g to Prussia chiefly, and to us little otherwise than as the
Biography of a distinguished fellow-man, Friedrich's Biography, his
Physiognomy as he grows old, quietly on his own harvest-field, among his
own People: this has still an interest, and for any feature of this we
shall be eager enough; but this withal is the most of what we now want.
And not very much even of this; Friedrich the unique King not having
as a man any such depth and singularity, tragic, humorous, devotionally
pious, or other, as to authorize much painting in that aspect. Extreme
brevity beseems us in these circumstances: and indeed there are,--as has
already happened in different parts of this Enterprise (Nature
herself, in her silent way, being always something of an Artist in such
things),--other circumstances, which leave us no choice as to that of
detail. Available details, if we wished to give them, of Friedrich's
later Life, are not forthcoming: masses of incondite marine-stores,
tumbled out on you, dry rubbish shot with uncommon diligence for a
hundred years, till, for Rubbish-Pelion piled on Rubbish-Ossa, you lose
sight of the stars and azimuths; whole mountain continents, seemingly
all of cinders and sweepings (though fragments and remnants do lie
hidden, could you find them again):---these are not details that will be
available! Anecdotes there are in quantity; but of uncertain quality;
of doubtful authenticity, above all. One recollects hardly any
Anecdote whatever that seems completely credible, or renders to us the
Physiognomy of Friedrich in a convincing manner. So remiss a creature
has the Prussian Clio been,--employed on all kinds of loose errands over
the Earth and the Air; and as good as altogether negligent of this most
pressing errand in her own House. Peace be with her, poor slut;
why should we say one other hard word on taking leave of her to all
eternity!--

The Practical fact is, what we have henceforth to produce is more of
the nature of a loose Appendix of Papers, than of a finished Narrative.
Loose Papers,--which, we will hope, the reader can, by industry, be made
to understand and tolerate: more we cannot do for him. No continuous
Narrative is henceforth possible to us. For the sake of Friedrich's
closing Epoch, we will visit, for the last time, that dreary imbroglio
under which the memory of Friedrich, which ought to have been, in all
the epochs of it, bright and legible, lies buried; and will try to
gather, as heretofo