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edition, I have reason to know--thanks to the merit of Cruikshank's original and felicitous sketches--excited the greatest delight in the mind of Chamisso. In his autobiography he says that "Peter" had been kindly received in Germany, but in England had been renowned (_volksthumlich_). Several English translations have since occupied the field. Mine, as the first-born, naturally claims its own heritage, though it has been long out of print, and in the shape of a third edition, commends itself anew to public patronage. JOHN BOWRING. _January_, 1861. To my old Friend, Peter Schlemihl. Well! years and years have pass'd,--and lo! thy writing Comes to my hands again,--and, strange to say, I think of times when the world's school, inviting Our early friendship, new before us lay;-- Now I can laugh at foolish shame--delighting In thee, for I am old--my hair is grey,-- And I will call thee friend, as then--not coldly, But proudly to the world--and claim thee boldly. My dear, dear Friend! the cunning air hath led me Through paths less dark and less perplexed than thine, Struggling for blue, bright dawnings, have I sped me, But little, little glory has been mine. Yet can the Grey Man boast not that he had me Fast by _my_ shadow! Nay! he must resign His claims on me,--my shadow's mine. I boast it,-- I had it from the first, and never lost it. On me--though guiltless as a child--the throng Flung all their mockery of thy naked being,-- And is the likeness then so very strong? They shouted for _my_ shadow--which, though seeing, They swore they saw not--and, still bent on wrong, Said they were blind; and then put forth their glee in Peals upon peals of laughter! Well--we bear With patience--aye, with joy--the conscience clear. And what--what is the Shadow? may I ask ye, Who am myself so wearyingly asked. Is it too high a problem, then, to task ye? And shall not the malignant world be tasked? The flights of nineteen thousand days unmask ye, They have brought wisdom--in whose trains I basked, And while I gave to shadows, being--saw Being, as shadows, from life's scene withdraw. Give me thy hand, Schlemihl--take mine, my friend: On, on,--we leave the future to the Grey Man, Careless about the world,--our hearts shall blend In firmer, stronger union--come away, man! We shall glide fast and faster towards life's end. Aye! let them smile or scorn, for al
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