therefore, who, in the paroxysm of his feelings, leaps into the abyss, I commit the story to the press.

And yet there are better and more serious reasons for the step I have taken. If I am not wholly deceived, there are in our dear Germany many hearts both capable and worthy of comprehending poor Schlemihl, although a smile will arise on the countenance of many among our honest countrymen at the bitter sport which was death to him and to the innocent being whom he drew along with him. And you, Edward, when you have seen the estimable work and reflected on the number of unknown and sympathising bosoms who, with ourselves, will learn to love it,--you will then, perhaps, feel that some drops of consolation have been instilled into those wounds inflicted on you, and on all who love you, by death.

To conclude: I have become convinced, by repeated experience, that a guardian angel watches over books, places them in proper hands, and if not always, yet often, prevents them from falling into improper. In any case, he exercises an invisible guardianship over every work of true genius and genuine feeling, and with unfailing tact and skill opens or shuts its pages as he sees fit.

To this guardian angel I commit our Schlemihl. And so, adieu!

Neunhausen, May 1814.

FOUQUÉ.

Some of the incidents of the wonderful story of "The Shadowless Man" were suggested by actual experiences of its author; and it is remarkable that in the latter part of the narrative Chamisso should have anticipated his own voyage round the world.

Chamisso was often pestered with questions respecting what he really meant by the story of Schlemihl. These questions amused as well as annoyed him. The truth is, that his intention in writing it was perhaps scarcely of so precise a nature as to admit of his giving a formal account of it. The story sprang into being of itself, like every work of genius, prompted by a self-creating power. In a letter which he wrote to Trinius, Councillor at St. Petersburg in 1829, Chamisso says: "When I write I rarely have anything in view; I am, if you like, a nightingale, a singing bird, and not a reasoning man." And when he had just commenced the book he wrote to Hitzig as follows: "A book was the last thing you would have expected from me! Place it before your wife this evening, if you have time; should she be desirous to know Schlemihl's further adventures, and particularly who the man in the grey cloak is--send me back the MS. immediately, that I may continue the story; but if you do not return it, I shall know the meaning of the signal perfectly." "One day," Chamisso further relates, "I had lost my hat, portmanteau, gloves and all my luggage, and Fouqué asked me jestingly whether I had also lost my shadow. We then amused ourselves imagining such a calamity. I conceived the idea of Peter Schlemihl, and as I had leisure in the country I wrote the story."

In the preface to a French translation (which appeared in 1838) of this story, Chamisso amuses himself over the prying curiosity of those who want to know what was his real object in writing this tale:--"The present story," he says, "has fallen into the hands of thoughtful people, who, being accustomed to read only for instruction's sake, have been at a loss to know what the shadow signifies. On this point several have formed curious hypotheses; others, who do me the honour to believe that I am more learned than I really am, have addressed themselves to me for the solution of their doubts. The questions with which they have besieged me have made me blush on account of my ignorance. I have therefore been induced to devote myself to the investigation of a matter not hitherto the subject of my studies; and I now beg to submit to the world the result of my learned researches:

"'Concerning Shadows.--A dark body can only be partially illuminated by a bright one. The dark space which lies in the direction of the un-illuminated part is what we call a shadow. Properly speaking, shadow signifies a bodily space, the form of which depends upon the form of the illuminating body, and upon their opposite position with regard to each other. The shadow thrown on a surface situated before the shadow-projecting body is therefore nothing else than the intersection of this surface by the bodily space [in French, le solide, on which word solid the whole force of the humour turns], which we before designated by the word shadow.'

"The question in this wonderful history of Peter Schlemihl relates entirely to the last-mentioned quality, solidity. The science of finance instructs us sufficiently as to the value of money: the value of a shadow is less generally acknowledged. My thoughtless friend was covetous of money, of which he knew the value, and forgot to think of solid substance. It was his wish that the lesson which he had paid for so dearly should be turned to our profit; and his bitter experience calls to us with a loud voice. Think of the solid--the substantial!"

In Peter Schlemihl, it is practically admitted by all literary critics, Chamisso drew his own portrait, not only with regard to external appearance but also in a moral sense. He is supposed to have described his own sufferings, the sufferings of a man who has lost his fatherland and nationality, and is an exile. Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man, at last finds consolation and reconciliation in wandering over the face of earth. Here again the author mirrors his own yearning in a moment when--in the tumult of war--he, a German Frenchman or a French German, finds no proper place in countries limited by political boundaries. He strove therefore to rise above the quarrels of the human race and to wander forth into the vast space of nature, or plunge into the depths of science! His dream soon became realised, when he found himself on board the Rurik. It was in the early part of 1815 when Chamisso gladly accepted the invitation of Count Roumyanzov to accompany the latter on a voyage round the world. The ships left Kronstadt in 1815, and returned in 1818, and although the discovery of a north-west passage--the object of the expedition--was not accomplished, yet extensive acquisitions were made in every department of scientific research.

Chamisso's share in the voyage is recorded in the third volume of the account of it published at Weimar in 1821, and does honour to his spirit of careful observation and his accuracy. Like Darwin after him, Chamisso has related his experiences interspersed with scientific observations. He now again fixed his residence at Berlin, from which University he received the degree of Doctor in Philosophy. An appointment at the Botanic Gardens allowed him full liberty to follow up his favourite pursuit of Natural History, and bound him by still stronger ties to his second fatherland. He soon married Antonie Piaste, a relation of Hitzig. Chamisso then wrote an account of the principal plants of the north of Germany, with views respecting the vegetable kingdom, and science of Botany; this work appeared at Berlin in 1827. Poetry, however, had still some share of his attention; and he continued, during the latter years of his life, to maintain his claims to an honourable place among the poets of Germany. In 1829 he published his famous work "Salas y Gomez." Several of his ballads and romances rank with the most distinguished of modern times in this branch of composition. With regard to the story before us, the narrative of Peter Schlemihl, it is in any case very original. At once comic and tragic, grotesque and terrible, it is full of gaiety and emotion, and the supernatural, phantastic and absurd are skillfully mixed with natural and real elements. From the world which we inhabit the author leads us into the realm of mystery--and yet, while we experience sensations of the marvellous, we do not seem to leave the world of reality. And