Weber's son, in his life of his father, tells us that when the composer was in London, Miss Stephens, of whose talent he was a great admirer, offered to appear at his concert. "The celebrated artist, however, was desirous of singing some new composition by the master; and Weber, exhausted as he was, could not gainsay her wish. Miss Stephens herself chose the words from Moore's 'Lalla Rookh;' and the composer set himself to work on 'From Chindara's Warbling Fount I Come.' But fearfully painful was the effort now. Twice Weber flung down his pen in utter despair. At last, on the morning of the 18th of May, the great artist's flitting genius came back to him, and for the last time gave him a farewell kiss upon that noble forehead, now bedewed with the cold sweat of death,--for the last time! The trembling hands were unable to write down more than the notes for the voice. Weber rehearsed his last composition with the celebrated artist from this sketch, and accompanied the song from memory at his concert." Here we have the true story of the master's last composition. The concert spoken of, at which he made his last appearance in public, was, unfortunately, not a pecuniary success, because of the indifference of the English aristocracy. This was a severe blow to the composer, who knew that he had not long to live, and who had hoped to realise from this concert a substantial sum, which he could add to that received from his opera of "Oberon," and use all in providing for his wife and children. "The following day Weber was somewhat better. He was still supported by the hopes of his benefit; he still found sufficient strength to write to his wife in such wise as to place in its least painful light his cruel disappointment. As yet, in spite of his bodily weakness, his handwriting had remained distinct and clear. In this letter, it displays the utter ruin of his strength. 'Writing is somewhat painful to me,' runs one phrase of it; 'my hands tremble so.' Fuerstenau saw only too clearly the sinking state of the poor man, and generously offered to give up his own concert, in order to hasten the departure of his friend. 'What a word of comfort you have spoken!' gasped Weber, clutching the hand of the kind fellow. He wrote again to his wife, with a last gleam of his spirit: 'You will not have many more letters from me; and so receive now my high and mighty commands. Do not answer this to London, but to the _poste restante_, Frankfurt. You are astounded! Well! I am not coming home through Paris. What should I do there? I cannot walk--I cannot speak. I will have nothing more to do with business for years to come. So it is far better I should take the straight way home by Calais, through Brussels, Cologne, Coblentz, and thus by the Rhine to Frankfurt. What a charming journey! I must travel very slowly, however, and probably rest for half a day, now and then. I shall gain a good fortnight thus; and by the end of