NOTE. (continued 5)

Ole Bull had now taken his violin and given two powerful strokes to assure himself that it was in good condition after its dangerous journey. He then drew himself up to his full height, and let his penetrating glance wander along the horizon for a few moments, to scan the wonderful scene below. At his right lay the valley of the Nile with its bright green fields stretching into vanishing distances, the waves of that broad, majestic stream gleaming like molten silver; to the left lay great, boundless, golden deserts and the Libyan Mountains; before him, at his feet, he had the wide–spreading city of the khedive, with its minarets, domes, and palm–gardens, all bathed in the brilliant sunlight. Now he suddenly began to play a hymn of praise, as it seemed; it was like a cry of joy to the Fates who had vouchsafed him to stand there and to behold, with his own eyes, the magnificent picture, the goal of so many desires. Then he turned towards his home in the North, and began his own mountain–song, the “Saeterbesög”.... In the pure, calm air of this height,—the loftiest of all structures made by human hands,—the tones were so clear and penetrating, and at the same time so powerful, that we felt ourselves moved as by magic power and thrilled to our inmost souls; then, again, they wailed like soft maiden voices—it was the home longing, the cry to the Norway mountains; and then, again, we heard the hero’s song of triumph, proud of his beautiful fatherland.

As Uhland makes the Münster Tower shake when the young Goethe writes his name upon it,—

so those tones must have reverberated to the centre of this royal grave of six thousand years within the Pyramids. And that this beautiful, poetic moment should lack nothing, there rose, just as the master gave the last strokes of his bow, two majestic pelicans from the valley of the Nile, which swept with the silvery sheen of their wings towards the north, as if they would take the message of this happy event to Ole Bull’s home. The Bedouins, children of nature, who, during the playing, lay in a circle, motionless as fallen statues, sprang up when the master had finished, as if electrified, and shouted aloud and repeated “Allah! Allah!”

Thus Ole Bull had kept his promise. Returning to Cairo he telegraphed the king, and the next forenoon received the royal reply. The telegrams were as follows:—

“To King Oscar, Christiania, Norway,—

“According to my promise at Drotingholm, I played, on this my sixty–sixth birthday, on the top of Cheops’ Pyramid, in honor of Norway and its beloved king, my ‘Saeterbesög.’”

The king answered:—

“I thank you heartily for your telegram, and the queen and myself are rejoiced at all your successes.”

The artist’s singular journey to the Pyramids was soon known in Cairo, and the khedive, during an audience, complimented him on his courage and youthful strength. Ole Bull gave a concert at the Opera House, and harvested laurels, flowers, wreaths, and poems. His “Tarentella” and “Carnival of Venice” were especially admired. He played them with unwonted fire, accompanied as he was by the admirable Italian orchestra, under the leadership of his old friend Bottesini; but his Norse “Saeterbesög” was not heard again.

Ole Bull returned to America in time to visit the great Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia. Offers from managers came at once, desiring him to appear in concerts. He arranged with local managers in the principal cities, and he never assumed again the burden of his own concert company. His engagements were made on a new plan, which relieved him of all responsibility outside his own performances. The time had come when it seemed right that his own comfort and pleasure should be the first consideration. He played by contract never more than three times a week, and the hours for travel were limited. It is but just to mention in this connection that all the engagements filled from 1876 to 1880 were satisfactory as to the management and courtesy of the gentlemen who arranged for his concerts, and he had the pleasure of being associated with many distinguished artists.

He first appeared in Music Hall, Boston, and after an absence of six years the audience seemed most kindly determined to convince him of their warm welcome. As he entered they rose to their feet, and the applause was long continued. He gave that season, in Boston, nine concerts to crowded houses, and the great desire of the public to hear him so often was a surprise and a pleasure to him. One occasion should be specially mentioned.

The great interest which he felt in the recognition of the Norsemen’s discovery of America, not only in and for itself, but because it may have given a hint to Columbus, who visited Iceland, made Ole Bull desire to bring this subject before the people of Boston; and an invitation signed by many gentlemen, prominent in social, political, and literary circles, urging him to give one more concert, afforded him an opportunity of doing this. The matter was therefore talked over with friends, and subsequently a committee was appointed for the erection of a monument to Leif Ericsson, commemorative of the event.

It is hoped that this undertaking is to be carried out and completed in the near future. Ole Bull’s friends know how earnest he was in promoting it; and in Mr. Thomas G. Appleton, the chairman of the committee, he found a liberal and enthusiastic helper. Many others, beside his own countrymen, were interested in the plan, as will be seen from the remarks made by Rev. Edward Everett Hale at the concert, and reported below.

The concert was given in Music Hall, which was elaborately and tastefully decorated for the occasion. Mr. Curtis Guild, who introduced the artist, said:—

I have been deputed by his Excellency Governor Rice, his Honor Mayor Cobb, and other members of the committee, with whom I have the honor to be associated, to present to you one of whom it with truth may be said that he needs no introduction to a Boston audience.... From the commencement of his career in this country, when an entranced audience listened to his wonderful melody at the Melodeon, in May, 1844, to the present time, a period of more than thirty years, the citizens of Boston, more especially those of musical culture, have recognized Ole Bull as a great musical artist, and one whose composition and performance commanded the tribute that only true genius can exact....

Ole Bull’s reply in acknowledgment of his reception was thus reported in the Daily Advertiser:

Ladies and Gentlemen,—I see here among the audience stars of the first magnitude. Why should they address me? What am I that I can stand before this audience and address such stars as these? I am but an atom of failure in the universe; yet you are all united with me in that failure in that you have indorsed me. You belong to me and I belong to you. [Applause.] But to explain to you the relation in which I stand here, and the names you see about me [referring to the names Thorvald, Thorfinn, Leif, and Washington], and how they are connected together, I allow myself to say a few words. Everybody in this audience knows that in the year 984 Bjarne sailed to meet his father in Greenland. He was driven south, and after a long voyage came at last to a beautiful land, which he went back and reported he had seen. Fourteen years after, in 1000, his son, Leif Ericsson, took his ships and proceeded to seek that land; and he came along by Newfoundland and the coast of Nova Scotia, and further down to what he called Vineland, because he found vines there. He remained the fall and winter there, and then sailed back again to Iceland. Then two years after, his brother Thorvald went over and met his death near Martha’s Vineyard. In 1831 they discovered his body in armor. His body was taken to Boston, and the armor was analyzed, and they found it was the same metal that the Norsemen had used in the ninth and tenth centuries. It had the same ornaments they had used, so there could be no doubt to whom it belonged. But, unfortunately, the armor was lost by fire, and that calamity which we both share together was an atom of fate that clings to us. You lost the armor, but there was one who could give it to posterity, and I say, almost to eternity, and that was our illustrious star, Longfellow. [Applause.] It was given for him to do it in his “Skeleton in Armor.”

Now what connection has the name of Thorfinn to Washington? Washington not only belongs to the whole world of the present generation, for that would be little to say,—he belongs to all future generations. What you educate is not for you alone, but it is for the whole world. The name of Washington stands as the greatest pinnacle of glory. It signifies liberty, it signifies every thing that ennobles man. [Applause.] We find in the recent discoveries concerning his ancestors, that they came over in a ship, but that his ancestors’ name was Thorfinn. Well, Thorfinn is a Norwegian name, and it is not very easy to see how Thorfinn could be changed to Washington. But we see every day that strangers come here, and after some little time they change their names to some other taken from the new surroundings. We see it in Norway, often, that a man who has taken a new farm takes his name, not from the ancient farm but the new farm. And this is the connection of the ideas which prompted me to come here to–night and have the honor to reply to the memory of Washington and the memory of the Revolution, which delivered not only America from oppression, but the whole world. Now I beg leave to take my instrument in order to explain the rest.

After an account of the concert, during which the artist “seemed stirred, by the sympathy of his hearers, to a sympathy, intensity, and vividness of style unwonted even to himself,” the Advertiser continues:—

Near the close of the performance, the Rev. E. E. Hale rose in his place on the floor, and said he supposed it was known to every person present that the distinguished artist had spent almost the whole of his active life in knotting those ties which connected his country with ours. It was hoped that in some future time there would be erected a physical memorial to the early discoverers of whom he had spoken. It was the wish of those about him [Mr. Hale], at whose request he spoke, that Boston should not be behind in any expression of gratitude to him [Ole Bull] for his work, as well as in expressing interest in our Norse ancestors. He was sure he spoke the mind, not only of the audience, but of all New England, when he spoke of the interest with which he regarded his countrymen, whom they regarded as almost theirs. He remembered, although it was nearly forty years ago, when much such an audience as he saw about him cheered and applauded Edward Everett, when the early discoveries had just been made, and, when in one of the last of his public poems he expressed the wish that the great discoveries of Thorvald might be commemorated by Thorvald’s great descendant, the Northern artist, Thorwaldsen. The last words of that poem as it died upon the ear were,—

He, the speaker, thought it was a misfortune for New England that the great northern artist died before he could accomplish this wish. But New Englanders had never forgotten it, and had never forgotten their Norse ancestors. It was an enterprise which ought to engage Massachusetts men,—the preservation of a physical memorial of Thorvald, Leif, and Thorfinn,—and he suggested that the committee which had arranged the meeting should become a committee of New England, in conjunction with Mr. Appleton, to take this matter in special charge. Mr. Hale put a motion to this effect, and it was carried, and the committee constituted.

The holidays of that year were memorable. Thanksgiving found Ole Bull at the home of Professor Horsford in Cambridge, and he shared the Christmas cheer of Craigie House with the beloved poet; while on New Year’s Eve, he watched the old year out and the new in with a few friends in the library of James T. Fields.

In the early months of that year he made an engagement for thirty concerts with his friend, Mr. Maurice Strakosch. He first gave four concerts at Steinway Hall, in New York, and had the honor of being assisted by Madame Essipoff. The New York Herald, of March 4, 1877, said:—

Age seems to have been contented with scattering snow upon his head, leaving untouched the fire of his genius. The lithe and agile figure has lost none of its elasticity, and the nerves are as steady as in the noon–day of life. There is still the same nervous delicacy of touch and precision of execution, which, in the years gone by, charmed two continents and led the people of many lands in pleasant bondage after the car of the enchanting musician. The triumphs of to–day are destined to be no less great than those obtained in the past. Ole Bull, like a prince that had wandered from his own land and returned after a long absence, is restored to the throne he had abandoned by a delighted people; the memory of his great feats is not forgotten.

The New York audiences were remarkable for their size, as were those in the cities he visited east, south, and west. Miss Emma Thursby was now associated with him, and this first acquaintance with that great and charming artist resulted in a warm, personal friendship. The very last engagement Ole Bull filled was in conjunction with Miss Thursby, who was, he hoped, to accompany him to Norway, where he desired to present her himself to his countrymen; but, overtaken by the last fatal illness in England, he was so weak on reaching home that waiting friends were advised of the impossibility of even a visit. The following summer, Miss Thursby paid a most loving and tender tribute to her departed friend, by visiting Ole Bull’s birthplace to add her generous gift to the memorial his countrymen are to erect, and won for herself the admiration and the affection of the Northmen, as she had that of Ole Bull before.

The press notices are reminders of the large audiences of 1876, and the pleasure manifested at the efforts of the artists. In some places,—in Brooklyn and Philadelphia, for instance,—not only the audience–room was filled to overflowing, but hundreds of extra seats were placed upon the stage, while large numbers were turned away. Describing such a scene, the Philadelphia Press said:—

And when Ole Bull appeared, what a right royal shout of welcome he received! The wind waves almost could be felt, and the applause could be heard blocks away.... There is yet the delicacy of touch and the wondrous power that tells of genius without loss of lustre, and of the marvelous sympathetic instrumentation of his brightest years. Nardini’s Sonata was the first selection, and it was superbly played.... The concert throughout was a most brilliant success, and may fairly rank as one of the great events in the musical history of Philadelphia.

To the last, these great audiences welcomed Ole Bull in the Philadelphia Academy, under the able management of Mr. Pugh.

The entire season was to the violinist an enjoyable one, since he was in perfect health and condition for his work. He had time to see his friends and to visit them, playing, as he did, at intervals only. He renewed many of the intimacies he had formed on his first visits to this country, which incessant work in previous years had compelled him, against his wish, to drop; and he found that he was not only not forgotten, but even better loved than he had thought.

After finishing his series of concerts, and only three days before his departure for Europe, a request came, signed by many distinguished names in New York, asking for still another appearance. He played, on the evening before he sailed, in Booth’s Theatre, to a very full house, the stage and boxes being occupied by his friends. The artists were all inspired to do their best, and, after the “Ave Maria” of Gounod had been sung by Miss Thursby with Ole Bull’s obligato, the audience seemed more determined than ever to recall the artist and to demand familiar airs. After the sixth encore he made a little speech, but it was not until he had responded to the tenth recall, for which he had given, “We won’t go home till morning,” that the audience, with the last waving of handkerchiefs and cheers, said good–by. Later, at a little supper at the hotel, the paper written by Dr. Crosby (printed in the Appendix to this volume) was produced and read for the first time—a surprise to Ole Bull. This labor of love so generously given when it meant hours of toil to an already overworked physician, with illness at home, was the crowning kindness of the many showered upon him by loving friends. No man ever filled a larger place in Ole Bull’s heart than Professor R. Ogden Doremus, who was present, and had made Dr. Crosby known to the artist; and how he wished that he might carry the two with him to his own beloved Norway, when they bade him good–by the next morning on the deck of the steamer! He felt a concern for Dr. Crosby’s health which proved only too well founded, for in June came the sad news of his death, the result of overwork.

The Atlantic voyage was a rest in itself, for sea–sickness was unknown to Ole Bull, and he was a good person to cheer others who were unhappy on shipboard. The inevitable concert would be given the last evening of the voyage, and often on very stormy passages he had played to make others forget the fear and discomfort of the hour.

The summer of 1877 was quietly spent in Norway, and the winter was passed on the Continent in travel. In Brussels, among the friends who called on the artist was Vieuxtemps, then suffering from the effects of a paralytic stroke. When he would himself try Ole Bull’s instrument his poor, numb hand could not obey his will; and at last he exclaimed, as he handed it back, “’Tis no use, I cannot command my fingers!” His talk concerning style, composition, and virtuosity was most interesting, as were also the incidents of travel which he recalled. He said of Mendelssohn and Schumann, “Ils sont virtuoses parce qu’ils connaissent à fond leur art; ils sont virtuoses parce qu’ils sont de grands poètes. Ils le sont parce qu’ils ont le génie. Virtuosité, génie, sont deux termes à peu près synonymes, deux notions presque identiques.” Vieuxtemps’s indignation at the constant abuse of the term may be imagined.

Ole Bull had planned to go to Italy and Sicily for the winter, as he had long desired to revive and live over again the memories of his first visits to that sunny clime; but on his reaching Vienna in January, the time from week to week passed so delightfully, and old friends were so cordial, that all thought of going further south was given up. He had not intended to appear in public, and did so on a few occasions only. The general interest taken in his visit there and elsewhere by the press and the people surprised him. He busied himself while in Vienna with repairing violins for friends, with so much success that his acquaintances would urge him to direct the work on their instruments, which they wished adjusted according to his method, and he could seldom refuse such a request. It sometimes seemed as if he were happier at work on an old decrepit fiddle, which he saw could be restored, than when playing on his own superb instrument.

While in that city he celebrated with friends the birthday of Madame Mathilde Marchesi. Among the guests at the musical party was Madame Christine Nilsson, and the hostess told with pride of a telegram she had just received from her favorite pupil, Gerster, whose brilliant success in America she predicted.

Nilsson recalled how when a little girl she had been admitted by the stage–door to one of Ole Bull’s concerts in Sweden, and how, while the artist stood talking to a friend, she had asked to look at his violin, which he left in her hands when called away for a moment. On venturing to draw the bow she found to her delight that it “almost played itself.”

The courtesy of Mr. Joseph Hellmesberger, Kapelmeister, with whom the artist played in public, was an incident of his stay which he remembered with much pleasure.

A visit was made to Pesth, where each day was sure to bring a charming note or thoughtful message from Liszt, whose kindly face often looked in upon his friend. The following missive was sent on the morning before Ole Bull left the city:—

Mardi, 19 Février.

Mon Illustre,—Je vous prie amicalement de passer la soirée d’aujourd’hui avec Madame Ole Bull chez votre vieux collègue et dévoué ami,

Franz Liszt.

On se réunit à 9 heures.

(Il n’y aura pas de “violon” ni même de piano.)

At midnight, however, the violin was sent for at Liszt’s request, and not till after two o’clock in the morning did the company disperse. The walk to the hotel along the fine river embankment in the brilliant starlight, with the wonderful tones still sounding in one’s brain, cannot be forgotten. After a brilliant improvisation on the same motives which Ole Bull had chosen for the violin, Liszt had closed with a dreamy, tender nocturne.

The master’s real interest in his friend’s work was shown by his chiding him with warmth for the state of his musical manuscripts which he insisted on looking through, and which he earnestly entreated him to prepare for publication.

The following note brought Liszt himself in answer, and the last adieux were said:—

Illustre Ami,—En partant, le courage de vous remercier de vive voix de votre hospitalité princière me fait défaut. Vos précieux conseils, inséparables compagnons de votre âme, inséparables souvenirs de lumière de notre réunion après tant d’années d’épreuves, sont gage sincere d’amitié—gage et promesse en même temps! Ma chère femme, toute émue sous l’influence de votre génie si gracieux, me prie d’exprimer sa reconnaissance, et permettez–moi de souhaiter que l’Etre Suprême vous rende aussi heureux que possible; voila ce que désire ardemment

Votre dévoué admirateur et ami,

F. Liszt Ole Bull.

A month at the baths in Wiesbaden, where friends made the stay most pleasant, and a summer in the Norse home, followed. That summer home–coming was always a delight to Ole Bull.

The grand old mountains, weird and forbidding in the early spring storms but glorified by the Northern summer, called him, and he heard. The beloved Lysekloster valley, whose wooded slopes commanded the fjord, the sea, the islands, and the great range of the Hardanger; the road his childish steps had trod, winding its way down to the sea from the church of the old ancestral home, at every turn giving a picturesque glimpse of lake or cliff; the path shaded by birches and maples, and the fields fragrant with wood violets and lilies–of–the–valley; the cottagers at work, the red jackets of the women and caps of the men giving a dash of color here and there; the workers shouting their respectful “welcome back” as he hurries down to the boat waiting to carry him to his own enchanted isle,—this was the picture which lured him every spring, and when realized gave him the happiest moment of the year.

From his eighth year he had loved Lysekloster, and often said that he would choose that of all places in the world for his home. In 1872 the estate was divided on the death of the owner, and the mansion itself came into the possession of a friend and schoolmate of Ole Bull, who, at his suggestion, bought the island opposite and decided to make a new home for himself there, thus fulfilling his boyish dream. The island had hardly been explored or its rocky shores visited by those living on the main land. Its tall pines had grown and rocked in the winds alone; its sod, except in one little spot, had never been broken; its lakes mirrored only the stars and clouds. From the foundation of the cloister on the main land seven hundred years before, it had been noted only as furnishing some of the largest and finest trees in the neighborhood for building purposes; but fortunately it was still well wooded with pine.

A visitor would find Ole Bull while there interested chiefly in the subject of drainage, the care of trees, and the grading of roads and paths, which he had himself laid out; strewn with white sea–shells they could be seen from a height circling the lakes and opening up the island in every direction.

The little steamer gliding into the fjord at breakfast time seldom failed to bring one or more guests from town. Old or young, they were taken on walks of exploration about the island, and even the oldest were sure to catch the enthusiasm of their host. If fretted by a guidance which did not spare them a short cut over rough ground, down ravines and along never–ending turns of paths, so confusing that it was impossible to return alone, they forgave him later, when in his music they learned what such a walk had been to him.

The autumn days were the days for study. The guests had then gone, and sometimes a week of storm would succeed the brightest sunshine, and dark nights suddenly replace the long twilight. The walks then were to the farthest points out towards the sea, where the ocean symphony sounded loudest; the paths must also be explored to protect them from the miniature waterfalls overleaping their proper channels, or to save tree or shrub from the flood which threatened its destruction; but the fiercest storms could not disturb the tranquil lakes guarded by the pine–clad cliffs which furnished a quiet retreat on those wild walks. Then came the contrast of the cozy room brightly lighted, and the tempting delicacy, or, better still, the old–fashioned dish reserved for such times by the faithful Martha.[23] How he enjoyed it all! The music–room cheerful with wood–fires and candles, while the storm without promised seclusion, tempted him to do the best work, often far into the night. When the fire and candles had burned low, and the shadows seemed the intruding spirits of the storm, then the notes would be thrown aside, and that wonderful instrument, a soul in the hand of its master, would voice the tempest outside and the peace within. Never did the picture of him drawn by Longfellow in the “Tales of the Wayside Inn” seem more strikingly true than in that room and at that hour:—

The exquisite pictures of the artist which appear later in the poem, breathing the Northern tradition and spirit, follow naturally here:—

The following is from Part Second, written in 1872:—

And again, in Part Third, is given this natural touch:—

The future held for Ole Bull the rare fortune of being for one happy winter the neighbor of Mr. Longfellow.

Lingering as long as possible till there was but the shortest time to meet appointments, Ole Bull sailed from Norway in the fall of 1878 for the United States. So far as concerts were concerned, there is but the same story of a cordial reception by the public and a pleasant winter. A few brief extracts from the many notices in the journals will suffice. He played in the principal Northern cities only.

The Boston Journal said of him:—

Ole Bull seems not a day older than he did a score of years ago, and certainly he has not lost a whit of his wonderful command over the violin.

The New York Herald of December 15th said in a long article:—

Taken as a whole, the art of the great virtuoso is distinctive, original, and full of rugged strength. It may be truly said of him that he is the poet of the violin, especially when illustrating his own splendid compositions.

And the Tribune remarked:—

His fervid nature and personal magnetism are as powerful as ever, and he sways the audience of to–day pretty much as he did their fathers and mothers, in spite of the fact that critical taste is not always satisfied with his methods.

The “Violin Notes,” now first published, were written out that season, during the holidays, and he was experimenting on and developing the chin–rest.

The following characteristic anecdotes were related by a Brooklyn gentleman who called on Mr. Colton to meet Ole Bull, and was shown to the door of the model work–shop. He writes:—

I knocked, at first hesitatingly, lest I might disturb the quiet that reigned within, broken only by the tones of Ole Bull’s violin. Taking advantage of a pause, I knocked again, this time to be admitted by Mr. Colton, who forthwith presented me to the violinist. All my fear and embarrassment as to my reception were at once expelled by the pleasant greeting. His countenance was lit up by that same genial smile so well known to us all.... He explained that Mr. Colton was at work upon his famous Gaspar da Salo, while he was practicing on his beautiful Nicholas Amati. He seemed in such capital spirits that I ventured to ply question upon question, and all were answered with a perfect grace and simplicity. On his asking whether I had attended his last concert at the Academy of Music in Brooklyn, I replied, regretting my own engagement to play at a soirée musicale the same evening. “You play? What did you play at the soirée?” “‘L’Elegie’ by Ernst.” “What, do you play that? Here,” handing me his precious violin, “you shall play what I could not hear that night, and I will play for you what you could not hear.” With great caution and greater reluctance I took the fine Amati, and the studded diamonds seemed to laugh at me from the keys they adorned. I had not proceeded far when he suggested a different interpretation of one of the weird phrases of that composition. I yielded and tried to express his idea, but, failing completely, handed him the instrument, and with eagerness watched the movement and with better result. He then took the violin, straightened himself, and played the Paganini Concerto as I have never heard it played. He seemed completely lost to the surroundings. The very notes ring in my ears as I now think of that performance. Speaking of the German school of violinists, he objected to their heavy and coarse style of interpretation, saying, “The German plays his violin conveniently; that is, he would not play the larghetto in la of Mozart on the D and A strings, but use the E for the A when convenient and A for D, and thus spoil the most beautiful of melodies.” When I asked who was his favorite composer, he quickly exclaimed: “Mozart, yes, Mozart, and more, he is the most difficult composer to interpret.” I remonstrating gently, saying that I thought his melodies were easily written, as stated by Mozart himself, and more easily understood than a Beethoven composition, he replied warmly, “Just so; because so easy and graceful, the more noticeable are the breaks of coarse interpreters, as, for instance, in their poor modulation in changing from one string to another.” I must confess, his illustration on the violin corroborated his theories. Referring to Paganini, he said that it was next to impossible to play any one of his compositions as he played them; and apropos of the silly stories circulated throughout Europe during Paganini’s time, they were simply the products of the conspiring minds of Lafont and his musical friends, who but too keenly felt the superiority of the dark Italian. “I shall never forget,” he continued, “how Habeneck, the musical director, told me of Paganini’s reception in Paris. When Paganini went to rehearsal for the first concert, he was received with great coolness by the orchestra who were to accompany him. The first violins especially showed their contempt for their rival by playing an ensemble pizzicato movement for the left hand, as much as to say, You are not the only man that can do that. But Paganini’s quiet remark, ‘Gentlemen, you do not play in tune; you had better practice scales before attempting that,’ so completely upset them that they made no further efforts to discommode him. One of the tympani, however, persisted in beating out of time, which so exasperated Paganini that he shouted, ‘Wait, I’ll come there and make you play right,’ and started towards him; whereupon the fellow beat a hasty retreat, to the amusement of all as well as of Paganini himself.”

Ole Bull once admiring the ability with which Malibran read music at sight, she challenged him, saying, “You cannot play anything, be it ever so intricate, but I can sing it after once hearing.” Ole Bull played a caprice full of technical difficulties, but she sang it correctly; and, said he, “I cannot, even at this day, after forty–five or more years, understand how she did it.” He played it and I confess it was a labyrinth of musical phrases to me. And thus the afternoon glided away, telling one anecdote after another. One which I am about to relate will show the goodness of his heart: “I was announced to play at Hartford, Connecticut. Arriving late in the afternoon I hurried to a barber–shop. While I was getting shaved, the boot–black, a colored boy, rattled off some lively tunes on a fiddle. When I praised him he seemed pleased, saying, ‘Yes, Mister, I can beat any man in Hartford.’ Noticing how he worked and stretched to gain the high notes, I asked him if there were no other means of obtaining them. He gave me a look as much as to say, ‘What do you know about a fiddle any how?’ adding that there was no other way. I took his fiddle, and illustrated my suggestion by playing harmonics. The boy stood with open–mouthed wonder, and I, returning the instrument, left the shop. On reaching the street above, I could not refrain from looking down through the window. There he sat scratching his head and then the violin, the very picture of perplexity, trying to solve the mystery of harmonics. I sent him a ticket to my concert. After it was over I saw that negro boy standing in the aisle, battling with himself whether to come forward or not. I beckoned him, and with plaintive voice he said: ‘Mister, can’t you come down to the shop to–morrow to get shaved and show me those tricks? I feel powerful bad!’ I promised him I would, and I kept my word.”

The summer of 1879 was one of the happiest ever spent by the artist in Norway. One memorable day was when a party of friends went down to the little hamlet Lofthus in the Hardanger, to be immortalized, as Ole Bull told the peasants, because the composer Grieg had chosen to stay there for months and to write some of his best works. They had now come to celebrate his birthday. No spot could be more enchanting, so wonderfully blended were the beautiful and the sublime in nature. The little study of one room, erected by the composer for perfect retirement, was perched half way up a rock and near the fjord. In the field above, the apple–trees were in bloom about an old farm–house, where the guests assembled. From the summit of the beetling cliffs not far away fell a beautiful waterfall, while the opposite mountain shore of the broad fjord, clothed with heavy forests of pine above and the feathery birch below, presented range after range of lofty peaks and domes, crowned by the great Folgefond with its eternal snow. The day was as perfect as friendship, music, and lovely surroundings could make it.

King Oscar and the young prince made a visit to Bergen that summer, and Ole Bull was proud of the escort of steamers, the crowds of honest, sturdy peasant faces, the refined but hearty welcome, and the imposing pageant which Bergen presented in greeting their sovereign. While the artist was standing on a height overlooking the harbor, the procession and bands discovered his presence as they moved along to take their position and welcome the ship on its entrance to the harbor with the royal guests; and each division of the long line halted in front below, the bands playing and the men cheering Ole Bull. This instant recognition and spontaneous expression of regard was so constantly given him by his countrymen that it deserves mention. He proudly said that day that not another city in Europe could furnish so royal an escort as the fleet of steamers selected from the shipping in the Bergen harbor. Certainly, none could have given a more beautiful or loyal welcome. On the king’s departure from Bergen, Ole Bull had, with the city authorities, the honor of accompanying their guests for one day along the coast. To the toast at dinner proposed by Ole Bull for the royal princes, in which, according to those present, he eloquently referred to the royal family and to the successive sovereigns whom he had personally known, the king responded by singing the three verses of Ole Bull’s “Saeterbesög.”

But only too soon came the time for departure from his home. On the last day and evening every part of the island was visited. It was in truth a farewell, and it now seems as if the last lingering looks rested with more than wonted tenderness on the spot he so loved; for it was the last time his foot pressed the soil, as on his next return he was borne in the arms of others to his home. His feeling for that scene is best expressed by himself. He once wrote:—

I have suffered so much,—no one knows how much, but He whose everlasting, superhuman love you have to sustain you in everything noble and elevated.... How I am longing for Norway, for Lysö! If you only knew the beauty of the “Clostrûm vallis lucida,” as it was called in the year 1146, you would pine for it. I have never seen anything that attracts me so mysteriously; so grand, so sweet, so sad, so joyous! I cannot account for it. The atmosphere there has certainly a rare charm, and the woods, the ravines, and the lakes are so varied in expression; but the grand views from the mountains must be seen with caution, or they will overpower you; they make me feel thankful to God and weep in prayer for all enemies and friends.

On his return to the United States in the fall of 1879 it was decided to spend the winter quietly with family friends, and a residence with them was taken in Cambridge, Mass. It is pleasant to dwell upon the charming intercourse that made the months pass so swiftly, and two occasions may be mentioned here. The first was the celebration of Ole Bull’s seventieth birthday, which has been so gracefully recalled by Mr. Appleton; and the other, which came soon after, was the seventy–third anniversary of Mr. Longfellow’s birth, when he invited the artist with a few friends to dine and spend the evening with him. The beautiful presence of the poet was a benediction to those about him; and this, the last evening Ole Bull was with him, Mr. Longfellow, as it is now pleasant to recall, seemed especially to enjoy. A friend of the poet, who was present, sent to the violinist just as he was to leave Cambridge this sonnet, which was written while his playing for Mr. Longfellow was still fresh in her memory:

Among the valued letters written in answer to the birthday summons was this pleasant response from Mr. Whittier:—

Oakknoll, Danvers, 2^nd Mo. 1, 1880.

Dear Mrs. Bull,—I am extremely sorry that the state of my health will not permit me the great pleasure of calling on thee and thy gifted husband on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. I have a happy memory of meeting him some years ago and talking with him of his wonderful art. While it is a matter of regret to me that I know little of music, and can scarcely distinguish one tone from another, I am not insensible of “the concord of sweet sounds,” and I know something of the delight of those who “carry music in their hearts.” I would be glad to join with those who are able to testify in person their high regard for the great musician, who, as one of the rare interpreters of poetry and harmony, has made the world his debtor; and who brings to us from his native land its voices and melodies, the lapsing waves of its fjords, the storm–song of the wind, the rustic of the birch groves, the murmur of its pines and the laugh of children, and the low of cattle and song of milk–maids on its summer mountains.

Give him the best wishes of one who is two years his senior that, to use an Irish phrase, the years to come may only bring “more power to his elbows” and make him happy in making others happy.

Very truly thy friend, John G. Whittier.

Mr. Thomas G. Appleton’s account of the birthday gathering is as follows:—

OLE BULL’S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.

The date, February 5, 1880, is a very memorable one to many of us, for in some sense then we heard the swan–song of the great Norwegian.

It was one of those impromptu fêtes which, when successful, snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. Such occasions have the freshness of a rose suddenly plucked, with the dew and the bloom which disappear if kept waiting too long. It was the seventieth birthday of Mr. Ole Bull, and soon after he left us for his native land, never to return.

There was a little domestic conspiracy shared in somewhat by outside friends to make this fête a pleasant surprise to the object of it. The nearest intimates of Mr. Ole Bull were summoned secretly and in time to prepare their tributes of respect and affection, and the scene of this gathering had memories of its own, suitable, harmonious, and poetic. For Mr. Bull was then living at Elmwood, the home of our present ambassador to London, Mr. J. R. Lowell. In his drawing–room, where pictures of J. R. Stillman, Christopher Cranch, and other friends hung upon the paneled walls, there was an aroma of scholarship, of wit and fancy, in keeping with the old mansion, which shares with the residence of Mr. Longfellow an old–time dignity, a colonial pomp, as if to emphasize the genius of the poets with the added charm of antiquity. Communicating with the drawing–room is Mr. Lowell’s study. It was those study–windows which gave the title of one of his pleasantest books, and there indignation sharpened the shaft of satire which made the humor of the “Biglow Papers” a national event.

One by one in the fading twilight the friendly conspirators arrived. Mr. Bull was detained by unsuspected constraint in a neighboring family till the suitable moment for his appearance arrived. He could hardly have forgotten the date of so important an anniversary, yet in the fine simplicity of his nature one could see how unconscious he was of the delightful plot in which he was involved. When it broke upon him little by little it was beautiful to witness the mild surprise, the questioning astonishment, displaced by an affectionate ardor and cordial recognition of its significance. As the world knows, there is something fascinating, individual, and characteristic in the countenance of the great artist. Geniuses often, while most individual themselves, are yet the highest expression of national characteristics. Mr. Bull looked the mystic land to which he owes his birth. Seeing him, one better understood the Sagas which tell of the heroes who launched, a thousand years ago, their galleys over stormy seas to conquest. His smile, so sweet and genuine, lingered round his mouth, as the sunshine sweetens the northern valleys, while fancy could think it saw in his streaming locks of silver the icy crests above or the flickering of the pale aurora of the North. Among the presents of this birthday was a violin wholly composed of flowers, their harmonies, though silent, suggesting in a fresh way the melodies which lingered in the memory of all. A disk, also of flowers, displayed at its centre the word “skaal,” the proper word for the occasion. There were aquarelles and heaped–up baskets of flowers, and whatever suitable gift individual love prompted to bring. When the artist had received our salutes and hand–shakings, and smiles had warmed all with a common purpose, Ole Bull felt that he had but one thing to do, to reply to the spoken and silent messages of good–will in the language he loved best,—the one best suited to the occasion. And, standing in our midst, his snowy locks falling forward across his bent and sympathetic face, he bade his violin speak for him. He played with his whole heart an answer, a swan–song of melody, on which, as upon a great river, we were carried away into dreamland, into the Valhalla and the halls of Odin. His skill, the vigor and power of his bow arm, belied the seventy years they celebrated. Time had left as iron that wonderful right arm which never could grow old. A distinguished artist answered the violin with a voice into which was gathered the responsive cordial enthusiasm of all, and with these two musical expressions Mr. Ole Bull’s fête was accomplished. Supper and the tumult of chat, laughter, and content took off pleasantly the acute edge of excitement. Then later we were summoned away from the piano to the drawing–room, where a huge cake in frosted sugar displayed the name and age of the great artist. Amid much merriment it was cut and shared, each one eagerly hunting for the symbolic tiny golden violin, somewhere hid in its capacious flanks. When the little treasure was discovered it was found to have most suitably fallen to one of the oldest and dearest of friends, who was, perhaps, the nearest neighbor of them all in Cambridge. After the cake had been divided and the golden violin discovered, a venerable bottle of Tokay was produced, which Professor Horsford had brought home from his Austrian sojourn: this liqueur–like wine having been distributed in little glasses, Mr. Longfellow proposed the health and happiness of Ole Bull, which was drunk in a silence meaning more than words.

Thus ended a happy evening, a memorable birthday, sacred now as the last communion of love and music, between the poet of the North and that throng which could have been multiplied a hundred times over if all those who have held in dear regard the great artist could have found admittance to that little room.

In March and April Ole Bull appeared in a few concerts in the principal Eastern cities with Miss Thursby. His last appearance but one in New York was for the benefit of the Herald Fund for the starving Irish, at the request of Mr. Edwin Booth, who planned and carried out most successfully a dramatic and musical entertainment. Good as was the cause, it was more for the sake of the originator of the plan that Ole Bull responded with pleasure. During that winter he had the opportunity of giving the Boston Philharmonic Society his assistance; and he also played for the Philharmonic Association in Cambridge, where he was honored by an audience that might well inspire any artist to his best efforts.

Late in June, with a pleasant party of friends, Ole Bull sailed the last time for Europe. He had not been feeling well for a month before, but the physicians consulted assured him that a sea–trip was all that he needed to bring relief. The first days out revived him somewhat, and no anxiety was felt; but later, what seemed a violent attack of sea–sickness, the first he had ever suffered, reduced his strength. At Liverpool he revived, and the physician thought a few days’ rest would quite restore him, but more violent symptoms soon appeared, and great concern was felt as to his being able to bear the journey to Norway, on which he insisted when he found he was not improving. Dr. Moore, of Liverpool, accompanied him. The trip across the North Sea was finally accomplished, but at great risk, and when at last the little fjord steamer came alongside to bear the invalid to his home, a prayer of thanksgiving filled all hearts. As the steamer glided gently onward the restful calm brought a sweet sleep, and all the surroundings seemed to breathe a promise of health. As Ole Bull approached Lysö he wakened, and how earnestly, how gratefully he gazed on his beloved mountains in their calm majestic beauty at that early morning hour! After the first day of exhaustion the sufferer seemed to gain steadily, until a complete recovery was looked for. Those days were full of happiness and blessing.

Professor E. N. Horsford, a valued and dear friend of many years, made his first and long–promised visit to Norway that summer. His description of the island and of the artist’s home–coming was written shortly after. He says:—

I first saw Lysö in the twilight of Norwegian mid–summer. It was from the steamer Domino, on my voyage across the North Sea from Hull, by way of Stavanger, to Bergen. The island may have been seven or eight miles away. Its irregular domes of dusky green were but dimly outlined upon the bank of wooded mountains beyond. It was too late to see clearly. Distant objects had begun to look weird, and the sky was shadowy. We were approaching the region of long twilights—the kingdom of the midnight sun; besides, the eyes were fatigued with the endless succession of unfamiliar forms. All day we had been sailing along inhospitable shores, and among rocky islands, scantily covered with vegetation. Now and then, in less exposed situations, fishing hamlets with sunny red roofs had come in sight; we had taken in review the openings into narrow fjords with opposing cliffs, and repeated collections of runic columns, with the commanding monument to Harold Haarfager, the first king of Norway. All these were in the foreground, while in the distant eastern horizon, spread upon the table–land and covering the lofty mountain range, was the majestic glacier of the Folgefond. These had challenged attention, and in their novelty, or picturesqueness, or grandeur, had fascinated us; but the spot about which the abiding interest centred only came into view when it was too late to more than make out its general position in the Björne Fjord at the foot of the Lyshorn. Soon after crossing the Björne Fjord, we swept past a column of ships of the inward bound Loffoden fishing fleet, stern and stately, with their antique prows and huge single square sails; and entered the crowd of countless lesser fishing vessels and iron steamers, and came to anchor in the harbor of Bergen.

My next view of the island was from the little steamboat landing near Lysekloster, the point on the mainland where one takes boat for Lysö. The island is scarcely more than half a mile from the wharf, and from other points on the mainland the distance is less.

We had driven from Bergen, some eighteen miles over a mountain road. Near the end, the way led down past the ruins of Lysekloster, a relic of the eleventh century, with its many remains of halls, refectory, chapter–house, cloisters, rude stone coffins, and ruder inscriptions; past the fine old mansion of the Nicolaysons, whose estate shares the name of Lysekloster; past the antique chapel, where the gathering peasant women still wear a costume suggesting the monastery; down to the wharf where we were to cross the narrow Lysefjord to the home of Ole Bull. On our left, the high mainland stretched away in a southerly direction for a mile or more, and then turned sharply to the west beyond the island. On the right, the bare, rocky headlands jutted irregularly out for many miles toward the broad entrance to the Björne Fjord. In a little bay under the slope of the Lyshorn, and a few rods from the wharf, giving a touch of surprising grace to the scene, were two stately swans. This was, we learned, a favorite resort, to which they made occasional excursions from their island home. Immediately before us was Lysö, a series of granite domes of unequal height, half covered with birch and evergreen above, half carpeted with heather and moss below. No trees had been felled. There was scarcely a trace of disturbed surface except in the narrow foot–paths that led up from the shore. There were two little wharves, one near the boat–house, and low, red tile–roofed cottage of Haldor–Lysö, the family servant; the other under the bluff on which stood the imposing mansion of the proprietor.

Of other structures there were none on the island. There were no beaches; there was no gravel. The rocky cliffs of Norway, here as elsewhere, and uniformly, rise almost with the sharpness of a wall from the sea. If gravel there be at the foot of the precipices, it must be far down in the water. Above, the pines and spruces and feathery birches start from fissures in the rocks, and soar away to great heights, giving to the island a fleecy air of indescribable beauty, and to the inner fjord the soft seclusion of an inland sea.

Across this sheet of water we were rowed by Haldor. In the distance, the American and Norwegian flags were waving their welcome. The deep green of the Norway pines gave the finest relief to the Hall. It stands upon a shelf. The first story leans against the mountain. The second story, and the Byzantine turret rising above the roof at the corner nearest the brow of the bluff, are clearly defined against the dark foliage.

A large, open tower, with winding stairs midway on the long side of the Hall, and rising from the ground far above the eaves, gives, with its richly–decorated panels, brilliant entrance to the reception room below and the music hall above. The apartment devoted to music, occupying the whole width of the house, with two thirds of its length, and the entire height of the second story to the roof, is finished throughout in unstained spruce. Rows of slender clustered and twisted columns rise to support an elaborate system of delicately and curiously wrought arches. The two concert grand pianos, embodying the inventions to which so much thought had been given, and from which the inventor hoped so much of advancement to the art, were here.

Turkish and Persian carpets and rugs were spread upon the floor or suspended between the columns. On one side, the whispers of the mountain pines came in through the open windows. Through the windows opposite you saw the fjord and the highlands beyond in undisturbed natural beauty. How fitting! In what keeping with the spirit that inspired the whole! Without and within, the perpetual fragrance of the balsam and birch. Everywhere quiet; no rattle of carts, no noise of hurrying trains, no hum of business. Everywhere repose, only to be invaded by human voices or music, or the soft lapping of the waves at the base of the cliff, or the soughing of the south wind among the swaying pines.

The shelf of rock on which the Hall stands is about fifty feet above the water, and some two or three hundred feet below the highest point on the island. Immediately around the narrow plot which spreads out on the sides and front is a dense border of roses and flowering and decorative shrubbery; and along the retreating slopes, here and there, room has been found for beds of strawberries and small groups of fruit–trees. A quarter of a mile northward is the cottage of the servant who cares for the grounds and mans the yacht and row–boat. Of roadways, properly speaking, there are none; but bridle and foot–paths penetrate every part of the six hundred acres of the island, winding in and out, and up and down, through the dells and glens, and by the caverns, for twenty miles or more in all, from the shores to the summits of the highest peaks. As there are no beaches, so there are no pebbles for walks, and the surface, a coating of broken shells, is gathered from below the sea, at some distant point, from which they were brought in vessels. There are two little lakes nestling among the hills, and there are two or three little meadows, resting upon beds of peat, from which the product is annually gathered.

Standing on one of the higher peaks of the island, you look northward upon the Lyshorn, a bold, rocky cone, skirted with evergreens, and lifting its bare summit twelve hundred feet from the sea. At its foot are the undulating meadows and picturesque group of Lysekloster. On the west, the eye, glancing down the Björne Fjord, takes in the chain of lofty, dark islands beyond the channel pursued by the steamers approaching Bergen from the south. On the east the mainland half embraces the island, approaching at the nearest point within a few rods of the bold cliffs that fall sheer into the sea. On the south lies the broad entrance to the Hardanger Fjord, the most extended, unique, and famed of the Norwegian water highways.

A few days after our arrival at the island, the great musician and sufferer was brought to his longed–for home. The tender care of thoughtful kindred, and the ever busy, lifelong friend of the family, Martha,[24] full of affectionate solicitude, had made every needed preparation. Gentle hands bore him on his couch from the steamer to the centre of the grand music hall. Faint and worn and weak, he was at last under his own roof. How gratefully fell on his waiting sense every familiar sound and form! Above and around him were the vistas of arches and clustered columns he had planned; a very Alhambra of fairy architecture. How often through these galleries, in happier days, he remembered, had so sweetly thrilled the strains of his favorite Gaspar da Salo! There was the organ that later, at his wish, yielded from the touch of love and anguish the sweet requiem of Mozart. The windows, distantly screened by oriental hangings, were open to the sympathetic trees, whose incense was so full of the associations of youth and the days of strength. The moan of the burdened pines was hushed. Was it too much to hope there might be, in this spontaneous recognition and welcome, the breath of life to the prostrate friend? What air could be more grateful than one’s native air, washed with all the waves of the Atlantic, and surcharged with the balm of the evergreens of Norway? Did the fevered invalid need water to quench his thirst or to bathe his brow? The freshly–fallen dew could not be purer or more clear than the water that welled from Lysekilde, under the rock a few rods away.

Was there a delicacy that affection or medical skill could suggest or devise for a reluctant and fastidious palate? Devotion and utmost culinary art had provided for its instant preparation. Every attention that never–wearying love and forethought could secure were bestowed upon the dear sufferer. A few days in this restful home so far revived his strength that he was able to see the friends who had come to visit him; but as the physician saw ground for believing that, with absolute quiet, the lost health might be regained, the stay was not prolonged.

During the visit a most touching incident occurred, illustrating the tender affection felt for Ole Bull throughout Norway. The annual encampment of militia troops at Ulven, a few miles from Lysö, broke up. The regiments, embarked upon a fleet of steamers, on their way to Bergen, the point for disbanding, necessarily passed a short distance outside of Lysö. The fleet was conducted through the inner fjord, that opportunity might be given to show the sympathy and affection of the troops for the man whose music had so often entranced them. The foremost vessel of the fleet, with the military band, came slowly to rest immediately under the windows of the music hall. Ole Bull, too feeble to present himself, directed his great American flag with the Norwegian arms in the escutcheon (the gift of the New York Philharmonic Society) to be run out from the window overlooking the fjord. Immediately the band played with infinite sweetness an original composition of the master. This was followed by a superb ancient Norwegian air, to which Björnson had written the words, and this was succeeded by the proud national hymn. At the close, dipping its flag, the head of the fleet silently moved away. The successive vessels slowly following, dipped their flags in turn, and passed on around the island to resume their course.

Alas! that this fleet should have been the herald of the convoy of steamers that, a few weeks later, gave such mournful and impressive dignity to the sorrow of Norway, when the mortal remains of Ole Bull were borne by sea to their last resting–place in Bergen, where he was born.

A few days only after Mr. Horsford left came the sudden change,—the loss of strength, and the fear, on the part of those in charge of the case, that the illness would prove fatal. Never had a patient kinder physicians; Dr. Moore being in constant attendance, and Dr. Wiesener, of Bergen, in daily consultation. The sick one bravely fought the disease at every step, and calmly awaited the issue. It has been said of another: “A devoted lover of religious liberty, he was an equal lover of religion itself, not in any precise dogmatic form, but in its righteousness, reverence, and charity.” This was true of Ole Bull. As his body weakened, his soul seemed the stronger, “and full of endearment and hope for humanity,” as Mr. Fields wrote of him. He gave the sweet assurance that life had been precious to him, and the dear smile lighted the way for all, as he passed beyond. One who was present wrote of that hour:—

Everything made the change remarkably free from the dark and terrible in death. The day was a beautiful, quiet one, full of sunshine and gladness, and the fragrance of flowers. You know how lovely the surroundings are. I hope death may always seem to me as here, a happy, peaceful ending of suffering, and a quiet passing away into something nobler and better.

Another quotation from a letter written only for the eyes of friends will give the public feeling of the time and its expression:—

All honor is being paid our beloved by king and people. The king sent a telegram of condolence to Mrs. Bull, expressing his personal as well as the national loss. The city is in mourning, with hundreds of flags at half–mast, among them the royal standard. The common council of Bergen at once met, and offered a spot in the very centre of the old cemetery for the place of burial. It is a beautiful location. The newspapers are enclosed with broad lines of black, as never before, except for members of the royal family, and contain many tributes and accounts of his life.

On Friday last the Kong Sverre, one of the largest of the coast steamers, came out with friends to see the remains as they lay in state in the music room. On Monday the funeral ceremonies took place, and honors more than royal were indeed shown to our dear one. It seemed that all the patriotism, all the love of people and country, which have so characterized and distinguished his nature during all his long life, wherever he might have been, were now returned to him in this spontaneous outpouring of respect and love. On the morning of the day of burial the Kong Sverre came again, bringing the family and intimate friends to attend the services here, which were held in the hall, and were very impressive, especially so to us, for whom the place has so many beautiful associations connected with his life and music. After a prelude on the organ played by his friend, Edward Grieg, there was prayer by the pastor, and singing of a poem written for the service; then followed an address, eloquent with feeling, by Mr. Konow (the grandson of Öhlenschläger), a neighbor and warm friend of Ole Bull. After music again, the casket, covered deep with most beautiful flowers, the gifts of friends, was borne by peasants down to the steamer, followed by the family and friends, leaving desolate the island which he had made a home, and so much loved. The sad ride to Bergen was happily brightened by the sun. The steamer, on entering the large fjord which lies outside the harbor, was met by a convoy of sixteen steamers, ranged on either side—a wonderfully impressive escort. As the fleet approached the harbor slowly, guns fired from the fort and answered by the steamers echoed and reëchoed among the mountains. The harbor and shipping were covered with flags of all nations, at half–mast, the whole world paying its last tribute to a genius which the whole world had learned to know and love. The quay was covered thick with green juniper, and festoons of green draped its whole front to the water’s edge. Every shop and place of business was shut; the whole population of the city stood waiting silent, reverent. As the boat touched the quay, and while the casket was being borne to the high catafalque, one of the artist’s own melodies was played.

Young girls, dressed in black, bore the trophies of his foreign success; his gold crown and orders were carried by distinguished men of Bergen. As the procession passed slowly along the streets strewn with green, flowers were showered on the coffin, and tears were seen on many faces; but the silence was unbroken save by the tones of Chopin’s funeral march, and the tolling of the church bells. At the house where Ole Bull was born, the procession halted while a verse of a poem written by a friend was sung. At the grave, pastor Wallum read the service, and spoke with feeling of the work and life of the departed, and the gratitude of his country.

Then Björnstjerne Björnson spoke to the assembled thousands as follows:—

Ole Bull was loved; this we see to–day; he was honored, but it is more to be loved than to be honored!

If we would understand this deep attachment from its inception, understand him, what he was, what he is to us, then we must go far back to the time when he first appeared among us.

We were a poor, a small nation, with glorious traditions of earlier times, starting afresh with longings not soon to be realized, longings for which we were sometimes mocked.

Even of our own intellectual and spiritual inheritance but few crumbs had fallen to us, Denmark having taken the loaf. They said we were incapable of an independent intellectual existence, and our best men believed this. A Norse literature was deemed an impossibility, though the ample foundations were there to build upon; an individual Norse school of history, a thing to be laughed at; even our language was not acceptable unless spoken with a Danish accent and soft consonants; a national theatre not even to be thought of.

Our political situation was equally unfortunate. We had been newly bought and sold, and what little liberty we had presumed to seize, and had succeeded in extending, gave us no security, but much concern.

We dared have no official celebrations, since it might offend in high places. But a young generation came, nourished on freedom, and without the fear and prudence of their elders, but with more of defiance, more of anger. They lived in the morning of freedom and honor, and in this dawn came Ole Bull’s tones like the first rays of the sun over the mountain tops.

At that time the folk–melodies invaded our music, the democratic invaded the aristocratic, the national the abstract, the individual the formulated ideal. To our honor be it said, we followed.

Older men have told you of the giant form which suddenly stood forth, not in the low, no, in the highest places, before kings and the most cultured, and played with a wild power, possessed by only one man before, but in Ole Bull more original, more humanly sympathetic,—a power for the first time Norse. When they read how he stood and sang Norwegian melodies from his violin to other nations, we felt that they were one with us while they were moved to laughter and tears as they caught glimpses back of him of our people and grand, beautiful nature; thus one may understand the confidence, the faith, the pride he awakened,—he the foremost of all in our Norse independence. Henrik Wergeland expresses this when he makes Norway thus sing to Ole Bull:—

On his first return from his triumphs abroad it was a festival but to look at him. When he played the folk–songs, which had been timidly hidden, though cherished in memory, now through him applauded by mighty rulers, that generation felt themselves borne to the same heights; Ole Bull became the first and greatest festival in this people’s life; he gave us self–respect, the greatest gift possible at that time.

This is Ole Bull’s undying honor, this the supreme accomplishment of his life.

If one would measure the depth of an impression, he must seek its expression in literature. Read Welhaven’s poem at that time to Ole Bull. Any man with a knowledge of European literature will not hesitate to say that it is one of the most beautiful lyrics ever written.

How happened it that he was the one to accomplish all this? His birth of a musical race had not sufficed without the fervor of his patriotism. During our war for independence he was still a boy at play, and his childish voice was among the first to shout for our young freedom. When a youth—I speak whereof I know—his violin, with its boundless, exultant joy, sang our first national songs in Henrik Wergeland’s college–room, and became the overture to Wergeland’s inspiration of our national observance of the 17th of May. These feelings Ole Bull carried with him to other lands.

Patriotism was the creative power in his life. When he established the Norse theatre, assisted Norse art, helped the national museum, his mighty instrument singing for other patriotic ends; when he helped his countrymen and others wherever he found them, it was not so much for the object, or the person, but for the honor of Norway. He always felt himself our representative; and, if he felt there was need, let it be at home or abroad, that “Ole Olsen Viol, Norse Norman from Norway”[25] should appear, he never failed us.

His patriotism had a certain tinge of naïveté, of morbidity, about it; it was a consequence of the times. But it was of importance to us that our finest gentleman, coming from Europe’s most cultured salons, could and would go arm in arm with our poor Norse beginnings. It lies in the nature of things that first attempts are never popular; they only become so when developed and recognized by all; but, as a rule, they have then outlived their usefulness.

It was this sturdy faithfulness in Ole Bull, spite of his impulsive temperament, that made him dear to our people; in other words, it was his patriotism.

So it was with Henrik Wergeland. Ole Bull and Henrik Wergeland were of the same age and temperament. The one responded to the other as in the spring the wood–song answers the green of the meadows, or on the western coast the sea skerries and irregular mountain groups—the flickering sunshine on their grassy slopes, their shifting lights and shadows—answer the wooded ridges, the great, broad, rich landscape of the east, with Mjosen’s gleaming surface in its midst. The one was the blue boy of the west, with the ocean’s salt flavor, the restless spirit of the Vikings; the other, the gray boy of the east.[26] There was western blood in Henrik Wergeland; but his genius had the color of the mild, broad outlook of an eastern landscape, with the mountains in the distance.

When Ole Bull talked of his art, he was wont to say that he had learned to “sing” of the Italians. Without doubt this was true; the outer form he had learned from them, but the genius and the colors were from the soul of our soul, the most spontaneous message of the folk–song, as love of country made it glow in his consciousness. An old, world–renowned artist[27] said to me: “Faults in Ole Bull’s playing are more noticeable as he advances in age; but no artist in our time has possessed Ole Bull’s poetic power; no one has ever surpassed his playing of the ‘Adagio.’ I think all his cultivated auditors will say the same.”

The criticism has been made that Ole Bull has failed in not leaving behind him great musical works. This is unjust. A man that could so fully give what he at times gave us could not do more. In proportion to the ability for the one, is the other impossible.

But it was important for us at that time, as it is always important for a small nation, that we had a man of the first rank among us. It was a direct connection with the outside world. It exalted our aims. As far as human power could, it spurred our ambition,—and that in all directions. Let us then, at the grave of our greatest citizen, say honor to him beyond all the artists who have broken a way for us,—he who not alone inspired followers in his profession, but also awakened ambition and happiness wherever he was known; helping the moral and intellectual forces,—the greatest legacy one can bequeath.

I love to remember him on the great 17th of May celebrations; for he was a celebration himself, majestic, fascinating, as he walked among us. And a gesture of his hand, a look, raised in him who received it a holiday mood.

Thus hand in hand with all our national development, ennobling it, cherishing in his love the least with the greatest, always ennobling,—this was his life, this his inspiration. Such a love of country rewards, as by miracle, him who cherishes it. When I read every year how he came home with summer, like the bird of passage, how he came this summer, and that his love of country, of home, bore him on, spite of distance, the advice of physicians, and all hindrances, I thought of Henrik Wergeland’s words of Robert Major: “First thence and then to heaven would the old gray republican.” His eye would fondly rest on that land he loved before it closed in death.

Countrymen! let us not leave this spot till we have thanked her who did what a nation could not—opened to his age a home of beauty and comfort....

Always before when we have spoken in Ole Bull’s honor we have closed with a “Long live Ole Bull!” This we may never say again—though dead to us he is not,—he will be with us when we return to our homes. Let my last words be an appeal to the young here present. True to the dead one, as your elders who knew him, ye cannot be; but by this grave, mark the wonders worked by love of country, the miracle revealed forever in this rich life of which we solemnize the earthly close.

Again a hymn was sung, and Edward Grieg then said with emotion:—

Because more than any other thou wast the glory of our land, because more than any other thou hast carried our people with thee up towards the bright heights of art, because thou wast more than any other a pioneer of our young national music, more, much more, than any other the faithful, warm–hearted conqueror of all hearts, because thou hast planted a seed which shall spring up in the future and for which coming generations shall bless thee—with the gratitude of thousands upon thousands, for all this, in the name of our Norse memorial art, I lay this laurel wreath on thy coffin. Peace be with thy ashes!

Mr. Bendixen, on behalf of the National Theatre, said:—

With grateful remembrance that our great artist, ardently loving his native land, saw with clear, penetrating vision the influence of art on the development of a people,—especially of an independent dramatic art springing up in its midst,—with earnest and heartfelt thanks, because we owe to his inspiring energy and example the presence of that art in his own native city, recognizing that his name will be always connected with its history,—in the name of Bergen’s National Theatre, I lay this wreath upon his grave.

“After the coffin had been put in the grave, and the relatives had gone away, there was paid a last tribute to Ole Bull,—a tribute more touching and of more worth than the king’s message, the gold crown, all the orders, and the flags of the world at half–mast, meaning more love than the pine–strewn streets of the silent city, and the tears on its people’s faces; a tribute from poor peasants, who had come in from the country far and near, men who knew Ole Bull’s music by heart,—who, in their lonely, poverty–stricken huts had been proud of the man who had played their ‘Gamle Norge’ before the kings of the earth. These men were there by hundreds, each bringing a green bough, or a fern, or a flower; they waited humbly till all others had left the grave, then crowded up, and threw in, each man, the only token he had been rich enough to bring. The grave was filled to the brim. And it is not irreverent to say, that to Ole Bull, in heaven, there could come no gladder memory of earth than that the last honors paid him there were wild leaves and flowers of Norway, laid on his body by the loving hands of Norway peasants.”