SOME BOOKS OF THE WEEK.
[Under this heading we notice /sok Books of the week Of have not bees reserved for review in other forma] Moltke in his Home. By Friedrich August Dressler. Authorised Translation by Mrs. C. E. Barrett-Leonard, (John Murray. Os. net.)—Herr Dressler did not know the Field-Marshal till after the great campaign which was the achievement of his life. He gives, however, some reminiscences of the time. One of them illustrates Moltke's self-contained nature. "I must go to Berlin to-night," he said after receiving a telegram on July 15th, 1870. Two or three hours later, when the family was at tea, he suddenly rose and said : "Let them come we are prepared, with or with- out South Germany." War had been decided on. But,as a whole, the book gives us the great man in his domestic aspect. In his official capacity of Chief of the Staff he was splendidly lodged, but his own belongings were simplicity itself. The camp-bed with the one thin blanket upon it reminds us of our own "Iron Duke." It was music that brought Herr Dressler into relations with him, and he loved it. Still, it had to keep its place. It was not to interfere with cards, for instance, and he was distinctly impatient if a partner or antagonist was obviously distracted by it. Cards were almost a weakness with him. He did not like to lose, and his family arranged that he should not. One wonders whether or not he saw through it. The stakes were of the lowest. The book does not lend itself to extract, though it gives us a delightful and harmonious picture. One anecdote we may quote. "What does a glass of schnapps cost ?" Moltke one day asked of his coachman Auguste. "Five pfennige, Excellency," was the answer. "If people took less schnapps in the day, they would have enough to pension their old age." We must add a Royal ton mot. King Frederick William IV, was standing at the door of the auppereroom during a pause in a Court concert. A young beauty wished to go in, but did not like to pass the King. " Passez, beaute," he cried, with a wave of his hand. An older lady took the opportunity of following. "Beaute mimeo," whispered his Majesty to Moltke.
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