appen to him and Molly, as he passed the
spot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter,
called the "Willow bird," beginning--

"Under the linden-trees,
Out on the heath."

One stanza pleased him exceedingly--

"Through the forest, and in the vale,
Sweetly warbles the nightingale.

This song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on
a moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow
way, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive
unexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty
welcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where
overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed
were provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had
expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own
feelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a
person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one
of them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse
with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know
nothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one
another, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something
of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.

"I am a straightforward girl," she said, "and I will tell you
myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children
together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We
cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force
of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you
when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes
in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for
another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to
this. Farewell, Anthony."

Anthony also said, "Farewell." Not a tear came into his eye; he
felt he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike
take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss
either; and Anthony's kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had
once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was
back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely
ruined.

"What matters it?" said he; "I am ruined also. I will destroy
everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus,
the heathen w