Chapter M: Ole B. Bull (3)

In 1843 I went with my youngest son, William, to Norway. One of
our fellow–travelers was the violinist, Ole Bull, who, because of
his own talent, has acquired not only a European but a world–wide
celebrity. He had often awakened my admiration as well as my
astonishment. His life is remarkable. He came as a poor unknown
musician to Paris, and had suffered the most extreme want, when he
was recognized, heard, appreciated, loved, married, and soon
acquired by his concerts a considerable fortune. His musical
performances were an expression of his own character, a peculiar
combination of a charming, childlike good–nature and tenderness,
often interrupted by a restless excitement. Thus the most
beautiful, ravishing tones and most genial fancies alternated with
sudden piercing shrieks. It seemed as if Ole Bull with capricious
fickleness delighted in destroying the tenderest and loftiest
sentiment which he had evoked, and in offending those whom he had
charmed, with oddities which did not control himself, but which he
in a proud mood called forth whenever he pleased. He frequently
appeared to me like a painter, who shows us a beautiful picture
which he has just finished, and just as we are about to examine it
more closely he draws his brush over it and blots it all out
again. Still, justice must be done him. We heard many a charming
piece that was not thus interrupted, and it is quite probable that
this manner of his has been entirely abandoned in his riper years.
No one ever played so charmingly as he an adagio of Mozart. In it
he was able to subdue completely those grating features of a too
violent individuality. I say he was precisely thus in his life. He
sometimes spoiled the good he had done, but, with a childlike
nature that was most becoming to the strong, fair young Norseman,
it cost him no effort, on the other hand, to make amends for the
harm he had done.

When he at one time, on board the steamer, had caused my
displeasure by a too severe criticism of the Swedes and I had
taken my seat on a bench, he came leaping toward me on his hands
and feet and barked at me like a dog. This was a no less original
than amiable manner of bringing about a reconciliation. He often
visited me in Copenhagen. In Christiania, where his young and
beautiful wife resided, who as a Parisian did not find life in the
North very agreeable, we dined with him, and on leaving he was
kind enough to offer us one of his carriages for the journey to
Bergen, his native town, whither he also soon was going. He was
very strong, his arms were like steel, and it is very possible
that it was his excessive physical strength which occasionally
interrupted the tender tones, while he shook his head so that his
hair fell down into his beautiful brown eyes.... When he played
for the king in Copenhagen, and Frederick VI. asked him who had
taught him to play, he answered “The Mountains of Norway, your
majesty.”

From Christiania Ole Bull went to Trondhjem, and at his concerts there, and in all the Norse towns the enthusiasm was unbounded. On the 12th of July, 1843, he writes:—

I have been on the Dovrefjeld since yesterday evening. It commands
a splendid view, being the highest mountain in Norway, eight
thousand feet above the level of the sea. As we ascended it began
to rain, then to snow and hail very hard. The thunder and
lightning had a weird effect. I was from the noon of one day until
four the next morning ascending and descending the mountain from
Jerkind. G., who was unused to mountain climbing, failed to reach
the summit; he was almost buried in the snow. Some Englishmen
were of the party. I outwalked the guide, and reached the top
before the others. A passing traveler does me the kindness to
forward this to you.

From Trondhjem he writes:—

Gertner will remain here to paint the cathedral, which is a
splendid structure and eight hundred years old. I gave a concert
without any assistance, playing nearly two hours without
cessation. It was very fatiguing, but, at least, nothing was
ruined by a bad accompaniment, and the audience was pleased.

On the way from Bergen to Christiania, he stopped at several points to play for the peasants. Especially memorable to him was the scene in Sogn. He found many of the people in their Sunday dress, assembled in the quaint Borgund church, which has stood there some eight hundred years; and, with a driving storm outside, he played for them the folk–songs, as old, probably, as the edifice which sheltered them. Ole Bull visited this church again in 1879. On this, his last trip over the mountains, knots of working–men had assembled to greet him. Every hat was lifted and hearty cheers were given as the carriage rolled past. Wergeland says:—

Ole Bull’s power, exercised through his violin over an audience,
was truly wonderful. Once, on a journey in Norway, he played for a
number of peasants whom he incidentally found gathered in an inn.
When he finished playing the deepest silence prevailed. Only the
ticking of the big watches in their pockets was heard, when
suddenly one of the men struck out his hand, and with great
emphasis cried aloud, “This is a lie.” If true mental power
consists in lifting the unconscious forces of life into the light
of the conscious, giving them form and shape, converting them into
thought and will, Ole Bull’s playing was not a lie. His tones fell
on his hearers, like the first warm rain of spring, with a
blessing.

His last months in Norway were spent in making preparations for the great journey to America. August found him again in Christiania. On the 11th of September he gave his farewell concert, and left with his wife and three children on the 16th, for Copenhagen. Wergeland, writing of his departure, says: “He left for America, preceded by his fame, and followed by thousands and thousands of grateful farewells from his countrymen.”

On the 3d of October he gave a concert in Luneburg, which was attended by the King of Hanover and other royal personages; and, sending his family to Paris, he went himself, by way of Amsterdam and London, to Liverpool, where he took passage. He wrote his wife from Liverpool, November 4, 1843:—

Schubert has published the “Adagio Religioso,” which will be sent
you at Paris. You will find _your_ name on the title–page. The
“Bravura Variations” are dedicated to King Karl Johan (Bernadotte)
as follows: “Variazioni di Bravoura, Fantasy on a theme of
Bellini, dedicated to Karl Johan, King and Benefactor of my native
land, Norway.” It will be sent you, too....

I am well now, but in a fever of anxiety concerning you and our
children, whom I am about to leave. I must have patience. With a
firm will, talent, and God’s blessing, all will be well.... I
embrace you very tenderly. Kiss our children for me.

Wergeland’s celebrated poems to Ole Bull were published at this time, and, like Welhaven’s, are valued as among the finest lyrics in the Norse literature.[13]

[13] They are printed in the Appendix.

Ole Bull landed in Boston, in November, 1843, and went directly on to New York. His belief in the sturdy common people of his own country and his love of freedom made him anticipate with great interest an acquaintance with a people who governed for themselves, and this acquaintance resulted in giving him greater hopes for his own land, which he proudly felt was able to show already the most liberal constitution of all the European monarchical governments. He was then and ever zealous to the utmost, that every precedent which had been favorable to the growing power of the Norse people, through their constitution, should be jealously guarded. He insisted that their only safety and good lay in a demand for a fuller sovereignty of the people, and in their better education for such power. To him, therefore, the interest of his first visit and sojourn in the American Republic was not confined to his profession. He was from the first, and to the last, an earnest student of republican government and institutions.

His friend R. B. Anderson writes of him:—

Extremes meet. Ole Bull was at once the most perfect cosmopolitan
and the most zealous patriot. Having spent much of his time abroad
in the various European countries and in America, he had
thoroughly learned the peculiarities of all nationalities. He was
a keen observer. Mastering quickly the various European
vernaculars, and winning easily the hearts of the people, he
became conversant with the political and social questions that
agitate the different nations. He was earnest in proclaiming their
merits, but usually silent as to their faults. His face would
brighten at every evidence he found of progress toward freedom of
thought and the establishment of liberal governments in the
various monarchical countries of Europe.

Ole Bull’s best thoughts were given to his own country, to Norway.
During all the years of conquest in his profession, and all the
honors bestowed upon him in foreign lands, he never forgot his
dear “Gamle Norge.” He ever talked with loving tenderness of
Norway’s gray mountains. He was but four years old when the young
Norway was born. When he went out into the world the names Norway
and Norwegian were scarcely to be found in the European
vocabularies, these terms having previously been absorbed by
Denmark and Dane. With his fame and name, attention was everywhere
called to the fact that Norway had cast off the yoke of Denmark,
and asserted her right to exist as an independent nation; and when
people saw Ole Bull they said, “A land that can foster such sons
has an inalienable right to its independence.”

His name was now to become a household word through the length and breadth of the United States. At first circumstances seemed unfavorable. There were already two violinists in New York—Vieuxtemps, who was assisted by the famous singer Madame Damoreau, and Artot. The French, loyal to their countrymen, made a formidable opposition, and many difficulties had to be encountered. Ole Bull gave his first concert as early as the 23d of November. The contest between the parties continued with much vigor; the fact that not a Frenchman was present at the Norwegian’s first concert made it now a question between the French and Americans. The papers were filled with contributions in prose and in verse, witty epigrams, and cartoons. Victory soon inclined to Ole Bull. With his first concert, he won the good–will of the Americans, and ever afterwards held it. His audiences kept growing, until he was obliged to play in larger halls than were intended for concert purposes, and oftentimes many were unable to gain admission. The rapidity with which he traveled, and the frequency of his performances, were also remarkable. As an illustration of this, we will give a list of his concerts for the month of December, 1843. After appearing in New York again on the 29th of November, he gave the following concerts in December:—

December 1. Philadelphia.
„ 3. New York.
„ 5. New York.
„ 7. Philadelphia.
„ 9. Philadelphia.
„ 12. New York.
„ 15. Philadelphia.
„ 16. Philadelphia.
„ 18. New York.
„ 19. New York.
„ 21. Baltimore.
„ 23. Baltimore.
„ 25. Washington.
„ 26. Baltimore.
„ 27. Washington.
„ 28. Richmond.
„ 29. Petersburg.
„ 30. Richmond.

And up to 1879 many months of winter and spring, and sometimes nine months of a year, would show similar records of travel and work. It was not his fine physique alone that enabled him to bear the strain, but a rigid adherence to simple diet and habits, with an almost total abstinence from stimulants during the season of work, and constant exercise in the open air during the summer vacation in Norway. He doubtless traveled more miles and was heard by a larger number of people than any other man among his contemporaries.

Mrs. Child’s account of his New York concerts written for the _Boston Courier_, and published later in her “Letters from New York,” will be of interest. She did not speak from the judgment of a cultivated musical ear. She analyzed and expressed the effects of Ole Bull’s performance on the multitude.

In Mrs. Child’s first letter, she says:—

I have twice heard Ole Bull. I scarcely dare to tell the
impression his music made upon me. But, casting aside all fear of
ridicule for excessive enthusiasm, I will say that it expressed to
me more of the infinite than I ever saw, or heard, or dreamed of,
in the realms of Nature, Art, or Imagination.

They tell me his performance is wonderfully skillful; but I have
not enough of scientific knowledge to judge of the difficulties he
overcomes. I can readily believe of him, what Bettina says of
Beethoven, that “his spirit creates the inconceivable, and his
fingers perform the impossible.” He played on four strings at
once, and produced the rich harmony of four instruments. His bow
touched the strings as if in sport, and brought forth light leaps
of sound, with electric rapidity, yet clear in their distinctness.
He made his violin sing with flute–like voice, and accompany
itself with a guitar, which came in ever and anon like big drops
of musical rain. All this I felt as well as heard without the
slightest knowledge of _quartetto_ or _staccato_. How he did it, I
know as little as I know how the sun shines, or the spring brings
forth its blossoms. I only know that music came from his soul into
mine, and carried it upward to worship with the angels.

Oh, the exquisite delicacy of those notes! Now tripping and
fairy–like as the song of Ariel; now soft and low as the breath of
a sleeping babe, yet clear as a fine–toned bell; now high as a
lark soaring upward, till lost among the stars!

Noble families sometimes double their names, to distinguish
themselves from collateral branches of inferior rank. I have
doubled his, and in memory of the Persian nightingale have named
him Ole Bulbul....

When urged to join the throng who are following this star of the
North, I coolly replied: “I never like lions; moreover I am too
ignorant of musical science to appreciate his skill!” But when I
heard this man, I at once recognized a power that transcends
science, and which mere skill may toil after in vain. I had no
need of knowledge to feel this subtle influence, any more than I
needed to study optics to perceive the beauty of the rainbow. It
overcame me like a miracle, I felt that my soul was for the first
time baptized in music; that my spiritual relations were somehow
changed by it, and that I should henceforth be otherwise than I
had been. I was so oppressed with “the exceeding weight of glory”
that I drew my breath with difficulty.

As I came out of the building, the street sounds hurt me with
their harshness. The sight of ragged boys and importunate coachmen
jarred more than ever on my feelings. I wanted that the angels
that had ministered to my spirit should attune theirs also. It
seemed to me as if such music should bring all the world into the
harmonious beauty of divine order. I passed by my earthly home and
knew it not. My spirit seemed to be floating through infinite
space. The next day I felt like a person who had been in a trance,
seen heaven opened, and then returned to earth again.

This doubtless appears very excessive in one who has passed the
enthusiasm of youth, with a frame too healthy and substantial to
be conscious of nerves, and with a mind instinctively opposed to
lion–worship. In truth it seems wonderful to myself; but so it
was. Like a romantic girl of sixteen, I would pick up the broken
string of his violin and wear it as a relic, with a half
superstitious feeling that some mysterious magic of melody lay
hidden therein.

I know not whether others were as powerfully wrought upon as
myself; for my whole being passed into my ear, and the faces
around me were invisible. But the exceeding stillness showed that
the spirits of the multitude bowed down before the magician. While
he was playing, the rustling of a leaf might have been heard; and
when he closed, the tremendous bursts of applause told how the
hearts of thousands leaped up like one.

His personal appearance increases the charm. He looks pure,
natural, and vigorous, as I imagine Adam in Paradise. His
inspired soul dwells in a strong frame, of admirable proportions,
and looks out intensely from his earnest eyes. Whatever may be his
theological opinions, the religious _sentiment_ must be strong in
his nature; for Teutonic reverence, mingled with impassioned
inspiration, shines through his honest Northern face and runs
through all his music. I speak of him as he appears while he and
his violin converse together. When not playing there is nothing
observable in his appearance, except genuine health, the
unconscious calmness of strength in repose, and the most
unaffected simplicity in dress and in manner. But when he takes
his violin and holds it so caressingly to his ear to catch the
faint vibration of its strings, it seems as if “the angels were
whispering to him.” As his fingers sweep across the strings, the
angels pass into his soul, give him their tones, and look out from
his eyes, with the wondrous beauty of inspiration. His motions
sway to the music like a tree in the winds; for soul and body
chord. In fact “his soul is but a harp, which an infinite breath
modulates; his senses are but strings, which weave the passing air
into rhythm and cadence.”

If it be true, as has been said, that a person ignorant of the
rules of music, who gives himself up to its influence, without
knowing whence it comes or whither it goes, experiences, more than
the scientific, the passionate joy of the composer himself in his
moments of inspiration, then was I blest in my ignorance. While I
listened, music was to my soul what the atmosphere is to my body;
it was the breath of my inward life. I felt more deeply than ever
that music is the highest symbol of the infinite and holy. I
heard it moan plaintively over the discords of society, and the
dimmed beauty of humanity. It filled me with inexpressible longing
to see man at one with Nature and with God; and it thrilled me
with joyful prophecy that the hope would pass into glorious
fulfillment.

With renewed force I felt what I have often said, that the secret
of creation lay in music. “A _voice_ to light gave being.” Sound
led the stars into their places and taught chemical affinities to
waltz into each others’ arms.

“By one pervading spirit
Of tones and numbers all things are controlled;
As sages taught, where faith was found, to merit
Initiation in that mystery old.”

Some who never like to admit that the greatest stands before them
say that Paganini played the “Carnival of Venice” better than his
Norwegian rival. I know not. But if ever laughter ran along the
chords of musical instrument with a wilder joy, if ever tones
quarreled with more delightful dissonance, if ever violin
frolicked with more capricious grace than Ole Bulbul’s in that
fantastic whirl of melody, I envy the ears that heard it....

His reception in New York has exceeded all preceding stars. His
first audience were beside themselves with delight, and the
orchestra threw down their instruments in ecstatic wonder.
Familiarity with his performance brings less excitement, but I
think more pleasure.

From Richmond Ole Bull went to Charleston, and thence to New Orleans. He gave five concerts in that city at the same time that Vieuxtemps and Madame Damoreau were giving a series of soireés. The Spanish, English, and German papers rivaled the American in their friendly criticisms of his performances. After three concerts in Mobile, he returned again to New Orleans for two final concerts there.

An anecdote of one of his first Southern visits, told by the late Mr. Thomas R. Gould, the sculptor, is illustrative of his many curious adventures at that time. A large diamond in his violin bow, which had been given him by the Duke of Devonshire with the request that he should use it, had attracted the attention of a man, who came to him and told him that he wanted the stone. The violinist replied, that, as it was a gift, it had associations, and he could neither give it away nor sell it. “But I am going to have that stone!” said the man, as he began to draw his bowie knife from the collar of his coat; but the movement was parried by the musician’s muscular arm, and the fellow was felled to the floor by a blow with the edge of the hand across his throat. “The next time I would kill you,” said Ole Bull, with his foot on the man’s chest, “but you may go now.” On his release the fellow expressed his admiration for Ole Bull’s dexterity and muscle, and asked him to accept the bowie knife, which he had meant to use against him. This was not the only present of the kind he received—as five knives, four given him in the Southern States, and one in Spain, were kept among his curiosities at home, and sometimes drew from him a story of his adventures. He was often obliged, while in the South, to take the cash box, after his concerts, from one place to another, the banks being few and far between, and was finally warned by detectives of a gang of men who were following him for the sake of plunder. He had several encounters with them, and was more than once in serious danger. He writes at this time:—

My brave servant Henry watches over me as a father over a son. He
always fears that I may be attacked by villains; but I do not
think I am in danger from any weaponed hand.

One more story will sufficiently illustrate his Southern and Western adventures. Going down the Mississippi, he met on the steamboat a party of half–savage men, colonists from the far West. While reading his newspaper he was accosted by one of the men, who had been sent as spokesman by his companions, with the request that the fiddler would take a drink with them, offering him a whiskey flask at the same time. “I thank you,” said Ole Bull politely, “but I never drink whiskey.” With a curse, the fellow asked if he was a teetotaler. “No, but whiskey is like poison to me.” “If you can’t drink, come and fight then!” The man’s comrades had gathered round him meantime, and they all cried, “If you won’t drink, you must fight. You look d‑‑n strong; show us what you are good for.” “A Norseman can fight as well as anybody when his blood is up, but I can’t fight when my blood is cold, and why should I?” “You look like a strong fellow, and d‑‑n it, you shall fight.” Seeing no way of escape, Ole Bull quietly said, “Since you insist on testing my strength and there is no reason for fighting, I will tell you what I will do. Let any one of you take hold of me in any way he likes, and I’ll wager that in half a minute he shall lie on his back at my feet.” A big fellow was chosen, who stepped forward and grasped the violinist round the waist, but was instantly thrown over his head by a sudden wrench and lay senseless on the deck. Ole Bull now felt himself in a very uncomfortable position, for he saw one of the man’s comrades draw his bowie knife, but was relieved when it was used only to open a flask. A good dose of its contents poured down his throat soon revived the fainting man, and his first question, “How the devil was I thrown down here?” was answered by a shout of laughter from his companions, in which he himself joined. He sprang to his feet, and after vainly trying to persuade Ole Bull to show him how he had thrown him, he said: “Take this knife home with you; you fight d—d well; you are as quick as lightning!” The artist heard of the same fellow later as having gone to an editor to call him to account for an adverse criticism on his playing, ready to fight for “the strongest fiddler he had ever seen, anyhow!”

Ole Bull now decided to visit Cuba, and landed in Havana. He there wrote two compositions on Cuban motives: “Agiaco Cubano,” and “Recuerdos de la Habana,” which he played at his last concert.

He wrote to his wife from New Orleans, January 24, 1844:—

All these days we have had summer weather, very warm but extremely
damp; the atmosphere is very heavy, and my strings break
constantly.... Yesterday I gave my last concert in New Orleans for
this visit; I was overwhelmed with bouquets and flowers. I have
practiced speech–making, and it goes better than one would think,
as I have no facility in speaking English; but a firm will can
accomplish much.... The French are still pursuing me, that they
may hold up Vieuxtemps and Artot; they invent all manner of
outrageous stories to lower me in the public estimation, but as
yet without success. It is probable that these rumors will be
circulated in Paris, with the same end in view. Well, my dear,
one must bear much malice and misrepresentation when he has become
a public character, and you know I have already had my share; but,
at the same time, I have met with forbearance and generosity, and
this ought not to be forgotten. My life has hitherto, as you know,
been a most changeful one, and superhuman strength is sometimes
needed to enable one to stand against such infamous attacks
and—keep silence. But enough of this.... I am sorry you are not
satisfied with the nurse Miette; she is the only servant to whom I
feel really indebted for the care she has given our children, and
I believe that she loves us. Try to overlook little faults, which
are of no consequence; we must remember her good qualities, and
the attachment she has shown us in the past. Give her my
greetings, say that I am grateful for all the love she has shown
our children up to this time, and that I thank her for what I know
she will still do in the future.... My regards to the Vuillaumes.
Say that when I return I desire to play in Paris. They shall see
that I have not wasted my time during our separation....

He also wrote of Havana as follows:—

I was advised to be very careful; not to expose myself to the sun
or moonlight, to keep quiet after dinner, and to eat no fruit in
the evening. As I heeded this advice, I remained seven weeks in
Havana without an attack of the yellow fever or the diseases
raging there. I gave ten concerts, four in the principal theatre
and six in the immense Tacon Theatre. To show the inhabitants how
grateful I felt for their enthusiasm, I composed two pieces, in
which I introduced some of the most popular Cuban airs. I think
you will like them. I was much excited and nearly beside myself
when I composed and played them for a people so favored by nature
and climate. The fairy–like and beautiful climate of the tropics
surpasses all description. How strange to see an orchestra
composed almost without exception of negroes and mulattoes! Their
faces recorded the sentiments and passion of the music, at times
laughing, then weeping, and sometimes rolling their eyes in a
melancholy fashion, as they turned their good–natured
physiognomies to the audience, to their music stands, or towards
me. They are the best musicians in all America! In the “Polacca,”
which was demanded at nearly every concert, I was accompanied by
picked players from the seven regimental bands in Havana.

But suddenly a dangerous conspiracy was discovered among the
negroes; they had planned to poison all the whites on the island!
The owners of several sugar and coffee plantations were murdered
in the most barbarous manner; nobody dared to go out after dark;
the soldiers killed people in the streets without warning, nor
were they called to account for it. More than seven hundred
negroes were shot by order of the governor. I had engaged support,
and my expenses were four thousand francs a night. I considered
myself fortunate not to lose money in the circumstances. But who
could foresee such a catastrophe? I exerted all my strength in
that intense heat. I played with all possible animation, and truly
the enthusiasm of the Havanese paid me amply for my exertions!
They sent me many beautiful poems, and garlands enough to cover
the stage; one of the wreaths, with inscriptions, I have saved for
you, my beloved.... I shall work for you and our children, and do
all in my power to assure them a good education. This is a great
and sacred duty, which gives me strength to brave all danger. From
Havana I returned by sea to Charleston. I slept for a couple of
hours exposed to the sun, and the consequence was that my whole
body, a week after, was poisoned. My face was covered with a thick
crust, and I suffered very much; it was a miracle that I did not
die on the spot! But I treated myself with cold water, ate very
little, took cold baths and much exercise.... I pray you not to
have the least anxiety, since I am now well again.

From Charleston he went to Columbia and Norfolk, and thence by sea to Baltimore, giving concerts in each place. He then went direct to Boston, by way of New York, where Schubert (who had come with him from Hamburg as secretary) had him arrested for debt, though in reality Schubert was himself indebted to Ole Bull for the publication of his compositions. The arrest compelled Ole Bull to give security for $5,000, and brought upon him a troublesome lawsuit, which was not decided till 1852, and then in his favor. He never received from Schubert a penny of the sum promised him for his compositions, which passed through many editions. This attempted detention was intended to prevent the artist’s meeting his engagements in Boston, but it rather benefited than injured him, so far as the public was concerned. He gave his concerts in Boston in the “Melodeon,” which seated 2,000 persons, but the orchestra had to go on the stage to make room for more seats. The papers were filled with articles and anecdotes concerning his life and work. A visit which he made to a lady, too ill to attend his concerts, taking his violin and playing for her, was commented on; but to his countrymen at home, who knew how often he had done this, for the sick or poor, special mention of the incident seemed strange. The insane hospitals were often visited by him in the different cities, and he felt a real pleasure in seeing the delight that his playing gave the inmates.

No expression of thanks for a visit to the sick–room was ever more appreciative than the account written by Alice Cary of his coming one morning, after she was confined to her room during her last illness, and bringing the cheer and comfort of his voice and instrument. Her sensitive, beautiful face was radiant with a loving welcome, which kept bravely back the pain and weakness fast gaining the ascendency. Fearing that this was to be his last sight of her, he resolved that he would share and soothe one of the many hours of pain and apprehension, which those noble and lovely women were bearing so patiently. When he again visited this country, both Alice and Phebe Cary had passed away, leaving their friends how much the poorer for their loss!

Mrs. Mary Clemmer, in a letter recently received, says:—

My own first personal meeting with Ole Bull was at the house of
Alice Cary; indeed, on that special evening she invited him
expressly to give me the great pleasure of meeting him.

Before I saw him, she said: “In meeting Ole Bull I seem to renew
my entire youth; not merely the years of youth, but all the
freshness, fullness, rapturous sweetness of its impressions. I
have the feeling that should I stay in his presence I could never
grow old. It is many years since I have met any human being who
could arouse in me such emotions.”...

Recalling what the presence and music of Ole Bull were to Alice
Cary in her comparative health and fullness of life, you can
realize what they must have been to charm and uplift her spirit
when, wistfully dropping human loves, with pathetic grief, yet
with abiding faith, she stood at the very close of the valley of
shadows, listening to his seraphic strains, sweet to pain, yet
full of the promise and melody of heaven.

You may be sure, in the silence that came afterwards, _she_
breathed out her swan–song to him.

Of this first visit to Boston and the many things written concerning it, none were of more interest, perhaps, than this extract from Margaret Fuller’s private journal, written in March, 1844, and sent by a friend afterwards to the artist:—

At six o’clock William and C‑‑‑‑ came out with carriage to take me
to the Ole Bull concert. The music this evening plunged me in
anguish, and raised me to rapture. The “Mountains of Norway,” and
the “Siciliano e Tarantella” were the great pieces. The last is
unlike anything I ever heard, and _how_ he looked when he played
it! When encored, he played, among other things, “On the Lake
where drooped the Willow,” and again, “The Last Rose of Summer.”
He loves that as I do. I could not sleep at all, and went up to
C.’s room and wrote.

Evening. Ole Bull again. I am extremely happy in him. He is one of
my kin....

He played to–night, first, “Recollections of Havana.” This begins
with a great swelling movement in the orchestra, and then his part
comes in like the under–song of thought. I do not know whether the
piece was fine or not. I soon forgot it, and was borne away into
the winged life. Being encored, he played “The Last Rose of
Summer,” and modulated into “Auld Robin Gray.” These sweet simple
strains of human tenderness become celestial in his violin; their
individual expression is more, not less, definite by being thus
purified. Next, a “Notturno Amoroso,” and, being encored, the
“Adagio Religioso.” Both were enchanting. I felt raised above all
care, all pain, all fear, and every taint of vulgarity was washed
out of the world!

From Boston he went to the chief towns of New England, New York, and Canada, returning to Bristol, R. I., for rest in the months of August and September. He there wrote down his musical thoughts of Niagara. He had spent many days at the falls at different times, and saw them in all lights—in sun and storm. One evening great forest fires added their blaze and glare to the silvery shimmer of the moonlit rapids, and the lurid light with the grand rush and roar of the waters made a deep impression upon him. His enjoyment was heightened during that visit by the society of Mr. George Ticknor and his family, whom he happened to meet there. He had already been hospitably received by Mr. Ticknor in Boston, and the notes of invitation preserved among his papers show that their intercourse at Niagara was of the same pleasant nature. The last winter he spent in Boston, when he again visited this house, so famous for its generous hospitality, and was kindly welcomed by the venerable hostess, grateful recollections of the eminent man and scholar, who had done so much to make him at home when a stranger, crowded upon his memory.

While in Bristol Ole Bull had received a letter from the directors of the Musical Fund Society in Philadelphia, in which they asked him to appear at their first concert for the season, and expressed the hope that he would make his terms as moderate as possible, as their object was to start a fund for the support of poor musicians. He returned a letter of thanks, and said “his only remuneration should be the honor of assisting so highly esteemed a society in its noble efforts.” When they received this answer they resolved to strike a medal in his honor, and it was presented to him at the close of the concert.

The “Niagara,” which he played for the first time in New York that winter of 1844, was disappointing to the general public, while the criticisms were favorable. It gradually came more into favor, and was well received on its first performance in Philadelphia. Another composition, “The Solitude of the Prairies,” won a more immediate popular success, and had to be played at nearly every concert. A religious composition, “David’s Psalm,” was also much liked.

N. P. Willis wrote as follows of the “Niagara”:—

We believe that we have heard a transfusion into music—not of
“Niagara,” which the audience seemed _bona–fide_ to expect, but of
the _pulses of a human heart at Niagara_. We had a prophetic
boding of the result of calling the piece vaguely “Niagara,”—the
listener furnished with no “argument” as a guide through the
wilderness of “treatment” to which the subject was open. This
mistake allowed, however, it must be said that Ole Bull has,
genius–like, refused to misinterpret the voice within him—refused
to play the charlatan, and “bring the house down”—_as he might
well have done by any kind of “uttermost,” from the drums and
trumpets of the orchestra_.

The emotion at Niagara is all but mute. It is a “small, still
voice” that replies within us to the thunder of waters. The
musical mission of the Norwegian was to represent the insensate
element _as it was to him_—to a human soul, stirred in its seldom
reached depths by the call of power. It was the _answer_ to
Niagara that he endeavored to render in music—not the _call_!

After his December concerts in New York Ole Bull returned to Boston, where he gave several concerts, and revisited some of the New England towns. He then returned to New York, to give his last concert in that city for the season, at the Tabernacle, to an audience of 3500 people.

The criticisms from the papers of that date would be pronounced as extravagant as Mrs. Child’s letters, while her accounts are more vividly descriptive of the intense excitement which prevailed. Another quotation from her is therefore given—from the letter dated December 24, 1844:—

You ask me for my impressions of Ole Bull’s “Niagara.”
It is like asking an Æolian harp to tell what the great organ of
Freyburg does. But since you are pleased to say that you value my
impressions because they are always my own, and not another
person’s—because they are spontaneous, disinterested, and
genuine,—I will give you the tones as they breathed through my
soul, without anxiety to have them pass for more than they are
worth....

Grand as I thought “Niagara” when I first heard it, it opened upon me with increasing beauty when I heard it repeated. I then observed many exquisite and graceful touches, which were lost in the magnitude of the first impression. The multitudinous sounds are bewildering in their rich variety.

“The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep.”
“The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the rocky heights,
And dark recesses of the caverned rocks;
The little rills, and waters numberless,
Blend their notes with the loud streams.”

There is the pattering of water–drops, gurglings, twitterings, and little gushes of song.

“The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if, with pipes and music rare,
Some ROBIN GOODFELLOW were there,
And all the leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.”

It reminded me of a sentence in the “Noctes Ambrosianæ,” beautifully descriptive of its prevailing character: “It keeps up a bonnie wild musical sough, like that o’ swarming bees, spring–startled birds, and the voices of a hundred streams, some wimpling awa’ ower the Elysian meadows, and ithers roaring at a distance frae the clefts.”

The sublime waterfall is ever present with its echoes, but present in a calm, contemplative soul. One of the most poetic minds I know, after listening to this music, said to me: “The first time I saw Niagara, I came upon it through the woods, in the clear sunlight of a summer’s morning; and these tones are a perfect transcript of my emotions!” In truth, it seems to me a perfect disembodied poem; a most beautiful mingling of natural sounds with the reflex of their impressions on a refined and romantic mind. This serene grandeur, this pervading beauty, which softens all the greatness, gave the composition its greatest charm to those who love poetic expression in music; but it renders it less captivating to the public in general than they had anticipated. Had it been called a Pastorale composed within hearing of Niagara, their preconceived ideas would have been more in accordance with its calm, bright majesty.

She also mentions his “Prairie Solitude,” and says:—

A friend acquainted with prairie scenery said it brought vividly
before her those “dream–like, bee–sung, murmuring, and musical
plains.”

Many who have hitherto been moderate in their enthusiasm about Ole
Bull recognize in these new compositions more genius than they
supposed him to possess. Tastefully intertwined Fantasias, or
those graceful musical garlands, Rondos, might be supposed to
indicate merely a pleasing degree of talent and skill. But those
individuals must be hard to convince who do not recognize the
presence of genuine inspiration in the earnest tenderness of the
“Mother’s Prayer,” that sounds as if it were composed at midnight,
alone with the moon; in the mad, wild life of the “Tarantella”; in
the fiery, spirit–stirring eloquence of the “Polacca Guerriera”;
in the deep spiritual melody of the “Prairie Solitude”; and in the
serene majesty of “Niagara.”

If I appear to speak with too much decision, it is simply because
my own impressions are distinct and strong, and I habitually utter
them alike without disguise and without pretension. In the
presence of mere skill, I know not what to say. It may please me
somewhat; but whether it is more or less excellent than some other
thing I cannot tell. But bring me into the presence of genius, and
I know it by rapid intuition as quick as I know a sunbeam. I
cannot tell how I know it. I simply say, This is genius, as I say,
This is a sunbeam.

It is an old dispute, that between genius and criticism, and
probably will never be settled, for it is one of the manifold
forms of conservatism and innovation. In all departments of life,
genius is on the side of progress, and learning on the side of
established order. Genius comes a Prophet from the future to guide
the age onward. Learning, the Lawgiver, strives to hold it back
upon the past. But the Prophet always revolutionizes the laws, for
thereunto was he sent. Under his powerful hand, the limitations
gradually yield and flow, as metals melt into new forms at the
touch of fire.

“Over everything stands its dæmon, or soul,” says Emerson; “and
as the _form_ of the thing is reflected to the eye, so is the
_soul_ of the thing reflected by a melody. The sea, the mountain
ridge, Niagara, superexist in precantations, which sail like odors
in the air; and when any man goes by with ears sufficiently fine,
he overhears them, and endeavors to write them down without
diluting or depraving them.” Thanks to “old, ever–young Norway,”
she has sent us her finely–organized son, to overhear the voices
and echoes, and give them to us in immortal music....

America, in taking the Norwegian minstrel thus warmly to her
heart, receives more than she can give. His visit has done, and
will do, more than any other cause to waken and extend a love of
music throughout the country; and where love exists, it soon takes
form in science. All things that are alive are born of the heart.

From New York and Brooklyn he went to Philadelphia, and then, after visiting Louisville and Wilmington, he returned to New Orleans, where he gave five concerts in the Great Armory Hall.

While in New Orleans, he gave a banquet to his friends at the St. Charles Hotel. Late in the evening a stranger was announced, who had just arrived from Europe, Mr. Alexander, the prestidigitateur. He was cordially received by Ole Bull. Alexander soon suggested to his host that it would give him pleasure to entertain the company with some of his tricks, if, in return, he might hear Ole Bull play. After he had astonished the company with his sleight–of–hand marvels, he turned to Ole Bull and asked to see the silver medal presented him in Philadelphia. On opening the case it was found to contain only a piece of lead; and when the violin was taken from its case, the strings were found broken, and the instrument cracked as it was lifted out. Ole Bull turned pale, as he feared his own instrument had been tampered with, but soon discovered that both his violin and medal were safe. He played far into the night for his friends, who insisted that they had not heard him do so well in public.

During the spring and summer months concerts were given in every place of note in the Mississippi Valley. The Mammoth Cave in Kentucky was also visited. At one point in the cave the artist was too venturesome, and his rashness nearly cost him his life. He had gone on in advance of the guide, and was near falling into one of the subterranean rivers, his light being extinguished as he crawled through an opening which at one point seemed too narrow to permit of his going forward or retreating. Fortunately, he had scaled the narrow ledge in the darkness, and was quite unconscious of the chasm on the verge of which he had been creeping till lights were brought, when he found that one false move would have precipitated him into the depths. He played in the cave, and the music had a weird, unearthly sound, as it was echoed through those eerie, uncanny chambers.

In St. Louis the only concert hall belonged to a private gentleman. It was lighted by oil lamps, as gas had not been introduced. A local paper relates the following incident:—

The hall was crowded by the élite of this old French city; the
audience was enjoying the last encore, when a sudden draught from
an open window extinguished one of the lamps, which, smoking and
spluttering, sent a puff of smoke and soot over Ole Bull’s face
and person. Absorbed in his performance, he did not notice what
had happened, but having finished, and taken out his pocket
handkerchief to wipe his forehead, alas!—what a change was there
in the appearance of poor Ole! His face was black, his pocket
handkerchief, his hands, his violin—all black! Looking at his
violin, he exclaimed, “My poor fiddle, I am _so_ sorry for you!”

In October, 1845, Ole Bull returned to New York and Boston, to give a series of concerts before his departure for Europe. The knowledge that he was so soon to leave the country made the rush for places greater than ever. A new composition, to the “Memory of Washington,” a descriptive piece, was much liked then, and was found to be effective when played the last time in 1876, in Boston. On the 30th of October he gave his last concert in New York, in the Broadway Tabernacle, to an audience of more than 4000 people. The proceeds were given by the artist to a fund for the widows and orphans of Masons. During the intermission between the parts of the programme, he was presented with the regalia of the Masons of the State of New York. The Secretary concluded his long presentation speech with, “You will be followed by the ‘mother’s prayer’ and the warm gratitude of the fatherless.... The world will learn that the strongest bond is the union of free and honest men in the indissoluble tie of brotherly love.”

The warmth of feeling shown by the audience, in response to the words spoken, deeply touched Ole Bull. He said in a low voice:—

“My homage to the memory of Washington is not mine alone; it is the homage of the whole Norse folk that is heard through me. The principles for which this people drew the sword and shed their blood inspired the Norwegians, and strengthened them in their struggle for independence. The admiration of the Norsemen for American institutions and for their great founder was early implanted in my breast, and admiration for Washington and love of liberty were indelibly impressed upon the tablets of my heart.”

In November he gave concerts in Philadelphia and Baltimore, and was just preparing to leave America when he received a letter signed by the principal musicians of New York, requesting him to visit that city once more before he left. He consented to do so, and appointed the 26th of November for the concert, to which he invited all the inmates of the New York Asylum for the Blind, by the following letter:—

ASTOR HOUSE, N. Y., _November 18, 1845_.

MY FRIENDS!—I have heard that many of you are fond of music. In a
few days I am to leave America, and if I, before my departure,
could afford you some pleasure, it would be to me a pleasant thing
to remember. If, therefore, all of you, pupils and teachers, will
come and hear me next Wednesday, I will do my best to entertain
you. It would be my greatest desire to be able for a moment to
make you forget that you are unable to enjoy the beauty of the
flowers.

Your sympathetic friend,
OLE B. BULL.

To the Members of the Asylum for the Blind.

This invitation was accepted, and the house was filled two hours before the performance began. Among the manifestations of regard he received from the great audience must be mentioned a song written for the occasion and sung by a choir of the pupils from the Blind Asylum, after an address of thanks. From his first appearance in the country to the last, he was welcomed with more than cordiality and kindness. He left the shores of the New World feeling that his love of liberty and republican government was strengthened, though he could not help recognizing their unequal distribution in the United States. Slavery could not but be hateful to him; its evil effects on the whites seemed to him as apparent as on the blacks.

He wrote to his wife November 30, 1845:—

Soon after you receive these lines you will have me with you. I
leave Wednesday, December 3, on the Baltimore for Havre. There are
several reasons for my preference to go by a sailing vessel.
First, its movements are much pleasanter; you haven’t the smoke or
jar of the machinery. I shall, too, avoid unpacking my cases in
England; and lastly, I need some rest after my exertions and late
hours. I have been greatly benefited by my intercourse with noble
and distinguished men and women here. My relation to the Americans
is that of an adopted son.... My farewell concerts in Boston, in
Philadelphia, and especially in New York, were remarkable for the
regret which the people expressed at my departure, and I was
deeply touched.

The _New York Herald_ wrote as follows of his American visit:—

The unparalleled enthusiasm awakened by him everywhere and his
popularity in every city were most remarkable.
He gave his first concert in New York in the Park Theatre, and the
house was crowded; with the same success he gave six more in the
same hall. Then by the advice of his friends he went to the
Tabernacle, which seats 4000 people, and here too he had a full
house. On one occasion he played to 7000 people for the American
Institute in Niblo’s Garden.

From New York, Ole Bull traveled through the United States and Canada and a part of the West Indies, and everywhere called forth the same tremendous enthusiasm and overwhelming joy. He traveled in these countries more than 100,000 miles, and played in every city of importance. From his first landing till his departure he gave over 200 concerts, of which some netted him only $200, while others, as for instance those in New York, netted him over $3000. Estimating them as low as $400 on the average, his concerts must have given him a profit of $80,000. Besides he contributed more than $20,000 by concerts to charitable institutions, and to artists who assisted him he paid $15,000.