Methinks, the honourable scarecrow, clad now in trist and fashionable attire, may be welcome to those who never saw him in his modest kurtka of 1814. These and those will be surprised in the botanizing, circumnavigating--the once well-appointed Royal Prussian officer, in the historiographer of the illustrious Peter Schlemihl, to discover a lyric whose poetical heart is rightly fixed, whether he sing in Malayan or Lithuanian. Thanks, then, dear Fouque, heartfelt thanks, for the launching of the first edition, and with our friends, receive my wishes for the prosperity of the second. EDWARD HITZIG. _Berlin_, _January_, 1827. * * * * * With the second edition of Schlemihl, appeared Chamisso's Songs and Ballads. His Travels round the World, have also been published. Among his poetry are translations from various languages. PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION. More than twenty years ago I translated "Peter Schlemihl." I had the advantage of the pen and genius of George Cruikshank, to make the work popular, and two editions were rapidly sold. At that time the real author was unknown. Everybody attributed it to Lamotte Fouque, on whose literary shoulders, indeed, Adelbert von Chamisso placed the burden of its responsibilities. The appearance of the English 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.