On the 6th of June he was to be present at the
Freyschuetz, which was to be performed for his benefit, and then to leave
London for ever. His last letter, the thirty-third he had written from
England, was dated the second of June. Even here, though he could
scarcely guide the pen, anxious to keep up the drooping spirits of his
wife, he endeavours to speak cheerfully, and to inspire a hope of his
return.
"As this letter will need no answer, it will be short enough. Need no
answer! Think of that! Furstenau has given up the idea of his concert,
so perhaps we shall be with you in two days sooner--huzza! God bless you
all and keep you well! O were I only among you! I kiss you in thought,
dear mother. Love me also, and think always of your Charles, who loves
you above all."
On Friday the 3rd of June, he felt so ill, that the idea of his
attending at the representation of "Der Freyschuetz" was abandoned, and
he was obliged to keep his room. On Sunday evening, the 5th, he was left
at eleven o'clock in good spirits, and at seven next morning was found
dead upon his pillow, his head resting upon his hand, as though he
had passed from life without a struggle. The peaceful slumber of the
preceding evening seemed to have gradually deepened into the sleep
of death.
He was interred on the 21st, with the accustomed solemnities of the
Catholic Church, in the chapel at Moorfields, the Requiem of Mozart
being introduced into the service.
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