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 Fouque, 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