His existence was perfect spring--beautifully vernal. All the
amiable and softer qualities began to bud about his heart; a genial
warmth was diffused over him; his soul got green within him; every day
was serene; and if a cloud happened to be come visible, there was
a roguish rainbow astride of it, on which sat a beautiful Iris that
laughed down at him, and seemed to say, "why the dickens, Neal, don't
you marry a wife?"
Neal could not resist the afflatus which descended on him; an ethereal
light dwelled, he thought, upon the face of nature; the color of the
cloth, which he cut out from day to day, was to his enraptured eye like
the color of Cupid's wings--all purple; his visions were worth their
weight in gold; his dreams, a credit to the bed he slept on; and his
feelings, like blind puppies, young and alive to the milk of love and
kindness which they drew from his heart. Most of this delight escaped
the observation of the world, for Neal, like your true lover, became
shy and mysterious. It is difficult to say what he resembled; no dark
lantern ever had more light shut up within itself, than Neal had in his
soul, although his friends were not aware of it. They knew, indeed, that
he had turned his back upon valor; but beyond this their knowledge did
not extend.
Neal was shrewd enough to know that what he felt must be love;--nothing
else could distend him with happiness, until his soul felt light and
bladder-like, but love.
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