On this coast has Ole Bull, from childhood, heard the waves roar their mighty ba.s.s to the shrill soprano of the winds, and has seen it all subside into sunflecked, rippling silence. There, in view of lofty mountains, seacircled sh.o.r.es, and calm, deep, blue fjords, shut in by black precipices and tall green forests, has he listened to "the fresh mighty throbbings of the heart of Nature."

Had he lived in the sunny regions of Greece or Italy, instead of seagirt Norway, with its piledup mountains, and thundering avalanches, and roaring waterfalls, and glancing auroras, and the shrill whispering of the northern wind through broad forests of pines, I doubt whether his violin could ever have discoursed such tumultuous life, or lulled itself to rest with such deepbreathing tenderness.

I know not what significance the Nordmen have in the world's spiritual history; but it must be deep. Our much boasted AngloSaxon blood is but a rivulet from the great Scandinavian sea. The Teutonic language, "with its powerful primeval words-keys to the being of things"-is said by the learned to have come from the East, the source from which both light and truth dawned upon the world. This language has everywhere mixed itself with modern tongues, and forms the bone and nerve of our own. To these Nordmen, with their deep reverence, their strong simplicity, their wild, struggleloving will, we owe the invention of the organ, and of Gothic architecture. In these modern times, they have sent us Swedenborg, that deep inseeing prophet, as yet imperfectly understood, either by disciples or opponents; and Frederika Bremer, gliding like sunwarmth into the hearts of many nations; and Thorwaldsen, with his serene power and majestic grace; and Beethoven, with aspirations that leap forth beyond the "flaming bounds of time and s.p.a.ce;" and Ole Bull, with the primeval harmonies of creation vibrating through his soul in infinite variations. Reverence to the Nordmen; for a.s.suredly their strong free utterance comes to us from the very _heart_ of things....

Wordsworth thus describes the young maiden, to whom Nature was "both law and impulse:"-

"She shall lean her ear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And Beauty, born of murmuring sound, Shall pa.s.s into her face."

The engraved likeness of Ole Bull often reminds me of these lines.

It seems listening to one of his own sweet strains of melody, pa.s.sing away, away,-and vanishing into the common air, fine as the mist scattered afar by the fountains. The effect, thus transmitted in form by the artist, reproduces its cause again; for, as I look upon it, a whirling spray of sound goes dancing through my memory, to the clink of fairy castanets. When I look at Domenichino's "c.u.maean Sibyl," and Allston's wonderful picture of the "Lady Hearing Music," my soul involuntarily listens, and sometimes hears faint, wandering strains of melody....

This spiritual expression of music is heard in very different degrees by different people, and by some not at all. One man remarked, as he left Ole Bull's concert, "Well, there is no such thing as getting a dollar's worth of music out of a fiddle, in three hours." Of the same concert, a man of thorough musical science, and deep feeling for his musical art, writes to me thus: "Ole Bull has certainly impressed me as no man ever impressed me before. The most glorious sensation I ever had was to sit in one of his audiences, and feel that all were elevated to the same pitch with myself. My impulse was to speak to every one as to an intimate friend. The most indifferent person was a living soul to me. The most remote or proud I did not fear or despise. In that element they were all accessible, nay, all worth reaching. This surely was the highest testimony to his great art and his great soul."

An eloquent writer, who publishes under the fict.i.tious signature of "John Waters," describes his first impressions of Liszt's pianoplaying, with an enthusiasm that would doubtless seem very ridiculous to many who listened to the same sounds. He says that, "with blow after blow upon the instrument with his whole force, he planted large columnar ma.s.ses of sound, like the Giant's Causeway.

The instrument rained, hailed, thundered, moaned, whistled, shrieked round those basaltic columns, in every cry that the tempest can utter in its wildest paroxysms of wrath.... Then we were borne along, through countless beauties of rock and sky and foliage, to a grotto, by the side of which was a fountain that seemed one of the Eyes of the Earth, so large and darkly brilliant was it, so deep and so serene. Here we listened to the voices rather than the songs of birds, when the music by degrees diminished and ceased."

A lady to whom he spoke of the concert acknowledged that the sounds had brought up very similar pictures to her soul; but probably not ten of the large audience listened in such a spirit.

That it was thus received by _any_, shows that it was _in_ the music, whether the composer was aware of it or not; and genius only can produce those magical effects, even on a few.

To Him who made the ear a medium of pleasure to the soul, I am humbly grateful for delight in sweet sounds; and still more deeply am I grateful that the spiritual sense of music is more and more opened to me. I have joy in the consciousness of growth, as I can imagine a flower might be pleased to feel itself unfolding and expanding to the sunlight. This _expressiveness_ of music no man ever revealed to me like Ole Bull, and therefore, in my joy and grat.i.tude, I strive, like a delighted child, to bring all manner of garlands and jewels wherewith to crown his genius.

Here is a wreath of wild flowers to welcome his return:-

Welcome to thee, Ole Bull!

A welcome warm and free!

For heart and memory are full Of thy rich minstrelsy.

'Tis music for the tuneful rills To flow to from the verdant hills; Music such as first on earth Gave to the Aurora birth.

Music for the leaves to dance to; Music such as sunbeams glance to; Treble to the ocean's roar, On some old resounding sh.o.r.e.

Silvery showers from the fountains; Mists unrolling from the mountains; Lightning flashing through a cloud, When the winds are piping loud.

Music full of warbling graces, Like to birds in forest places, Gushing, trilling, whirring round, Mid the pinetrees' murm'ring sound.

The martin scolding at the wren.

Which sharply answers back again, Till across the angry song Strains of laughter run along.

Now leaps the bow with airy bound, Like dancer springing from the ground, And now like autumn wind comes sighing, Over leaves and blossoms dying.

The lark now singeth from afar Her carol to the morningstar, A clear soprano rising high, Ascending to the inmost sky.

And now the scattered tones are flying, Like sparks in midnight darkness dying; Gems from rockets in the sky, Falling-falling-gracefully.

Now wreathed and twined-but still evolving Harmonious oneness in revolving; Departing with the faintest sigh, Like ghost of some sweet melody.

As on a harp with golden strings, All nature breathes to thee, And with her thousand voices sings The infinite and free.

Of beauty she is lavish ever; Her urn is always full; But to our earth she giveth never Another Ole Bull.

Mrs. Botta's poem is ent.i.tled

A FAREWELL TO OLE BULL.

There was a fountain in my heart Whose depths had not been stirred; A thirst for music in my soul My ear had never heard;

A feeling of the incomplete To all bright things allied; A sense of something beautiful, Unfilled, unsatisfied.

But, waked beneath thy masterhand, Those trembling chords have given A foretaste of that deep, full life That I shall know in heaven.

In that resistless spell, for once, The vulture of unrest, That whets its beak upon my heart, Lies charmed within my breast.

Pale Memory and flushed Hope forget; Ambition sinks to sleep; And o'er my spirit falls a bliss So perfect that I weep.

Oh, stranger! though the farewell notes Now on the breeze may sigh, Yet, treasured in our thrilling hearts, Their echo shall not die.

Thou'st brought us from thy Northern home Old Norway's forest tones, Wild melodies from ancient lands, Of palaces and thrones.

Take back the "Prairie's Solitude,"

The voice of that dry sea Whose billowy breast is dyed with flowers, Made audible by thee.

Take back with thee what ne'er before To Music's voice was given, The anthem that "Niagara" chants Unceasingly to heaven;

The spirit of a people waked By Freedom's battle cry; The "Memory of their Washington,"

Their song of victory.

Take back with thee a loftier fame, A prouder niche in art, Fresh laurels from our virgin soil, And take-a nation's heart!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The wife and children of Ole Bull awaited his coming in Paris. His letters make frequent mention of his children, for whom he had many pet names, and he delighted to tell his friends about them. In one of his last letters from New York he said:-

I have dreamed of Alexander and Thorvald, and my soul is filled with grief-for they would not recognize me.... I must play tomorrow, and this kills one.[14] I shall soon come to you myself, and you will hear more from my own lips than I will trust to this cold paper.

[14] He had just heard of the death of their youngest son.

It is easy to imagine the pleasure of the meeting,-and also the pain, since he could not yet feel that his independence was sufficiently secured to justify him in giving up his professional tours. He had not received the proportion of the returns from his two years' work that was fairly his due. He had left, as he habitually did, his business settlements till the last moment, and often trusted his funds in what proved to be unsafe hands. As a consequence, he was still obliged to think of the pecuniary results of his work.

In the spring of 1846 he appeared several times in Paris, and on the 19th of April he gave a concert at the Italian Opera. The following is an extract from an advance notice in the _Corsaire Satan_, of the 15th of April:-

Each year public opinion, having fluttered about for a time, at last settles upon an artist, who, to use an English phrase, becomes the lion of the season. This happy advantage has been accorded this year to Ole Bull. After the extraordinary success which he had attained at Roger's entertainments, he could not leave Paris without giving a grand concert at the Theatre Italien. This is a custom made fashionable by Liszt, Thalberg, Madame Pleyel,-in fact, by all great artists; a fashion which some lesser stars with more boldness than success have followed. Ole Bull was not too sanguine in regard to his strength, for all the tickets are already sold. This part of the problem has been solved; to solve the other half he only needs to play, as he has done at the Grand Opera, and the Opera Comique, and his victory will be both brilliant and complete.... Ole Bull's violin does not pipe and shriek like those of some of his confreres, who whine when they pretend to sing; his bow really possesses something magic and inspired. It is the human voice in its most exalted expression.

The following criticism of the performance, by P. A. Fiorentino, appeared in _Le Const.i.tutionnel_ for the 22d of April:-

Ole Bull has given a grand concert at the Theatre Italien. All the Norse courage and daring was needed in venturing to offer the public a very battle of five violin pieces. What fire and what power! But a favorable result justifies the greatest rashness, and Ole Bull, in the course of the evening, showed us that he was not oversanguine in regard to his powers. He first played variations of a diabolic difficulty and originality on Bellini's aria: "L'amo, ah, l'amo, e m'e piu cara." It was as if the spirits of h.e.l.l, sunk in dark despair, must love and long for the light of heaven. Paganini's "Carnival," which, as by magic, carries us to _Via del Corso_, in the very midst of the ringing laughter and joyful abandon of the Maccolettians, was repeated at the emphatic demand of the audience. "A Mother's Prayer," composed by the artist beneath the quiet arches of the cloister of Santa Maria, is a great and severe piece, full of mystic tenderness and religious warmth. Finally, the "Polacca Guerriera," which we had twice heard before, seemed to us more and more to merit the enthusiastic reception the public is everywhere giving it. Ole Bull sang splendidly last night. He was applauded and recalled so many times, that he might have believed himself in Venice, Florence, or Naples.

In May Ole Bull was playing in Bordeaux, to the rapturous applause of that city. Before his departure, he gave a banquet at the Hotel de la Paix, to which the _Courrier de la Gironde_ refers as follows:-