Ole Bull Part 27

BY BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUe.

[From his Preface to his "Selected Works," where he introduces it as "a song of salutation to one who, honored by me as master, is not less dear to me as a man" (Tracy's translation).]

Profoundly dreamt a youth on Norland waste; But no-it is not waste where fairy rings Reflect the past as well as future things, When love and woe in boding tones are drest.

They greeted him, they kissed him, and retreated; They left for him an instrument of sound, Whose forceful strings with highest deeds could bound, And yet with childish frolics be entreated.

He wakes-the gift he seizes, comprehending Its sweet mysterious pleasure how to prove, And pours it forth in pure harmonious blending.

O mayst thou, ever victor, joyful move, Thou Northland sailor, on life's voyage wending, Conscious of G.o.d within thee and above.

ON HEARING OLE BULL IN 1879.

BY PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

What note is this of infinite appeal That wakes beneath thy hand's inspired control?

Is it a prayer from man's most secret soul To the dim G.o.ds Death only can reveal,- Whose hands we know can wound, yet trust may heal?

Hark, now, for 'twixt the prayer and the prayer's goal, From far away, beyond where planets roll, Something I hear, or something subtly feel:

Down all the deep, untraveled, starwatched way, Faint as a wind at dawn of a June day, Comes a divine response: Ah! now 'tis here.

Lo! prayer is turned to pa.s.sionate triumphing, And in thy music's moonthrilled atmosphere My soul drinks deep of some immortal spring.

OLE BULL.

BY JULIA R. ANAGNOS.

There's a fairy in the violin, A Norse imprisoned fay; She struggles in her master's arms, And fain would flit away.

But, like the bird whose prison pours Song's gold upon the air, Stretching our Northern frostframed walls To Southern forests rare,

The gentle chord that binds her breaks The fetters of our care; The song of her captivity Makes all our lives more fair.

O gentle Fairy! Lead the way Through realms of fiction sweet, The cradles of Sicilian day, The NorthKing's halls of sleet.

The whirlwind and the icy blast Meet in thy captive wail; Flowers and gems are round thee cast, Flung from thy forehead pale;

But, though we glean a golden glow From the sweet spirit's strife, Say, is it fair to hold her so, A prisoner for life?

O Master, set the fairy free!

End her poetic pain: Nay, tastes she but the common air, She'll soon fly home again!

IN MEMORY OF OLE BULL.

[ON BOARD THE CITY OF CHESTER, APRIL, 1881.]

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

Strong as a Viking of his own proud North He trod this deck, two little years ago- A kinglier man, or one of n.o.bler worth, Nor his nor any land shall ever know- So brave, so good, so simple and sincere, That but to know him was to hold him dear.

The most alive of any man on earth, His soul on fire with love for all things true, Anointed music's highpriest from his birth, A reed heaven's voices seemed to whisper through, Shaken at times by their tumultuous sweetness, Then hushed with calm of some divine completeness.

To hear his music was to see strange things- To enter bright far worlds of love and light- To know how star with star forever sings, Or weep for deeds that may not be undone And souls in bondage to some evil fate, With ungirt loins, and lips that cry, "Too late!"

Thus in his strain the depths of all men's hearts He sounded-he whom all men loved- Then left us, as some gracious guest departs For whom a higher mansion waits, and proved, By the great s.p.a.ce left vacant, what his worth To us, who see his face no more on earth.

But yet he is not dead. Tonight I hear The old strain steal across the April sea; Almost I fancy 'tis himself draws near, So much the face of life wears memory- When I recall him in those days gone by, I know he was too full of life to die.

FROM PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON.

The following, from Mr. Hamerton's "Thoughts about Art," is an appropriate commentary on the advice that Ole Bull used to give the artist, "Play little, and think much:"-

Thus it is said that Ole Bull, the celebrated Norwegian violinist, arrived at his most wonderful effects less by manual practice than meditation. He practiced less and thought more than other violinists. This is quite in keeping with his reflections after hearing Paganini. Ole Bull actually sold his last s.h.i.+rt to hear the mighty master, and, having heard him, instead of saying like the crowd that nothing new was possible after that, began to seek after hitherto unknown effects that even Paganini had not discovered. Both these facts indicate clearly that Ole Bull was a musical transcendentalist, and his long retirement confirms it. A true transcendentalist dislikes publicity, and loves to cultivate himself in solitude.

FROM MR. LONGFELLOW.

[EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS.]

It seems hardly possible that I shall see that radiant face no more; and long, long shall I say

"O for the touch of a vanished hand And the sound of a voice that is still!"

Remarkable as Ole Bull was as an artist, he was no less so in his social intercourse. His nature was eminently sympathetic. He not only liked his friends, but he loved them. His manners were gentle and affectionate; his presence in a room filled it with suns.h.i.+ne.

It was said of the French author, Villemain, that when he spoke to a lady, you would think he was presenting her a bouquet. With equal truth might it be said of Ole Bull, so gracious was he and so amiable in his conversation.

OLE BULL.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

It is nearly forty years since I was first introduced to one of the most genial and delightful men I have ever chanced to know. I distinctly recall the sunny morning when I made Ole Bull's acquaintance and began a friends.h.i.+p that was never dimmed during all that long period. Years would intervene when I lost sight of him and knew nothing of his whereabouts, but when he returned from Norway or Italy or Russia, we came together as if we had never parted company for a day. Often when in Boston he made our home his resting place, and his advent was a delight to us all. He brought suns.h.i.+ne with him, and in the words of the old song-

"His very foot had music in 't, When he came up the stair."

His conversation had that indefinable flavor in it which we call _charm_, flowing on and on with indescribable magnetism. To hear him picture with glowing enthusiasm his home in Norway among the fjords, his early days while studying his art, his adventures in the capitals of Europe before his fame had been secured, his various voyages about the world, the celebrated men and women he had known in musical and social walks in every corner of the globe, was a neverfailing pleasure. Often, far into midnight, we sat and listened to his reminiscences of Paganini, Malibran, Rubini, Lablache, Liszt, and numerous other distinguished artists, and we never heeded the clock, when he was fairly warmed into enthusiasm by his exciting themes. Ole Bull was an _eloquent_ talker _par excellence_-one of the most vivifying companions I have ever been intimate with. I carried him one evening many years ago to a scientific club, and asked him to say something to its members about the construction and makers of the violin. When the president called upon him he modestly rose with the instrument in his hand, and discoursed in a conversational tone for half an hour, so captivating his auditors that they would not allow him to stop, although there were several other speakers on the evening's programme expecting to be heard. Every one was charmed, and to this day the memory of that exceptional appearance at the club is still recalled with the warmest interest.

Ole Bull was not a man of negations. His likings and dislikings were positive and not always settled by the wisest judgment, but his leaning was habitually toward the simplest and straightforward in all things.

He said to me once of a person I was inclined to have him like, "Yaas!

but he always seems to be behind a corner, peeping round when he should be in front!" He was a delightful mimic, not one of the ungenial, critical sort, but full of impulsive vivacity, eager to impart clear and dramatic impressions of character. No book of travels in the North of Europe ever conveyed to me so graphic a presentation of the manners and customs of the people as his personal sketches, acted out on the parlor floor, of the way in which the inhabitants in cities and villages danced and sang, marched in festive processions, held their fairs, ate their meals, and lived their daily lives. When he thought his voice was not conveying the impression he desired to impart, he would seize his violin and cause that to speak for him in the most picturesque and engaging manner.

He was a spiritualminded thinker, a sayer of deep things, as well as of witty and merry ones. No man had a finer sense of the mysteries of human life, or could discourse of them more earnestly. The love of liberty was a pa.s.sion with him, and when he chanted of Freedom his countenance was as of one inspired. It would be superfluous to repeat here what rapturous pleasure Ole Bull's music has afforded to hundreds of thousands in America during the many years he lived among us.

To me he was always a magician and I yielded to his skill whenever he chose to command me. He was an enchanter-a bright, eager, imaginative spirit. He was a companion, lovable, and unparagoned: his absence from those who knew him best can never be supplied.