guitar, I feel as if nothing were wanting to my happiness in this world.”
The mention of the confounded neighbour had thrown such a weight upon my heart, that I scarcely attended to all that followed. Ten times was I on the point of asking who this neighbour was—his age—whether he was married, &c. &c.; but was checked by the reflection, that my host would not fail to discover, at the very first word, the drift of my inquiries.
Of this I was not myself thoroughly sensible till now. The mention of this neighbour occasioned the first pang that I had felt in Switzerland.
Mimili came, and brought the old Ryf wine, which her father had expressly ordered. We seated ourselves under a venerable walnut-tree, which three men could not have encompassed, and which overshadowed the whole house with its spreading branches.
I was quite uneasy—my cheerfulness was gone. Mimili could not be mine—that was clear enough: this unlucky neighbour stood in the way, with his new books and his ancient poets. The thought oppressed me, as though I was buried beneath an avalanche. At length I found a clue to conduct me out of the dark labyrinth of my gloomy forebodings.
“At the inn at Unterseen,” said I, trumping
