“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.  Bishop is a man of talent, though of no peculiar invention.  I wish him every success.  There is room enough for all of us in the world.”

“30th May.

“Dearest Lina, excuse the shortness and hurry of this.  I have so many things on hand, writing is painful to me—­my hands tremble so.  Already too impatience begins to awaken in me.  You will not receive many more letters from me.  Address your answer not to London, but to Frankfort—­poste restante.  You are surprised?  Yes, I don’t go by Paris.  What should I do there—­I cannot move—­I cannot speak—–­all business I must give up for years.  Then better, better, the straight way to my home—­by Calais, Brussels, Cologne, and Coblentz, up the Rhine to Frankfort—­a delightful journey.  Though I must travel slowly, rest sometimes half a day, I think in a fortnight, by the end of June, I shall be in your arms.

“If God will, we shall leave this on 12th June, if heaven will vouchsafe me a little strength.  Well, all will go better if we are once on the way—­once out of this wretched climate.  I embrace you from my heart, my dear ones—­ever your loving father Charles.”

This letter, the last but one he ever wrote, shows the rapid decline of his strength, though he endeavours to keep up the spirits of his family by a gleam of cheerfulness.  His longing for home now began to increase till it became a pang.  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.”