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Rh It was in 1866. Bismarck − then Count Bismarck − was returning from the palace, where he had been to see the king. While passing through the large street of Berlin called Unter den Linden, and quite near the place where Hoedel and Nobiling have since attempted the life of the emperor William, he suddenly heard a shot fired close behind him. He turned sharply round and saw a young man who, with a smoking revolver, was aiming at him. He strode at once up to the man and seized the arm that held the, revolver, while with his other hand he grasped the throat of the would-be murderer. Blind, however, had had time to pass his weapon on to his left hand, and now fired three shots in quick succession. Bismarck felt himself hurt in his shoulder and in one of his ribs but he held his furious assailant fast till some soldiers came up and took hold of him. Then Bismarck walked home at a brisk pace, and reached his own house long before anybody there could know what had happened.

The countess had some friends with her when her husband entered the drawing-room. He greeted all in a friendly manner, and begged to be excused for a few minutes, as he had some urgent business to attend to. He then walked into the next room where his desk stood, and wrote to inform the king of the accident. Having attended to this duty, he returned to the drawing-room, and made one of his little standing jokes, ignoring his own unpunctuality, and saying to his wife, −

"Well! are we to have no dinner to-day? You always keep me waiting."

He sat down and partook heartily of the dishes set before him, and it was only when the dinner was over that he walked up to the countess, kissed her on the fore-head, wished her in the old German way, "Gesegnete Maltzeit!" (May your meal be blessed!) and then added, −

"You see I am quite well."

She looked up at him. "Well," he continued, "you must not be anxious, my child. … Somebody has fired at me; but it is nothing, as you see."

Bismarck was the idol of his peasants as long as he remained among them at Kniephof and at Schoenhausen. Though his life has been investigated with extraordinary minuteness by his friends as well as by his enemies, nothing has ever been brought forward which would show him in any other light than that of a kind master. He is by no means what some people call severe, but just, which, in most cases, signifies simply, very hard. He was always really kind to all those who had a right to look up to him for protection. One day he was inspecting the dikes at Schoenhausen. He came to a spot where infiltrations from the Elba had caused a large space of ground to be covered with water to about the depth of a foot. He wanted to get over, but not being dressed for the occasion, he looked about to find a suitable passage. One of the Schoenhausen peasants, angling near him, saw his difficulty.

"Get on my back," he said to young Bismarck, who was then about twenty-four; "I'll carry you over."

"You don't know what you offer," answered Bismarck, with a laugh; I ride thirteen stone."

"Never mind," replied the man. "We would all of us like to carry you through anything, even if you were a deal heavier."

Bismarck has not changed as regards his kindness to humble folks. While among the great personages who approach him − privy-councillors, ministers, ambassadors, princes even − there are many who fear him to an almost incredible degree, and who literally tremble before him, his old servants speak of him and to him with that peculiar, respectful familiarity which exists only between a good master and attached servants.

Last year, when Bismarck's favorite dog, "Sultan," was dying, he watched beside the poor animal with such manifestly deep sorrow that Count Herbert, the princes eldest son, at last endeavored to get his father away. The prince took a few steps towards the door, but on looking back, his eyes met those of his old friend. "No, leave me alone," he said, and he returned to poor Sultan. When the dog was dead, Bismarck turned to a friend who was standing near, and said, "Those old German forefathers of ours had a kind religion. They believed that, after death, they would meet again in the celestial hunting-grounds all the good dogs that had been their faithful companions in life. … I wish I could believe that."

Bismarck's love for his dogs can be traced back to his earliest youth, and is very peculiar. It does not in the least resemble the commonplace liking most people are able to feel for some pet animal. It is a real affection, deeply rooted in his large heart, and closely allied to the kindness which he shows to all on whose faithfulness he can rely, and who look up to him for protection. Another thoroughly German characteristic in Prince Bismarck is his love for