Good-night."
But his joy was interrupted by the gradual decline of his health.
The climate of London brought back all those symptoms which his
travelling had for a time alleviated or dissipated. After directing
twelve performances of his Oberon in crowded houses, he felt himself
completely exhausted and dispirited.--His melancholy was not abated
by the ill success of his concert, which, from causes which we cannot
pretend to explain, was no benefit to the poor invalid. His next
letters are in a desponding tone.
"17th April, 1826.
"To-day is enough to be the death of any one. A thick, dark,
yellow fog overhangs the sky, so that one can hardly see in the
house without candles. The sun stands powerless, like a ruddy point,
in the clouds. No: there is no living in this climate. The longing
I feel for Hosterwitz, and the clear air, is indescribable. But
patience,--patience,--one day rolls on after another; two months are
already over. I have formed an acquaintance with Dr. Kind, a nephew of
our own Kind. He is determined to make me well. God help me, that will
never happen to me in this life. I have lost all hope in physicians and
their art. Repose is my best doctor, and henceforth it shall be my sole
object to obtain it. * * * * *
"To-morrow is the first representation of my (so called) rival's
opera, 'Aladdin.' I am very curious to see it.
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