4 A Bear Hunt in Nordland. 



a strong cross-bar of iron, about eighteen inches long, across the 

 shaft, just under the steel spear. They follow the bear till they 

 bring it to bav, and then attack it. They always try to force the 

 spear into its breast or under the shoulder, right through the heart. 

 As soon as the spear is well in, the hunter plants the end of the 

 shaft firmly into the ground, and holds the spear strongly in an 

 upright slanting position, the bear all the while pressing more 

 and more on to the spear, endeavouring to grapple with the man, 

 but prevented by the cross-bar. As long as the spear stands there 

 is little danger, but the life of the hunter now entirely depends upon 

 his good spear. His comrade, if he has one, now attacks the bear 

 also with his rifle or spear, but if the hunter is alone — and they will 

 always, if possible, be alone, because then there is no other to share 

 the spoil — he finishes the bear as well as he can. I have generally 

 seen the shafts in Lapland made of mountain ash. It must, how- 

 ever, be rather a nervous time for a man, face to face with an en- 

 raged monster, and only a slight shaft, and then a steel bar, between 

 himself and eternity^ and a man must be possessed of a pretty good 

 share of personal courage who dares to attack a bear single-handed 

 with such a weapon ; and yet these northern settlers and little Lap- 

 landers often do so. 



I used to be much amused at seeing the old parish clerk up at 

 Quickiock, a noted bear-hunter, rehearse the pantomime of a bear 

 hunt, with myself as bear. He was a very little, active old fellow, 

 of about sixty, and he used to hop round me brandishing his spear, 

 the shaft of which was covered with scratches and bites, till he 

 would at times become so excited that I used to beg him to con- 

 clude the performance, lest by chance he might forget that he was 

 only rehearsing a play, and had a man instead of a living bear 

 before him. 



These rehearsals used to remind me much of some other re- 

 hearsals of a rather different sort, when I used to have to stand up 

 in quite another character, the reader will be puzzled to guess — 

 Molyneux, the black prizefighter, and before poor old Tom Cribb. 

 I first knew this veteran when he kept a public-house in Panton- 

 street, but things went wrong with the old boy , and missing him 



