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