THE RETURN OF THE BEAR-HUNTERS SHALL I tell you how we killed the bear, I stuck in my hat this sprig of fir Your sister Clara, 'twas picked by her. The bullets I'd rammed down hard and fast, Because 'twas the bear that day we sought; Crack went the maple-twig by his ear; This time he staggered, and rolled, and fell I shouted to Rupert and Hans, Holà! That's why I shot so well-kling-klang, My boy Fritz, you're a hunter's son; When you are fit to handle a gun, You too shall make the old cliffs laugh With the snap, crack, whistle, bing-bang, piff-paff! W. T. THE LATE PRINCE CONSORT AS A COMPOSER In a short time, perhaps the most splendid memorial this age has seen will be completed, and the stranger in London will be most attracted by the glittering pinnacle, the lofty canopy with its incrusted and sparkling mosaics, which is to shelter the image of one of the best of princes. This noble memorial, on which the existing genius of the kingdom is to exhaust itself, will surely be the most satisfactory record of the late Prince Consort's virtues and genius; and though such was the last thought that entered into the mind of the revered and muchloved Royal Lady who planned the whole, it will indirectly record the untiring exertion of one who has mourned as widow has never mourned, and whose mourning has been soothed as widow's mourning never has been soothed,-by the most responsive accumulation of testimonials, and the most sympathising shapes of grief. Kings have died before now, the most popular of their dynasty; royal personages have passed away, beloved by the people-as was that Princess Charlotte whom the whole kingdom mourned; but not for her or for them rose statues in many cities. This commemoration of the departed Prince is certainly unique. No kingdom and no country of the world can exhibit so remarkable and unanimous a manifestation of regret-so positive a determination not willingly to let a memory die of no departed hero, statesman, warrior, king, or priest can it be said that his statues are to be counted by dozens; and there is no town of any consequence in the empire that does not show its memorial to the departed Prince. By this time the public has formed its opinion of the character of the man thus remarkably celebrated. That opinion grows fairer every day. His more solid gifts, his virtues, his wisdom, his good counsel, his domestic qualities, have been dwelt on often, and, best of all, because indirectly and unostentatiously, sketched in her Majesty's Balmoral volumes. There the figure of the "Silent father of our kings to be" stands out roundly and full of colour. He has been described far less successfully in the official catalogue raisonné manner, which indeed, for a correct notion of character, is to a description of a pattern day in his Life in the Highlands as a sale catalogue to a photograph of the collection to be sold. With this view of him we have nothing to do here; it is now as familiar, and perhaps as well worn, as the Row after an VOL. VIII. HH evening's hard cantering. But there is another side of his character which has not received. the consideration it deserves a view of him as the accomplished man, the student with elegant tastes, the skilled patron, the artist, the man who delighted in the accomplishments of life for their own sake. No character is more common than that of the titled or royal dilettante; in no matter is the rôle so tempting, does a little go so far, or is received with so much flattery and favour. A prince with a smattering of the arts is invited, almost forced, to take the place of arbiter, or of musical or pictorial critic. But about the Prince Consort there was a "note" of quite a different order. Tested in the severest way, he was here perfectly genuine, and, apart from his station and advantages, would have satisfied all the conditions of true artistic feeling. There was no sham, no "play-acting," no slipping into the critic's gown. Mr. Carlyle might have scrutinised his credentials here, and let him pass as a man that "meant" what was true; so that whatever he did in that direction had its value and purpose. He had, first of all, that wonderful German gift, which at the beginning is really like an instinct or sixth sense-that Kunst which gives so much vital force to the soul of that country. We need only take up the last strange preaching of Wagner, where he distinguishes between the true German principle and the false French lacquer, which since the days of Louis XIV. has infected the art-life of the whole of Europe. An august patron of Wagner, the King of Bavaria is a frantic fanatico, and his fostering encouragement of music is more than inconvenient to the clients he fosters. The small vanity of persons in such a position is sure to be overset by the delight of being superior, as they think it, to men of genius. It is the only one way, too, in which they can obtain this fancied superiority, and can at least link their obscurer names with those which are certain of reaching posterity. The mad idolatry which drags Wagner into an obtrusive publicity, and forces him to the front of a royal opera-box, is a mere whim, and will pass by when a newer whim succeeds. With the Prince Consort, this taste, and the fashion in which it was exhibited, was far different. It was constant, and burned with a calm steady flame. His patronage of art was unobtrusive, but substantial. It was the picture purchased from sheer relish; the little gem bought to adorn the private cabinet. There was no flashy patronage of the greater canvases. Even the subjects painted as commissions had the charm, the bloom as it were, of an association with some happy incident, some pleasant domestic scene, which gave them a fresh vitality. With music it was the same. His taste was of the true solid German order. Readers of her Majesty's first book, the Early Years, will recall the enthusiastic letter to "the concert-master Speith," with which the young man of twenty sends Beethoven's precious "Praise of Music" to a singing-society, a piece which he calls |