DEAR _Mr. Punch_,--I desire to address you on a painful
subject. Let me state that I am (1) a dachshund of unblemished
character; (2) a British-born subject; (3) a member of a family which,
though originally of foreign extraction, has for several generations
been honourably domiciled in one of the most exclusive and aristocratic
of our English country seats. Imagine then the surprise and indignation
experienced by myself, my wife and our only daughter when, shortly
after the opening of the present unfortunate hostilities between our
country and a certain continental Power, we found the atmosphere of
friendly, nay, affectionate respect with which we had so long been
surrounded becoming gradually superseded by one of suspicion and
animosity.
The ball was started by Macalister, an Aberdeen terrier of unprincipled
character, who has never forgiven me for summarily crushing the
unwelcome advances which he had the bad taste to make last spring to
my daughter. He had had the impertinence to approach me with a large
(and, I confess, a distinctly succulent-looking) object, which he
laid with an oily smile on the ground before my nose. But I had heard
from Gertrude (my wife) of his attentions to our offspring, and I saw
through the ruse.
"If you imagine," I said, "for one moment that this insidious offer
of a stolen bone will induce a gentleman of family to countenance an
engagement between his daughter and an advertisement for Scotch whisky
you are greatly mistaken. Be off with you, and never let me see your
ruffianly whiskers near my basket again!"
Rather severe, no doubt, but when I am deeply moved I seldom mince
matters; in fact, as a Briton, I prefer to hit out straight from the
shoulder. In any case, for the time being it settled Macalister.
I say for the time being. In the autumn he had his revenge. One morning
early in October I was walking down the drive accompanied by a recent
arrival within our circle, a rather brainless St. Bernard (who gave his
name with a lisp as "Bwuno"), when we met my child's rejected suitor.
Since the incident mentioned above I had consistently cut Macalister,
and I passed him now without recognition. No sooner was he by, however,
and at a safe distance, than he deliberately turned and snarled over
his shoulder at me the offensive epithet, "Potsdammer!"
My blood boiled; I longed to bury my teeth in the scoundrel's throat;
but I remembered that Gertrude had once told me that galloping made me
look ridiculous. So I affected not to hear the insult, and proceeded,
outwardly calm, with my morning constitutional. But, for some reason
or other, Bruno's flow of small talk appeared suddenly to dry up, and
once or twice I detected him looking at me curiously out of the corners
of his eyes. Next day, on my calling for him as usual he pleaded a
cold. His manner struck me as odd; still I accepted his excuse. But
when the cold had lasted, without any perceptible loss of appetite, for
a fortnight, and I had seen him meanwhile on two occasions actually
rabbiting (an absurd pastime for a St. Bernard) with Macalister, I
saw what had happened and decided to ask him what he meant by it. He
endeavoured to assume a conciliatory attitude, but the long and short
of it was, he said, that as a Swiss, and therefore a neutral, it was
impossible for him to be too careful, and he feared that my society
might compromise him. I did not argue with him; it would merely have
involved a loss of dignity to do so.
Since that time, though we have endured in silence, the lot of myself
and my family has been a hard one. We have been fed and housed as
usual, it is true, but when one has been accustomed to live on terms
of the most privileged friendship with a household it is galling to
find oneself suddenly treated by every member of it, from the butler
downwards, as a prisoner of war. I am not even allowed now to bite the
postmen; and I used to enjoy them so much, especially the evening one,
who wears quite thin trousers. Our only consolation has been the hope
that our misfortune might be an isolated instance. To-day, however, I
learn that it is not so. I have discovered by my basket (and I have
reason to think that they were conveyed thither by the malignant
Macalister) three humorous (?) sketches depicting members of my race
in situations which I can only describe as ridiculous, and obviously
insinuating that they were to be regarded as aliens.
I appeal to you, Sir, as a lover of justice and animals, to put this
matter right with the public, for the life that a British dachshund has
to lead at the present moment is what is vulgarly known as a dog's life.
Yours to the bottom biscuit, FRITZ.
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[Illustration: THE RIDDLE OF THE SANDS.