him among millions.  As he was of French parentage, the question was, not merely whether he should fight on behalf of Germany, but, also, whether he should fight against the people with whom he was connected by the ties of blood and family relationship.  Hence arose a struggle in his breast.  “I, and I alone, am forbidden at this juncture to wield a sword!” Such was frequently his exclamation; and instead of meeting with sympathy on account of his peculiar situation, he was frequently doomed to hear, in the capital of Prussia, the head-quarters of the confederation against France and Napoleon, expressions of hatred and scorn directed against his countrymen.  He was himself too equitable to mistake the cause of such expressions, which were perfectly natural under the circumstances, but they nevertheless deeply afflicted him when they reached his ears.  In this state of things his friends resolved to remove him from such a scene of excitement, and to place him amid the quiet scenery of the country.  An asylum was offered him in the family of Count Itzenplitsch, where he was sufficiently near to become acquainted with the gradual development of the all-important crisis, and yet free from any unpleasant personal contact with it.  Here, at the family-seat of Cunersdorf, scarcely a day’s journey from Berlin, wholly devoted to botany and other favourite pursuits, Chamisso conceived the idea of “Peter Schlemihl,” and with rapid pen finished off the story.  Chamisso’s letters of this date (in the first volume of his Life, by the writer of this notice) afford evidence of this.

The first edition of the incomparable story appeared in 1814, with a dedication dated May 27, 1813; and it was just beginning to be known in the world at the commencement of 1815, when the author left Germany on a voyage round the world, of which the story contains a remarkable anticipation.  “Peter Schlemihl” was his parting salutation to his second fatherland, and the first foundation-stone of his future fame.

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 to the writer of this notice, after he had just commenced the story, he says, “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.”  Is it possible for any writer to submit himself to the scrutiny of the public more good-naturedly?