by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.2 #28 (10 Jul 1847).
Dear Mr. Good-natured Bear,
You growled so very beautifully about a year ago, in that lovely book that Mr. Cudnall sent us, that we want to know if you will please to growl a little for us in our Corner. It is such a nice, snug little Corner, and you will be so comfortable in it.
Do growl, dear Mr. Good-natured Bear! Do, if you please!
Your loving
Poet's Children.
The Good-natured Bear, standing in his usual attitude of politeness, lays one paw upon his heart, bows, and growls as requested.
He then addresses the Children in the following words:—
Respected Small-ones—dear friends of tender skin—happy and highly-favoured creatures of the earth, who learn at a very early period to leave off crawling on all fours, and who acquire the art of speech in an easy, insensible manner—allow me to offer you my grateful thanks for your pleasant recollection of me. The story of my life, which you received from my friend and publisher, Mr. Cundall, is a true and faithful account in all respects. Should you doubt any part of it as being too wonderful to be true, then believe that those surprising events seemed quite natural to me. I confess that my imagination may have been much excited at times, and may have caused me to relate some things in very strong colours, as the painters say; but how could it be otherwise with a Bear on his first introduction among the human family, and its polite circles?
I have more particularly alluded to the sincerity of my narrative, in order that it may qualify me to object to one expression in the address you have made to me. It is an address in all other respects quite charming, and enough to make any young Bear dance for joy, though at my mature years it is only permitted to me to bow, and to smile with my eyes. I cannot smile, as you do, with my cheeks, because of the rough beard I wear,—but I can, and do, smile upon you from the very bottom of my deep brown heart.
This, then, is the one objection I feel bound to make. And I must make it; I owe it as a duty to society, which has so kindly admitted me— pardon this uncourtly exhibition of energy; but I feel strongly, and, feeling so, must speak—I say, that I owe it as a duty to society, as a duty to myself, and my many arduous efforts to obtain a little education; and as a duty to my country, unhappy Poland, and to the country where all my higher class of studies were began and finished—I mean Germany;—to all these I owe an unqualified objection to the supposition that I ever so far forgot myself, in my present condition of life, as to growl! Good heavens!—I—what I do such a thing as growl? I not only owe it as a duty to all I have enumerated above, but to my confiding publisher of Old Bond Street, and also to my German publisher in Leipzig, who is almost as good a bookseller as Cundall, (he ought to be better, as he is much older,) that I should enter this public denial and protest against this erroneous and injurious supposition. I will defy any child, from the age of four to ten—in fact, of any age—to point out a single instance in which I utter a growl! No—throughout the whole of my story, amidst all its eventual scenes, and, I must say, my occasionally very difficult and trying situations,— never once have I been heard to utter so harsh a thing as a growl.
I am ready to admit, my dear young friends—children of the Friend with the daisy-wreath round his hat—that there was one occasion in the course of my life, upon which I certainly did feel a sudden inclination to give a growl. In fact, I had a narrow escape of giving rather a loud growl. It was this: you all remember that I was, at an early period of my history, connected with a celebrated menagerie from Berlin. Well,—we were at a great fair in the provinces; and you will recollect that I was advertised, placarded, and my portrait hung up in front of the caravan, as "The Intellectual Prodigy." At that very time a young gentleman of eight years of age, dressed in a scarlet blouse, with a large black hat and feathers, lighted one end of a long straw, and attempted to poke it up my sensible nose! Another small boy stood close to him, of the age of ten, dressed entirely in black, with a countenance of the same hue, who was apparently studying for the bar—I mean the bar of a grate, as he was by profession a chimney sweeper, and was, I believe, attached to the suite of the English ambassador. This learned young sprig of the flue, seeing me—the Intellectual Prodigy—thus insulted, actually laughed loudly, and cried "Well done!"
What did I do? I could have put out one paw, and drawn them both through into my cage with ease, if I had chosen to be a brute. I merely raised my head beyond the reach of the lighted straw, and turning my back upon such ill-behaved little animals, walked to the other side of my apartment. I was, however, very near giving such a growl! But I did not; by a powerful effort—as the ladies and gentlemen say in fashionable novels—I mastered my emotions, and appeared as calm as a cauliflower.
Judge then, young friends, after this explanation, whether I am not entitled to some excuse for all the difficulties I have made on the subject of growling. "The Good-Natured Bear" may dissent,—may object,—may demur;—he may venture to differ.—he may, with all due submission, express a great doubt,—he may respectfully but firmly deny, when the occasion is very momentous—but, believe me, he never growls.
I trust I have said nothing which can be construed into offence by any child, or grown-up person; and I gratefully and respectfully take my leave of the present company.