BISMARCKIANA.

BY BARON DE MALORTIE,

STAYING on a visit with Herr and Frau von Bismarck in 1852, at the time he had succeeded General von Rochow as Prussian Envoy in Frankfort, I was walking one morning with my host, who had kindly undertaken to show me the Römer, as well as some of the other sights of the venerable free town, when suddenly we found ourselves in the precincts of the old Ghetto. Pointing at a small, unpretentious looking house, with a 'red' shield (Roth Schild) over the narrow entrance, Herr von Bismarck said, “That's the cradle of millions, the house and shop of old Rothschild, the famous father of the not less famous Baron James—the Pâron, as Parisians liked to call him, on account of his bronounced German accent. Well, the widow of the founder of the Rothschild dynasty-she was pointed out to me one day, reclining in a splendid barouche, with a pair of thoroughbred steppers, which Lord Lyons might have envied her-a shrivelled up old lady, wearing the traditional wig of the old Jewess, with clever eyes and firmly set lips, denoting no want of character and determination-well, the old lady, though inhabiting one of their grand mansions in the new part of the town,' said Herr von Bismarck, will not sleep outside the boundaries of the Ghetto, and every evening she returns to the modest little house, in which her husband lived and toiled and died; she says it will bring luck to her children and grandchildren, and teach them not to forget the humble beginnings of the world-famed firm, and the time when its founder sold old clothes in the Ghetto. And

we are here,' continued my illustrious cicerone, entering a small cheesemonger's shop, you won't mind coming in for a moment I shall not be long.'

Stepping to the counter, Herr von Bismarck asked a grinning young shop-boy, in shirt-sleeves, a blue linen apron, not of a maiden freshness, and blessed with a pair of large, red, greasy paws, engaged in weighing some Dutch cheese, to oblige him

| By a similar superstition Baron James had his father's common little ink, bottle set in silver, declining to use any other in his office of the Rue Lafitte, where probably it is still on the writing-table of Baron Alphonse,

as

1

6

with a sheet of writing-paper, some sealing-wax, and a pen, to direct a letter.

On the boy's producing the needful with the traditional • What else, sir ?' Bismarck said, 'My hands are rather cold, you had better do it for me, and he handed the boy a couple of letters wrapped in the sheet of bluish paper forming an envelope, for in those days made-up envelopes were still unknown in Germany. Evidently flattered by the request of such an imposing-looking client, for Herr von Bismarck's tall hat was almost touching the ceiling of the squalid little shop, the greasy-handed youth took the parcel, and having closed it skilfully with some brown sealingwax, and endorsed it with the initials of the firm, he returned it to its owner to write the address.

• Sorry, my friend, to give you more trouble,' said the future Chancellor, in his jovial way, “but I can't manage to write with my gloves on, so just address it for me,' and he handed him a pencilled slip with the name of Herr Fritz Piepenbrink or some such name, Oil and Colonial warehouseman, N° 000 Friedrichs Strasse, Berlin.

Thank you, young man; that'll do capitally,' and paying for the paper, &c., with a small tip to the oily boy with the stereotyped grin, he pocketed his letter, and we left the place to continue our walk.

'I daresay you are wondering why I treat my correspondents to such greasy, evil-smelling missives?' and he showed me the cheesy finger-marks of the boy on both sides of the improvised envelope. “I'll tell you a secret, and teach you a useful lesson for future times. You may some day thank me for the hint,' exclaimed Herr von Bismarck, laughing heartily. “You know we are blessed here in Frankfort, as throughout all South Germany, with the Thurn and Taxis Postal Administration, a mine of wealth to that fortunate family, but the most wretchedly managed concern under the sun. As you may imagine, it is under the thumb of Austria, hence slow and the triumph of red tape, with a pronounced weakness for diving into other people's business and skimming, of course, the correspondence of all German and foreign envoys, accredited to the Diet, with a preference for mine, the ever suspected Prussian culprit and traitor. They have established a regular Black Cabinet in the princely post office, where specially trained imperial and royal wiseacres peruse our prose with a critical ye, transmitting copies or extracts of all “ treasonable" matter,

or particularly interesting reports, to the august Ballplatz,' where Gentzand, and after him Klindworth, have established a lynx-eyed system of political espionnage (politisches Schnuffeln) extending all over Europe, and comprising eo ipso all German courts and chancelleries. Not being particularly anxious to gratify the morbid curiosity of our Austrian ally, I have thought it advisable to send important reports to the Berlin F.O., as well as all my letters to the King, to Herr von Manteufel 2 and to my sister and some particular friends, under cover to some mercantile firm in Berlin, changing frequently, and usually asking some counter-jumper in a cheesemonger's or oilman's shop to address them for me—and you can easily understand that the imperial and royal sniffers (Schnütjler) don't manage to guess the correspondence of the Prussian Representative, under a greasy illsmelling cover, such as you have seen. It stands to reason that the smell of cheese or herring, and the mercantile scribbling of a shop-boy must deceive sharper men than the Thurn and Taxis post officials and the specially delegated Austrian post-office clerks. The only precaution I have to take is to go to different shops in quarters of the town where I am not known, and to vary the Berlin addresses from time to time-thus I'm perfectly safe. Le tour est joué ! and I snap my fingers at the Ballplatz. It is simple enough, as you have seen, yet it wouldn't do to send everything through that channel, as they would otherwise get suspicious, so I treat my Austrian friends at least once a week to some of my diplomatic prose-unimportant stuff, and occasionally something I want them to know-or to believe”; and he indulged in a boisterous laugh.

'I assure you it is rare fun, and more than once I have caught my Austrian colleague-our august presiding envoy, alluding to news I had purposely launched in my ordinary reports, or else lamenting imaginary intentions attributed to the King, or proposals supposed to have their origin with the Prussian Government, which I had invented as feelers or as bogus opinions of the Wilhelmstrasse and which the Black Cabinet had duly discovered, and not failed to transmit for the benefit of its Austrian patrons. You have no idea what a useful auxiliary the Black Cabinet of another Power can become —there is no better channel for false news, and in my short

а

experience of the trade, I find oilmen and cheesemongers most indispensable factors of the diplomatic craft, colleagues I highly value, though I don't know what my high and mighty associates in the noble task of " disuniting ” Germany would say, if I ventured to trespass on the sacrosanctity of these patented federal snorers (Bundestags Schnarcher) by assimilating my greasy grocers' boys, or my cheesemongering helpmates, to the bestarred and tinselled Excellencies of the Thurn and Taxis Palace, though they would give the former a point or two in soapiness and ignorance (In Seifigkeit und Unverstand). It would have given them a fit! Yet I ought to patent my invention for the use of the Prussian F.O. and of coming generations of diplomatic rag-pickers, but I shall present it to the world with that patriotic unselfishness and generosity which distinguishes diplomatic representatives of my Royal Master in general, but especially His Majesty's most humble Envoy to the august Diet. Heine's immortal lines [Oh Bund, Du Hund, Du bist nicht gesund!] are always treasonably chiming in my naughty ears, when I think or speak of the Diet, and our illustrious assembly of nonentities—a further reason to keep the great invention for my own personal use and delectation, and I shall only occasionally initiate gratis some young friend into the mysteries of this refreshing antiBallplatz trick.

Pray do not smile, but be grateful; it may prove some day a most acceptable contribution to your professional baggage as a diplomatist. And now let us go in; it is luncheon time, and we have earned our food.'

I may add that I profited by this advice in 1866, when the Prussians, after occupying Hanover, indulged in opening the letters of all Hanoverian patriots. I remembered the lesson given me at Frankfort, and it answered so well—much to the annoyance of my mother's brother, whom they had appointed Governor-General—that I could not resist expressing my gratitude to Herr von Bismarck for having taught me the trick.

Seat of the German Diet (Bundestag).

6

TWO RELICS OF '98.

I.

THE LAST DAYS OF LORD EDWARD.

WITHIN the last few weeks a document has been brought to light of strangely pathetic interest—interest heightened by its appearance in this year of grace 1898. It is the diary kept in Newgate Prison, Dublin, by Dr. John Armstrong Garnett during his attendance there on Lord Edward FitzGerald just one hundred years ago.

Virtually they were fellow-prisoners, this young surgeon and his patient, the gallant Geraldine. No one was trusted then, and, although Dr. Garnett was enrolled in the loyal Yeomanry Corps, it was thought safer that he should not leave the prisoner put under his charge, or have any communication with outsiders.

Another obvious reason for such a precaution was this : Lord Edward, if brought to trial, would to a certainty have been convicted and publicly executed, as were so many others at the time. Those who wished to see the leaders of the insurrection brought to punishment did not scruple to insinuate that there was danger either of himself or of his family attempting to hasten his death before his trial. The presumption, of course, was that Dr. Garnett, if at liberty, would have been a ready means to this end.

That this was only one of the many harsh and cruel suspicions of the day is proved beyond doubt by this diary. Dr. Garnett, on his own showing, never withheld the fruit and vegetables sent from Carton, the ancestral home of the FitzGeralds, to his patient, and Lord Edward partook of them with pleasure and without bad results. Thus the diary is important historically as clearing up once for all a point of unhappy dispute.

Those were truly miserable days of suspicion, and treachery, and trouble. No one could tell what might not be read between the lines which had been written under such agitating circumstances ; Dr. Garnett was therefore careful never to let the diary out of his own possession. His descendants have regarded it as a sacred heirloom, and it was preserved, with family papers, jewels, &c., in one of those beautiful old bureaux which the present rage