Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli
W. H. Channing, Ed.

[1086] that we are both human, and have the gift of concealing our thoughts with words. Nay, further— I do not believe you will be able to become anything which I cannot understand. I know I can sympathize with all who feel and think, from a Dryfesdale up to a Max Piccolomini. You say, you have become a machine. If so, I shall expect to find you a grand, high-pressure, wave-compelling one—requiring plenty of fuel. You must be a steam-engine, and move some majestic fabric at the rate of thirty miles an hour along the broad waters of the nineteenth century. None of your pendulum machines for me! I should, to be sure, turn away my head if I should hear you tick, and mark the quarters of hours; but the buzz and whiz of a good large life-endangerer would be music to mine ears. Oh, no! sure there is no danger of your requiring to be set down quite on a level, kept in a still place, and wound up every eight days. Oh no, no! you are not one of that numerous company, who

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 steamengine;—shall be a mill, with extensive waterprivi-leges,—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!