ere are many who have never been either the one or
the other)--will understand how Edmund, at Albertine's side, thought he
was hovering over the tops of the trees, rather than walking through
amongst them; up among the gleaming clouds, rather than down upon the
earth.

Rosalind, in Shakespeare's 'As You Like It,' says that the "marks"
of a man in love are "a lean cheek, a blear eye and sunken, an
unquestionable spirit, a beard neglected, hose ungartered, bonnet
unhanded, sleeve unbuttoned, shoe untied, and everything demonstrating
a careless desolation." But those marks were as little seen in Edmund
as in Orlando. Like the latter, however, who marred all the trees of
the forest with carving his mistress's name on them, hung odes on the
whitethorns, and elegies on the bramble-bushes, Edmund spoilt
quantities of paper, parchment, canvas and colours, in besinging his
beloved in verses which were wretched enough, and in drawing her, and
painting her, without ever succeeding in making her in the least
like--so far did his fancy soar above his capability. When to this was
added the peculiar, unmistakable somnambulistic look of the love-sick,
and a fitting amount of sighing at all times and seasons, it was not to
be wondered at that the old goldsmith saw into his young friend's
condition.

"H'm," he said; "you don't seem to think what an undesirable thing it
is to fall in love with a girl who is engaged. For Albertine Bosswinkel
is as good as engaged already to Tussmann, the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery."

This terrible piece of news sent Edmund into the wildest despair.
Leonhard waited patiently till the first paroxysm was past, and then
asked if he really wanted to marry Albertine. Edmund declared that was
the dearest wish of his heart, and implored the goldsmith to help him
as much as ever he could to beat Tussmann out of the field, and win the
lovely lady himself.

What the goldsmith thought and said was that a young artist might fall
in love as much as ever he liked, but to marry straight away was a very
different affair; and that was just why young Sternbald never cared to
marry, and, for all he knew, was still unmarried up to that hour.

This thrust took effect, because Tieck's 'Sternbald' was Edmund's
favourite book, and he would have been only too glad to have been the
hero of that tale himself. So he then and there put on a very pitiful
face, and was very near bursting into tears.

"Well," said the goldsmith,