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 What else, then, remains to us, but, with illustrations of tones and imagery, to temper the parting, and to hover with adornment around the shape that we have called forth ? In this spirit, I ween, our Schiller composed his echoes from "The Robbers," as also, by so many victor-steps still more exalted, " Thekla's Voice of Spirits," as sequel to his " Wallenstein." The like is also met with in other poets ; and from a similar point of view the fiction now under notice may be regarded.

Folko of Montfaufon was and is peculiarly endeared to my heart as a true type of that old French chivalric glory which now only emerges in individual appearances ; for instance, beautifully, in the Vendean wars, which, though faiUng in victory, were rich in honours. With these feelings, the poet could not forbear from arraying him in the colours of his own escutcheon, and assign- ing to him the emblems of the same, and even in some measure denoting him by his own ancestral name ; for Foulque we were called in old times, which was probably derived, according to our Norman descent, from the Northlandish name Folko, or Fulko ; and a castle " Montfau9on" was among our ancient possessions. But here that only properly concerns the noble pair, Folko and Gabrielle, as interwoven in the tale of " Sintrara." The tale itself is the offspring of my own fantasy, immediately suggested by Albrecht Durer's admirable woodcut of " The Knight, Death, and Satan," the birthday-gift of a former friend, with the happy pro- posal that I should frame from it a romance or a ballad. It be- came more than this ; and the present tale shews it to be so, being supported by divers traditions, in part derived to me orally, of the Germanic northern customs in war and festivity, and in many other relationships beside. The legend indicated at the conclusion of the information respecting Sintram, of the terrific stories of the north, transformed into southern splendour and mirthful dreams, would really then have been executed, and arose still more clearly from the fantastic tones of a congenial harpsichord-player, who accidentally met the poet. Partly, however, otlier avocations, partly interru])tions from without, have hitherto driven the project into the background But it still lives within me ; and now again, from the powerful and yet childlike liarmonies of the Northman Ole Bull, seems to stir more vigorously and brightly than before. Who knows what yet may happen .' Meanwhile here gushes from