To make up the tale of pages in this little book without breaking its uniformity, I have added a translation of the “Hymns to Night” of Novalis. It is a translation made by myself seven-and-forty years ago, and printed in a student’s magazine that I then edited. “Novalis” was the name assumed by a poet, Friedrich von Hardenberg, who died on the 25th March, 1801, aged twenty-nine. He was bred among the Moravian brethren, and then sent to the University of Jena. Two years after his marriage to a young wife, Sophie von Kühn, she died. That was in 1797. At the same time he lost a brother who was very dear to him. It was then—four years before his own death—that he wrote his “Hymns to Night.” H. M. INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE FROM A. VON CHAMISSO TO JULIUS EDWARD HITZIG. YOU, who forget nobody, must surely remember one Peter Schlemihl, whom you used to meet occasionally at my house—a long-legged youth, who was considered stupid and lazy, on account of his awkward and careless air. I was sincerely attached to him. You cannot have forgotten him, Edward. He was on one occasion the hero of our rhymes, in the hey-day of our youthful spirits; and I recollect taking him one evening to a poetical tea-party, where he fell asleep while I was writing, without even waiting to hear my effusion: and this reminds me of a witticism of yours respecting him. You had already seen him, I know not where or when, in an old black frock-coat, which, indeed, he constantly wore; and you said, “He would be a lucky fellow if his soul were half as immortal as his coat,” so little opinion had you of him. _I_ loved him, however: and to this very Schlemihl, of whom for many years I had wholly lost sight, I am indebted for the little volume which I communicate to you, Edward, my most intimate friend, my second self, from whom I have no secrets;—to you, and of course our Fouqué, I commit them, who like you is intimately entwined about my dearest affections,—to him I communicate them only as a friend, but not as a poet; for you can easily imagine how unpleasant it would be if a secret confided to me by an honest man, relying implicitly on my friendship and honour, were to be exposed to the public in a poem. One word more as to the manner in which I obtained these sheets: yesterday morning early, as soon as I was up, they were brought to me. An extraordinary-looking man, with a long grey beard, and wearing an old black frock-coat with a botanical case hanging at his side, and slippers over his boots, in the damp, rainy weather, had just been inquiring for me, and left me these papers, saying he came from Berlin. ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO. PETER SCHLEMIHL, _THE SHADOWLESS MAN_. CHAPTER I.