“For up and spake each trusty Hound, ‘Thou felon Wolf, say true, Who bade thee slay this blameless Lamb, And kill its mother too?’ IX. “ ‘I cure, not kill,’ the Wolf replied, ‘Vex not a poor physician; Such lies, base curs, would place my name In quite a false position.’ {308} X. “The Watch-Dogs drag the prisoner off, The courts his death decree, Now hanged in chains his body swings On yonder gallows-tree. MORAL. “Whene’er your steps incline to stray Along the sinner’s wicked way, A warning from this story take, And know that truth sublime— Each creature is a criminal When he commits a crime.” [Illustration] {309} 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. [Illustration] “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. {310} “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.