stmas eve he here formed his beautiful
bas-relief, "Christmas Joys in Heaven," which Oehlenschlaeger
consecrated with a poem. The last birthday of his life was celebrated
here; the performance of one of Holberg's vaudevilles was arranged,
and strangers invited; yet the morning of that day was the homeliest,
when only the family and the author of this memoir, who had written a
merry song for the occasion, which was still wet on the paper, placed
themselves outside the artist's door, each with a pair of tongs, a
gong, or a bottle on which they rubbed a cork, as an accompaniment,
and sung the song as a morning greeting. Thorwaldsen, in his morning
gown, opened the door, laughing; he twirled his black Raphael's cap,
took a pair of tongs himself, and accompanied us, while he danced
round and joined the others in the loud "hurra!"

A charming bas-relief, "The Genius of Poetry," was just completed; it
was the same that Thorwaldsen, on the last day of his life, bequeathed
to Oehlenschlaeger, and said, "It may serve as a medal for you."

On Sunday, March 24, 1844, a small party of friends were assembled at
the residence of Baron Stampe, in Copenhagen. Thorwaldsen was there
and was unusually lively, told stories, and spoke of a journey that he
intended to make to Italy in the course of the summer. Cahn's tragedy
of "Griseldis" was to be performed for the first time that evening at
the theatre. Tragedy was not his favorite subject, but comedy, and
particularly the comedies of Holberg; but it was something new that he
was to see, and it had become a sort of habit with him to pass the
evening in the theatre. About six o'clock, therefore, he went to the
theatre alone. The overture had begun; on entering he shook hands with
a few of his friends, took his usual seat, stood up again to allow one
to pass him, sat down again, bent his head, and was no more! The music
continued. Those nearest to him thought he was only in a swoon, and he
was borne out; but he was numbered with the dead.

The mournful intelligence of his death soon spread through the country
and through all lands; funeral dirges were sung and funeral festivals
were arranged in Berlin and Rome; in the Danish theatre, whence his
soul took its flight to God there was a festival; the place where he
sat was decorated with crape and laurel wreaths, and a poem by Heiberg
was recited, in which his greatness and his death were alluded to.

The day before Thorwaldsen's death the i