sorts of things, and to train his stomach to
resist all kinds of poisons. Arsenic, which
acts as a most violent poison on the human
species, is innocuous to bears. A dose of a
quarter of a pound has no apparent effect at
all; a pound acts merely as a slight purgative.

The preceding remarks are necessary to
aid us in appreciating the story—which has
made too much noise in Paris and elsewhere
—of the invalide. One bright moonlight night
during the last days of the first Empire, a
veteran was watching, alone and silent, near
the dwelling of the bear Martin, in the Jardin
des Plantes. Illumined by the deceitful light
of Phœbe, the old warrior fancied that he saw
a six-livres piece glitter at the bottom of the
den. Immediately the demon of riches—
who never willingly lets go the prey which lie
once has seized—instigated the ill-omened
old soldier to desert his post. He fetched a
ladder, and descended into the den. Alas!
he had reckoned without his host. Martin,
who was dreaming about battles—suddenly
awaked at an unseasonable hour by an
individual with whom he had not the slightest
acquaintance, and whose intentions naturally
appeared suspicious—Martin seized the
intruder by the throat, strangled him, and
scalped him, according to savage custom;
that is to say, stripped off his head of hair;
not without slightly blemishing the skin to
which the hair is attached. It was this
specially characteristic trait, which ruined the
bear in the minds of the people, and which
made them say that the bear liked, better
than anything else, ginger-bread cakes and
veterans. The ignorant attributed to the
sanguinary temper of the species the isolated
act of one which the force of habit alone had
inspired. The warlike nation which loved so
well to adorn its leaders with the fur of bears,
would not pardon a poor animal for having
applied the law of retaliation to one of its
warriors. But perhaps—now that the
popular excitement is calmed—the public
will have the kindness to re-consider its
decided dislike to the bear, and will look
upon things in a more healthy light. In
fact, let an impartial judge calmly consider all
the circumstances of the murder. The night
attack, the storm by ladder, the exaggerated
value which belonged to bearskin at that
epoch, when the fur cap and its chin-strap
took so high a position in society; and he will
certainly admit, like me, a case of legitimate
defence, and like me he will pronounce the
bear, "Not Guilty." More than that; if it
were proved that the old soldier in question
wore at the time, as some one has suspected,
a bear's-fur cap upon his head, then, indeed,
the innocence of the bear can no longer be
called in doubt.

When the bear is driven by hunger to
declare war on animals and men, he willingly
takes up an ambuscade in the lower branches
of some tufted tree, or behind some rocky
post commanding a defile, from which he
rushes upon the victim he is watching,
seizes it by the neck, and strangles it. The
muscular strength of the bear is prodigious,
and exceeds that of our most powerful
wrestlers. Bears have been seen to kill a
horse or a bull stiff dead with a single stroke
of their powerful paw. If the bear rarely
has the upper-hand in his duels with man, as
would appear from the number of bear's-fur
caps with which the grenadiers are
ornamented, that only proves the superiority of
the arms of man, and the complete ignorance
of the animal in matters of scrimmage. The
bear, having the habit of rising on his hind
feet to attack the hunter, naturally exposes
his flank to the enemy, who only requires a
little coolness and address, to pierce his
heart with a poignard or a bullet. The
poignard is the best mode, to avoid injuring
the skin. There was a bear-hunter at Eaux-
Bonnes in the Pyrenees, who stabbed in this
way sixty bears during his life. Of course he
missed the sixty-first—which did not miss
him.

American travellers, who are well aware
of the importance which the bear attaches
to the least politeness or mark of
consideration on the part of man, never omit,
it is said, to salute him when they meet with
him on their road. They accost him with
"Buenos dias, hombre" "Good day, man.''
Trustworthy persons have asserted that
this simple piece of flattery was often sufficient
to make the most ill-disposed bear forget his
homicidal intentions and his hunger. The
bear is not only polite, he is obsequious in
the deference which he pays to constituted
authorities. Every one has heard speak of
the courtesy of the dancing bear who had
taken his degrees at the school of mutual
instruction in a certain commune, in the
arrondissement of Saint Girons; and who,
recognising one day, in the Place de la Bastille, in
the midst of the crowd who surrounded him,
the Maire of that locality, suddenly
interrupted his performance, in order to offer to
the honorable magistrate his devoted
obeisances, and the compromising homage of his
respect.

The bear, then, is not the enemy of man.
He eats him sometimes; but almost always
with regret, and in his own defence. When
he is the aggressor, it is because hunger presses
him, and because winter, that particular year,
happens to have been unreasonably prolonged.
Now, in this case, the rigour of civilised
winter, and not the appetite of the poor beast,
is responsible for the crimes of hunger. We
ought to make the bear every allowance for
the extenuating circumstance of famine, if we
desire to be excused in turn; we, reasonable
creatures, who amuse ourselves with fancy
murders, who now and then poison our
fathers and mothers in order to enjoy a little
sooner the fruits which their affection has
gathered for us; we, who every day sell our
daughters in marriage to aged dotards.