"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 flutterings and training the energies of the restless merlin. In managing the wild instincts of the scarce manageable _bte fauve_ my powers would revel.

"What a difference there is between her and Caroline Helstone! Caroline, I fancy, is the soul of conscientious punctuality. She would precisely suit the domestic habits of a certain kinsman of mine - so dexterous, quick and quiet. But what could I do with anything so nearly faultless? She is certainly pretty: but where is there anything to alter, anything to endure, anything to reprimand, to be anxious about? She is a lily of the valley, needing no tint. What pencil dare to paint her? My sweetheart, if I ever have one, must bear affinity to the rose - a sweet, lively delight guarded with prickly peril. I was not made to be mated with a lamb; I should find a young lioness or leopardess more congenial. I should tire of the lamb's mute, monotonous innocence; I should feel as burdensome the nestling dove which never stirred in my bosom; but my patience would exult in stilling the flutterings and training the energies of the restless falcon.
