Adieu, and now for the battle. * * * * So, the battle is over, that is
to say, half the scene. To-morrow shall the Turks roar, the French shout
for joy, the warriors cry out victory!"

The battle was, indeed, nearly over with Weber. The tired forces of
life, though they bore up gallantly against the enemy, had long been
wavering at their post, and now in fact only one brilliant movement
remained to be executed before they finally retreated from the field
of existence. This was the representation of Oberon, which for a time
rewarded him for all his toils and vexations. He records his triumph
with a mixture of humility, gratitude, affection, and piety.

"12th April, 1826.

"My best beloved Caroline! Through God's grace and assistance, I have
this evening met with the most complete success. The brilliancy and
affecting nature of the triumph is indescribable. God alone be thanked
for it! When I entered the orchestra, the whole of the house, which was
filled to overflowing, rose up, and I was saluted with huzzas, waving
of hats and handkerchiefs, which I thought would never have done. They
insisted on encoring the overture. Every air was interrupted twice or
thrice by bursts of applause. * * * So much for this night, dear life.
From your heartily tired husband, who, however, could not sleep in
peace until he had communicated to you this new blessing of heaven.
Good-night."

But his joy was interrupted by the gradual decline of his health.
The climate of London brought back all those symptoms which his
travelling had for a time alleviated or dissipated. After directing
twelve performances of his Oberon in crowded houses, he felt himself
completely exhausted and dispirited.--His melancholy was not abated
by the ill success of his concert, which, from causes which we cannot
pretend to explain, was no benefit to the poor invalid. His next
letters are in a desponding tone.

"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 wi