The immense success of “Der Freyschuetz,” and the important assistance it brought to the funds of the theater, induced my father to propose to Weber to compose an opera expressly for Covent Garden.  The proposal met with ready acceptance, and the chivalric fairy tale of Wieland’s “Oberon” was selected for the subject, and was very gracefully and poetically treated by Mr. Planche, to whom the literary part of the work—­the libretto—­was confided, and who certainly bestowed as much pains on the versification of his lyrical drama as if it was not destined to be a completely secondary object to the music in the public estimation.  Weber himself, however, was by no means a man to disregard the tenor of the words and characters he was to associate with his music, and was greatly charmed with his English coadjutor’s operatic version of Wieland’s fairy epic.  He was invited to come over to London and himself superintend the production of his new work.

Representations of “Der Freyschuetz” were given on his arrival, and night after night the theater was crowded to see him preside in the orchestra and conduct his own fine opera; and the enthusiasm of the London public rose to fever height.  Weber took up his abode at the house of Sir George Smart, the leader of the Covent Garden orchestra, and our excellent old friend—­a capital musician and very worthy man.  He was appointed organist to King William IV., and for many years directed those admirable performances of classical music called the Ancient Concerts.

He was a man of very considerable musical knowledge, and had a peculiar talent for teaching and accompanying the vocal compositions of Handel.  During the whole of my father’s management of Covent Garden, he had the supervision of the musical representations and conducted the orchestra, and he was principally instrumental in bringing out Weber’s fine operas of “Der Freyschuetz” and “Oberon.”  Weber continued to reside in Sir George Smart’s house during the whole of his stay in London, and died there soon after the production of his “Oberon.”  Sir George Smart was the first person who presented Mendelssohn to me.  I had been acting Juliet one night, and at the end of the play was raised from the stage by my kind old friend, who had been in the orchestra during the performance, with the great composer, then a young man of nineteen, on his first visit to England.  He brought letters of introduction to my father, and made his first acquaintance with me in my grave-clothes.  Besides my esteem and regard for Sir George’s more valuable qualities, I had a particular liking for some excellent snuff he always had, and used constantly to borrow his snuff-box to sniff at it like a perfume, not having attained a sufficiently mature age to venture upon “pinches;” and a snuff-taking Juliet being inadmissible, I used to wish myself at the elderly lady age when the indulgence might be becoming:  but before I attained it, snuff was no longer taken by ladies of any age, and now, I think, it is used by very few men.