able that her carelessness
never compromises her refinement. Indeed, through this very loophole of
character, the reality, depth, genuineness of that refinement may be
ascertained. A whole garment sometimes covers meagreness and
malformation; through a rent sleeve a fair round arm may be revealed. I
have seen and handled many of her possessions, because they are
frequently astray. I never saw anything that did not proclaim the
lady--nothing sordid, nothing soiled. In one sense she is as scrupulous
as, in another, she is unthinking. As a peasant girl, she would go ever
trim and cleanly. Look at the pure kid of this little glove, at the
fresh, unsullied satin of the bag.

"What a difference there is between S. and that pearl C. H.! Caroline, I
fancy, is the soul of conscientious punctuality and nice exactitude. She
would precisely suit the domestic habits of a certain fastidious kinsman
of mine--so delicate, dexterous, quaint, quick, quiet--all done to a
minute, all arranged to a strawbreadth. She would suit Robert. But what
could _I_ do with anything so nearly faultless? _She_ is my equal, poor
as myself. She is certainly pretty: a little Raffaelle head
hers--Raffaelle in feature, quite English in expression, all insular
grace and purity; but where is there anything to alter, anything to
endure, anything to reprimand, to be anxious about? There she is, a lily
of the valley, untinted, needing no tint. What change could improve her?
What pencil dare to paint? _My_ sweetheart, if I ever have one, must
bear nearer affinity to the rose--a sweet, lively delight guarded with
prickly peril. _My_ wife, if I ever marry, must stir my great frame with
a sting now and then; she must furnish use to her husband's vast mass of
patience. I was not made so enduring to be mated with a lamb; I should
find more congenial responsibility in the charge of a young lioness or
leopardess. I like few things sweet but what are likewise pungent--few
things bright but what are likewise hot. I like the summer day, whose
sun makes fruit blush and corn blanch. Beauty is never so beautiful as
when, if I tease it, it wreathes back on me with spirit. Fascination is
never so imperial as when, roused and half ireful, she threatens
transformation to fierceness. I fear I should tire of the mute,
monotonous innocence of the lamb; I should ere long feel as burdensome
the nestling dove which never stirred in my bosom; but my patience would
exult in stilling the fl