throw a damp upon these choice spirits; on the contrary, they in return became most liberal of jests and repartees, so that it was doubtful whether the number of good things that went into their mouths was not exceeded by that of those which proceeded out of them. Peter’s young companion was the only one present who seemed insensible to the wit and gaiety round him; he sat in a corner of the room, with his eyes fixed on the floor, so coy too did he appear with his glass that he but rarely saluted it with his lips, and even then he did it in most maidenly guise.
Perceiving him so inaccessible to all social mirth, it now occurred to the good Peter that some heavy affliction, which was gnawing at his heart, was the real cause of the poor youth’s despondency. His curiosity therefore became equally excited with his compassion.
“My good lad,” inquired he the following morning, “what is it that disturbs thee so greatly? Acquaint me with the cause of thy uneasiness.”
“Alas, my worthy father,” returned the youth, “what can it avail me, should I disclose the cause of my sorrow? you can serve me neither by your pity nor your advice.”
“Who knows how that may be? the old proverb says: Comfort travelleth with no outrider.” Peter was now so urgent with him to disclose the cause of his disquietude, that the cheerless gallant was at length fain to comply.
“It is no trifle, no boyish misfortune,” said he, “that causes my distress, but the calamitous destiny of virtuous affection. I am attached to an amiable pious girl in the town of Rottenburg, who some time since accepted me as her suitor; but her mother, who is a very dragon for fierceness and cunning, finding that I was not so rich as she imagined, forbade me access to the house. After many unsuccessful attempts, I have at last resigned all hope of again beholding the lovely maiden. I have quitted the town, and am now wandering about the country in the hope that my grief may speedily devour my heart.”
Our hero listened very attentively to his companion’s narrative, and already began to perceive where the wind lay.
“Your history,” said he, “is a strange one enough; there is one point, however, which I would ask you—you do not speak of the father of your mistress—why did you not address yourself to him? He would hardly have rejected such an honest suitor for his daughter as thou appearest to be.”
“Ah!” replied Frederic, little weening whom he was now speaking to, “the father is nought;—he is an idle fellow, that Peter Block, who has left his wife and child, nor does any one know what has become of him. Yet I do not blame the poor wight for having run off from such a cross-grained vixen as his wife is—but, then, to desert his sweet child!—she who is so mild, and meekly tempered, and who, even now, always takes his part,
