During this last year of marvellous creative activity Schubert had suffered frequently from headache and vertigo. Such cerebral excitement entailed an excessive rush of blood to the head. Early in September he moved from his lodgings with Schober to a house which his brother Ferdinand had lately taken. The situation was near the open country and thought to be more favorable for air and exercise. Unfortunately the house was newly-built and damp; very likely the drainage was defective. Schubert evidently had no suspicion of his dangerous condition, until on the last evening of October, while supping with some friends at the Rothen Kreuz inn, having taken some fish from his plate he suddenly threw down his knife and fork, saying that food had become as odious as poison. This somewhat alarmed his friends, but he was as full of plans for future work as if his health had been robust. On November 3, he took a long walk to attend the performance of a Latin requiem composed by his brother Ferdinand, the last music he ever heard. He had lately begun studying the scores of Handel's oratorios, and had thus become impressed with the fact that in counterpoint he had still much to learn. Though greatly fatigued with his walk on November 3, he went next day to see Sechter, a famous teacher of counterpoint, and made arrangements for taking a course of lessons; the text-book and the dates were settled upon. It is doubtful if Schubert ever went out again. The disturbance of the stomach, which prevented him from taking food, continued, and his strength ebbed away. A letter to Schober on the eleventh says that he can barely get from the bed to a chair and back again; he has been reading the Last of the Mohicans, the Spy, the Pilot, and the Pioneer; and if Schober happens to have anything else of Cooper's, or any other interesting book, he would like to have him send it. Something like typhus fever was setting in. After the fourteenth he was confined to his bed, but was still able to correct the proofs of the "Winterreise." On the seventeenth he became delirious. The next day he complained of having been taken to a strange and dreadful room, and when his brother Ferdinand tried to soothe him with the assurance that he was at home, he replied, "No, it cannot be so; Beethoven is not here!" On the next day there passed away one of the sweetest and truest souls that ever looked with human eyes. He was buried in the Währing cemetery in a grave as near as possible to that of Beethoven. Upon a monument afterward erected at the head of the grave was inscribed the epitaph, by Franz Grillparzer: "Music has here entombed a rich treasure, but still more glorious hopes. Here lies Franz Schubert, born Jan. 31, 1797, died Nov. 19, 1828, aged 31 years." Much fault has been found with the second clause of this epitaph, and Herr Kreissle does not seem to have quite understood it as it was meant. It was true, as Schumann said