lect) when put upon in his grooming,
or otherwise disturbed, I could obtain no farther account: the man did
not care to be put in History (a very small service to a man); cared
to have a house with trim fittings, and to do his grooming well, the
fortunate Philips.

At sight of his Son, Friedrich Wilhelm threw out his arms; the Son
kneeling sank upon his breast, and they embraced with tears. My Father,
my Father; My Son, my Son! It was a scene to make all by-standers and
even Philips weep.--Probably the emotion hurt the old King; he had to be
taken in again straightway, his show of strength suddenly gone, and
bed the only place for him. This same Friday he dictated to one of his
Ministers (Boden, who was in close attendance) the Instruction for his
Funeral; a rude characteristic Piece, which perhaps the English reader
knows. Too long and rude for reprinting here. [Copy of it, in Seyfarth
(ubi supra), i. 19-24. Translated in Mauvillon (ii. 432-437); in &c.
&c.]

He is to be buried in his uniform, the Potsdam Grenadiers his escort;
with military decorum, three volleys fired (and take care they be
well fired, "NICHT PLACKEREN"), so many cannon-salvos;--and no fuss or
flaunting ceremony: simplicity and decency is what the tenant of that
oak coffin wants, as he always did when owner of wider dominions. The
coffin, which he has ready and beside him in the Palace this good
while, is a stout piece of carpentry, with leather straps and other
improvements; he views it from time to time; solaces his truculent
imagination with the look of it: "I shall sleep right well there," he
would say. The image he has of his Burial, we perceive, is of perfect
visuality, equal to what a Defoe could do in imagining. All is seen,
settled to the last minuteness: the coffin is to be borne out by so and
so, at such and such a door; this detachment is to fall-in here, that
there, in the attitude of "cover arms" (musket inverted under left arm);
and the band is to play, with all its blackamoors, _O Haupt voll Blut
und Wunden_ (O Head, all bleeding wounded); a Dirge his Majesty had
liked, who knew music, and had a love for it, after his sort. Good Son
of Nature: a dumb Poet, as I say always; most dumb, but real; the value
of him great, and unknown in these babbling times. It was on this same
Friday night that Cochius was first sent for; Cochius, and Oesfeld with
him, "about nine o'clock."

For the next three days (Saturday to Monday) when his cough a