When he commits a crime.”

THE BEAR; OR, A LETTER FROM THE MOUNTAINS.

“WHEN intro­duced to the world, I brought with me a crav­ing for sol­i­tude, doubt­less be­stowed for some wise pur­pose. But in­stead of direct­ing my fac­ul­ties to an end which an­swered my vo­ca­tion in the har­mony of be­ings, like most gift­ed na­tures, I fol­lowed my own in­cli­na­tions.

“Soon after the event which brought me to light, a fall from a lofty tree lamed me for life, and con­tri­bu­ted not a lit­tle to ren­der me a prey to fits of melancholy.

“Our den was the favourite resort of Bears of the sur­round­ing district. My father was a splendid hunter, and entertained his convives sumptuously with the produce of the chase. Life in those days seemed to be one endless round of dancing, gaiety, and feasting. As for myself, I remained a stranger to my father’s guests, whose visits bothered me. Although the good cheer was not wholly dis­taste­ful, the frequent and vulgar eating, drinking, and roaring bouts were odious to my nature. This repugnance was not to be attributed to a finely-strung organisation, although modern philosophy points to our organisation as the source and cause of our positive and negative affections.

Note.—This letter was meant for private circulation only; the young Bear from whom it was received thought he might venture, without offence, to divulge the secrets of friendship—more especially as the writer had died, leaving this, among other manuscripts, to his care. A dead Bear is not likely to complain of ingratitude.—ED.

“My love of silence and solitude at last set­tled into the gloomy morose­ness of a mis­under­stood Bear, which has always passed as the token of in­comp­re­hen­si­ble genius, or of virtue too pure for the world. Years of self-exam­i­na­tion, added to a grow­ing feeling of dis­sat­is­fac­tion, con­vinced me at last that pride was the parent of my brood of sickly imaginings, whose ghostly food was the moon­beams, and the sighing of the moun­tains, as they whis­pered about me to the passing wind. Before resip­iscence, it was need­ful I should suf­fer mis­fortune.

“My parents were grieved by my monomania. I had indeed determined to leave them, and seek some distant secluded spot in which I might remain undisturbed and alone. Conscience smote me in vain; my project was at last confided to a friend of the family, who after I had left broke the news to my parents, telling them I had voluntarily renounced the world. Never shall I forget stealing like a thief from the home of my childhood. The morning mist rose over the mountain from the valleys in blinding masses. Soon settling into clouds, one of pearly whiteness, fringed with the golden light of dawn, floated like a curtain in front of my old home.