Here is a melancholy glimpse of Ernst, a year before his death, and about to visit Paris for the last time:
Herr Ernst, the celebrated violinist, has gone to Paris for the winter. A correspondent of the Orchestra who met him at Boulogne rather sadly says: ‘It was melancholy to see, in the feeble frame wrapped in a railway rug, and carefully stowed away in a carriage by a brawny railway porter, all that is left of the great artist, not many years ago in full possession of all that is physically and intellectually required for fame and happiness. The mind still burns brightly, but paralysis and its concomitant weakness have reduced poor Ernst to a shadow – a pleasure only of the past. He is attended by the affectionate solicitude of his wife, and we are glad to learn that his séjour at the admirable Hotel Imperial has been productive of the best results.’
Dunfermline Saturday Press, 1/10/1864, p.?