Let no one suppose that Neal forgot the schoolmaster’s kindness, or failed to be duly grateful for it.  Mr. O’Connor was the first person whom he consulted touching his passion.  With a cheerful soul—­he waited on that melancholy and gentleman-like man, and in the very luxury of his heart told him that he was in love.

“In love, Neal!” said the schoolmaster.  “May I inquire with whom?”

“Wid nobody in particular, yet,” replied Neal; “but of late I’m got divilish fond o’ the girls in general.”

“And do you call that being in love, Neal?” said Mr. O’Connor.

“Why, what else would I call it?” returned the tailor.  “Amn’t I fond of them?”

“Then it must be what is termed the Universal Passion, Neal,” observed Mr. O’Connor, “although it is the first time I have seen such an illustration of it as you present in your own person.”

“I wish you would advise me how to act,” said Neal; “I’m as happy as a prince since I began to get fond o’ them, an’ to think of marriage.”

The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked rather miserable.  Neal rubbed his hands with glee, and looked perfectly happy.  The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked more miserable than before.  Neal’s happiness also increased on the second rubbing.

Now, to tell the secret at once, Mr. O’Connor would not have appeared so miserable, were it not for Neal’s happiness; nor Neal so happy, were it not for Mr. O’Connor’s misery.  It was all the result of contrast; but this you will not understand unless you be deeply read in modern novels.

Mr. O’Connor, however, was a man of sense, who knew, upon this principle, that the longer he continued to shake his head, the more miserable he must become, and the more also would he increase Neal’s happiness; but he had no intention of increasing Neal’s happiness at his own expense—­for, upon the same hypothesis, it would have been for Neal’s interest had he remained shaking his head there, and getting miserable until the day of judgment.  He consequently declined giving the third shake, for he thought that plain conversation was, after all, more significant and forcible than the most eloquent nod, however ably translated.

“Neal,” said he, “could you, by stretching your imagination, contrive to rest contented with nursing your passion in solitude, and love the sex at a distance?”

“How could I nurse and mind my business?” replied the tailor.  I’ll never nurse so long as I’ll have the wife; and as for imagination it depends upon the grain of it, whether I can stretch it or not.  I don’t know that I ever made a coat of it in my life.”

“You don’t understand me, Neal,” said the schoolmaster.  “In recommending marriage, I was only driving one evil out of you by introducing another.  Do you think that, if you abandoned all thoughts of a wife, you would get heroic again?—­that is, would you, take once more to the love of fighting?”