unexpected and seemingly incongruous relations to be found there.  He loved the natural history of man, not religiously, but for entertainment.  What he sought, he found, but paid the heaviest price.  All his later days were poisoned by his subtlety, which made it impossible for him to look at any action with a single and satisfied eye.  He tore the buds open to see if there were no worm sheathed in the blushful heart, and was so afraid of overlooking some mean possibility, that he lost sight of virtue.  Grubbing like a mole beneath the surface of earth, rather than reading its living language above, he had not faith enough to believe in the flower, neither faith enough to mine for the gem, and remains at penance in the limbo of halfnesses, I trust not forever.  Then all his characteristics wore brilliant hues.  He was very witty, and I owe to him the great obligation of being the first and only person who has excited me to frequent and boundless gayety.  The sparks of his wit were frequent, slight surprises;