On Saturday evening grave symptoms appeared. Death came easily and painlessly. Dr. Schweninger was able to some extent to lighten the last moments, wiping the patient's mouth and enabling him to breathe more freely.
The last words Prince Bismarck uttered were addressed to his daughter, Countess von Rantzau, who wiped the perspiration from his forehead. They were, "Thank you, my child."
The whole family were assembled at the bedside at the time of his death, and Dr. Schweninger, Dr. Chrysander and Baron and Baroness Merck were also present. As no breathing, movement or pulse was perceptible for three minutes, Dr. Schweninger declared quietly and simply that the Prince was dead.
Dr. Schweninger telegraphed the news to Emperor William, in Norway.
The Prince lies as he used to sleep, with his head slightly inclined to the left. The expression on his face is mild and peaceful. It is remarked that his head remained warm for an unusually long time.
In accordance with Prince Bismarck's wish, he will be buried upon the hill opposite the castle in the vicinity of Hirschgruppe.
Nachrichten, July 31st, 1898.
Blake (William, English artist and poet), 1757-1828. Blake died singing.
"On the day of his death," writes Smith, who had his account from the widow, "he composed and uttered songs to his Maker, so sweetly to the ear of his Catherine, that when she stood to hear him, he, looking upon her most affectionately, said, 'My beloved! they are not mine. No! they are not mine!' He told her they would not be parted; he should always be about her to take care of her. A little before his death, Mrs. Blake asked where he would be buried, and whether a dissenting minister or a clergyman of the Church of England should read the service. To which he answered, that as far as his own feelings were concerned, she might bury him where she pleased. But that as father, mother, aunt and brother were buried in Bunhill Row, perhaps it would be better to lie there. As for service, he should wish for that of the Church of England.
"In that plain, back room, so dear to the memory of his friends, and to them beautiful from association with him—with his serene cheerful converse, his high personal influence, so spiritual and rare—he lay chanting Songs to Melodies, both the inspiration of the moment, but no longer as of old to be noted down. To the pious songs followed, about six in the summer evening, a calm and painless withdrawal of breath; the exact moment almost unperceived by his wife, who sat by his side. A humble female neighbor, her only other companion, said afterwards: 'I have been at the death, not of a man, but of a blessed angel.'"